On the Road: (Vagabonds Book 2) (New Adult Rock Star Romance) by Jade C. Jamison
Authors: Jade C. Jamison
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lot of truths. The first was that a hotel bed, no matter how comfortable, didn’t offer real rest. I could hardly wait to sleep in my own bed.
I don’t know what I would have done without my smart phone. It was my lifeline to everything—my parents, the world, the guy I was lusting after. Even pictures. It was chronicling my life on the road, and when my phone got too full, I’d post a few on Instagram, but most of them I’d save on Facebook or just send to myself in email.
Oh, and speaking of social media, all our accounts began to explode. It was outrageous how many likes and follows and friend requests we were getting on a daily basis now that our song was on the radio and we were on the road. Dared we say we were becoming famous?
Another truth—doing laundry sucked as much on the road as it did at home, only we had to be bored at the fucking laundromat. And they were all the same. Dingy walls in a semi-humid room that smelled like whatever scent the fabric softener sheets had been infused with that day. I was glad I didn’t own anything that had to be ironed because, if I had brought something like that on the road with me, I would have tossed it by now. I had no patience for stupid shit like that.
Oh, yeah. Yet another truth—McDonald’s was a great way to stretch our money. We girls ate there at least once a day if not more often. It was like a teenager’s dream. All of us (except for Vicki) had parents who didn’t let us eat there very often as kids but now we could eat there all we wanted—and so we did.
We were already learning that fame wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. People thought that, just because they’d seen you on stage or listened to your album, you were like one of their friends. Because they felt like they knew you, you belonged to them. But those people didn’t give one shit about us. Nobody did. I was beginning to hate that part. The worst were all the creepy old men in the audience treating us like sex objects—calling us baby and doll and more lascivious things. There was no mistaking their intent and it got really old really fast.
Yet another truth—some people seem to be born addicts. Take Vicki, for example. She was only eating two meals a day now and why? Because she was buying cigarettes on a regular basis. She was an addict, plain and simple, and she had a pack-and-a-half to two-pack a day habit. She offered them to me on occasion and I always took her up on the offer, but I was not as yet hooked. Vicki, though? She was already a slave.
What worried me more, though, was her growing fascination with drugs. Andrew provided pot whenever any of us asked. I wasn’t too worried about weed. Nope. I was more worried about the harder stuff I was afraid Vicki would try when she no longer got the jolt she was looking for from whatever her high-du-jour was.
And she was seeking it out. Man, was she seeking it out. Sometime near the end of September, we were in Houston, enjoying an after-party, and she was asking the fans and other bands what shit they had to share. Ecstasy and mushrooms weren’t enough, so she kept looking. I wasn’t sure what she’d scored by the end of the night, but she was completely blitzed. She looked happy but she could barely move on her own. I finally asked Andrew for help to get her up to our room once he’d parked the van that night.
I wish I could have taught her all the rules I was learning on the road, things like Don’t take candy (drugs) from strangers and What goes up must come down (if you’re high, you gotta come down, and gravity doesn’t always feel as good)…except I knew another one that already applied to Vicki: You can’t begin to heal until you admit you have a problem.
But the one I was learning the fastest was that not everyone had my best interests at heart. In fact, I think I was the only one…which meant I had to keep an eye out for
I don’t know what I would have done without my smart phone. It was my lifeline to everything—my parents, the world, the guy I was lusting after. Even pictures. It was chronicling my life on the road, and when my phone got too full, I’d post a few on Instagram, but most of them I’d save on Facebook or just send to myself in email.
Oh, and speaking of social media, all our accounts began to explode. It was outrageous how many likes and follows and friend requests we were getting on a daily basis now that our song was on the radio and we were on the road. Dared we say we were becoming famous?
Another truth—doing laundry sucked as much on the road as it did at home, only we had to be bored at the fucking laundromat. And they were all the same. Dingy walls in a semi-humid room that smelled like whatever scent the fabric softener sheets had been infused with that day. I was glad I didn’t own anything that had to be ironed because, if I had brought something like that on the road with me, I would have tossed it by now. I had no patience for stupid shit like that.
Oh, yeah. Yet another truth—McDonald’s was a great way to stretch our money. We girls ate there at least once a day if not more often. It was like a teenager’s dream. All of us (except for Vicki) had parents who didn’t let us eat there very often as kids but now we could eat there all we wanted—and so we did.
We were already learning that fame wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. People thought that, just because they’d seen you on stage or listened to your album, you were like one of their friends. Because they felt like they knew you, you belonged to them. But those people didn’t give one shit about us. Nobody did. I was beginning to hate that part. The worst were all the creepy old men in the audience treating us like sex objects—calling us baby and doll and more lascivious things. There was no mistaking their intent and it got really old really fast.
Yet another truth—some people seem to be born addicts. Take Vicki, for example. She was only eating two meals a day now and why? Because she was buying cigarettes on a regular basis. She was an addict, plain and simple, and she had a pack-and-a-half to two-pack a day habit. She offered them to me on occasion and I always took her up on the offer, but I was not as yet hooked. Vicki, though? She was already a slave.
What worried me more, though, was her growing fascination with drugs. Andrew provided pot whenever any of us asked. I wasn’t too worried about weed. Nope. I was more worried about the harder stuff I was afraid Vicki would try when she no longer got the jolt she was looking for from whatever her high-du-jour was.
And she was seeking it out. Man, was she seeking it out. Sometime near the end of September, we were in Houston, enjoying an after-party, and she was asking the fans and other bands what shit they had to share. Ecstasy and mushrooms weren’t enough, so she kept looking. I wasn’t sure what she’d scored by the end of the night, but she was completely blitzed. She looked happy but she could barely move on her own. I finally asked Andrew for help to get her up to our room once he’d parked the van that night.
I wish I could have taught her all the rules I was learning on the road, things like Don’t take candy (drugs) from strangers and What goes up must come down (if you’re high, you gotta come down, and gravity doesn’t always feel as good)…except I knew another one that already applied to Vicki: You can’t begin to heal until you admit you have a problem.
But the one I was learning the fastest was that not everyone had my best interests at heart. In fact, I think I was the only one…which meant I had to keep an eye out for
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