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The border control officer finally came out, carrying the packet of materials. I could
tell even at this distance that everything had been put back in a completely different
order. He held the passports in his hand. He walked up to us, and followed the line.
I felt like he was inspecting the new recruits and found us lacking, very lacking.
He stopped in front of the bus driver, and studied his features for a moment, then
looked through the passports. “Hank. . . ”

“Yes sir.”

He glanced at the rest of us. “Well it’s a job, isn’t it. Do you have your operator’s
license?”

He pulled out his wallet, and handed his license over. The border officer compared
it to the passport, then handed them back. “Thank you. You’re free to go.”

He looked at the next passport in his hand. “Pete Harley?” The drummer raised his
hand. So I wasn’t the only one who felt like we were in school. He went over to him.
“American citizen. How long were you in Canada for?”

“Three days.” He didn’t add sir.

He grunted, and flipped through the passport. “Travel a lot, do you?”

“When I can. Mostly for work. Like this.”

He held out the passport and Pete took it. The next passport name that was called
out was Jack Wilson. The guard looked at the picture, and held it out to him. He took
it. No questions. I wondered why.

I was next. He looked at me. “British resident? Why are you here?”

I resisted the impulse to say I was born here, that’s why the passport was American.
“I was born here. Sir. Working and living here now.”

“Why is this number on the permit written in differently on this page?” Again, I resisted
the answers that came to mind—a cross between I don’t fucking know, and obviously
some official was illiterate.

“I’m not sure, sir. Perhaps they read it wrong. See, the numbers are the same, just
those last two are switched.”

He stared at me. Then he looked at every page in my passport, a look on his face as
if he were adding up years and visits. I stood there and waited. I tried to look calm.

Finally he handed it back to me. “Thank you. You’re free to go.” Then he turned to
Tristan. “Tristan Hunter. This is your tour? You’re responsible for these people?”

Tristan looked directly at him. He had a couple of inches on the border officer, and
I felt like he was using it. “This is my band. But they are responsible for themselves.”

The officer nodded to another man who was waiting a short distance away. “Then you
won’t mind if we board the bus and have a look around.”

Tristan looked bored. “Of course not.”

The officer looked at his passport again, then back at him. “You don’t sound American.”
He flipped through some more pages. “Why is that?”

“I was raised in the UK, by my father, who was British.” Tristan looked very uncomfortable.
I knew he hated talking about his past, his family, anything personal.

The officer looked like he’d hit paydirt. “Why do you have an American passport then?”

Tristan’s jaw was clenched. I could see the muscles taut under his cheekbone. I hoped
I was the only one. “My mother. American.”

“And where is she now?”

Tristan snapped. “Is this necessary?”

“Are you refusing to answer my questions?”

Tristan took a deep breath, and looked over at AC for a moment. “She’s dead. So I
suppose her ashes are part of the world. Couldn’t tell you exactly where.” His eyes
narrowed, and he looked up at the sky for a moment.

The border guard came out of the bus. “Looks all clear.”

The officer looked at the other passport in his hand. “AC Clark?”

AC nodded.

He went through the same ritual of looking at every page. The officer who had just
searched the bus was regarding Tristan and AC quizzically. He finally said something.
“Hey, weren’t you two in Devised?”

Tristan and AC exchanged a brief look. “That’s right,” Tristan replied.

“Oh man, I used to love you guys. And now you’re solo? Can I get an autograph?”

Tristan gave a thin-lipped smile. “Certainly. Would you like one of the new CDs? Or
is that against the rules?”

The other officer looked up, then handed back their passports. He held up the packet
and I raised my hand, like a good student. He gave it to me. “Technically, yes.”

“I’ll get some paper for the autograph,” I said. “If that’s allowed.”

He nodded. “You’re free to go. Get the bus moving.”

I ran back inside, and grabbed a piece of paper, and a CD. I came out holding them
and a pen, and Tristan and AC signed, and handed it over. The other guard had returned
to the office hut. I let the CD slip to the ground in front of the man. “I think you
dropped something, sir,” I said.

He bent down and picked it up. “Butterfingers.” He slipped it inside his shirt, and
winked at me.

