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Tonight had the potential to be the worst night of the tour, I reflected as I lay staring at the ceiling of my bunk. We were pulling an all-nighter, driving straight through to Charlotte for tomorrow's show. Five hours apparently was too short for a travel day and too long for a same-day drive.

 

A symphony of snores came from a few feet away. The guys were tuckered out from another energetic show - tuckered out? like they were my kids - and they were used to this sort of thing. They had all gone to sleep within half an hour of getting on the bus at 11, and I had dozed off for a while, too. Unlike me, however, they'd slept through the bus jolting to life and getting on the road at 1.

 

I'd been awake for at least half an hour. I had a feeling I wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Quietly, I swung my legs out of the bunk and climbed down. It was chilly out there for a girl in a ratty old college T-shirt and athletic shorts, my preferred pajamas, and the floor was cold below my bare feet, but getting a little work done in the cold was better than contemplating the ceiling.

 

It was starting to get darker outside, the lights diminishing as we rolled through the layers of suburban Atlanta. The bus was dark, except for emergency lights that traced a path along the floor from front to back. It was silent, except for the noise of the road and the occasional snores.

 

I shuffled up to the front of the bus, where Frank was driving in near-silence. A small stereo next to him was playing classic rock softly enough that I was sure no one in the back had noticed.

 

"How's it going?" I asked quietly, leaning against the wall behind him.

 

He didn't look up. "It's going," he said tersely.

 

"You done this before?"

 

"A time or two. Used to drive Greyhounds before I got into charter work." He still didn't look up, nor did he elaborate further.

 

So much for making conversation. I shuffled back to a booth, facing the front, and pulled out my laptop. Maybe I could get more transcribing done on my interviews, I reflected as I pulled my hair back from my face. More likely I'd just get out the broadband card and putz around online.

 

My throat tickled, and I coughed. A few minutes later, I heard rustling in the back, heard footsteps on the floor.

 

"The heck are you doing up?" I heard a Southern-fried voice say quietly. I looked over my shoulder to see Brian walking out from the back, hands stuffed into the pockets of a Cincinnati Reds hoodie that looked about 20 years old.

 

The last thing I needed was for this Kentucky Adonis to see me in my pajamas, but it was too late now. I smiled up at him. "Couldn't sleep. You?"

 

"Yeah, I've been having trouble, too." He settled into the seat across from mine. "This late-night driving is kinda the pits. I could never sleep in the car as a kid."

 

I closed my laptop, which I hadn't even gotten to turn on yet. "You guys wear yourselves out up there, though."

 

"Sometimes." He shrugged. "A lot of the time, the high is such that none of us could fall asleep if we wanted to."

 

"Do you feel like that after most shows?" I asked.

 

"You know, I still kinda do." He looked out the window for a moment. "How awake are you?"

 

"Pretty awake," I admitted. Talking to him wasn't really helping my brain or heart slow down. "You?"

 

He smiled. "Pretty awake. Are you up to doing my interview?"

 

In the middle of the night? On the bus? In the dark? Strangest interview ever. But it was better than never. I smiled at him and shoved my laptop back into my bag. "Oh, I suppose. Let me go get my phone."

 

"That's fine." He grinned as I got up. "While we're at it, how's your knee feeling?"

 

I knew where he was going with this, and I faked a limp. "Oh, it huuuuuurts."

 

"Yeah, yeah." He got up and followed me to the back. While he dug through the little luggage cubby under his and Howie's bunks, I reached into my bunk, felt around and found my phone. I was walking back toward the front, thumbing through its contents for the audio recorder app, when the bus hit a pothole and jolted.

 

It all happened in seconds. Brian, still crouched in front of his suitcase, reached up and caught me around the waist as I lost my balance and tripped over him. I put out a hand to steady myself on his shoulder, but that only served to push both of us backward, and we both landed on our butts, facing each other.

 

"Good Lord. Are you OK?" There was a note of panic in his whisper.

