I looked down at the pass that was resting on top of the case of Carlsberg. It said ALL ACCESS across it. If I wasn’t so lost and nervous, I would have felt like doing a little kick of joy. All my passes before were either photo or media passes—I’d never had the coveted All Access Backstage Pass for anything before.
“Hey, those beers for me?”
I looked to my left to see a cute, smiling guy in a Sabbath t-shirt approaching me.
I smiled uneasily at him. “No, they’re for Hybrid, and apparently Mickey will be pissed if he doesn’t get his share soon.”
I hoped I sounded cool.
“Good point,” he said. He stood beside me and peered down at my pass. “Ooh, All Access. Aren’t you fancy?”
I took a quick glance at his pass and found it to be hanging off the side of his jeans. I guess that was the cool way to wear it.
“You’re apparently fancy, too.”
He grinned. He reminded me a bit of Robert Redford, if Redford had a slight beer belly, tattoos, shaggy black hair, and a mustache. He held out his hands.
“Well, here let me help you. I promise not to drink any.”
I let him take the Corona but kept the Carlsberg close to my chest.
“I’m Chip, by the way.”
“Dawn.”
“And so, Dawn,” he said, “might I ask why you have Mickey Brown and Sage Knightly’s beer?”
So the Corona was for Sage. Interesting. I think that was the most I knew about him.
And here went the spiel I’d have to repeat for the month of August.
“I’m a music journalist for Creem Magazine. I’m going on the road with the band for this tour, and hopefully if I write a good enough story, I can get the band on the cover.”
He raised his brow. “And are you a fan of the band?”
I grinned. “One of the biggest.”
He returned the smile. “Well aren’t they lucky. For once, they get a journalist who’s a fan and she ends up being a hot chick on top of it.”
That thing where I rarely blushed? It was happening again.
“I’m just hoping they won’t toss me out of the bus in the middle of Kansas,” I said, thinking of moody Noelle.
“No way. Anything goes with Hybrid, so as long as you keep the alcohol flowing and the coke powdered.”
Now it was my time to raise my brows.
He stroked his mustache and looked chagrined. “Ah, f**k. I guess I shouldn’t be telling you these things, should I? Hell, you’re going to be on the road with us, you’d find out sooner or later.”
“Us?” I repeated.
He nodded. “I’m the sound tech. I like to think I’m the best, but I’m really just the most loyal. Come on, let’s get those boys some beers.”
I looked back at Jacob on the other side of the fence. He was drinking his beer and talking to a few people.
“Jacob needs a pass too,” I told him. “He gave me his.”
Chip raised his hand in the air in dismissal and started walking toward the buses. “Jacob’s The Cob, man. He can take care of himself.”
I shot Jacob one last glance and then hurried after Chip, the bottles in the box rattling against each other.
He stopped in front of one of the buses, an aging forty foot behemoth of scuffed chrome and peeling green paint. The windows were tinted, but from the faint afternoon light coming in the other side, I could see movement inside and silhouettes. The vague drone of a stereo emanated from the closed doors.
“This is it. The Green Machine,” he said, looking up at the bus with pride. “She’s a piece of shit but we’ve decided to love her anyway.”
He gave me a coy glance over his shoulder.
“You ready to meet the band and your home for the next few weeks?”
My mouth went all dry and I couldn’t speak. I nodded slowly, my body caught in a net of apprehension. My fingers gripped the box of beer until it hurt, and I had the greatest urge to just run far, far away.
He let out a laugh, clearly amused by my attack of nerves, and pounded his fist on the bus door.
“Let me in, you f**kers!” he demanded.
The bus swayed back and forth slightly. The door proceeded to shudder and then eased open with a hiss of hydraulics.
He went up the first few steps, passing the beer to someone inside who I couldn’t see properly, and paused.
“Are you guys ready to meet Rusty?” he yelled into the bus.
Rusty? I was Rusty now?
“Who the f**k is Rusty?” someone hollered back.
“It’s that groupie chick,” I heard Noelle say from inside.
I nearly dropped the entire case of beer on my foot. My fingers clung on strong with anger instead of nerves.
“Well, I don’t think she’s a groupie, per se…” Chip trailed off. He looked over at me. “Well, get on over here and say hello.”
I took in a deep breath and willed my legs to move. Somehow my sneakers carried me to the bus door and I climbed up the stairs until I was at the top of them beside Chip.
I gave him an anxious smile then turned to face everyone in the smoke-filled bus.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, that feeling of having a band that you loved, the faces you gazed at in magazines, the ones who created life-changing music, staring back at you, and only you. It was almost too much to take in at once, but my brain did a commendable job of taking a snapshot of it as Bad Company’s “Rock Steady” provided the soundtrack.
Behind the empty bus driver’s seat was a table with two benches on either side of it. Noelle and Mickey sat on one side facing me, Noelle in his lap. Her arms were draped all over her boyfriend, the quiet rhythm guitarist. He was of medium height, dressed in khaki green suede that was too big for him. I’d seen pictures of him with his shirt off and he was pretty thin and ripped with fine muscle. His eyes were dark and wary, his hair long, his beard and mustache adequately bushy.
Across from him and turning around in his seat to see me was Robbie Oliver. The Robbie Oliver. The Metal Monkey. The Spazz of the Stage. The Singing Seducer. And he looked just like I imagined he would. He wasn’t the tallest guy, maybe my height, but he had a gymnast’s body that he usually showed off in the tightest pants and undershirts. He had moves, he was flexible, and on stage he was a maniac. Off stage he had a reputation for being a lady-killer. From what I understood, he had a fiancé in California, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying.