Adam – Summer 2023

  So fuckin’ stoked to go on tour. It’s always this unstoppable whirlwind of parties, travel, adoration, music, booze and...well, yeah, sex. Okay, it’s the typical rockstar’s life. I’m not trying to deny it, and I’m not gonna apologize for being excited about it either.

  I sigh and smile. This is peace. This is contentment. Something I almost forgot I could feel! You’d think I would, I mean...Jesus...just look at this view...my big, cliffside house with a massive window over the ocean, the busy beaches down below. I don’t have much of a yard back there, but out front is nice. The driveway is long to keep the rest of the neighborhood away. Sam’s place is next door, even though there’s a shit ton of property between us. I’m grateful he’s there. Sometimes I wish he was closer because, I don’t know what it is...lately...well, that douchebag Oliver’s been over there a lot. I know they’re working on a side project band. I’m happy for Sam, I mean, I know he’s got talent. I write the songs for our band, but he plays guitar like a motherfucker and...I guess he’s writing songs now? I don’t know. Maybe Oliver does? Who fuckin’ knows. Am I worried about it?

  Ummm...

  “Dad?”

  Where’s my dad? I’m realizing it’s awfully quiet around here. I keep calling out for him while I start walking the whole damn house. Dad, dad...where the hell are ya, old man?

  I sigh once I’ve finished searching the place up and down. I’m leaning against the wall and peering out the window, too resigned to be pissed. I know where he is. He wanders the neighborhood and usually ends up with Sam. Of course, if he’s not here and I don’t for sure know where he is by the time my dipshit brother Aiden shows up I’m really in for it. He already thinks I don’t do a good enough job looking after him. It compounds when shit like this happens.

  My belly rolls with nerves. I really don’t want to deal with Aiden, so I spin on my heel. I pull my phone from the pocket of my signature jean jacket. Just before I’m about to dial, the front door opens and, bam, there he is: Sam the handsomest man around town, strutting in with my dad on his arm and a smirk on his face. He can read me like a book. He knows exactly what’s on my mind.

  “Chill...I know Aiden’s coming. We were just playing a little Canasta before I go.”

  I roll my eyes, but I don’t mean it. It’s a show, like always. I’m relieved as shit right now. Thank God or whoever...well, I guess thank Sam that Dad’s here. I watch Sam walk the old man back into his room. He’s looking tired. Probably about ready for some TV. Stacey K should be here soon, the one from high school. She’s an in-home nurse now, and she’s the only reason I’m able to go on tour this year.

  God, it’s been hell. It’s just been hell watching Dad get old.

  I put my phone away and shake my hands out. I’m nervous. I’m not sure why. My energy feels out of control. It’ll be better after we perform tonight. It has to be, right? I busy myself with some last-minute checks of my bags before Sam comes out. I glance at him before going back to what I’m doing. He’s all dressed for shows with his black leather jacket. The patch on the front says "Fuck Authority", and there’s a giant red anarchy "A" sewn on the back. His shirt is black. His jeans are black. His signature Doc Martens are black, all to match his hair. His skin is white, and his eyes are this shockingly huge dark brown. He’s a pretty boy, the sort that really should be fronting a band. How it wound up being me is a mystery I’m not sure I want to explore.

  Am I holding him back? Is that why he’s making this new hipster-ass band with Oliver?

  Ugh, I wish that fucker wasn’t coming with us. Sam talked us into it, though, letting Oliver’s shitty band open up for us all summer long. I can’t stand that guy. Not that there’s anything all that wrong with him...and it’s not that he’s gay, before you go off on that. I’m tolerant enough. I can deal with shit like that. I think what bothers me is that...well, Sam’s my best friend, and we formed a band that actually did the impossible and got famous...what the hell does Sammy need Oliver for? What’s he getting out of that arrangement he can’t get with me?

  Yeah. Okay. I’m jealous of his new friend. Fine.

  I will never say that sorry shit out loud.

  “Sooooo, Stacey K, eh?” Sam asks, leaning against the counter and raising his brows.

  “Yeah, yeah, loosey-fuckin’ Stacey. You oughtta know,” I retort.

  I know about his deflowering over Grease. We’re besties...remember.

  “Hmmmm...” he muses, looking down and picking at a fingernail.

  I try to ignore it, but he stubbornly keeps pretending he’s up to nothing when it’s obviously something. I stop what I’m doing, straighten my back, sigh, and look him dead in the eyes.

  “I haven’t fucked her. Give me a little credit, alright? She’s taking care of my dad for me...besides, I’m not desperate enough to slop up your seconds.”

  He squishes his face, wrinkling that pointed little nose. I can’t help but chuckle. He hates when I say misogynistic things but also plays along because he knows that’s what male camaraderie often looks like. I’d think he was pretending, except he is aggressively all-male. He’s a hot-headed little fucker. I’ve seen him slash a man’s tires because dude pulled up too close to us at a crosswalk. I’ve watched him throw around fuck you’s to strangers who sometimes did and sometimes didn’t deserve them. He’s had arguments and the occasional scrappy bar fight. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good guy. He can be violent and spiteful, but not ever with a woman and not ever to the point that someone needs a hospital bed. He’s just...punk as fuck, I guess. He always has been.

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  He’s also big-hearted. If you’re in his good graces, he will love you like no one else on the planet. It’s a wonder he hasn’t settled down with someone yet. He’s not much for dating, or sex really for that matter, at least so far as I can tell. I don’t know. He used to be more open when we were young. He’s kind of closed off about all of that shit now.

  He sighs and casually mouths a cigarette, holding out the pack for me. I gratefully accept, and we walk to the front porch. Might as well wait for Aiden. He’ll be here before we know it.

