(Soft angst! Slow burn! Everything to annoy or delight you!)

- You can not stress enough the difference between a groupie and a roadie. Though it's a distinction that most can make easily, it's becoming quite obvious to you that they do not mix well. You know this because one of the guys you're supposed to looking after is wasting time in the tour bus with some pretty young thing whilst you and three other guys wait outside, more than ready to hit the road.

- "Vrenna. Drink."

Chris grins at you before passing you his cup of whatever. You throw a good portion of it back before returning it to him, wiping your mouth with your shirtsleeve. Though you aren't quite sure about the taste, whatever it is warms you up, making this situation slightly more tolerable. Just slightly.

- Chris takes the drink back with great alacrity, taking a swig of his own. He eyes you as he gulps the rest of it down, speaking up as soon as every last drop has been drained. 

"And what's wrong with you?" he asks. "Don't like knowing about Trent's escapades?" He smiles, some odd look in his eye. "You get used to it, you know. I've been dealing with it since high school. He got around a lot, even back then. Maybe it was the marching band that did it..."

- "Gross." You cut him off with a shake of your head. "God. I do not want to hear about that."

- "Whatever you say." He shrugs, inspecting the now-empty Solo cup closely. "So what's the problem? You look really, really pissed. Someone in the crowd give you trouble? Or are you on the rag?" 

Robin huffs out a laugh. "Jealous, more like," he chimes in. 

- "No! God!" you snap. "First of all, how many times do I have to tell all of you that a girl can be mad without being on her period? And second, I'm pissed for the same reason that you should be; that being that it's, like, twenty degrees out here, and Reznor won't open the damn door. All because we know that he has some groupie in there with him." You kick the door of the bus for good measure. As expected, nothing happens. You turn back to the guys pointedly. "So, no, I'm not a fan of Trent's escapades. Because every time that he embarks on one, he leaves the people who care for him most out in the elements to die." 

- Of course, none of them take you seriously, bursting into hoots and hollers almost immediately. 

"Sure, princess," Danny says. "That's why you look like you want to go on a killing spree. Because you're cold." 

You shoot him the sharpest look you can muster. "You better watch it, Lohner," you say. "Or when he finally opens that door, I will shove you outside with the groupie and leave you here. Leave. You. Here." 

"Left alone with a groupie?" Robin laughs. "Well, damn. That sounds awful."

You cross your arms with a sigh, vowing not to engage them any more than you already have. Your mood worsens upon seeing the puff of your own breath. Maybe you'll cut off the heat when Trent finally lets you in. And hide all the blankets. 

- Ten minutes and an ass of muttered complaints later, the door finally opens, revealing a disheveled Trent and a perky little blonde. Makeup smudged, she wishes him a breathless goodbye before proceeding to walk away, not even acknowledging the five of you, waiting by the door. Trent watches her retreat with this gleam in his eye, a mix of wistfulness and satisfaction. It makes you feel sick to your stomach. 

- "Hey," he says nonchalantly as you, Chris, Robin, James, and Danny file into the bus.

 You glare at him, making sure he knows just how you feel. Well, some of it. 

"Thanks for letting us in." Your voice drips ice. "You're a real friend."

- His face changes, that glint disappearing. Good, you think to yourself. Let him think that you're mad at him. You absolutely are. 

You retire to your bunk, not looking back at him. 

- The next morning, you wake to find him in the state that you expected: hungover and exhausted. Sick as it may be, you're sort of glad. For one thing, karma is clearly a bitch. And for another, you feel slightly better knowing that last night's 'escapades' were drunken ones. Perhaps the way he was looking at her was the drinks talking. 

- On the flip side, you're forced to stop ignoring him and play doctor.

 "That's it," you coo, gently massaging his shoulders. "Just try to relax."

He groans, still hunched over the waste basket. The road is unforgiving towards his condition, making him even more pitiful. 

- You hold a bottle of water out to him, trying to mask your concern. "Drink," you demand.

He eyes you dubiously. 

You roll your eyes. "Just water, moron," you say. "I don't believe in the hair of the dog." 

- With that, he takes the bottle, taking a few hearty gulps. When he pulls away, he looks at you so sincerely with those drooping green eyes. Your heart speeds up a little bit, having him look at you that way.

- And then he ruins it by opening his mouth. "Dog," he says. "God, I miss Maise. Wish she was here."

- You don't know whether to roll your eyes or smile. "She's being taken care of, I can assure you," you tell him. "You'll see her again when we make our next stop back in Cali." 

- "Mmm... hope she's alright."

The bus hits a speed bump, causing you to jump. Trent hardly seems phased, closing his eyes. "I'm so tired," he says. "Just wanna rest awhile."

- "Go ahead," you encourage him. "You're gonna need it if you even remotely plan on performing tonight." 

- "Yeah. I'm a wreck." For whatever reason, this is funny to him, causing him to chuckle to himself. You get that stupid feeling like you might be able to fly again. 

He stops laughing, eyeing you quizically. "Why are you all the way over there?"

- And so you end up with his head in your lap as you head down the road, stroking his hair absentmindedly as you seem to pass right by everything at the speed of light. All the while, you look back down at him, somehow immersed in just watching him breathe, each exhale falling steadier than most things in his life. 

- And, God, is he beautiful. That feeling really takes flight right about then, seeing him like this, practically cuddling you with his hair falling over his face. 

It is only during times like these that you let yourself accept it: you pine for him in a way that is so much more than pining. You're falling for him, for God's sake, and that's a big problem. 

- Because guys like him were made to do one thing to girls like you. It's what you and that blonde girl have in common, you think, heart sinking as you pick up the slip of paper that had just fallen from his pocket, only to find ten digits written in a neat, girlish scrawl.

All he could possibly do is chew you up and spit you out.

(This is probably really messy, but I'm planning on making it a series within this book. Feel free to tell me what you think!)