Tristan gave him a little wave, and herded AC and me on to the bus, his hand strong
against my back. The driver closed the door, and we were moving, then waiting to pull
back into the traffic, then gaining speed on the highway.

chapter eight

Detroit

We finally filtered off the bus, staggering a bit, and getting our land legs back
in the warm grey sunshine of the Midwest. There, in front of us, was the peach and
beige chain hotel common to the outskirts of the industrial parts of cities that always
looked the same, the same mini strips of metal gates interrupting concrete balconies,
the long windows that pushed out, the metal blocks of soda machines thrown at varying
intervals, the cheap room service. But it didn’t move, and for the bunk people it
didn’t have curtains, so they could have a wank and cry to their girlfriends back
home if they hadn’t been lucky at cards or at pulling one of the fans who waited prayerfully
in the back parking lots of all these places. I’d seen it before, but I’d never been
one of the dawn patrols limping off the tour bus into the lobby with a bag full of
laundry and an eye on the breakfast buffet.

Now I was following close behind Tristan, who, true to form, had ignored the suggestion
of the band that he try and call James, who was supposed to be the manager—even if
it was tricky to catch him doing his job—who should have been there already, setting
up. Tristan wanted in, and he wanted now.

He stood at the desk, while the receptionist finished her call, smiling and raising
one manicured hand up to tell him to wait. She hung up, and was about to speak, when
the phone rang again, and she held up her hand, and answered the phone with the stock
hotel smile and chirpy good morning. Tristan reacted. I didn’t think I’d never seen
him move so fast.

“No,” he said, leaning over and pressing the button that had been lit up with the
call so that it went out again. “We’ve been here waiting, and we’re your next customer.”

Her cheeks went even redder under the blush. “You’re very rude,” she spluttered. “You
have no right to touch anything behind the counter, no right at all.” She picked up
the phone again. “I’ll call the manager.”

Tristan’s eyes glittered. “You do that, sweetheart. Then tell him you’ve just lost
his company steady bookings for weeks, all across the country, and your face isn’t
going to be on the cover of
Corporate Hotel Monthly
.” He stood back. “But go ahead. It’s a free country.”

She had the phone in her hand again, and was pushing buttons, while Tristan asked
her if it wasn’t taking longer to call the manager than it would have to check him
in, when a man in a suit, his tie twisted around, came out from the breakfast room.
“Mr. Hunter,” he shouted across the 10 feet now separating them, “Mr. Hunter, welcome
to Detroit.”

The receptionist looked at him. He was looking at us. Jack and Pete were sitting on
the ground with their backs against a potted plant, discussing breakfast. AC was rolling
a cigarette, juggling a tobacco pouch and his phone. We all looked a bit used. In
truth, maybe not the group you wanted your regular guests, who were handling sales
for XYZ Company, to find on the way to their coffee and eggs. The manager forced a
smile, then carried on in his stentorian tones. “Lucinda here was just finding your
reservation.” I watched him glare at her, as she gulped, and began to assemble keys
and cards.

The revolving door spat out James, who took in the scene and came up to Tristan first.
“Traffic,” he mouthed, then swung around to shake hands with the manager.

“Mr. Lorimer, is it? We spoke on the phone. Thank you. I’ll take over.” He looked
over at Lucinda. “Thank you, dear.” She turned away, huffily, completely unimpressed
with his attempt to charm.

Tristan walked over to the wall near the elevators. I followed, grimly. Finally James
came over and handed one of the keys to Tristan. He took it, and without a word, pulled
me by the hand into one of the elevators, looked at the key, pressed the button for
the 10th floor, the top, and punched the door closed button. “Assholes. All of them.”

“She didn’t know who you were.”

“I don’t give a fuck. I’ve spent years doing this. It’s always the same. They either
suck up so much you want to smack some sense into them, or they take one look at the
band and the clothes, and decide you’re going to hell, and their cardboard rooms with
fake flowers shouldn’t really hold such sinners.” He slumped down on the floor. “Shit.
I’d forgotten how much I hate the day to day.”

