“When’s Brett coming back?” Lars asked Tim as the singer added his pants to the pile and sat down on the hotel bed in nothing but dark blue boxer-briefs.

“I dunno,” Tim replied. “I know Matt got caught up backstage before we took off, but Brett was supposed to be right behind us.”

Lars rubbed his chin, at the stubble on his face. “Should we go without him?”

Tim shrugged, the tattoos on his back distorting with the gesture. “We could.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Lars and Tim scooped all the laundry into hotel pillowcases and started for the door. Tim’s hand was on the knob when Lars placed his palm against the door and leaned his weight against it. Tim looked over at him. “What?” The larger guitarist laughed and gestured down at Tim’s body. Tim followed Lars’ gaze and realized he was still dangerously close to being naked. “Oh, shit,” he breathed, slapping his forehead lightly at how spacey he could be sometimes. “Can I get something of yours? I think I put all my shit in the bags.”

“Sure. You know what I say: My shit is your shit.”

Tim chuckled as he rummaged through Lars’ duffle bag and came out with a t-shirt and pants to wear. He slipped those on and they seemed to hang on him like a starving man’s skin hangs on his bones, but Tim didn’t seem to notice or care. He walked into his boots on the way out the door.

Because the hotel’s laundry facility was in use, they asked the front desk about a Laundromat and found out there was one only 2 streets over. They hitched up their bootstraps, slung the laundry over their shoulders and pushed out into the chilly night air.

The Laundromat had fluorescent lighting, but the harshness was cut by the plastic covers that hugged close to them and to the ceiling. It looked as though they had been put up there in the ‘60s and no one had bothered to clean them sense. The whole place was an institutional beige, and with no one else in sight, it seemed oddly empty and quiet. Not at all like when Tim and Op Ivy had taken over a Laundromat very much like this one and played a couple of their very first shows. “I’ve never been in one of these when no one was in it,” Lars whispered to Tim as they glanced around the room.

“Why’re you whispering?” Tim whispered back, then grinned. He walked to the washers and plopped his bag of laundry down on one of them, opening the adjacent one and looking inside to make sure it was empty.

Lars screwed his face up and mumbled for Tim to shut up as he kicked his laundry at him, the bag sliding easily over the shiny linoleum and bumping into Tim’s feet. Lars turned and walked to the vending machine to get some detergent. That’s when he heard it. He wasn’t sure at first, so he cocked his head and tried to hold his breath and slow his heartbeat. He turned to the window and touched his fingertip to the glass, feeling the vibrations in it. “You hear that?” he asked Tim.

“Hear what?” Tim grunted, trying to force all of his laundry into the washing machine. It was putting up a bit of a fight, so he put his knee up on the edge to get more leverage.

“Dude, just fucking listen,” Lars said, the statement sounding sharp, but the smirk on his face gave away its true intention. Tim looked over his shoulder at Lars and sighed, then cocked his head and listened, just to appease his friend. He heard it too. The faint sound of bass and kick were making their way through the panes of the windows, and mostly through the open front door. A slight smile grew on his face to match Lars’. “You hear it?” Lars asked again.

“I do,” Tim replied. He straightened up, his knee still propped up on the washer. Lars simply nodded, and lit up a cigarette, happy to be in one of the last places one could still smoke inside. Despite that rare treat, he stepped out onto the sidewalk just beyond the glass doors to look around the empty street, trying to find the source of the music. While there was no sign of a club anywhere in sight, two young women did appear out of the darkness, walking close to one another, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night.

“Hey, ladies,” Lars said casually when they were close enough to be seen in the ambient light from the Laundromat. Now he understood why the two had seemed to show up out of thin air: both of them were black and were wearing black t-shirts and dark pants.

“Hey yourself,” the taller girl replied, flashing him a grin. She was bigger and bustier than her companion, but when Lars turned his attention down to the smaller one, she smiled then looked down at the sidewalk.

“Funny question,” the bigger girl began. Lars raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue. “Is there a bathroom in there?” She pointed behind him, into the Laundromat. Lars looked back over his shoulder.

“I dunno. I think so.”

