forearm, that I'm allergic to papaya, and that I prefer to be barefoot. I squish my eyes shut, but he's there, blue eyes and all—eyes that for one day looked at me with longing and love.
"Niko," I blurt, grasping, however tenuously, onto the present. "Niko, Niko, Niko," and in between each thrust of his name, I tell myself, I'm with Niko. I'm having sex with Niko. I'm fucking Niko the singer and guitarist of the Halos. Thousands of girls would like to be me right now and thousands of girls would have an outrageous orgasm in five, four, three, two, one.
I'm not that girl.
#Fail
He pulls out, and a burst of creamy white cum dots my belly.
"Babe," he sighs, satisfied. "There's no one like you. No one." He wraps an arm around me.
I know. And living with myself is the problem.
Chapter 15
We spend the next few days putting miles on the tour bus between truck stops. Little known fact: highway service stations are a bastion of fun waiting to be had, unless you're sober, which I am. Also, the food is a diabetic's nightmare, but a stoner's playground. I'm outnumbered at least thirteen to one on a routine basis. However, we lose a couple of the groupies somewhere in Oklahoma.
There are crazy people in the bathrooms trying to sell everything from beaded necklaces to photos of their coochies. There are clean showers and dirty toilets. Nasty mouths and grandmothers praying to save our souls. At one truck stop, there was a Trucker's Jamboree. Kat won the wet T-shirt contest. The prize, a dry T-shirt.
Kenji and his girls walked into a convenience store and walked out with five cowboy hats, six lighters, nine bottles of booze, and a box of fudge. They didn't spend a dime.
Niko started a condom collection from the dispensers in the men's bathrooms: glow-in-the-dark, ribbed, extra-ribbed, tie-dye, all the colors of the rainbow, flavors, including cherry, studded, and ones that supposedly cause a tingling sensation.
Jill doesn't leave the bus.
Slade mingles with the truckers, no doubt acquiring speed.
As for me, I break the windows of two cars. We left the cool of the middle states behind while a heat wave, the last of the season, sweeps through the south. Some assholes left their dogs locked inside, one just a puppy, sweltering, with no fresh air. I've read the statistics; the dogs didn't stand a chance. One of the owners took off after me with a baseball bat, but Mitty took care of it.
We're only a day away from the festival site, and if Jill and Kenji battle over the video game console one more time, I'm going to put my fist through the machine. I considered stuffing it with coins or something else to jam it, but at least when they finally agree on a game, they're agreeably silent. Neither chooses to speak the other's language. When it comes to being in a band, I guess the sound of music is universal.
This afternoon the bus has taken on a cheese-like odor, which is but one reason I get off for fresh air. Lately, access to a deep, belly-filling breath is a sporadic thing. I should see a doctor. Maybe it's everyone else stealing the oxygen. Another reason could be boredom. My brain feels slightly starved. Though I suppose, finding creative ways to use Niko's condoms to entertain passing drivers has proved stimulating.
The sun marks my pale skin as minutes pass. I count my breaths as air attempts to enter my lungs. What would happen if I didn't get back on the bus? Where would I go?
I give up on breathing and wondering, instead venturing toward the building to use the ladies room. By the door, a woman wearing multiple shawls and a beaded headdress motions me over. She probably needs a light for her cigarette or wants to sell tacky kitsch. She sits on an overturned milk crate and calls me over.
I point at myself.
She nods.
Without asking, she takes my limp hand in hers and then turns it over to study my palm. I try to jerk it away, but her grip is insistent, her nails like knives. Her eyes are like coffee, milky and
"Niko," I blurt, grasping, however tenuously, onto the present. "Niko, Niko, Niko," and in between each thrust of his name, I tell myself, I'm with Niko. I'm having sex with Niko. I'm fucking Niko the singer and guitarist of the Halos. Thousands of girls would like to be me right now and thousands of girls would have an outrageous orgasm in five, four, three, two, one.
I'm not that girl.
#Fail
He pulls out, and a burst of creamy white cum dots my belly.
"Babe," he sighs, satisfied. "There's no one like you. No one." He wraps an arm around me.
I know. And living with myself is the problem.
Chapter 15
We spend the next few days putting miles on the tour bus between truck stops. Little known fact: highway service stations are a bastion of fun waiting to be had, unless you're sober, which I am. Also, the food is a diabetic's nightmare, but a stoner's playground. I'm outnumbered at least thirteen to one on a routine basis. However, we lose a couple of the groupies somewhere in Oklahoma.
There are crazy people in the bathrooms trying to sell everything from beaded necklaces to photos of their coochies. There are clean showers and dirty toilets. Nasty mouths and grandmothers praying to save our souls. At one truck stop, there was a Trucker's Jamboree. Kat won the wet T-shirt contest. The prize, a dry T-shirt.
Kenji and his girls walked into a convenience store and walked out with five cowboy hats, six lighters, nine bottles of booze, and a box of fudge. They didn't spend a dime.
Niko started a condom collection from the dispensers in the men's bathrooms: glow-in-the-dark, ribbed, extra-ribbed, tie-dye, all the colors of the rainbow, flavors, including cherry, studded, and ones that supposedly cause a tingling sensation.
Jill doesn't leave the bus.
Slade mingles with the truckers, no doubt acquiring speed.
As for me, I break the windows of two cars. We left the cool of the middle states behind while a heat wave, the last of the season, sweeps through the south. Some assholes left their dogs locked inside, one just a puppy, sweltering, with no fresh air. I've read the statistics; the dogs didn't stand a chance. One of the owners took off after me with a baseball bat, but Mitty took care of it.
We're only a day away from the festival site, and if Jill and Kenji battle over the video game console one more time, I'm going to put my fist through the machine. I considered stuffing it with coins or something else to jam it, but at least when they finally agree on a game, they're agreeably silent. Neither chooses to speak the other's language. When it comes to being in a band, I guess the sound of music is universal.
This afternoon the bus has taken on a cheese-like odor, which is but one reason I get off for fresh air. Lately, access to a deep, belly-filling breath is a sporadic thing. I should see a doctor. Maybe it's everyone else stealing the oxygen. Another reason could be boredom. My brain feels slightly starved. Though I suppose, finding creative ways to use Niko's condoms to entertain passing drivers has proved stimulating.
The sun marks my pale skin as minutes pass. I count my breaths as air attempts to enter my lungs. What would happen if I didn't get back on the bus? Where would I go?
I give up on breathing and wondering, instead venturing toward the building to use the ladies room. By the door, a woman wearing multiple shawls and a beaded headdress motions me over. She probably needs a light for her cigarette or wants to sell tacky kitsch. She sits on an overturned milk crate and calls me over.
I point at myself.
She nods.
Without asking, she takes my limp hand in hers and then turns it over to study my palm. I try to jerk it away, but her grip is insistent, her nails like knives. Her eyes are like coffee, milky and
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