 

I gave my head a quick shake. "Well, there's one more bruise for my efforts."

 

He hauled himself to his feet on the side of the lower bunk and pulled me up by the hand. The bus hit another pothole. We stumbled again. Both of us grabbed the side of the upper bunk with one hand, and his other hand was at my waist to steady me as I grabbed his arm.

 

I felt his arm tense through the sleeve of his hoodie, but he didn't let go of me. I looked up at him and caught my breath. Our faces were inches apart.

 

"Well, hey there, Miz Michaels," he murmured, a funny little smile on his face.

 

I had no choice but to study his face, not so very different from the posters of my late adolescence, but softened now by little lines you'd never see in a soft-focus music video. He was no boy.

 

I forgot how to breathe. The world seemed to shift on its axis. What had promised to be just another good conversation over whiskey, maybe just a touch of flirting, felt charged, ripe with a new sort of connection. I thought about scrapping the whole thing, tearing up all my notes, making Frank pull over and calling a cab to come pick me up from the side of the road, from this situation that I clearly couldn't manage.

 

Or maybe just scrapping the story, tearing up my notes, faking my own death and running away with Brian, because even though I was a clumsy hot mess in my PJs, something about his strong arm around me, the warmth of his hand through my thin T-shirt, the curious and surprised sort of pleasure in his eyes, all made me feel very - dared I even think it? - sexy.

 

Brian's strange little smile didn't budge. His eyes crinkled appealingly. "You're, uh..." He cleared his throat softly. "You're really short."

 

Involuntarily, of all the damnable reactions of someone half my age, I giggled.

 

"Dude!" Howie's bemused face appeared from behind his curtain, inches from us. He took in the scene and arched a sleepy eyebrow. "I'm sure y'all are having the time of your lives, but some of us are trying to sleep."

 

"Sorry! Sorry," I whispered. I regained my balance, patted Brian's shoulder without looking at him, and stumbled toward the front of the bus, half grateful to Howie for breaking up whatever the hell that was.

 

Brian joined me in the booth furthest from the back a moment later, carrying the bottle of Knob Creek and a couple of red beer pong-issue Solo cups that had been sitting on top of the mini-fridge. He sloshed a little bourbon into each one and handed me mine.

 

"Sorry, but I'm pretty sure there's no ice on the bus," he said. He avoided my eyes.

 

"It's cool." I had a feeling I would need it straight-up to get through this interview.

 

He took a sip. "Didn't think I'd be having this stuff two nights in a row. I only have it every few days, if I'm in the mood and someone else wants some. Howie's the only other one who'll even touch alcohol, and he's a beer man. I figured even half the bottle would get me through the tour." He finally shot me what I took as a mischievous smile. "But hey, if you're enjoying it, far be it from me to let you drink by yourself."

 

My questions fled my brain in the face of his smile, but I dug out my notepad as I started the recorder. We dispatched with the boilerplate questions quickly enough, but what he had said when he first came up front was still lingering in my head.

 

"You said you still get a high from performing," I said as I propped my good elbow on the table, taking a small sip of the whiskey. "Tell me more."

 

Brian likewise propped up an elbow on the table, but he turned sideways, leaning back against the bus window, drawing a knee up. "I don't really know how to describe it," he said. "It's like, I get out there, and I hear the cheers - doesn't matter if it's 10 people or 10,000 - and I have this chance to sing and dance and share what we've worked so hard on, what we love, and nothing else in the world matters. Not the press - no offense - not the hassles of touring, not all the business hoops we have to jump through, not whatever's gone wrong in our personal lives, none of it."

 

He took a drink of whiskey. "I think if we could just do the music, nothing but the music, and not have to worry about the rest of it, I'd be happy. I know we have a lot riding on what's going on with us right now, and I don't mind the publicity, that's not it at all. But all I care about is getting to make some music with these guys. If that's all we get to do, without the perks...sometimes I think that's how I'd prefer it."