“Oh, thank God,” the smaller one said and broke off from her friend and hurried inside, walking past Tim with a nod of recognition and disappearing through a doorway that led, presumably, to the bathroom.

The bigger one laughed. “She has a tiny bladder, I swear.”

Lars nodded and sucked in a drag on his cigarette. “So what’re your names?”

“Oh, I’m Phoenix, and she’s Frankie.”

“Phoenix,” Lars repeated. “That’s an interesting name.”

“It’s my middle name, but I like it.”

“And what’s Frankie short for?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.” She pointed to his cigarette. “You got one I can bum? Sorry to ask, but I just ran out.” Lars pat his pockets and found a crumpled packet of Lucky Strikes, then handed one over. She fished out her own lighter.

“What’re you ladies doing out so late, anyway?” Lars asked, walking to the other side of her to block out some of the wind that was making her skin goose-pimple. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t enjoying watching her nipples perk up so they were visible through the fabric of her shirt, but he never liked watching a young lady suffer.

Phoenix looked up at him. “Actually we’re in a band. We’re playing a show down the street later tonight, but Frankie really had to pee, so we came out here.”

Lars wrinkled his nose. “The place doesn’t have a bathroom?”

Phoenix waved her hands in a canceling motion. “No, no, the bathroom was fucking shady, son.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Straight Trainspotting in there.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“So what kind of band are you in?”

Frankie returned from the bathroom, relief plainly visible on her face. “Oh, man, I thought I was gonna burst,” she joked when she was close enough to Tim. He looked back over his shoulder as he was still stuffing clothes into the machine. “What’re you doing?” she asked, stopping just behind him.

“Um,” he murmured, frowning and looking at the work at his hands. “Laundry?”

She chuckled. “Dude, you can’t put all the laundry in there.”

Tim dropped one of his knees off the edge of the machine and searched for the floor with his toe. When he found it he eased back onto the ground, his back still to her as he looked into the crammed washer. “Well, I’m trying.”

“It’d work a lot better if you sorted it or something.” Tim glanced at her and fingered the arm of a shirt that hung halfway out of the washer. He didn’t know what she was talking about. She chewed on her lower lip and waited for a response from him. When none came she smiled and slid in front of him without hesitation, taking the sleeve of that shirt out of his hand. “Okay, this is how you do it.” Tim took a step back as she reached into the washer and pulled out an armful of the rank-smelling clothing and opened the lid of the adjacent washer. “Put all the dark and colored stuff over here,” she said, tossing in pants, t-shirts, boxers and socks that fit those criteria. “And the whites, put over in that washer.” She pulled out socks, wife beaters and underwear without flinching and tossed them into the other washer.

Tim scratched his head, watching her work. “We, uh, we never think to do stuff like that.”

“Works better if you just sort it as you take it off. Then you haul it off the bus, drop it in, no hassles.”

“You haven’t seen our bus,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, well, how long’s it been since that bus has seen a woman’s touch?”

Tim didn’t admit that the words “woman’s touch” bounced around in his brain long after she’d said them, and he bent, pulling clothes out of the pile she’d made on the floor to help her sort and to cover up the silence that suddenly seemed uncomfortable. She didn’t look uncomfortable, though. “So, um,” Tim began. “What’re you and your friend doing out so late?”

She looked back over her shoulder. “Is it late?”

Tim looked down. “I guess so. It’s dark out, right?”

She blinked at him and smirked when he looked up at her again. “I’m Frankie,” she said. “I play drums in a band called Dead Air. My friend Phoenix plays guitar and sings. We’re playing a show later tonight.” She lifted a red thong out of the pile of clothes and busted out laughing. “Please tell me this is yours,” she managed between giggles. Tim began to turn the same color as the undergarment and snatched it from her, throwing it into the colors bin. “Wait, wait, I’m imagining you in it,” Frankie continued, closing her eyes and grinning.

“Shut up, dude. Some chick left ‘em with Lars.”

“With Lars, huh?”

“Yeah, with Lars,” he repeated, his voice a little sharp with mock umbrage. “So what’s your band sound like?”

Frankie balled up a handful of darks and hucked them into the right washer. “We’re the average rock band,” she said, shrugging. “But we’re cooler.”

