Page 482 of Rock Me All Night
"I'm sorry, sweetie," she says. "This isn't appropriate getting to know you conversation. I'd love to blame the twelve hours without food or water or the pre-surgery jitters, but—"
"She's always like this," Tom says.
"I hope you're not that rude to your girl... what are you kids calling it nowadays?" she asks.
I bite my tongue.
Tom is equally unable to get words out.
Pete and Ophelia exchange a knowing look.
She raises a brow. "Peter, you should keep a better eye on him."
Pete laughs. "He moves too fast."
"I'll bet." Ophelia shakes her head. She looks to me. "What do you do, sweetheart? You don't strike me as the groupie type."
"I'm a photographer," I say.
"Any good?" she asks.
"Don't be rude," Tom says.
"No, it's fine. I'm pretty good," I say.
"She's going to start a business. Doing headshots. And boudoir." Tom smiles.
He looks proud. He shouldn't be speaking for me, but he looks so fucking proud.
Everything is light again. I press my heel against the wall for balance.
"Boudoir, really? How much do you charge? I'd love to immortalize my one good tit."
Pete and Tom turn even darker shades of red.
I jump in before one of them dies of embarrassment. I like Ophelia. A lot. "I'd be happy to do it as a gift to your family. Tom and Pete have been really great to me. But there's a good chance I'll be out of town for the next six months."
"Oh?" she asks.
"I was offered a job as an assistant photographer on another tour. It starts in two weeks," I say.
Tom's expression darkens but he doesn't say anything.
"With Hazel?" Pete asks. "That's great, Willow. She's a legend."
"You should schedule a session with her before she leaves," I say. "She's dying to shoot nudes of you. I bet she'd do it just for your personal collection."
Pete smiles smugly.
Ophelia is not at all embarrassed. "You should, Peter. It's important to be proud of your body, even when it's..." The joy falls off her face. She reaches for a tissue. "Excuse me."
Both the guys rush to her side to comfort her. She waves them away.
"Stop fussing." She folds the tissue into a tiny ball and drops it in her lap.
I press my back against the wall, unable to come up with any words of comfort that don't feel hollow. Tom and Pete shift the conversation to easier topics, memories of silly fights and non-sexual band antics.
I add to the conversation when I can. Mostly, none of the attention is here in the room. We're all off someplace full of dread and worry.
