Somewhere in the Middle

A High G

The bus was moving.

Jamie's tongue was completely dry, and when he tried to part his lips, it felt like the whole thing was a suction cup, his tongue desperately hanging on to the roof of his mouth. Not to mention it tasted like he had been eating straight shit.

He needed water. Coffee. Something, anything to wet his throat.

He threw back the curtain of his bunk and groaned aloud as the light hit him right in the face. The TV was blasting from inside the lounge, but otherwise, the bus was quiet save for the constant thrum of the engine.

Jamie slid down, closing his eyes as he landed, as the thump of the floor meeting his feet made him dizzy. When it passed, he ran his fingers through his hair, only mildly surprised to find the ends of it stiff and somewhat sticky.

He winced when he pulled his hand through it, and the smell of his own vomit wafted up to his nose. He needed to shower. Badly.

But first, coffee.

Stumbling his way up to the front of the bus, he tried to remember the night before—how he'd gotten back to the hotel, how sick he'd been, how he'd gotten down onto the bus, why no one was already giving him shit for everything...

She was sitting at the table, books and a laptop spread out in front of her, glasses perched on her nose.

And she didn't look up when he walked in. Just kept reading.

"Mornin' sleeping beauty," Pete said, looking up from his iPad to eye Jamie up and down, less than amused with his appearance.

She still didn't look up.

Now he remembered why.

She had turned him right around when he walked out of his room earlier that morning, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. She stood there and watched as he fumbled around, yanking his pants off, followed by his shirt. She handed him clean ones while he cursed at her, telling her she didn't know him, who the fuck did she think she was, and why the helldidn't she just leave when he'd told her to?!

And she walked out of his room ahead of him while he muttered another long string of insults behind her.

She'd taken the stairs while he waited for the elevator.

Seven flights of them.

"How'd you make it back last night?" Pete asked.

And only then did Jamie realize he'd been staring at her, rooted to the spot at the front of the hallway, wobbling with the motion of the bus.

He made himself step forward, toward the kitchenette. "Nate," was all he said in response. Nate had been part of the crew for the last couple of years. He hauled all their shit in for shows—instruments, amps, and stuff—and helped set everything up on stage. He wasn't a tech guy exactly, but he'd learned enough over the years to know how to plug everything in and make it sound decent.

He and Jamie had similar interests, and though he was a few years older than Jamie, Nate never said "no" to a night out with him.

Pete harrumphed a little. "Should've figured. You two are a match made in Hell."

Jamie sighed loudly when he noticed the empty pot of coffee. And didn't answer as he reached up into the cabinet for the grounds to make some. He knew he'd be getting an earful about everything, and figured why slow the process with responses?

"Speaking of," Pete said. Jamie could see him taking his glasses off out of the corner of his eye, and readied himself for the onslaught of criticism. "You look like you crawled outta Hell. That's it for this week's all-nighters, ya hear me?"