CASUAL AFFAIR; brendon urie

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It was all hustle and bustle the entire day leading up to the first scheduled concert of the Florida leg of the tour, and I'd done as much as I could to help, but with my merch stand all done and waiting for me to help Andy Two run it when they doors opened, and in the last two hours leading up to doors open, I was a little put out.

So here I was, in a dark grey cut-off vest shirt emblazoned with the band and their symbol in yellow in the background, ripped up grey skinny jeans and black boots, my hair scraped back into a messy high knot, a yellow bandana working as a hairband, sitting on the edge of the stage, poking at a hole at the knee, sound check raging behind me. It wasn't that I was deliberately not helping - I'd tried to lend a hand where I could. But the guys were testing their instruments, Sammi was prepping her camera, Lauren had made the journey back home, lord knows where Jon was, and Andy Two had also done a disappearing act. Whenever I asked all I got was a 'we're good. But thanks for asking! If something comes up, we'll holler on you!'

I wasn't hollered on. Not once.

Even with crashes of drums, bass, wails of guitars and amps going on behind me, I could still feel the nerves and anticipation running through me. Not because I was anxious, per se, but because I was gonna have to be non-stop, taking money from floods of fans who wanted a token of the night, whilst a concert raged on beside me. This was admittedly one of the best and worst parts of working merch - the build-up.

I'd called Jessa mid-morning, and what I had intended to be a quick conversation turned into an hour long ramble, until eventually, I'd pleaded that my phone was going to run out of money. I also texted Breezy back and forth a few times.

And I'd stolen a moment in the ladies room to answer a call from Brendon. And even though it had only been a day, it was so nice hearing his voice, the familiar "Hey, Florrie,". And we'd talked for fifteen minutes - most of it of nothing importance and even just plain silly 'I feel like pigeons are always plotting something. Like, they just have that shifty look in their eyes' 'did you happen to have an altercation with a pigeon today by any chance?' 'Florrie, it was either plotting my doom, or plotting to shit on me' - until Andy had banged on the door, asking if I was ok.

"I've got to go!"

"Ok. Speak to you soon. I'm missing your pretty face and potty mouth."

"Haha, you're a comedian! Speak to you soon. Bye."

"Bye."

And now here I was. Waiting. Gearing myself up. When I felt a hand clap down on my shoulder, very nearly causing me to topple off the stage. "Hey, Flo." Ashley's voice said teasingly in my ear, before he sat himself down beside me.

"Hey, Ashley." I nodded back.

"So you feelin' ready for tonight?" he asked, flipping back his hair in a very L'Oreal way. He was shirtless, showing off all his many tattoos, and the war paint he'd slapped on, in black leather pants tight enough to make my eyes water, and buckled stomp-y looking boots. And he was close enough that our bare arms kept brushing. Knowing Ashley, that wasn't accidental either.

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" I joked. "Me asking you if you're ready?"

"I was born ready, baby." And as if to prove his point, he stretched his hands out, cracking his knuckles.

"Well," I inched away, just a little. "I'm ready, too."

"Good." He smiled wide. "Say ... you wouldn't be interested in coming back to my hotel room after for a few drinks ...?"

I could see him eyeing my chest the entire time he was saying it. So I reached over and titled his chin back up to my eyes, raising an eyebrow. "What do you think the answer's gonna be, Ashley?"