Launi

The energy on the bus is exactly what you'd expect it to be in the middle of a tour. Everyone seems cranky and disinterested in socializing. I think the age of the members is also showing, the vibrant 24-7 electric vibe of their youth isn't sustainable in their fifties. Even though it's mid-morning, most of them have taken to their beds and drawn the curtains to get a little more time alone to rest. That's fine by me. I'm exhausted from my morning already and I still have a lot of work to do.

I set up at the small table, scooting as far into the upholstered booth as possible so I can reach the plug to charge my dying phone. The lights overhead have been kept off for this stretch of the drive so everyone can rest. For the next ten minutes I stare out the tinted window at the landscape flying by. I'm tired, but not just from the lack of sleep. This job has taken everything from me. I'm starting to question whether a life like this could ever make me happy or if I should follow my brother's lead and leave the world of rockstars behind entirely.

I'm startled when a large figure appears in the reflection of the window. I turn and find Rye staring down at me. He seems angry, the lightness of our other encounters a thing of the past as he moves to slide into the bench across from me. The table between us is barely wide enough to fit one dinner plate, so when he's finally in front of me, I can feel the heat from his body as his legs tangle with mine beneath the flimsy laminate.

Rye's jaw is clenched as he stares out the window, his strong arms defeatedly at his sides. I watch his eyes move quickly with the blurring visual just outside the glass. My chest is tight and I strangely feel as if I've done something wrong. I wait, like a naughty student for the principal to deliver his lecture. But that's ridiculous. He's done this. Every action I've taken was a direct response to a faulty step of his. I'm not the student, I'm the janitor. As much as I want to tell him I'm tired of cleaning up his mess, that's exactly the job I'm being paid to do.

His head turns as if he could read my thoughts. Maybe he could feel the second I decided I wasn't caving to this power struggle. Equal playing ground is where we stand because I've decided that to be true. I don't owe him any favors, and he certainly hasn't been dishing any out to me.

Rye leans forward, causing his knee to press further into my space. I keep my breath steady and raise a brow as if to say, "Well?"

Although I can't see them, I know his hands are in his lap. He centers his upper body over the table, his eyes glaring into mine. He's searching, seeking answers there for a question he hasn't asked. At first, I don't look away. I will myself to keep the eye contact and not be overwhelmed with what it does inside me, but then it becomes too much. For everything he can find in my eyes, I can see in his too.

His hand grasps my knee, both a warning and a plea.

"Launi," he says low in volume but high in emotion. The rough sound of his voice makes my eyes flutter closed.

Drawing in a deep breath of resolve, I open my eyes and meet his gaze again.

"Is this what you really want?" he asks quietly so the ambient noise of the bus drowns him out before it can reach the bunks. "You want me to keep things going with Tinsley?"

I nod. I don't dare try to say the words out loud. I take a quick look behind me to make sure no one else is within earshot. His hand on my knee squeezes.

"I'm watching," he tells me. "Trust me." The small shake of his head expresses his disappointment that he'd even have to tell me that.

"Trust you?" I say, leaning over the table. "That's funny." The message is delivered without any humor.

I squirm when his hand doesn't retract and instead, he slides it up a little higher as he also leans forward into the diminishing space between us. I can't help but watch his lips as they move with the clench of his tight jaw. Why does he have to be so attractive? My body should be repulsed by what I know of him and yet, when he dips his head down so his eyes can catch mine and draw the attention back to the conversation and not his lips, I want to relax my posture and give him the sign he would need to move that devilish hand wherever he wants.

"Launi, it's a contract. You've seen it. I believe it was attached to one of the many you were copied on today," he tells me.

"Oh, right," I answer, adjusting my body so I can get closer to his face because I don't trust my voice not to carry down the open hallway. He eyes move quickly, dipping to my lips and then back up. He's so close now I can feel the warmth of his breath on my chest. "Can you direct me to where in the contract it said you had to have sex with her and document it with photographic evidence? Or we could just talk about the physical evidence of the scratches on your back."

"Launi," he whispers but with such authority I find myself feeling like a child in trouble again. "I didn't have sex with her."

It suddenly feels very hot and stuffy. I lean back, twisting my hair off my neck and closing my eyes. I don't want this lifestyle. I don't want to live like my mother. Rye is who he is and I already know the type.

Rye's hand loosens, but only to move up higher, physically inviting more intimacy between us. He's urging me to stay present.

"Tell me you don't feel anything for me and I'll sign the contract," he says.

I open my eyes and release my hair. Leaning forward again I whisper, "You'll sign the contract because that's what's required of you. There's no other way-out Rye. Sign the contract and move forward on the tour or play this game of chicken and watch us both burn."

"You don't want this," he says, but his tone confesses an uncertainty in the words.

Before I can answer, Rye's hand leaves my knee and his sits up straighter. His eyes flash to the space behind me and it's only then that I hear the footsteps of another band member.

"You two always fighting," my dad says. "Don't look so serious. You guys can go back to hating each other after the tour." He cracks open the small fridge and grabs a cold beer. Holding it up to us in a one-sided cheer, he exclaims, "To your dad, lucky bastard doesn't have to watch the two of you bicker anymore." Then he turns around and retreats to the larger room at the back of the bus.

The mention of his father has changed Rye's entire demeanor. The warmth in his eyes has left and it's replaced with indifference. He slides to the edge of the small booth but turns back before standing up. "You were never going to let me be anything other than my father's son."

With that, Rye stands up and makes his way to the fridge. He grabs a soda, cracks it open and lift it ceremoniously. "To my dad," he says. He takes a big, angry swig and then uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth as if he's trying to clear off the disgusting taste the words left of his lips. "I'll sign your contract."

I don't say anything. I'm watching him morph right in front of me. I know I've pushed him. He can't escape his father anywhere and I should be that safe space where he's just Rye, the friend from childhood and not Rye, the son of a fuck-up.

Rye takes two steps in my direction and gets so close to my face I think he's about to kiss me, but instead he whispers, "And then I'll watch you regret it."