I started to say “James…,”

Tristan cut me off. “He’s a fucking jackass as well. I would have sacked him if I
had the time, and he knows it.” He stood up, and gave me a half-smile. “Life on the
road.” He picked up my hand and kissed it. The tinny bell announcing we had arrived
made us both look at the door as it opened. He took my hand and led me down the red
carpeted hall. “I’m a diva, darling. Life on the road brings it out in me.” He laughed.
“There will be a couple of good moments too. Bound to be. Come on sweetheart, I need
to sleep some more.” He swatted my ass, and gave me that predatory look. “Then we
can work on stress reduction.” I laughed. “You think I’m kidding.” His voice dropped
an octave. “There’s only a few things that work…and you’re really good at every one
we’ve tried so far.”

He opened the door. There was a view of the flat endless suburbs of the Midwest, a
wide-screen TV, a king size bed with chocolates, and a bottle of something resembling
champagne in a bucket on the table. “Nice. Come on, Lily, a shower, a glass of whatever
swill they’ve given us, and bed.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Day whatever
day it is stress. I wonder where the fuck AC is.”

I went over to him and put my arms around him, and listened to his heartbeat, fast,
erratic, against my chest. “It’s ok. I understand.”

He looked at me, quizzically. “Do you? Maybe you do. Well, nothing like a couple of
weeks in a bus to really get to know someone.” He whispered in my ear. “Think you’re
up for it?”

I laughed. “Going to find out.”

“Yes, we are. First, soap and hot water. Dirt needs clean to land on properly. I think.”
He kissed me, and stripping off all his clothes and dropping them on the floor, headed
to the shower.

* * *

When we woke up again, Tristan decided we needed to walk around some. So we slipped
out the back service entrance of the hotel without being spotted. Tristan seemed to
know where all the possible exits could be, and had no worries about pushing open
doors that said “Authorized Personnel Only.” I told him about a park down by the lake
that I’d read about in the guidebook. So we headed in that direction, and wound up
walking out to the end of the park, by the old dry dock area. Out here, on the edge
by the water, you could see what it really was—industrial waste land with the wet
dreams of a few developers half a mile away, a Miami on the river that was so out
of place next to the low-level brick buildings that had once housed factories and
businesses, that you had to wonder. The wind-blown trash stuck to the barbed wire
fences. This was the only accessory. The bits of plastic and Styrofoam that would
eventually wind up in the picturesquely named off-shoot of the lake that was doing
its best to hide its heritage as a glorified sewage runoff, and making it hard for
people to remember what it had once been, the resting and nesting place for shorebirds
and fish, a wild and beautiful land.

Tristan leaned against the wire fence, his leather jacket protecting him from the
worst of it, and beckoned me to come closer. I’d been taking pictures—I thought they
would go with the article, and maybe the eventual documentary. Naturally, I wouldn’t
be filming it, but I’d be amused if they used some of my angles to set up the background
shots. I kept snapping away as I approached him, watching his face go from confused
to delighted. It was hard to describe the feeling that was running through me watching
him, suddenly enjoying the illicit pleasure of being on the fringes, the metal storage
tanks and the grey-green water of what used to be an inlet before mankind had the
idea to pour tar down right up to the edges, and suffocate everything green and growing,
so different to his skin, golden and dewy, shimmering in the fading light of the afternoon,
in sharp contrast to the roller-skate silver metal color of the chain link fence,
the tiny stones coming up through the uneven pavement. Tristan laughed, a carefree
musical sound that drifted on the air, wrapping around me, tickling, until I had to
laugh with him, my finger on the button, snapping away, every angle he threw at me.

“You’re too good at this.”

“What do they say? ‘You’ve got to love the camera?’ Give it up for a piece of metal,
a blank eye. A little like music. Fuck me with that thing…like taking the guitar and
pointing it at the crowd.” And he started to bend his knees, leaning backwards, mimicking
pointing his guitar at me. I kept getting closer, snapping away, until he was nearly
to the ground, and I found myself straddling him, a leg on either side of his thighs,
closer, a straight line between the two of us.

He lifted himself up, the muscles in his thighs visibly straining against his jeans
with the effort as he raised himself higher and finally threw an arm around me, steadying
himself, his body tight against mine. He had all his weight pulling against me, and
I was struggling a bit with the effort to keep all six whatever feet of him from dropping
to the pavement.

