“Get the fuck up,” I command him, planting my hands on my hips. If you need answers about someone on the tour, just ask Ronnie. He's either fucked them, shared drugs with them, or had a fight with them. Probably all three. Ronnie's bisexual, so he makes sure to canvass the entire traveling party from roadies to managers to guitarists.
“Leave me alone, fucker,” he snarls as he bats his hands at some imaginary someone above his head. I kick his ass, literally. The scenery is fading to black outside and I can tell from Milo's anxiety attacks that we're almost to San Diego. The closer we get to our destination city, the more often he freaks out. Sometimes it seems like Milo Terrabotti has more issues than the rest of the band combined. Either that or the straight-edge little bitch's refusal to self-medicate isn't as pretty a practice as it is a thought.
“I need some dirt on a chick I met this morning,” I tell him, hoping to grab his attention. Ronnie gossips worse than my eighty year old auntie. “Something about her has got under my skin and I'm itching for a little info here. Think you can snap yourself out of it long enough to tell me her story?” I smile as Ronnie sits up and runs his hand over his pale face. “Besides, you know we've got another show tonight, right?”
“Another?” he groans as he leans back and lets his mouth hang open wide, flashing me silver fillings. The stubble on his chin and cheeks crawls with shadows as lights flicker up and over us before disappearing into the night.
“Yeah, man,” I say as I pull out a cigarette and light up real quick. “That's why they call it a tour, you know? You travel around; you play music. Or are you too fucked up to remember that we're chasing a dream here?” Ronnie snorts and snaps his lips shut.
“Your dream, maybe,” he tells me as he fishes out a joint and holds his hand out for a light. “Whatever it was I was after, is long gone now.” He breathes deep and sighs, slinging his arms up along the back of the sofa, resting his grungy boots up on the table. If Milo saw this, he'd have a friggin' fit. Don't know why he cares so much anyhow; it's my fucking bus. “So, what's this mystery chick's name?” Ronnie lets his shadowed lids flutter closed, and a smile teases the edges of his lips. “And why the hell are you so interested in her? Last time you were this into a woman, you were trying to get the manager of Heartstrings Records to book us.” A harsh laugh escapes my throat as I lean back against the door frame and pull a drag on my cig. “You must be crap in bed because as soon as she banged you, she was up and running like her life depended on it.” Ronnie chuckles and opens his brown eyes. His pupils are so big they look almost black and kind of creepy, surrounded by shots of red veins that seem to pulse in the changing light. Normally, I'd blame that on the drugs, but this time, I think it has more to do with his past than anything else. Poor bastard.
“Hey, I showed her a good time that night. It was her fucking mistake to leave her phone on the nightstand. Her husband called, and I answered.” I shrug and brush off the past with a wave of my hand. I don't like to live in the what's been; I'd rather live in the now. The what's been wasn't all that great to me, and the now's been like some kind of fucked up fairytale. I sing; I sell records; I own the fucking world. The one thing I always wanted, I've got: respect.
Except from that girl.
Even thinking of her now is getting my blood hot and my fingers tight. I squeeze my cigarette hard and try not to let her get to me. It's hard though; I can still feel the sting of her palm against my cheek, see the disdain in her eyes. I grind the cherry of my cig into a glass ashtray and cross my arms over my chest.
“Naomi Knox,” I say, and I watch as Ronnie's face registers the name. His mouth twitches and he scratches at the snake tattoos that crawl out of his shirt and around his neck.
“Huh.” Just that one word. Now I'm even more intrigued. Ronnie's staring out the window with a wistful expression, letting his joint dangle from his lips while he thinks. His Terre Haute tee is stained with sweat, and I know it's just a matter of time before Milo bursts in here and starts shouting about appearances and image and all that crap. Me, I've already showered and done my hair, applied a slash eyeliner around my eyes, and slipped into a black tee with a bleeding heart on the front. I've got on a new pair of jeans and a custom pair of hi-tops in solid black with our band logo on the side. Ronnie might not have a problem going onstage looking like he just stepped out of his double wide, but I do. I already lived a major part of my life doing just that. I've got money now, and fame, and respect, and I want to look the part. “Yeah, I know a little about Naomi Knox.”