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I shake my head. “You’ve never steered me wrong.”
“Except for the leaver’s ball where you asked Marianne Duvall to dance, and she called you a sod.”
“Hey, ninety-nine percent accurate is pretty accurate. So, what do I do?” I ask, turning to Priya and Apollo, who are now perched on the plush gray sofa. Priya crosses her legs at the ankles, and she has a notepad in hand. She looks like a psychologist.
“I’m going to go first and say that if you break Lyndsey’s heart, I will kick your entire ass. Lyndsey is the best tour manager we’ve ever had, Vince. We. Need. Her.” Priya leans forward and punctuates her sentence with a jab to my sternum.
“And I’m going to be the nice one and say, good for you, buddy! I know it’s been a while since you’ve had feelings for someone,” Apollo says gently. He reaches over and pats my hand before turning to Priya.
“Would it be so bad? Think about it; we all like Lyndsey.”
“I love Lyndsey. Lyndsey’s a godsend. Lyndsey makes the three of you bearable! We’re a month into this tour, and I have yet to get a migraine. Do you know when the last time I was migraine-free for a whole month? Because I know. It was the Fall of 1990! Right before I met all of you!” Priya snaps.
“Priya’s right. Lyndsey’s a great tour manager, and we wouldn’t want your …
“Dick,” Priya finishes, “We wouldn’t want your dick to wreck this tour.”
I groan. “But that’s the thing, though, it’s hopeless! Lyndsey has her whole thing about not getting involved on the road! I’m fucked!”
Priya and Apollo nod sagely. “Oh, that’s right. Y’know, I forgot about that. It’s a good rule, but I can see how it’s a challenge for you.”
“But maybe things will change. I think Lyndsey likes you too,” Priya consoles.
“Wait, really?”
Priya nods. “Yeah, she’s softer around you. It’s cute. And she looks at you like, I don’t know, with more grace than you deserve, I’ll tell you that. So, keep the faith and don’t fuck it up,” Priya declares, slapping my knee. “I have to go steam my jumpsuit for tonight, and I need to put extra product in my hair so the humidity doesn’t ruin it.”
“Thanks, Priya. Maybe I’ll talk to—"Just then, Lyndsey rushes into the dressing room. She’s damp, her hair is frizzing at the ends, and her hoodie is clinging to curves I didn’t know she had.
I note the dip where her waist tapers and the swell of her tits. Her nipples are pebbling beneath her ribbed tank top. I can feel myself getting hard.
“So, there’s a rain delay. For now, you’ll go on at 9:30,” Lyndsey pants.
She peels off her wet hoodie and sets it on the couch, then shakes her head like a dog getting a bath—droplets of rain mist my chest. I suppress the urge to gawk as she flips her hair back and tussles it with her hands. When did she get buff? Has she always had arm muscles? I study my pecs and remind myself to incorporate more arm days into my tour workout routine. I guess she does lift a lot of—
“Vince?” Lyndsey asks. I blink, and she’s hovering in front of me, “Are you okay? You look dazed. Are you nervous?”
“Nah, I’m good. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” I reassure her.
Hours drag on. By 11:00pm, we still have yet to go onstage, thanks to lightning delays and a verified torrential downpour that flooded part of GA.
“At least it’s not like, a field, then we’d be looking at trench foot,” Henry says.
“Make that a t-shirt,” Apollo adds. “I got trench foot at the Imposters 2023.”
“I got wet at the Imposters,” Lyndsey deadpans. I expected her to be more nervous, but she seemed to have accepted the rain. Now she sits cross-legged on the floor of our dressing room, alternating between reading Raymond Carver and talking Priya off a ledge.
Priya’s getting antsy. As time passes, her elaborate shag expands to cloud-like proportions thanks to the humidity. She keeps sweating her makeup off. Her hands are shaking as she paces the length of the dressing room. Her wedge sandals make it sound like we’re trapped with an anxious horse.
Lyndsey hands Priya a mug of tea. “Here you go. Wanna—" She glances around the dressing room, landing on Priya’s vanity, where she spots a nail polish bottle. “Wanna paint my nails?”
“You don’t like having your nails done!” Priya cries.
“I do if you’re the person painting them, c’mon,” Just then, another bolt of lightning lit up the dressing room from the tiny window. “We’ve got another half hour.”