Tim chortled. “Confident, are we?”

Frankie dropped the lid of the whites washer and turned the dial to warm. “’Kay, just add some detergent and that’s ready to go. And no, dude, I’m not confident. I’m actually fucking scared shitless. We haven’t been gigging that long.”

“Ah,” Tim murmured. “Y’all probably got no reason to be nervous. I bet you’re good.”

“Pssh,” she scoffed, taking the last shirt from Tim’s hands and tossing it in the dark washer and dropping the lid. “Sure. Hey are you buying detergent from here?” She gestured towards the vending machine which held packages of all the laundry accoutrement any man could ask for.

“Yeah. You know a good kind?”

She checked her watch then gestured with her head toward the vending machine. “Let’s go see.”

“Well, they’re getting along,” Lars said, looking in through the window at Tim and Frankie as they peered at the detergents the Laundromat offered. “And she’s doing our laundry.”

Phoenix nodded. “Frankie’s always helpful.”

“I can’t believe she touched our stuff. That shit was rank.”

She laughed. “You should catch a whiff of our RV, dude. The two dudes in our band more than make up for me and Frankie trying to be halfway sanitary.”

“Aww, you got guys in your band?” Lars asked, looking disappointed. “I thought you were a chick band. At least, that’s how I imagined it.”

“You imagine us naked too?” Phoenix checked her watch. “Oh, you won’t have to imagine for long. You wanna come see us play?”

Lars reached out and touched his index finger to her lips. “Hold on, hold on. Let me finish thinkin’ about you naked...”

Phoenix smacked his hand away from her face, then leaned in through the door. “Frankie, move your ass! Almost show time!”

Frankie looked back over her shoulder. “A’ight, just a sec!” She punched in two buttons and a box of Tide fell into the bin. “Okay, Tim, there’s two loads worth in here, so put half in each washer and you’re good to go. Maybe grab some fabric softener when you dry it all.” She glanced up at him and he was looking down at her with an odd expression on his face, one of his eyebrows half-cocked and his lips slightly pursed as though he may be thinking about something he couldn’t figure out. “What?”

Tim shrugged, his eyes dropping to her hands as he took the detergent from her. “I didn’t know that you knew who I was.”

Frankie chuckled, pushing Tim away from her with her right hand. “What, do I look like I been living under a rock for the last 10 years?”

“Frankie!” Phoenix called again.

“All right, dude,” she whispered harshly, shaking her head. Then she looked up at Tim again. “Come to our show? You gotta let that stuff wash, so you’ve got a little while to hang out, right?”

Tim shrugged. “Don’t guess anyone will filch our stuff while we’re gone.”

“Not that stuff, tru-ust me,” she said, elongating the u and wrinkling her nose, indicating that Tim’s presumption that she never even noticed how dirty the laundry had been while she was stuffing it into washers was completely erroneous.

“Hey, fuck you. That stuff’s all priceless.”

Phoenix was quite suddenly right behind Frankie. “Dammit, girl, we gotta go get ready for the show.”

“Pheen, dude, I know.” She reached out and grabbed Tim’s wrist. “Come to the show, okay? Second Day saloon.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah, we’ll probably come by.”

Phoenix grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the door. “I swear to God. Drummers always fuck up the works,” she mumbled. Phoenix kicked the door open and pushed Frankie out onto the sidewalk. “Later, Lars,” she called.

“Bye,” Frankie added as they picked up their pace to a jog and disappeared down the street into the darkness.

Tim leaned out the door and smacked Lars on the shoulder. “What do you think?”

Lars put out a cigarette butt under his boot. “I think we’re gonna take in a show.”

“Shit, you guys, how long does it take to piss?” Henry, the bassist in their band asked when Phoenix and Frankie finally made it back.

“You know us girls. We always take a year,” Frankie replied laughing, hurriedly digging out a pair of sticks and tapping away on the equipment case the guitars had been housed in.

“Dylan had given up on you guys,” Henry continued. “He went outside on a nicotine binge cuz he was getting so nervous.”

“Why didn’t you talk him down?” Phoenix wondered aloud fingering her guitar and looking over at Dylan’s.