 

"Do you miss it, though? All the craziness from 12, 13 years ago?"

 

He smiled a bittersweet smile. "Nope. Not a bit. People think, like, maybe our lives are incomplete without it, but honest to goodness, I don't miss any of it. That stuff takes its toll on a person."

 

I didn't want to push it. Instead, I said, "You're not the first one I've heard that from."

 

A deep breath. "Honestly, I was kinda apprehensive about coming back out on tour. You know, we've spent so much of the last couple years touring. We're not touring in support of an album. We're just doing it to perform. And that's awesome, and it's great to spend the time with the guys, don't get me wrong. If it weren't, I wouldn't be here." His eyes met mine. "But until I get on stage, I miss my bed, and my stuff going on in Louisville, and my kid, all of it. Does that make me an old man?"

 

I gave a small shrug. "Don't look at me. I was damn near kicking and screaming the whole way to Miami."

 

"Not literally, I hope. These days, they throw people off planes for that sort of thing." I rolled my eyes at him, and he snickered. "Well, you sure had me fooled. Felt like if anyone was kicking and screaming about you being here, it was totally me."

 

"Ouch." I put a hand over my heart, my voice dripping with mock hurt. "You ply me with expensive whiskey, only to insult me. I don't know what to think about you, Littrell." I took a sip of my whiskey and looked out the window, nose in the air, ignoring him.

 

When he didn't say anything for a few moments, I looked back at him. There was that little smile again, just for me.

 

"I'm feeling a whole lot better now, if it makes you feel any better," he said.

 

I looked down into my whiskey, unable to suppress a smile, my face suddenly very warm. "It does," I heard myself say.

 

Get back on track, Michaels. You've still got a job to do. I cleared my throat. "What would you be doing if you weren't here?" I asked.

 

He looked out the window for a long time, his eyes very far away. A big, bright moon was shining on the scenery outside, mostly open fields now. Finally, he said, "I've been talking with a radio station in Louisville about doing a show. A contemporary Christian show, probably. Maybe even something syndicated. And I want to record some more of that kind of music. Making my solo album was really good for me." He smiled. "A real joyful noise, you know?"

 

"Your faith is still very important to you." It was more a statement than a question.

 

He nodded. "I may not talk about it much, may not witness like I should, but yeah. It's the only thing keeping me from crawling up the walls or into a hole sometimes." Another sip of whiskey.

 

I took the plunge. "Tell me about your kid. If you're comfortable with that," I added quickly.

 

A fond smile spread across his face. "My son? Oh, man, he's a great little guy. He's 8, almost 9. He's so funny, and he's got such a big heart. He's gonna grow up to be a good man." The smile slipped a little, and he looked down into his whiskey. He cleared his throat. I could tell he was trying to keep his voice steady. "Custody arrangement's a total cluster right now, considering how often I'm actually home. Uh...but when we play in Louisville Saturday, I'll get to see him. My mom's actually driving up to Cincinnati to get him and then driving to Louisville."

 

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't contemplated that side of his divorce, that painful collateral damage. Another kid growing up in a broken home. Like I had, for a while.

 

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I know it's hard. For both of you."

 

He looked over at me. "Did you grow up with both your parents?" I couldn't hide my surprise at the personal question, and he continued, "What? I hardly know anything about you." He raised his eyebrows in a prompt.

 

Was he trying to get under my skin? Whenever a source tried to get friendly with me on the record, I just found myself doubling my defenses, trying twice as hard to be objective. It didn't help that I'd never felt a spark with a source like I had with him, especially just a little while ago. His eyes were sincere, but history was history. Was he out to deliberately compromise me?

 

"I haven't seen my dad in 25 years," I said flatly. There it was, the sound-bite version. I could at least say that.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

I studied my whiskey, swirling it around in the cup. I hadn't intended to say any more, but the compassion in those two little words urged me on. "He and my mom split when I was in preschool. He stuck around for a while, but he quit picking me up the summer before first grade, I guess right about when Mom got serious with my, uh, the guy who became my stepdad." I took a sip, still not looking at Brian. "Good men don't do that to their kids, you know?"

