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weight draped across my chest.
    I slowly open my eyes to see a mess of dark hair.
    Stacy.
    Crap. I try to shift her off of me, and she rolls toward the edge.
    I raise my head as much as I can and see that I’m still fully clothed. Thank fuck.
    I need to take a piss.
    Wincing, I turn over and straddle her to work my way out. Thankfully, my bunk is on the bottom, so I’m able to place my foot on the floor, balance myself, and maneuver over her. She sighs deeply and rolls into the corner where I was a few seconds ago.
    I stand up slowly to fight my dizziness. The slow rocking and humming noise tells me the bus is heading to our next gig.
    I place one hand on the wall and swipe the other over my stubbly face. What is wrong with me, and why the fuck is Stacy in my bunk? I walk into the small bathroom to take a leak. As I wash up, I see my reflection in the mirror. Dark, sunken, bloodshot eyes look back at me with disgust. These same eyes have been looking back at me since I left Philly. Since I left her .
    I bend down and drink directly from the faucet. Cottonmouth sucks. On top of drinking too much whiskey last night, I got stoned. Stacy had some medicinal shit that she was calling ‘Holland’s Hope’ or something like that. It took the edge off the nerves brought on by my performance and relaxed me enough so I could sleep.
    I finish drinking. This water is disgusting; it tastes almost like rust. God, I hope it helps my pounding headache. Now I need aspirin. I hear a low ringing and buzzing. It sounds like my cell phone ringtone coming from my bunk just outside the bathroom. Then again, we have the same damn ringtones, so it could be one of the other guys. It drives me nuts. I think Dax does it on purpose. I pat my jeans to confirm that it’s not in my pockets.
    Whatever. Whoever it is will leave a message. I grab the towel hanging by the door and press my face into it to dry myself off.
    After our show last night, I didn’t want to be anywhere near the rest of the band or groupies. I came back here hoping for solitude. It’s been a little over two months since I left Philly. Since Tabitha ruined us. More and more, I crave the peace and quiet of this bus when the rest of the guys aren’t around. They were at an after party that I decided to skip.
    I was on my sixth shot of Jameson when the bus door flew open. Stacy giggled as she stumbled up the stairs with her pink bong in one hand and a bottle of her trademark sangria in the other.
    She’s the lead singer of our opening act, Bitter Pill and she brings a bottle of sangria on stage with her every night. Every show is the same. She sings, drinks an entire bottle, and has a second one waiting for her when she’s done. Then she seeks me out.
    Stacy has been relentless. She constantly throws herself at me and it’s beyond annoying. She doesn’t get it. I’m totally not into her. I’m not even ready for a quick fuck. She’s been trying since we rolled out of Philadelphia and it’s getting old.
    I barely remember our conversation from last night, not because I have hangover amnesia, but because I stopped listening. Useless. A waste of time. I know I’m being a dick, but she honestly can’t take a hint. The worse I treat her, the more she comes at me wanting more. She’s so fucked up.
    Stacy blabbered on about how she scored some medicinal grade pot and how it would help me relax. The Jameson was helping just fine but to shut her up, I took some hits from her bong.
    I distinctly remember going to bed very much alone. I open the door and see that she’s just getting out of the bunk. She’s fully clothed, too, so that proves to me that nothing happened. Again. Thank fuck.
    “Hey sweetie,” she purrs.
    “Stacy,” I state coldly. It doesn’t matter how I talk to this chick, she’s constantly clueless.
    “Where were you? You left me alone in your bed.” Then she pouts. Seriously, enough of this shit. She’s playing the sex kitten and it’s not doing it for