  He sits on the rail and lights up. I pop my ciggie between my lips and press the tip of it to the fiery end of his. I inhale and take the flame, letting the nicotine settle me down.

  “Another tour,” Sam sighs, releasing smoke.

  His brown eyes are staring far, far away. He’s like that a lot. Never present. Always living in some other place in time.

  “Another tour,” I echo.

  There are questions waiting on the tip of his tongue...or judgments. Maybe both. I know he doesn’t like it, the way I behave on tour. He doesn’t like how much I drink, even though he’s flirted with alcoholism plenty on his own. He doesn’t like when I hook up with fans, or bartenders, or whoever seems interested at whatever moment. I get it. I know. I’m hedonistic and indulgent, but I’m mostly only like that on tour. It’s something I do. It’s not, like, who I am or whatever bullshit. But, these days we’ve spent so little time together, ever since Oliver started sniffing around, maybe he’s forgotten that?

  There’s a distance. It’s growing. It scares the living hell out of me.

  I feel like reaching out...like...I don’t know...like I want to grab his arms and put his face in my chest and just hold him there until he can’t fucking breathe and just dies. I know that’s weird. Fuck...yeah, that’s weird. But...I don’t know...I could keep him like that. I could keep him if I held him there and never let go.

  I lower my head and shake it. I don’t mean to. I don’t want him to know I’m having thoughts like this. Not that he could. He can read me and all, but...I’ve never said something like that before. He notices, though.

  “Are you worried about leaving him?”

  I raise my eyes and stare. It takes me a moment to register what he means.

  “Oh...Dad? Obviously.”

  Yeah, that’s what it is, Sam. Not me fantasizing about killing you so that you won’t run away and become best friends with fucking Oliver.

  He looks like, for just the briefest moment, he’s going to call bullshit on me. Okay, fine. He knows that’s not what I was thinking. But it is something I’ve thought about a lot, and he knows that, too, so he lets it go and reassures me anyway.

  “He’ll get by. Stacey will call if there’s an issue.”

  I nod and look at his face. He’s got his hair cut into a Mohawk, but it’s not spiked up now. It’s down and flowing and falling just over his brows. His dark lashes are so long with the light of the sky behind them. If I smothered him and kept him, he’d be beautiful forever, too. I used to envy that when we were young. I was pretty unkempt as a teen. I had acne, and I was overweight. My skin’s clear now. I put a lot of effort into dressing well. I keep my hair cut fresh, I use cologne. I’m still kind of pudgy, but women tell me I carry it well. They like that I’m bigger than they are. I guess I like that, too.

  Before I can dwell on the complicated mixture of jealousy over his time, attention, his looks and, hell, just how fucking casually him he is, Stacey and Aiden pull into the driveway one after the other. Aiden is none the wiser about how I lost track of Dad this morning. Not until Dad starts telling him he played a great game of cards with Sam. Sam smoothes it over before it’s a thing. I don’t feel like I have to kill him to keep him close when he does that. He’s here. He’s in my corner. He’s my best friend, he always has been and, as I give Stacey all the info and we pile into my car to head toward the venue and throw our shit inside the bus, I know he always will be.

  I carry that comfort while we talk. I carry it when I get ready for the show. I hold it close until the moment I step on stage to a club full of sweaty, hot, liquored people. The lights bear down on us. The music is so fucking loud. Candi rocks that fast-paced melodic bass. Her husband, Sean, pounds the drums. Aiden does as well as a rhythm guitarist can. I scream into the lights, at the people I can see just a row or two back. Sam and I engage in this other-worldly dance we always do. I step forward, he steps back. He steps forward, I step away, too. We share the microphone. I pretend to strum his guitar. We sing to each other, we scream and sweat, and it’s like we’re the only two people who exist in this frenzy. He’s my anchor. He’s the only thing that consistently makes sense in this fucked up world.

  I notice this woman, though. She’s in the very front. She’s obviously really excited to see me. I flirt from stage, singing to her, winking and such. I do that. People know I do that. It’s not really a secret that I’m, um, available to fans. She’s shivering, big brown eyes, pouty lips, soft skin, and carrot-colored hair that falls in waves to her shoulders. Some guy is there with her, but judging by the similar shapes of their faces and his general distance from her, likely just a brother or cousin. I decide I’ll try and touch base with her after the show, but once we pile out back behind the bar, into the semi-humid California night air, she’s already waiting. She’s sneaky, I suppose, because fans are most definitely not allowed. I don’t care how creepy it very clearly is. I’m horny, and she’s gorgeous, and it’s obviously in the bag, so I offer to give her a tour of the bus. I don’t need to say anything else, really. They all know to stay away when I say shit like that.

  I do catch the disapproval in Sam’s eyes when I touch the small of her back and take her away. I don’t care. It’s not like I’ve never seen it before.

  Still, once I’ve verbally asked this pretty woman if it’s okay for me to sleep with her, those disappointed, dark eyes stick in my mind while I touch her. I’m not normally emotional during these things, but...I don’t know? Am I really this fucked up about Sam getting so close with Oliver? Why am I like this? Why am I so fucking petty and jealous? It makes me want to cry, or scream, or just get blackout drunk, but I fall inside this woman instead and let my emotions get carried away from me. She’s soft, and I’m careful with her, despite how mixed up I feel. When we’re finished, we lay on the large bench in the back, a blanket pulled over us. I rest my cheek against her hair, and I start telling her how fucked up I feel, but I don’t get into why. She wraps her arms and her legs around me in that way women do. She comforts and consoles me. I take her again because she’s happy to give. When we dress and slip back outside, Sam is there waiting on the ground beside her brother, those dark eyes so haunted.

  Or maybe they’re just haunting me.