 

"No. They sure don't." Brian made a humorless sound. "If I never see Baylee again, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be my fault."

 

I looked up at him in time to see alarm dawn in his eyes. He'd said too much.

 

"Why?" I pressed.

 

He smiled tightly. "Ask me something else."

 

But there was little else to ask him. A couple more lame questions, and I switched off the recorder. All done. The whiskey, however, wasn't. And apparently, neither was he.

 

"Tell me about your family," Brian said, taking another small sip.

 

I looked out the window, choosing my words with care. "Mom's a nurse. She's a pretty typical mom, mild-mannered, sweet sense of humor. Did what she had to to make sure I had a good childhood." I looked at him now. "You didn't have much of a childhood, did you?"

 

"Sick all the time?" He rubbed his chest absently, as if remembering why. "Yeah, it wasn't the greatest. But it was as good as I guess anyone could have hoped." He smiled at me. "We're not talkin' about me anymore, though."

 

"Have it your way." I focused on a speck on the window. "I'm an only child. Mom's pretty much the only family I have in the world."

 

"Your stepdad?"

 

I pretended the speck was incredibly interesting as memories came flooding back. "Jeff was great. He loved me and my mom a lot. He always wanted to do stuff with us, always wanted to be a family. Always wanted to share his interests with me. He loved sci-fi and made me watch Star Trek, loved music and got me piano lessons. Sat in the car with me when I learned how to drive. Coached my fast-pitch team before I got too nerdy for sports." I smiled a little. "He was a pretty big nerd, too, but we were always laughing. He was a great dad." I paused. "We were real close. Sometimes I think closer than me and my mom."

 

The speck blurred on the window, and now the tremor in my voice betrayed me. "He died about a year before I moved to New York. He was in his work truck, and there was a drunk driver, and the truck, um, actually caught on fire." My eyes were brimming, and I sniffled a little, embarrassed. Totally out of character, this. "Moving further away from my mom was hard, but she pretty well told me to go. Told me he would've wanted me to."

 

"I'm sorry." His voice was gentle, full of compassion again.

 

I cleared my throat, willing the tears back, still not looking at Brian, saying the next words quickly. "And I've never been married, no kids, no pets, so, yeah, at the ripe old age of 30, that's all the family I've got, and it suits my line of work pretty damn well." I smiled, a smile I didn't really feel, and belted back the whiskey. "Hi-diddly-dee, a journalist's life for me."

 

Confident that my eyes were dry enough, I finally looked at him. He was contemplating me with a strange sort of stricken look on his face. Finally, he seemed to return to Earth, with a slight shake of his head, and took a sip of whiskey.

 

I shrugged. "Life's the shits sometimes, isn't it?"

 

He smiled. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's just ridiculous and beautiful."

 

"Kinda like sitting on a bus in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, drinking whiskey with someone you've known for three days and had a total schoolgirl crush on 12 years ago?" The words came out of my mouth without my even realizing I'd been thinking them.

 

If the schoolgirl crush part fazed him in the least, he didn't show it. He shot me a fleeting smile. "Yeah. Kinda exactly like that." He looked down into his cup, silent for a long moment. "She left, in case you were curious."

 

I didn't even need to ask who he was talking about.

 

"But it wasn't for the reasons everybody was led to believe." He tipped his cup way back, finishing the whiskey. "You know, when you're famous, everyone assumes it has to do with money, or your sexual orientation, or somebody not being able to keep their pants zipped. I feel like everyone in the celebrity gossip scene was trying to figure out which one it was." He looked over at me. "But it wasn't any of those. Normal people's marriages fail over way more mundane things. So do famous people's. You just don't hear about those."

 

My heart was beating erratically, but I found my voice. "So what was it?"

