I chuckle in answer and step between her and some rando trying to wedge himself in, eyes glued to her ass. Or maybe tomyass. Over Ava’s shoulder, I spot Missy talking to Bowie at a nearby standing table, Mick standing nearby. But he’s not focused on her or any of the many girls and guys hovering around him, trying to get his attention. Of course he isn’t.
Nope, his dark eyes are locked on me as always while Bowie pulls Missy into a slow spin, her laughter bubbling over the beat.
But then he does something I didn’t expect; He lifts his glass, gives me a single nod and downs it in one go before slamming his glass on the table.
And I don’t know if it’s some silent agreement, like, yeah, the tour’s almost over, and fine, point to you for not caving to my bullshit. Or if it’s something else entirely.
Maybe he finally realized that whatever he thoughtcouldhappen between us, neverwouldhappen? Or was it always an act on his part? A clever way for media attention and gossip to help put them back in the spotlight?
I nod back anyway. I need this truce. Even though I’m over this tour and more than ready to go home, we owe them a whole damn lot.
Bowie suddenly throws an arm over my shoulder, breaking my eye contact with Mick. “C’mon, rockstar,” he says, tugging me toward the nearest booth, which is covered in a chaotic rainbow of colorful shots, lined up like neon candy. Their other two bandmates are already there, keeping watch like it’s some kind of sacred altar.
“I wanna toast to us,” Bowie hollers over the music, his grin wide and proud. “We wouldn’t be back on top without you guys, ya know?”
The other two nod, raising their drinks in agreement. Bowie elbows Mick when he just stands there, arms crossed like he’s posing for a broody album cover.
Mick sighs, quiet, mostly lost beneath the thumping bass, but eventually grabs a few of the shots and starts passing them around. His expression unreadable, but his movements smooth and practiced. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. And fuck, he probably has.
When everyone’s holding one, he lifts one of his own.
“The tour is almost over and you guys experienced something most aspiring bands never will. So cherish it and let’s make tonight a good one. To missed opportunities,” he says, eyes flicking to me with a wink, “to new friendships, very fucking good music, and surviving eight months of absolute bullshit.”
I scoff. It’s... nice? Almost? Or at least close enough to pass for nice? He’s not killing my fucking buzz with his bullshit though.
He handed me a bright pink, glittery shot. I eye it, the neon liquid catching the strobe lights. It’s not that I don’twantto drink, or party, or be here, because I do. I love it, really. But it still feels like something’s missing, like I’m not fullymewithouthim.
Gah. Even hearing my own thoughts is getting depressing.
Mick’s right, though. The tour’s almost over. We pulled through. We fucking did it, and I should be enjoying this once-in-a-lifetime shit while it lasts.
Only five more days. That’snothing.
So fuck it, I’m going to have fun tonight. Maybe more than I’ve had in the last couple of weeks. I haven’t been a complete hermit, far from it, but I’ve definitely been holding back. It just never felt right.
But tonight? Tonight itdoesfeel right somehow. I eye Missy just to be sure, and she nods with a soft smile, putting her own back on the table. Yeah, she’s going to have my back tonight, so I can let loose and be irresponsible. Forget all my worries for a bit.
So I lift the glass, give him a tight smile, and put it to my lips.
Butgag,it smells horrible, like bubblegum, and I shudder before putting it back on the table and quickly grabbing an orange one that’s in front of Bowie, throwing it back with the rest of the crew.
It burns peachy-sweet and sharp on my tongue, and I whoop when I slam the empty glass back down. Then I follow my girls to the dance floor, where I twirl Ava around, watch Missy climb Bowie like a damn jungle gym, and laugh with Mick for what feels like the first time in this entire tour when Bowie yells something about belly shots and tries to convince their bassist to lie down on the table.
Another banger comes on, bass vibrating up through the soles of my boots, and I let my hips sway. Ava’s in front of me, her body moving in perfect sync with mine, and I pull her close. I love the way she feels against me, so solid and real and soft. I love how every beat, every note, every thump of bass guides us like it’s hard-wired into our bones.
I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and let the music pour over me as I move. Let it wrap around me, sink into my skin and fuckingconsumeme. Because musicisme, I am music. It’s a fucking infinity loop. Behind my eyelids, the lights pulse in sharp, vivid bursts—red, green, gold—like fireworks exploding inside my mind.
It’s fucking magical.
It’s euphoric.
It’s electric.
It’s Pikachu on steroids.
It’s—
…different.
