Page 1 of One Wild Night
Chapter 1
What happens on tour, stays on tour – and, believe me, a lot happens on tour.
Yes, there is all of the usual stuff that you can think of – the sex, drugs and rock and roll – but, honestly, that cliché is only a part of the problem.
There was one time, when we were on the tour bus, driving along the motorway, when one of the wheels came off. Thankfully the driver was able to control the situation. He slowed down when he felt something wrong, and eventually pulled the bus to safety, handling things before a serious accident could have happened. And you couldn’t blame the band for that incident. Not like, say, the competitive projectile vomiting ordeal of 2011, when everyone drank far too much and destroyed a hotel suite. It was like something fromThe Exorcistexcept, instead of one possessed little girl, it was four grown men painting the room green. Oh, and I'm not even getting into the time when, on a night off in the middle of a tour, a bassist (who shall remain anonymous) managed to lose his late grandpa’s ring in a strip club. Concerningly, it never turned up, but I try not to think about it.
Needless to say, you have to exist in this heightened sense of danger if you want to survive the tour, always waiting for the ridiculous thing that is going to happen next, because if it isn’t something going wrong, or something accidentally doingsomething stupid, then it’s a prank – boys in bands love their pranks. You have to keep your wits about you at all times.
The back lounge of the tour bus is usually our safe zone. It’s a place to chill out, to eat, drink, play PlayStation – to avoid the general chaos that comes with a tour. Even on a cold, wintery, February night like tonight, when there is a blizzard raging outside, it’s so nice and cosy in here. Usually, you can forget that you’re on a bus at all. At first, you notice the engine rumbling below but, as you settle in, it’s just like being in a small house really. One full of drunk boys, where everyone sleeps in bunks, but that’s all part of the experience.
Even though the bus usually feels safe, and I like to think that I am ready for anything, even I’m concerned tonight. I’ve never felt the bus gliding around like this, knocking us around in a way that I know that it shouldn’t. These tour buses are big and heavy, so to feel one drifting so chaotically, so effortlessly, is more than concerning.
Mitch, the band's tour manager, stumbles into the bus lounge, desperately trying to steady himself.
‘Okay, so,’ he calls out over the rattling of the bus. ‘The snow is causing some issues for Fred, especially on these country lanes.’
As Mitch speaks, a monstrous bump in the road sends him careening onto the sofa next to us.
‘Are we going to die?’ Dylan asks, with a bizarre level of casualness given the words that just left his lips.
I shoot him a look, torn between amusement and genuine concern.
‘Dylan, seriously?’ I say in disbelief – I mean, even if we are in a dire situation, the polite thing to do is pretend it’s all fine.
Dylan King, the lead singer of The Burnouts, has always had a flare for the dramatic. Oh, and with me being his bestfriend, it has always been my job to clear up the aftermath of said drama.
Being a music journalist, I've crossed paths with my fair share of rock stars, but The Burnouts are something else, and it’s all thanks to Dylan. Men want to be him, women throw themselves at him – and when you’re in his orbit you feel like the most important person in the universe, there’s just something about being in his atmosphere that gives you life. Of course, it’s sort of a double-edged sword, to the point where he is almost addictive.
The women in Dylan’s life tend to come and go, apart from, for some reason, me. I know what the key to our lasting relationship is though, and that’s keeping things strictly platonic. Honestly, it’s not that I didn’t fancy him when I met him (I’m only human) but friend-zoning each other turned out to be the best thing we could have done. That’s why I’m here on this tour, not as a journalist, just as a friend.
Dylan embodies every stereotype of a rockstar – he loves a drink (or forty), there are not enough women in the world for him, and he can be a real pain in the arse sometimes. But he’s my pain in the arse, y’know?
There are three other members in The Burnouts (although they would swear they all have to take a backseat to Dylan’s huge personality). There's Mikey, Dylan's brother, who is the band's guitarist and songwriter. Mikey and Dylan couldn’t be more different. Mikey is shy, quiet, and modest – Dylan is absolutely none of those things. There is also Jamie, the bassist, and Taz, the drummer, who you can just tell are trying to live that Dylan King lifestyle but, nine out of ten times, women only give them attention to get to Dylan. Still, they know that, but they’re happy to take it.
Mitch, attempting to regain his composure, sits up straight.
‘Of course, we're not going to–’
His words are cut off abruptly as the bus takes another wild swerve, leaving us all grabbing hold of something to anchor us.
Okay, now I’m panicking, and I don’t think I’m the only one. It’s hard to tell what’s going on outside the bus – it’s so dark outside the windows that, besides the occasional barrage of snowflakes, you can’t see a thing – but you don’t have to be an expert to tell that we’re hurtling down a snowy, country road in a massive tour bus.
I grip the table in front of me for dear life.
‘Are we actually going to die?’ Dylan blurts out. In all the years I have known Dylan he has always considered himself to be immortal. Even he seems concerned, which only makes me worry more. Well, if the man who isn’t scared of anything is freaking out then you know it’s bad.
‘Listen up, guys,’ Jamie pipes up. ‘Just in case this is it… Taz… I need to tell you... I slept with Amy last year.’
He has to raise his voice, to talk over the bumps in the road, as he clings onto the back of the sofa.
I remember Amy, she was just one of many to pass through Taz’s revolving door of love interests. Jamie’s too, it turns out.
‘That's okay,’ Taz says, leaning back onto the sofa, his knuckles turning white as he grips the cushions. ‘I slept with your sister.’
Oh my God. Are we seriously doing deathbed confessions right now?
‘I don't have the time or the memory to confess all of the things I've done,’ Dylan pipes up. ‘So I'll just issue a sorry, across the board, to all of you.’
