Chapter 2:

Sheena ignored the lip of her coffee cup as it begged for a sip. Her and Renee sat quietly in the pantry. All too soon their conversation ran dry, and so Sheena’s gaze fixed on Nathan, Jonathan’s son. He looked so much like Jonathan, she thought. His ebony locks, blunt nose, and that set of dark, mellow eyes. Renee watched Sheena’s sad gaze as they followed her son’s movements. He occupied himself in the corner of the room with an impressive array of Tonka toys. He had the trucks lined up along the carpeted, cranberry floor, and was trying without success to push them all at once in the line, his butt in the air and an aura of avid concentration on his face.

Despite herself, Sheena wondered if Jonathan had ever been as innocent as his son looked right then. She didn’t think so.

"Jon loves him," Renee said quietly. "Nathan’s his—"

"Huh? Wha?" Sheena asked, a bit too abruptly, as her gaze broke. She snapped into reality as her crumpled smile crashed into a frown. The shadow darkened over Sheena’s face until her eyes nearly grayed.

Renee cleared her throat. Was she crazy? Her thoughts about Sheena fluctuated so rapidly in the past hour that she couldn’t decide whether to trust her in the house. "I said that Jon loves Nathan very much. Very much."

"That’s good. He’s very caring." Sheena traced her coffee cup with a long, delicate finger. Looking down, she began to talk until her lip trembled and she was stunned silent. "He was really caring. He was gentle, too. He was a very sensitive guy. It’s just—things just always seemed to work out wrong for him. Things just never turned out his way—"

She stopped and silence penetrated the room, slicing through everything in its path. Even Nathan paused to wipe his brow and award Sheena a glance. In Nathan’s dark almond eyes she saw the same frustration, the same irrepressible sorrow that had always tinted Jon’s. Somehow he had passed that look on to his son, the son who knew none of the world’s pains or pleasures. A son that didn’t understand why there was a haggard woman sitting at the coffee table, staring at him; a son who didn’t know why his daddy was always gone; a son who cried and begged for his father to come home every night for a kiss—

Renee swallowed nervously. When tears slipped onto the table, Renee put her coffee down and gently embraced Sheena. As they hugged, Sheena excused herself with soft words. "I’m sorry I’m like this, Renee. I can’t help it. It’s just coming back brings back so many memories. And seeing his son just makes it so much harder—"

"Do you wanna tell me why?" Renee asked. The words had slipped out before she’d meant them to. Sheena’s tears evaporated. She pulled away from Renee, hugged herself.

"Renee, you wanna know one thing: if he’ll cheat on you. I’ve told you this a million times: He’d never. Look I have to go…"

She went upstairs to grab her things. She couldn’t take this anymore. Everything was bearing down upon her. All these memories, all these awful memories. After all these years she’d hid it deep down. Now that she was back it was unavoidable. She couldn’t take this; even the air was infected with her sorrow. Going back home would be so much better. She could finish another book and just get on with her life. Already, she felt a tinge of homesickness for the white walls, the blank white screen of the computer, just waiting for her to paint it with ordinary black text.

And yet, was that

home?

She didn’t want to go there—to the apartment. It wasn’t her home, she realized with a start as she ascended the stairs. She wanted to stay with Renee. She wanted to make sure that everything was okay with her. Turning around, she saw the tears in Renee’s eyes.

They embraced, and each apologized to the other. Just as the phone rang.

*****************************************************************************

"Wake up, man! Wake up! What the fuck?!" David yelled through a blanket of tears. Jon lay there, shaking, his face large and forlorn. He stared at David, mouthing strange words. Spittle slithered down his chin in a thick river stagnated by his unkempt stubble.

David had found Jon, not breathing, a tight stretch of blanket wrapped around his neck. With his last bit of strength, Jon had squeezed until his temples bulged and pink triangles swam in his eyes. When his Adams apple constricted and no breath came in, he squeezed harder. With death came sweet, sweet relief. Oh yes. It’s coming, a voice within him assured. So be patient, and keep squeezing. It’ll come. Do it harder, harder HARDER! Nothing’s going to change; you know EXACTLY how to end the pain, my friend… The thin muscles worked, pulling the blanket tighter around him and bringing him that much closer. Tingled energy swam behind his eyelids. In excitement, his breath quickened. Those pink triangles turned a deep red, until black painted behind his eyelids. The darkness was as inviting as his wife’s warm touch on a cold January night, his throat and body writhing helplessly beneath that boa of death.

His wife.

That’s when the tears had started flowing, and the force that held him to life grabbed his wrists and ripped it from the murdering cloth. David came only seconds later. And started screaming.