 

His eyes were on the fields outside again. "Having kids changes people. It's hard to find time for your relationship under the best circumstances, and mine are, uh, not the best circumstances."

 

"What musician's are?"

 

He didn't seem to hear me. "I tried. We were in LA, and my God, nothing out there is normal. We finally figured out it was a shitty place to raise a kid, so we bought a house in Kentucky in '08, when things were slowing down for the band." He snorted softly. "Yeah, that didn't do any good. We stopped trying to spend time together, started fighting. I probably wasn't being the partner I could have been. I was real proud, real stubborn. I fought going to counseling, thought we could work it out - and where was I gonna find time for counseling in the first place?"

 

He sighed, tapped his empty cup on the table a few times. "And then I came home from some studio time, and boom - packed bags and divorce papers." He looked down into his cup. His voice was very quiet. "I mean...I guess now I don't blame her. I should've seen it coming a mile away. But it was friggin' awful, and it was even worse because I had nobody to blame but myself." Now his voice broke, and my heart along with it. "Especially when she got Baylee. Wasn't so bad at first, but last year she met somebody and moved to Cincinnati, of all the friggin' places, and she took him with her." A shaky breath. "And I can't bring myself to move back to LA full-time to be closer to work because I can't stand to be any further from my kid."

 

He sniffled. "Honestly, the whole thing still sucks. You know, you promise forever with a person, and you never think you're gonna be trying to figure crap out again in your 30s." He finally looked at me. His eyes were damp, but his voice had grown steadier. "I know ‘damaged goods' is a little bit of a cliché, but it's hard not to feel like it sometimes. Like, what am I doing wrong, and why can't I do better?"

 

His gaze dropped back into his empty cup. He cleared his throat, sniffled again. "Boy, what a pair of sad sacks we make," he chuckled quietly. He imitated a sad trombone, SNL-style. "Womp, womp."

 

My chest tightened all over again, as much at his attempt to hide his misery as at the misery itself. Without thinking, I reached out and patted his hand. Before I could pull my hand back, he covered it with his, a move that felt almost reflexive.

 

It was another one of those moments when everything seemed to shift. My heart stopped. His hands were radiating warmth again, despite the chilly air. He looked over at me, mouth screwed up in thought, one eyebrow raised in that same sort of intrigued surprise, as if even he wasn't sure what he'd just done. But he didn't pull his hand away. Neither did I.

 

Say something, you idiot.

 

"Yeah, we're sorry, all right," I managed, which got a chuckle out of him. He let my hand go, and I was instantly sorry. I pulled both hands back over to rest safely in my lap.

 

I could barely hear my own voice as I went on. "I'm sorry all that happened. I mean, it honestly isn't important to my story, but thank you for telling me. But I guess I'm curious...why did you decide to tell me?"

 

He looked out the window again. "I didn't want to tell Meg the journalist," he said slowly, as if still trying to understand what he himself was saying, "because I don't feel like the world needs to know the intimate details of all that. Even if they're really boring." He sat up a little straighter. "I wanted to tell Meg the person because...I don't know..." His eyes searched mine again, this time in a way that should have made me a little uncomfortable, but didn't. "I feel like you should know. Does that make any sense?"

 

My face was warm again, but I willed myself not to look away. "Maybe. But that still doesn't tell me why."

 

He stood up, but gazed thoughtfully down at me, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket again. He looked like a teenager, but sounded very old as he said, "I don't really know why, either, Meg. I guess I'm just comfortable around you. I don't know. I think...maybe..." He chewed on his lip. "You're an easier person to trust than I thought."

 

He turned to go, then turned back around. He started to say something, then stopped. Then he said, with that funny, private little smile, "For what it's worth, you look really pretty in the moonlight."

 

Then he disappeared back toward the bunks, leaving me sitting there with my mouth hanging open and my heart trying to remember how to beat properly.

 

Where the hell had this come from?