Page 469 of Rock Me All Night
Tom: With Brad Pitt. Of course with me.
Willow: Depends.
Tom: On?
Willow: If this is forever or not.
Drew clears his throat. "It's rude to text during the movie, Wil."
Kara whispers something in his ear, capturing all his attention. "If you want some privacy, you can take the spare room, sweetie." She motions upstairs. "Just ignore the guitars. In fact, if one is lying on the floor, go ahead and kick it."
"Insolent today, Kendrick. I'm gonna have to punish you for that." He whispers in her ear.
She laughs.
Yes, privacy sounds like a capital idea. For them as much as for me. It must be nice, loving someone that openly and honestly.
"Yeah. Thanks." I push myself off the couch. Sorry, Humphrey Bogart but you've got nothing on Tom Steele.
I don't look at my phone until I'm alone in the spare room, my back pressed against the door for extra security.
Tom hasn't replied to my not quite a question. Not with words.
The only thing on my phone is a picture message:
Him, from the neck down, completely naked.
So much for thinking anything besidesoh hell yesfor the rest of the night.
* * *
Tomand I talk about nothing for hours.
The next day, we're back on the road, on the tour. The bus is louder with Meg and Kara around. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes it's quieter, sometimes one of the happy couples goes off to a bunk or to the bedroom and soaks in the glory of just being together.
And I sit with Tom, close enough to feel all the warmth of him but not close enough that I have to explain this to anyone, and soak in the glory of being with him.
I get lost in the rhythm of the tour. Hazel works me hard. Every night we're stopped, she has a new project that requires my assistance. She talks to me about my interest in a studio, guides me through my options. Encourages my boudoir aspirations enough that I actually manage to do a shoot with a model. Then it's two. Then three. Then half a dozen. Little by little, I get comfortable working with strangers.
I go on a photography tear. When we're stopped with nothing to do, I take headshots or portraits of anyone who will get in front of the camera.
The pictures are good.
Really good.
Like I can really do this.
Like my life could really be setting up a studio in Los Angeles, near Tom, near everyone.
If he loves me too.
If this is forever.
There are too many possibilities, and I don't get much of him. There's always someone around. I'm tired. He's busy trying to catch up on all the stuff he does besides playing the drums like a God damn machine. We're two ships passing in the night, barely time for a kiss or a hug or an occasional screw in my hotel room, late at night, after everyone is asleep.
The days blur together. Two weeks. Then three. We curve around the South West. Then we're in San Diego.
Today is the last show. The last day of knowing where I'm going to be or what I'm going to do.