"Jon! JON! Jesus CHRIST!"

"What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?" Fieldy asked, and dropped a pound or two in his pants when he saw Jon. He ran out of the tour bus and into the crowd. He pushed past his fans rudely as tears invaded his eyes in a small army of shock. Breathlessly, he made it to the main security.

"Help me! Help me!" he cried insanely, tugging on one of them.

"Excuse me, sir, what’s your problem?" the officer asked. Fucking freaks. Too many of them in a place like this. This guy’s wacko, the officer said to himself as he looked Fieldy over, unaware of who he was. He thought this guy was kinda old, too, to be here. Nevertheless, he wiped a hand through his greased black hair and looked Fieldy straight in the face. Fieldy took a deep breath before he started again. "I’m with the band." A shaky hand held up the pass to prove it. "And there’s a guy in the tour bus who tried to commit suicide, and he’s—"

The cop was already running, Fieldy after him. They blasted through the tour bus door, and it snapped shut after them angrily.

When they’d gotten there, Munky and Head had arrived. Munky lay on the couch, holding a limp Jon in his arms as he stared back at the others forlornly. The cop pushed Munky away and slapped Jon. No reaction. Those glazed eyes stared into space as raggedy breath pushed past an airway as tight as a pinhole.

They waited. Nothing happened. The cop slapped him again, and Jon not so much as flinched as the open hand hit home. Then, a minute later, he blinked. His eyes teared, and the yellow bruise under his neck vibrated beneath his Adams apple as he spoke. One single, solitary word, into the ears of the eager friends who had known this would happen all along. The friends who loved him.

"Renee."

Then he fainted, and fell into Munky’s arms as a tear drooled thickly down his cheek.

*****************************************************************************

Tears tugged at her temples. Jon, why? she begged silently as she recognized the fading bruise wrapped like a choker around the middle of his neck. She knew touring was hard on him, was getting harder all the time. Didn’t he care about her, or his son, Nathan, who waited so eagerly in the car to come see Daddy? (She left him in the car with Sheena, because she wasn’t sure yet that she wanted Nathan to see his Daddy when he was this sick). Little did she know her and Nathan were the very reason he was still alive. She’d find that out, in due time. But the present was her concern, and in the present she felt slight anger and much guilt. She reminded herself to be dutifully thankful that he was even still alive.

She backed away from him. His eyes filled with silent tears as he regarded her beautiful face. Those deep, chocolate eyes, the tan skin. Her black robe was her habit; she had a fetish for black clothing. That long, black hair that had so many nights sprawled across his bare chest, or had become damp with sweat after a night of passion. He imagined that black hair in a dark ring across the pillow as her face contorted in pleasure and cried out his name lovingly. Yes, this was the face he’d lived for. He wished he could tell her how much he loved her.

But he had to save his voice for the show.

"I’ll be right back. Nathan’s here," Renee said, and choked on their son’s name as Jon’s eyes deepened. She kissed a pair of dry lips, and went back to her rented Toyota.

"Alright, Daddy’s ready to see you," she said. Nathan didn’t have to be asked twice. He opened the door, and his five-year-old stubby legs worked beneath him. He sprang up the stairs. Renee walked quickly after him, Sheena to her right.

"Be careful with him!" Renee warned as Nathan yanked open the screen door and stepped inside. A deep worry settled over her as Nathan eyed his father. But then it passed in a breeze of relief when he giggled and jumped onto Daddy playfully. Nathan hugged his father as if he were a fallen tree, one leg and arm on each side. A smile creased his pudgy cheeks as Jon groped for him. When he found Nathan, he pulled him close, and snuggled with him.

"I missed you, Daddy. I love you."

Fuck the show. "I love you, too, Nathan."

He let out an animal moan of surprise and failed a forced smile as Sheena entered the room. Since he didn’t have the strength to protest

he merely cringed as she planted a kiss on his sunken cheek.

It was hard for Sheena to swallow how much Jon had changed. This Jon, the Jon she went to school with in high school, the Jon that was there for her in her time of need so long ago . . . this boy who’d everyone thought was gay . . .the town fagot . . . this was him, a huge star. A strange wave of nostalgia ran over Sheena as she took her ivory hand in his. Sunken eyes gave way to indented cheeks and parched lips. She’d kissed those lips, once . . . they’d been soft.