“Pssh, that’s your job,” Henry said.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Only you can comfort him by letting him rest on the warm, comfy cushion of your boobs,” he cooed, leaning down and placing his cheek against Phoenix’s chest.

She looked down at him, then looked over at Frankie. “Could you go get Dylan? I think Henry’s about to be met with an unfortunate dismemberment accident.” He jerked his head up and put his hands up in surrender, backing up a little bit while wearing a shit-eating grin.

“All right, I get the message,” he mumbled.

Frankie pushed through people to get to the exit, and found Dylan pacing in the shadows just a little ways away, sucking on the end of a cigarette like it was the only thing that gave him the breath of life. “Hey, Dylan,” she said in greeting. “We’re almost ready to go. Come on in and tune up your bass.”

“I almost got the shit kicked out of me just now,” he breathed, smoke streaming through his nose and mouth. “This is a fucking hillbilly-hick town and we’re about to play some rabid punk for them? We’re gonna get killed.”

Frankie sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder, on the spikes that stood up from his denim jacket. “You’re such a drama queen, Dyl. I swear you should be on a soap opera.” She smacked his cheek and turned to head back inside. Dylan put out his cigarette under his boot and followed her.

“I don’t think they let ugly, dirty fuckin’ punks be on daytime TV.”

“I bet you clean up nice.”

“Oh, you think so? Ever seen me after a shower?”

Frankie paused. “Come to think of it, no I haven’t. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shower.” She thrust his bass into his hands.

“Pssh, you wish you could see me shower,” he murmured with a sideways smile.

After about 15 minutes, the band onstage wrapped up and introduced them. They paused a long moment, and let “Dead Air” ring true. Phoenix always made sure the reticent applause faded before she took the stage. But when she did, she ran on and grabbed it, shook it, twisted, mangled it, and left it bleeding in her wake. She gripped the microphone in both hands to introduce everyone in the band before they started to play. “Hey there, Briton, I’m Phoenix, that’s Dylan on bass, Henry on guitar, and my girl Frankie on sticks.” She let go of the mic and started strumming the first few notes of their first song on her guitar as she kept talking about how happy they were to be there, all the way from northern California. Her eyes happened to flick over to the door just as Tim and Lars walked into the place. The smile became apparent in her voice and the both of them looked up, as though they recognized the sound of happiness. The slid around people to the back of the place and folded their arms, watching stoically. “Our first song’s ‘Technicality Called a Wife.’”

When the screeching feedback faded and a song came through the noise, many of the onlookers were surprised. They had no idea such force was going to come out of this band. Frankie was barely tall enough to be seen over her set, Dylan and Henry were both skinny fuckers one could almost see through when the light was right, and Phoenix had an innocence in her face that was undeniable. But the venom bubbled forth along with honey-coated voices, righteous harmonies and deep, complex guitar work. If you didn’t listen hard to the songs, you could almost swear they were about positive experiences.

All four of the members of Dead Air delighted in the shocked look on some of the faces. But everyone turned to listen. No matter how shocked or appalled they’d seemed that first moment, they all stayed and craned their necks to check out the two black chicks and two trashy punk boys tear the shit out of their small-town tranquility.

At a break in between their songs, two drunk gentlemen seated at the bar started heckling. “You guys suck!” they yelled. “Get off the stage!”

“Play some Slayer!”

“We don’t know any Slayer,” Henry replied calmly. “Would you like some Descendents instead?”

“Fuck you, jackass! Hey, sister, can I get a little brown sugar?”

“Yeah, you and your girlfriend should come down here! I never had brown sugar. Can I get a free sample?”

Phoenix started the next song over them, ignoring them as best she could, her eyes landing on Lars and Tim at the back of the room. They were looking the hecklers’ direction, impressing their faces on their minds. The song was short, and the drunken dudes were still talking when it ended.

“Ow, mama, your drummer’s hot. I could use some hot chocolate!”

“Dude, it’s brown sugar,” one said to the other.

“Hot chocolate’s better though. They’re hot.”

