together.
Dan looked toward the doctor, who said nothing.
“Moss didn’t see it,” Ray said, “and neither did anyone by the time we got you here, but before you crashed, I thought I saw…things in your eyes.”
A sick, wet heat crawled up Dan’s face. He clutched the sheet with his good hand.
“What I think”—Dr. Shue lowered the tablet with his info on it—“is that the both of you have been on the road a lot, under a lot of stress, with not enough sleep and a fair amount of alcohol, if nothing else.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You’re probably suffering from stress and exhaustion, and once you get some rest you’ll find the symptoms don’t repeat themselves.” She slipped the flashlight into her pocket. “But if you do have an experience like this again, you need to make an appointment with your doctor.”
“Does that mean I can go?” Exhaustion . He liked that diagnosis. “What about the things in my eyes?”
“If you have any vision problems, you should come back or see your own doctor.”
“I had headaches,” he said. “And buzzing…”
“With some rest, exercise, and a healthy diet, I think you’ll be feeling a lot more yourself. More fruits and vegetables, less caffeine and alcohol, okay? Any other questions?”
“Well,” Carey said once she was gone, “I guess that’s good news.”
Jamie stretched his arms toward the ceiling, the hem of his t-shirt hiking up to expose a slice of belly. “Are we getting a hotel?”
“Yeah, I’ve gotta arrange that and cancel the show still.”
Dan turned his head. “Hey.”
Ray lifted his chin, acknowledging him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a few bruises. I’m more worried about you.”
“I actually feel pretty good.” The sun was shining, the headache was finally fucking gone. So were the… Holy shit. Were they? “Come here.”
Ray stepped closer, curling his fingers on the bedrail again.
Dan laid a hand over one.
Holy shit. The fucking bees were gone.
Ray’s hand shifted under his, turning over. Dan let his own slip away. And saw the purplish bruise on the heel of Ray’s hand, the faint tooth-shaped dents in it. “Shit. I’m… really fucking sorry. Can you still play?”
He closed his fist, opened it back up. “Yeah, it’s nothing.”
“Do you want to play?”
“Ain’t that what we’re on this crazy ride for?”
Dan shoved the sheets down. “Where are my clothes?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ray backpedaled a few steps, knocking into a rolling bedside table.
“Whoa.” Carey put his hands up. “You might want to wait till they take your plug out at least.”
The line coming out of the back of Dan’s hand rattled against the IV pole.
He looked at Ray again for a long second. Couldn’t say he blamed him for the reticence to get too close when he was on his feet. Ray put his hands up a little, a gesture to say he was okay, keep going. “I can get my fucking pants on at least. Are you gonna drink that soda?” He was still dying of thirst. “What time is it?”
Ray crouched and dragged a bulky plastic bag from underneath the bed while Carey said, “Almost noon.”
“How far’s the venue?” Dan asked.
“An hour and half, two with traffic.”
“That works.” He grabbed the pair of jeans Ray’d pulled out of the bag. “We can make that work.”
“You’re not thinking of playing, are you?” Carey asked.
“I feel great. Seriously. And if we get the fuck out of here fast enough, maybe no one will realize we were ever here.” Just get this fucking tour over with. And stay out of the news. That was all he asked. They needed to go home and get their heads back together. He needed to go home and get his head back together. What they didn’t need was to have to get back on the fucking road two weeks from now for a rescheduled show. Unless someone in the band was fucking dead , they had a policy of no cancellations, only reschedules. Even the time they’d been a no-show
Dan looked toward the doctor, who said nothing.
“Moss didn’t see it,” Ray said, “and neither did anyone by the time we got you here, but before you crashed, I thought I saw…things in your eyes.”
A sick, wet heat crawled up Dan’s face. He clutched the sheet with his good hand.
“What I think”—Dr. Shue lowered the tablet with his info on it—“is that the both of you have been on the road a lot, under a lot of stress, with not enough sleep and a fair amount of alcohol, if nothing else.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You’re probably suffering from stress and exhaustion, and once you get some rest you’ll find the symptoms don’t repeat themselves.” She slipped the flashlight into her pocket. “But if you do have an experience like this again, you need to make an appointment with your doctor.”
“Does that mean I can go?” Exhaustion . He liked that diagnosis. “What about the things in my eyes?”
“If you have any vision problems, you should come back or see your own doctor.”
“I had headaches,” he said. “And buzzing…”
“With some rest, exercise, and a healthy diet, I think you’ll be feeling a lot more yourself. More fruits and vegetables, less caffeine and alcohol, okay? Any other questions?”
“Well,” Carey said once she was gone, “I guess that’s good news.”
Jamie stretched his arms toward the ceiling, the hem of his t-shirt hiking up to expose a slice of belly. “Are we getting a hotel?”
“Yeah, I’ve gotta arrange that and cancel the show still.”
Dan turned his head. “Hey.”
Ray lifted his chin, acknowledging him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a few bruises. I’m more worried about you.”
“I actually feel pretty good.” The sun was shining, the headache was finally fucking gone. So were the… Holy shit. Were they? “Come here.”
Ray stepped closer, curling his fingers on the bedrail again.
Dan laid a hand over one.
Holy shit. The fucking bees were gone.
Ray’s hand shifted under his, turning over. Dan let his own slip away. And saw the purplish bruise on the heel of Ray’s hand, the faint tooth-shaped dents in it. “Shit. I’m… really fucking sorry. Can you still play?”
He closed his fist, opened it back up. “Yeah, it’s nothing.”
“Do you want to play?”
“Ain’t that what we’re on this crazy ride for?”
Dan shoved the sheets down. “Where are my clothes?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Ray backpedaled a few steps, knocking into a rolling bedside table.
“Whoa.” Carey put his hands up. “You might want to wait till they take your plug out at least.”
The line coming out of the back of Dan’s hand rattled against the IV pole.
He looked at Ray again for a long second. Couldn’t say he blamed him for the reticence to get too close when he was on his feet. Ray put his hands up a little, a gesture to say he was okay, keep going. “I can get my fucking pants on at least. Are you gonna drink that soda?” He was still dying of thirst. “What time is it?”
Ray crouched and dragged a bulky plastic bag from underneath the bed while Carey said, “Almost noon.”
“How far’s the venue?” Dan asked.
“An hour and half, two with traffic.”
“That works.” He grabbed the pair of jeans Ray’d pulled out of the bag. “We can make that work.”
“You’re not thinking of playing, are you?” Carey asked.
“I feel great. Seriously. And if we get the fuck out of here fast enough, maybe no one will realize we were ever here.” Just get this fucking tour over with. And stay out of the news. That was all he asked. They needed to go home and get their heads back together. He needed to go home and get his head back together. What they didn’t need was to have to get back on the fucking road two weeks from now for a rescheduled show. Unless someone in the band was fucking dead , they had a policy of no cancellations, only reschedules. Even the time they’d been a no-show
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