“Yeah, babe, why haven’t we done this before? Where do you want me?” He started posing.
A hand on his hip and one out, a little like Mick Jagger, he thrust his body dangerously
to one side. I kept taking pictures, trying to focus. His smile widened evilly as
he watched me moving around him to get a different angle. Then, quickly, he changed
the rhythm, raising both his arms over his head, and started swaying, slowly, to some
unknown beat. It reminded me of someone. I wasn’t sure who. My brain had gone blank.
Then he was taking off his jacket, winking at me, stuffing it between his legs, and
started stripping off his t-shirt, doing his best Iggy Pop imitation. “Don’t get the
jacket,” he ordered. “That’ll spoil it.”

“Who’s running this show? Me or you?” I retorted, a little more out of breath than
I would have liked.

He grinned dangerously. “Don’t know yet.” And he started running his hands up and
down his long torso, reaching out over his skin with his fingers outstretched, singing
“I Wanna Be Your Dog” as he did it. His tongue darted out, and wetting his lips, he
ran a finger around his mouth, and stuck it in, pulling it out, glistening. His hand
dropped and he was circling his wet fingertip over his taut nipples, then rewetting
it, and running it again and again, over the hard point. “Like it, sweetheart?” he
taunted. “Come on then, get a close-up.” He was teasing now, his hips making slow
shapes in the air, and as he turned at an angle I could see the backs of his muscled
thighs, reaching up to the perfectly defined round muscles of his behind. He changed
the song he was singing, now humming, to one I didn’t recognize, emphasizing the beat.
“Come on, don’t get tired yet,” he called out. He dipped down, his knees bent, his
fine ass sticking out slightly and rose up, very slowly. Then he did it again, his
thighs tense with the effort to lift all six foot two of him smoothly from the ground.
I kept snapping away. I’d never be able to use these, but I didn’t care. If Tristan
was going to give it all up for the camera, I was fucking going to do my best to try
and capture it.

Now one hand was slipping down his body, starting at his chest, and slowly making
its way over his stomach. He took a deep breath in and his abs tightened, his hips
cambered out to the rear, then back again, almost seeming to meet his hand in a dance,
as his fingers slipped past the waist of his jeans, just low enough that his last
two fingers reached out and skimmed over what was between his legs. He smiled again,
that dirty smile, and closed his eyes, only for a moment, as he pressed in, so slightly.
Then his hand was up by his waist as though it had never happened. He stared at me.
I wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing me. He was on stage, in performance mode,
lost in finding the right combination. What made him a star was the ease with which
he could share the pleasure he felt, was feeling, in teasing the audience. The back
and forth, the pull as he played them, knowingly. I could only watch, mesmerized.

My camera hung uselessly over my shoulder, my hand gripping the lens so I wouldn’t
drop it. Tristan swayed his hips back and forth, then raised his arm. His long fingers
pointed at me, then curved over, beckoning me to him. I walked very slowly towards
him. I felt drugged. Being the target of all that magnetism, those dark eyes dancing
with amusement, his body giving off a force that couldn’t be normal, had left me weak.
I could hear my pulse beating in my ears. It couldn’t be right to want this much.
I didn’t care.

Tristan reached his hand out, and caught mine in his larger one. It didn’t help that
it had been the same one he had been teasing himself with moments ago. My breath caught
in my throat as a wave of half-formed ideas on what I’d like to do washed over me.
He smiled again, as though my thoughts were completely open to him. “You stopped taking
pictures,” he said, drawing me closer.

“Yes,” I murmured. “Should you do that on stage? I mean in public?”

He laughed. “What, this?” And he pulled me up to him as he repeated the same swaying
motion, the same almost figure of eight movement, his hips rising up, but now coming
firmly against mine.

I shut my eyes. “Yes, that.” I could feel how warm his body was.

He sank down a little. “Like that, do we? Maybe I should do it again.” And he repeated
it, again, once more, then reached around and placed his hand on my ass, and pulled
me sharply towards him.

At the touch of his hand, my body melted into his. My eyes shut, and I let myself
follow his movements. My mouth was dry, and I tried to lick my lips to wet it again.

“Nice,” Tristan’s voice rumbled through me, and his lips brushed lightly against mine,
then pulled away. I let out a little groan. “Need something to do with your mouth,
is that it? I can think of a few things.”