“You should leave those jerk-offs and come down here with us, we’ll show you a good time!” one called, returning his attention to the stage. Frankie threw a stick at them, and it landed just short, clicking on the floor as they lifted their feet so it wouldn’t hit them. She dexterously grabbed another stick from the holder and kept up time in the intro of their next song called “Rude.”

“This song is dedicated to you fellas,” Phoenix said, pointing at the hecklers. “May karma strike you down.”

One of the hecklers finished his beer and got up to move closer to the stage when he felt someone pulling back on him. He looked down at the hand on his shoulder, at the 4 suits tattooed on the fingers, then looked up into Lars Fredericksen’s face. “You better sit down, man,” he said coolly. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Yeah, well, what makes you the damn expert?” he slurred back, knocking his hand away from him and turning around to face him. His friend got up, teetered on his feet, then stood, obviously ready to fight if it came to that.

“Why don’t you just shut up and let the band play?” Tim asked, reaching up and distractedly scratching his earlobe, glancing up at the stage.

“We’re not so hot on outsiders in this town.” The one that had made the first move pushed Lars by putting his hands on his chest, but he only succeeded in throwing himself off balance. His friend bolstered him. Lars looked down at the floor, not able to conceal the smile on his face.

“So what are you gonna call us fags now and try to beat us up behind the bleachers?” Lars asked. “Gimmie a break. Just have a seat and mind your manners. Those are someone’s daughters up there.”

“No one from around here,” the other heckler murmured, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth and squinting up at the stage. “Goddamn.” Tim looked over at him and followed his eyes, watching Frankie bob her head with the rhythm she was playing, grinning at Dylan when he turned around, mouthing the words like he was singing just for her. “I bet she would-”

“Hey,” Tim said quickly, suddenly in the heckler’s ear. “Eyes on your own paper.”

Dead Air kept up their intensity, marginally aware of the punks that had been hovering over their primary hecklers, aware they were backing off and returning to the back of the bar to finish watching the show. Phoenix wrapped it up by introducing a double-time romp and setting down her guitar, coming down into the crowd and pushing people out of her way to get to the hecklers. “What’s your name, soldier?” she asked the taller one. He grinned.

“Joe.”

“And you?”

“Mike.”

“Joe and Mike, everybody!” The crowd cheered as she pointed to them. “Would either of you like to tell me why you’re such jerk-offs?”

“Hey,” Joe said. “We’re not jerk-offs.”

Henry started chanting “Jerk-offs, jerk-offs!” into the microphone until the rest of the crowd joined in and Phoenix was thrusting her fist into the air, marching back and forth in front of Mike and Joe. Phoenix looked back toward Lars and Tim who were both smiling in spite of themselves. She charged back on stage.

“This song’s ‘The Anti-Song’. It’s by Showoff, so you better recognize.”

They wrapped up the set and said goodnight, pulling their equipment apart and packing it down quickly. They were old-hat at this. “Why didn’t you tell me fucking Lars Frederickson and Tim Armstrong were here?” Dylan whispered harshly to Frankie.

“Cuz I knew your neurotic ass would flip out and you’d fuck up our show,” she replied, closing the case on her set and sitting on top of it, watching Lars and Tim approach discreetly, listening to the conversation.

“Still, you gotta let a guy know. I almost dropped my bass when I realized-”

“Hey kids!” Lars said loudly, making Dylan jump. “Good show.”

“Oh shit,” Dylan breathed, gripping the front of his shirt. “You scared me.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Lars replied, clapping him hard on the shoulder. He delighted in watching the kid wince.

“You guys are good,” Tim said softly, sitting on the case next to Frankie. “Real good.”

“Well thanks, that means a lot coming from you guys,” Phoenix said.

“Hey, you guys wanna come back to our hotel?” Lars asked, looking back over his shoulder at the two people that had been heckling them. “Might be friendlier than here.”

“Shit, I’m sure not getting drunk here,” Phoenix said.

“Do you guys put up with crap like that a lot?” Tim asked quietly.

Frankie shrugged. “Mmm,” she hummed. “Let’s just say it happens, and you gotta learn to deal with it.”

“You shouldn’t have to fucking deal with it,” Lars said with sudden venom.

“You shouldn’t,” Tim agreed.

