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“Did you kiss her in the Haunted Mansion?” Cody called.
Dale stopped and looked back. I was trying to keep a straight face. Then Dale winked and gave him a big thumbs up.
“Good man!” Cody called back, giving him two enthusiastic little thumbs up right back.
I laughed as we headed down the stairs.
“Your feet still hurt?” he asked.
“Don’t yours?”
“A little.” With the power of the pass, Dale got us one of those little golf carts I saw Disney employees running around in. We drove it to the front of the park and left it with one of the attendants.
“Your first show is tomorrow.” It just hit me as we were sitting there on the bench, waiting. Dale had used the phone in the attendant’s booth to call Chelsea to handle getting us back to the hotel.
“I know.” He leaned back on the bench, thumbs hooked in his belt.
“Nervous?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a little?” I raised my eyebrows, searching his face.
“Well… maybe a little.” He smiled.
“But you’re gonna do it anyway?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man.” I gave him two thumbs up and he laughed.
I leaned my head against his shoulder as we waited, feeling so very blessed.
I knew I was the luckiest girl in the world to have such a good man in my life.
And even if I had to share him with fifty-thousand screaming fans, he was all mine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sex on a tour bus was impossible if you wanted privacy. It was easy, though, if you didn’t. Rick climbed up into his bed every night with his headphones, pulled the curtain, and went to sleep, and even though we didn’t get along very well, that kind of thawed me toward him a little. He had a wife and kid at home and he went to bed alone every night. I knew that couldn’t be easy, given that there were hundreds—literally, hundreds—of girls who would have been happy to hop on the bus with him after the shower.
The groupies lined up near the backstage door, just to catch a glimpse of the band. It was Dale they were all after, of course. But he was taken. I thought it would be Terry who would benefit most from the groupie runoff. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was interesting-looking, and I could see how his white-blond spiky hair (peroxide in the sink, I discovered) could be appealing. And he did bring a few girls on the bus at first, but I think he must have either sworn off it or he just got bored, because he, too, started going to bed at night with his headphones, curtain drawn.
And headphones were necessary, because Eddie “Bear” Allen was getting laid. Just the first two venues alone, one in Florida and the other in Georgia, I think he’d had sex with more girls than he’d ever been with in his lifetime. And I didn’t quite know how it was happening, because our beds were pretty small. They were average twin size, pretty luxury for a bus, but Dale and I were used to a double. And Eddie? He was two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of man flesh. It defied the laws of physics.
Granted, the girls he was bringing back were model skinny—he’d discovered he could pick them out in the crowd and one of the crew would give the girls he liked a backstage pass. Of course, Eddie was behind the drums for the whole set, so he scoped them out before the show. His tastes seemed to trend toward those toothpick girls with long limbs and jutting hipbones. From the sounds coming from his cubby—and we’d all quickly learned from experience to avoid the bus right after the show—the girls were all having a good time. I was afraid he was going to hurt one of them—not on purpose or anything, but they were so little and he was so big, and our beds were kind of high up.
Mostly the girls would leave after the sex, but he picked up a girl in South Carolina during our fourth show on the road who just stayed. I didn’t know what her name was but Bear called her Pixie, which could have been reference to her stature—probably not quite five feet—or her short, dark haircut. Or maybe it was her real name, who knew? Pixie made it clear she was available to all the guys, if they wanted her. Especially Dale. When he told me that, I made sure I had a little talk with Pixie when none of the guys were around. After that, she didn’t talk to Dale much and me not at all. Which was fine by me.
But I admit, I was a little shocked when Pixie would join Bear after every show on the bus. He continued to pick out girls—he was like a kid set loose an ice cream store and he wanted to try every possible flavor—and Pixie would just join the party. Sometime I woke up to go to the bathroom and I’d find limbs poking every which way out of Bear’s cubby, the sound of the big guy’s snoring filling the bus.
Black Diamond had their own bus, thank goodness. I loved the crew—they were great guys—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to share close quarters with them. Of course, sharing close quarters with three band members who had mixed feelings about me wasn’t that fun either. It’s exactly what I’d been worried about when I’d expressed my reservations in the first place. I hadn’t anticipated the sex.
When I asked Chelsea about the groupie-sex thing, she laughed. She said it was common practice on the road. She was surprised the rest of the guys weren’t doing it too. Maybe they were taking Dale’s lead, or maybe they were just too shy, given the close quarters. But Chelsea devoted one entire drawer in our little kitchenette to condoms. It was packed full of every size and flavor known to man.
“Is this what you’d be doing on the road if I wasn’t here?” I asked Dale one night after we’d been treated to a particularly loud sexual symphony from across the aisle. I felt bad for Rick, because Bear was right next to him, just on the other side of a thin wall—if you could call it a wall at all.
“I’d be sleeping with headphones on,” Dale replied, kissing the side of my breast. We were all tangled up post coitus, having taken advantage of the noise across the aisle to drown us out while we were having sex. “And jerking off, thinking about you.”
