The Rocker's Muse

“Stacia sounds nuts.”

Actually, I might’ve been the nuts one. I was considering taking a job I’d been offered because of a gigantic lie.

As Leah chatted away about the girl she worked with and her nutty jar of Tristan’s hair, I decided to throw caution to the wind. It would either be the biggest mistake I’d ever made, or the opportunity of a lifetime. But deep down, I knew I had to take it—for the same reason I’d found myself in the desert earlier.

I interrupted her. “Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna go on tour with Delirious Jones.”

CHAPTER 3

EMILY

No one told me just how exhausting working on a music tour would be.

Don’t get me wrong. It was the most exciting thing I’d ever done in my life. But there was no time to breathe. The action was so fast and constant that every day blended into the next. It had only been a week. Those seven days had gone by in a flash, yet it felt like I’d been here forever and had no concept of the world outside.

There were no set hours. I basically worked all day, with random breaks in between. And I was on call twenty-four hours a day for “emergencies”—like if someone needed something that catering or a delivery person couldn’t fulfill. Having things delivered was a challenge when trying to protect the privacy of the band and keep their location secret. So that’s where I came in, constantly running from place to place.

Delirious Jones had two buses. The main bus carried the band members and their management. The other band employees and I were on the second bus. Then there were additional buses for the crew employed by the tour company.

Sleeping in a bunk with no windows took some getting used to. At night, when we’d take off for the next city, I’d put my earbuds in and listen to a podcast or an audiobook until I eventually fell asleep. I’d drift in and out of slumber all night, often woken by the sound of the motor stopping. The mattress, though, was surprisingly comfortable.

Thus far, the band had done four back-to-back performances, starting in Boston and ending in New York. I hadn’t had many interactions with Tristan or the other guys in the band. Tristan Daltrey sang and played guitar, and Delirious Jones also included drummer Atticus Marchetti and bass player Ronan Barber. Their keyboardist apparently quit a few months back due to some personal problems, so a musician named Melvin Finkle was filling in for the tour. They’d apparently gone through a couple of temporary keyboardists before him.

The real work began when we arrived at a new location. The tour manager rented a car in each city, and I had to be at the ready to go get whatever the band or crew needed. I’d even been asked to hem pants once. This position should’ve been advertised as “jack of all trades.” I mean, maybe it had been. But I definitely hadn’t gone to college for this kind of work. Still, I was a firm believer that opportunities landed in your lap for a reason. And while I hadn’t shown up in the desert that day expecting to land a job, I knew this would be good life experience for me.

Tonight was the first night we’d be staying in a hotel because there were two shows in a row in Columbus, Ohio. I’d be rooming with one of only two other women on the crew, Layla, the tour photographer. Our room was modest, with two double beds.

As we settled in, Layla bounced on her mattress. “How are you liking being on tour so far?”

“I’ve been too busy to really think, you know?” I chuckled. “I blink, and then we’re in the next city.”

“You said this is your first tour. How did you end up here?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out.” Not a lie.

Layla smiled. “Anything surprise you so far?”

“I wasn’t expecting this level of fandom, you know? I can’t even exit the field where the buses are parked to get to the parking lot without running into crazy girls.”

“Yeah. It is pretty crazy. They all want a piece of them. Especially Tristan.”

Tristan.

He looked so different now from the way he’d looked in the bathroom that day. His long beard was gone, replaced by much lighter facial scruff along a strong jawline. The brown hair that had been piled under a hood was now usually let loose, wavy and thick, falling over his forehead to frame his face. Tristan was gorgeous—rugged and tattooed all over from his arms to his chest and even up to the base of his neck. It was no wonder women went crazy over him, and his broody, powerful voice was just as amazing as his looks.

“I haven’t gotten to speak to Tristan much since the tour started,” I told Layla. “Or any of the guys, for that matter. What’s your take on them?”

She shrugged. “Everyone assumes Tristan is the wildest of the bunch. You know, that lead-singer energy. That’s the persona he puts on for the public. But in reality, I find him to be the most private—not necessarily the wildest.”

I kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed. “Interesting.”

“When you take photos of people, sometimes you look into their soul in a way others can’t. And in Tristan I see someone who’s preoccupied, lost a bit, even if I don’t understand why.”

“There’s more than meets the eye, then?”