“Well, we’ll just make sure to make friends with some big-ass punk dudes at every venue. How’s that?” Phoenix offered.

“Can’t hurt to have big-ass punk dudes in your corner,” Tim replied.

Henry came back from putting the first load of stuff into the RV. “Anyone gonna get off their asses and help me?”

Frankie and Phoenix looked at one another. “Nah,” they said in unison. Henry rolled his eyes and picked up another case. “Where’s your hotel? Maybe we’ll meet you there,” Frankie said, nudging Tim’s shoulder with hers.

“Two blocks over. It’s the Radisson,” Tim said.

“Dudes! Seriously, I’m not doing this all myself!” Henry yelled from just outside the door.

“We’ll meet you there, okay? At the bar?” Phoenix suggested.

“Sounds like a plan,” Tim said. “We gotta get our laundry, so no rush.”

“See you there,” Frankie said.

The two men left, giving a quick nod to Henry in recognition before they disappeared into the night. Frankie smacked Dylan on the back. “You can start breathing again now, dude.”

Dylan coughed and took in a loud, shaky breath. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Come on you guys,” Henry growled.

“We just got you invited to Lars and Tim’s hotel. Feel like drinkin’ with some rock stars?” Phoenix asked, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning slyly.

He looked slowly between Phoenix and Frankie. “Which one of you gave up sexual favors to swing that?”

Phoenix threw an arm over Frankie’s shoulders and pulled her cheek against her own. “It was a double-team, Henry. Oh, you shoulda been there.”

“I am there,” Dylan whispered, a dreamy look on his face as he looked into space and imagined himself in a three-way with his bandmates. While he spent ridiculous amounts of time with the girls, and generally he viewed them as neuter in sex ... there were moments when he couldn’t suppress his hormones.

“Eew,” Frankie wailed and checked him in the gut so he doubled over. “We’ll help you, Henry.” She jumped off the case she was sitting on and grabbed the handle, rolling it toward the exit as Dylan collected himself.

Henry threw the RV in park in the parking lot of the Radisson. Frankie and Phoenix hopped out almost before the vehicle came to a stop, feet dropping onto the blacktop at a run, arms folded over their chests, hands rubbing the bare skin below their short sleeves. Henry got out slowly, deliberately, the way he always moved. Dylan followed him after making sure he locked up the doors.

Frankie pushed the revolving doors and Phoenix slipped into the compartment behind her. When they came out into the lobby, Phoenix glanced back to see Henry just entering the doors on the other side with Dylan close in tow. She stepped forward and put her foot in the way of the door, stopping it dead and trapping the two boys in the entryway. Frankie instantly burst out laughing, pointing at Henry as he smiled grudgingly, shaking his head. Dylan had a less amused look on his face, his intermittent claustrophobia cropping up at the most inopportune moment. “C’mon,” Frankie said, tugging on Phoenix’s arm. They turned and approached the front desk. The attendant looked up with a strong shade of apprehension in his face. It probably sucked being the overnight front desk attendant in any hotel. He looked just past the girls to see Henry and Dylan walking his direction as well, their wallet chains, belts and studs shining in the light from overhead.

“I’ll be with you fellas in a minute,” he murmured, looking at the ladies. “Can I help you?”

Phoenix and Frankie looked at one another, then back at their bandmates. “Oh, we’re together,” Phoenix said, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb.

“Where your bar at?” Frankie asked, affecting a southern twang and grinning broadly as she leaned on the counter.

The attendant looked at the four of them, one eyebrow raised as he studied them. “Well...” he began, stuttering a little. “Well, see, we only let people of a certain-”

“Oh hey guys!” Lars called, striding up to them and clapping Dylan on the back. “C’mon, back. We just beat you here by a little bit.” He winked and snapped at the attendant. “Thanks, Frank.” The attendant didn’t respond, just looked below the desk, apparently reading a book or magazine. “Tim’s putting the laundry up in our room. The bar back here’s pretty swanky.” He led them that way, talking as he went. For a guy who looked so unapproachable, he sure was friendly to those he knew.

