"Yeah." Zander’s hand whips out to pat my shoulder, but he misses and pats the air instead. "We've been looking all over for you."
I exhale slowly. "Needed some space, that's all."
Chance attempts to raise an eyebrow, but instead, his whole forehead scrunches up with exaggerated surprise. "Space? On a tour bus?" He returns to fumbling through someone's clothes littering the couch. "You’re in the wrong line of work then."
"I thought you were all out partying," I say, watching my bandmates and their restless rummaging for whatever elusive item they've misplaced.
"You look too serious, man," Zander comments as he continues his relentless pursuit without looking at me.
I shrug. "I’m a serious dude, you know."
"True that. Every band needs at least one serious dude," our drummer supplies, flopping onto the couch. "Come on, sit down. Tell me your worries." He seems tired and tired Zander is better than hyperactive Chance.
"You’re gonna try to psychoanalyze me? In your condition?" I ask, shaking my head, leaning against the wall of the bus opposite the couch.
"Alcohol flows through these veins." Zander raises both arms and imitates one of his signature moves on the drums. "Lay it on me, brother."
I take a moment to think. "So if you're chatting up a cute girl and you know she has a boyfriend, but she never mentions him during the conversation... What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know my position on chicks who belong to someone else," Zander mutters past a hiccup.
"We. Don’t. Fucking. Touch." Both he and Chance say in unison. They sound surprisingly sober for being three sheets to the wind.
I get it. The loyalty code drilled into us since forever.
But Wendy is like a complicated web, and I find myself tangled in it pretty good. Because her image refuses to leave the forefront of my brain.
"The way I see it," Zander slurs out, "she’s either so comfortable in her relationship with that dude that she doesn’t need to validate it by saying she has a boyfriend. Or—" Our drummer pauses for effect. "He’s a douchebag, and she wishes she had someone like you."
"Dude, I know for a fact he’s an asshole," I grit out.
"Monkey ass balls," Chance grumbles under his breath. "I swear it's here somewhere." He yanks the drawers open and tosses aside the contents, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.
"Goddamn it, man. What are you looking for? You’re giving me whiplash," I say.
"My stash, bro. I need it. I'm seeing shit."
I step closer and place a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe you should take it easy."
"I need it. Jet lag is killing me."
"I think what you need is to sleep it off."
Chance jumps to his feet, our faces level now. "And who are you, my mother?" His eyes are wild and bloodshot. "Don't tell me what I need. I gotta keep things going, and coke helps. You should be fucking grateful. Without my riffs, all our songs would sound like donkey shit."
My gaze shifts to Zander for a brief second. He just shrugs at me from the couch as if to say, 'Let him be.'
I've seen Chance spiral before, seen the way the drugs consume him. It’s not pretty. And trying to send him to rehab is impossible. Angelo managed it twice, and both times, Chance ran away.
"Fuck, I’m just worried for you," I tell him honestly as he prostrates himself on the floor, trying to reach under the folding table.
"Worry about yourself," he mumbles, then immediately after that, he lets out a triumphant shout. "Got ya, motherfucker." He begins to stand and, of course, hits his head on the edge of the table. Back on his feet again, he kicks the table with his Converse a few times as if the poor piece of furniture is guilty of all the crimes in the world.
"See, Mom." Chance shoves a small baggie filled with white powder in my face. "We’re gonna party for real now."
I swat his hand away from my nose. "Come on. Cut it out."
He simply laughs, the sound harsh and grating. "Relax. It's just a little pick-me-up. Nothing I can't handle."
