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“I want a tattoo,” I say in a whisper.
“A tattoo?” he asks, his lips quirking up from a smile. “But you’re afraid of needles.” I shrug even though he’s not wrong. I’ve been terrified of needles since I was a little kid.
“I think if I’m gonna be a rockstar’s wife, I should have at least one.” His smile goes wide, his dimple coming out before he buries his head in my neck, kissing me there and making me giggle, my fingers moving through his long hair.
We’re on the first headlining tour and it’s been a life changing and life affirming experience. Being out here, seeing the world, watching the guys live their dreams.. it’s been amazing.
“We’re not even engaged yet, though; pretty bold calling yourself a rockstar’s wife,” he says with a smile on my neck, and I roll my eyes, pushing him away.
“You’re the worst,” I say. “You know, don’t say that too loud, or the tabloids are going to hear. The next big article inUS Starswill be all about how you broke up with me.”
The one downside of watching Riggins and Atlas Oaks blowing up quicker than anyone could expect, and people are invested in America’s new favorite rock band, meaning we’ve all become quite acquainted with the tabloids and the lies and twisted truths.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he says. “You know I’m just making fun of you, though, right? Once life settles, when the time is right, we’re gonna get married, Stell. This tour is just…” There’s a pause and he sighs, exhausted to the bone. “A lot.” I move closer to him, brushing my hand through his hair and looking at him.
“I know. After the tour, we can talk about it and plan and all of that fun stuff. But does that mean I can’t talk to you about being yours, for real? I just…” I tip my head down, slightly embarrassed. “I’m just excited to be yours.” Riggins’ body moves with a deep sigh, and his hand moves, too, tipping my face up.
He looks tired, so damn tired, like he hasn’t gotten a good night's sleep in months, which is strange because most nights, he doesn’t wake up until noon, even the nights we go to bed at a semi-reasonable hour.
I love tour, being on the road with the band, seeing the fans and the country, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to go home, back to Ashford, to live a bit of normal for a bit.
“You’ve always been mine, Stella. Always.”
“I know,” I say in a soft whisper. “I just can’t wait for it to be official.”
I don’t tell him that I’m hoping once we are legally official, that it will ease the feeling in my belly that aches like something is so off, like I'm just moments from waking from a dream. Like I’m waiting for the other foot to drop and ruin everything.
“Once tour is over, we’ll set a date. If you want a big thing, we’ll do it. You want something small, it’s yours. I just can’t give it my full attention until tour is over.” He stands, walks toward the small fridge on the bus grabbing a beer, cracking it open, and taking a long drink from it.
I let out a short laugh, masking the worry because this has become a more and more common occurrence.
“Are you drinking at—” I look at my watch, squinting at the early time. “One thirty?” I ask with a laugh. His face goes blank, losing all of the sweetness from before.
“Yeah, why?”
“I just… it’s early, is all.” His smile goes boyish, but it doesn’t paint me with warmth the way it normally does. It turns into concern instead. I picture afternoons after school sitting at Riggins’ kitchen table, doing homework together and watching Mr. Greene come in, grabbing a beer from the fridge and drinking it in one long swallow.
“That’s the rockstar life, baby,” he says, and the way he says it makes me feel hot panic.
“It’s just… I worry about you, you know? You drink more beer than water some days,” I try to tiptoe over the issue. It’s probably me being silly, probably just the knowledge of his father that has me uptight.
His brow furrows. “Okay, and?” he asks, something dark twisting in his words. “You’re too young to drink legally, so you don’t get it. It’s not actually that big of a deal, Stella.”
I bite my lip but nod all the same.
“Oh, yeah, of course. I just… I worry about you, you know?” This doesn’t land the way I want it to, his face going frustrated, so I explain to the best of my ability. “You’re on stage every night, jumping around, sweating. You need water and electrolytes and stuff.” I smile my fake smile I used to give my mom’s friend when I felt uncomfortable but couldn’t show it for fear of feeling my mother’s wrath. A smile I never thought I’d need around Riggins. “We gotta make sure you’re taking care of yourself. So you can marry me, you know?” His face transforms again, and he smiles wide, then tips the can back and empties it before leaving the empty on the counter.
Then he’s walking back to me, sitting and moving both of us so I’m sitting in his lap and we’re both facing the small table in the tour bus and the scrap of paper with words, single lines of lyrics and little pictures doodled in the margins.
“So a tattoo?” he asks with a press of his lips to the skin beneath my ear.
I welcome the change in subject.
“Yeah. I want one. Beckett says they won’t even hurt, and I can close my eyes the whole time.”
“Beckett’s full of shit.”
“What do you know?” I ask, my thumb brushing his cheek. “You don’t have a tattoo either.” His smile widens and it fills me with warmth and joy.