By the time Tim came to join them, they’d all had a couple drinks and they’d scared off everyone else at the bar. Tim perched on a stool next to Frankie and asked politely for whiskey and water. “Hey, that’s what I’m drinking,” Frankie commented, lifting her glass when he got his, clinking the cups together.

“Cheers, bitch,” Tim murmured with a sly grin.

They closed down the bar and hung out in the lobby simply to piss Frank off, trading stories and secrets for keeping sane on the road. When the sun was burning bright in the sky outside, they all knew it was time to go their separate ways, because such was the life of a band on tour. Sleep wasn’t an option when the only time there was to spend with friends was after the show and until someone had to pull out for the next venue in the morning. “Know what’s great about not sleepin’?” Lars asked Phoenix as he slumped low on the couch and rested his head on her shoulder.

“What?”

“No hangover. Cuz I’d be fucked up right now otherwise.”

She laughed and pat his knee affectionately, glancing over at Dylan and Henry who slept sitting upright in the chairs to their left. “You’re lucky. Someone drives you guys around. One of us assholes has to pull it together and get behind the wheel in a few minutes.”

“Not her,” Tim offered quietly from the couch facing them, gesturing at Frankie, who had laid her head back on the cushions and dozed off for a moments. Phoenix kicked the magazine table that divided them so it impacted Frankie’s right knee. She woke up cursing.

“Shit, dude, I need that to play, you know.”

“Aww, don’t get upset. I’ll kiss it and make it better.”

“Oh yeah?” Frankie asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Will you get on your knees and kiss it?”

“Oh, baby. Can I?” Phoenix retorted, starting to get up.

“Nah, nah,” Lars said, putting his hands on her shoulders and settling her back against the cushions and draping his arm over her shoulders. “That’s Tim’s job.”

Dylan woke up to see Tim pulling up the leg of Frankie’s pants, placing his lips against the soft, bruising skin on her leg. “Well, look at the time,” he said loudly, yawning and stretching theatrically as he rose to his feet. “We should be getting on the road.”

Lars looked over at him. “You seem chipper.”

“I’m a morning person,” he murmured in reply.

“Oh good. Then you won’t mind driving,” Phoenix said shortly, standing up when Lars slid away from her and offered a hand. “We need to find a 7-Eleven.”

“Once we’re on the road we’ll find a Sheetz,” Dylan replied. He was a fan of that gas-and-shop chain. They always had so much to choose from. Frankie stood and yawned, reaching down to touch her toes. Phoenix took off her sneaker and threw it at Henry to wake him.

Tim and Lars escorted their new friends to the RV. “Well, I gotta say, it was a pleasure to meet you guys,” Henry said, shaking each of their hands. “Hope to see you on the road again.”

“Or sooner,” Lars replied. “You never know.”

Dylan shook Tim’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he offered shyly. When he stuck out his hand to Lars, the large guitarist grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a purposely gruff and tight hug.

“Good to meet you, you little shit,” Lars growled. “Next time I see you, I’m hitting from the blind side, first thing. So be expecting that.” He pushed the skinny boy away from him.

“O-okay,” Dylan stammered.

“Toughen the fuck up, kid,” Lars added.

“Bye Tim,” Frankie mumbled into his shoulder as he embraced her, lifting her toes off the ground a moment before he set her down and they both reluctantly let go. “I’ll always remember you making out with my kneecap.” He nodded and looked down at his boots.

“I got your cell number, and you got mine.”

Lars kissed the side of Phoenix’s neck before he released her from his embrace. “Be good, now,” he offered, grinning at her.

“Never,” she replied. “I’ll always remember the blowjob I gave you in the bathroom,” she said, making fun of Frankie’s last statement.

“Oh shit, I’ll never forget that,” Lars laughed back. “And I won’t let anyone else forget either.”

Tim gave Phoenix a tight hug, and Lars grabbed Frankie, then Dead Air was on their way, weaving down the one-way street and into the warming day. In a world that moves so fast you nod off and leave an entire state behind, a night can forge friendships that feel like they were cultivated over many years. Tim gazed at Frankie’s silhouette in the back windows of the RV, feeling a pang of loss ... until Henry pulled his pants down and pressed his ass-cheeks to the glass.