"Jon, I had to see you," she said as soon as Renee and Nathan left them to their privacy. Sheena had a bachelor’s in medical science as research for her novels. She’d spent hours awake in emergency rooms, treating patients with injuries of all kinds. Burns. Cuts. Victims of sexual assault and attempted murder. Attempted suicide. But never, in her entire life, had she seen an old friend, an old lover, with a gaunt face and a bruise molesting his neck like some phantom viper. It was a lot to swallow.

Sullenly, she planted another kiss in his mess of stubble.

She waited patiently for an answer. As she did, she examined his face. Those lips—through the dried and cracked skin—were still pink and pleasant. Another perfume spray of the fragrant past: she’d caught him storming out of Art class one day, tears in his eyes. He’d already lit a cigarette, and had been running for the door as laughter chased him down the hallways. When he’d seen her he’d collapsed into her arms. Sheena remembered so vividly those same sad eyes, the undainty tousles of dreadlocks—

"Nice to see you, too," he lied. He managed a grin, but in his current condition it just made him look like he had a twitch. Sheena: a voice, a sweet silvery voice that only asked him one question, a question he had answered so long ago. He would have closed his eyes then, but the overwhelming fear of hearing her voice alone, just her voice, as it had been over the phone, was enough to wish himself dead.

"My God I missed you. I never though I’d see you again," she answered. With that voice.

(I can’t stand the THOUGHT of you…please…just, please…just go AWAY)

Silence.

"What has it been . . ." Gasp. His eyes watered over in the effort of mouthing legible words. "Four years?"

Yes. Four years, she answered with a nod. This conversation was tiring him visibly. She could tell he wanted to

sleep.

He winced as he settled into the couch, which accepted him. Briefly, Sheena wondered how the hell he was gonna perform that night. A regular man in his current status would be bed-ridden permanently. But even as he lay, handicapped with grief to that leather couch, he glowed with a strength that radiated just beneath his palsy exterior. She didn’t know how, or why, and she couldn’t understand it. But she knew he could. Just like back in the day, when he had found the strength to confess he loved her that warm day in the spring of 94’—

It was easy to think about, though. And nostalgia tasted mighty sweet compared to the present.

She snapped from her thoughts to see Jon in an empty sleep, a sleep as tiresome as his absent reality.

Renee glanced at Sheena doubtfully when she returned. Just as their eyes met, Nathan scampered into the room.

"Dad!" he started to yell. Renee swept him in her arms and turned him away from Sheena in one fluid motion.

Their eyes met again—Sheena’s watery ones, and Renee’s dark, troubled ones. With no utter regard for Nathan, Sheena swore aloud. That spring—Why did things always have to be so complicated? Why did things have to turn out this way all the time? And then, the thought she’d secretly shunned since her mother had started the night shift so long ago . . .

Sheena’s face swiped clean of emotion; to Renee it almost looked like she was watching a crying statue. A cold, dark shell enclosed Sheena’s words as she said evenly:

"Don’t wait. He needs a fucking doctor. And quick."

She left. The screen door of the motor home snapped like a jaw as she went outside, into the pouring droplets of rain that fell like infants from the pregnant sky. "Fucking," Nathan tried, moving his tongue to accent the "K" as Sheena had.

He decided it was a cool word.

*****************************************************************************

Dreams.

What strange things they were. Sometimes peaceful, sometimes disturbing, but always dreams. However, this dream was not pleasant. Not in the least. Rolls of fat surrounded Munky everywhere. Yellow, large globules of gelatin pressed against his thin body. It suffocated him. He screamed and tried to escape, his lungs collapsing within themselves as a burning pool of acid bubbled beneath his Adams apple. The lard enclosed him relentlessly, advancing upon him like the fiend from the movie The Blob. No way to escape, no way to free himself. He’d die here, he realized with a far away concern as the lard swallowed his warding hands. This fat would consume him, eat away at him with its acids. And then the fat would move on to the next victim

(OH, MY LUNGS! Jesus Christ! I can’t breathe. I can’t BREATHE!)

and eat. Eat. Eat. EAT.

A sharp pain reverberated through Munky’s head as it thudded against the top of his cubby. An alcohol-induced headache clogged the deep bowels of his mind. The delicate hands rose to his mouth. The lard may have been a dream, oh yes, but the bubbles hadn’t. He fell out of his cubby, and ran to the bathroom across the hall as vomit sprouted from his mouth. Into the toilet it went, down the drain, all that alcohol and stress swirling down, down, down into oblivion… He felt like a cigarette, started to go get one, but then decided against it.

A surprise waited for him in his cubby. Huddled like an endearing grizzly bear was a woman the size of Mount Everest. Her fat back seeped into the corners of the cubby, and her large breasts hung out before her, the fat nipples staring forlornly up at him like an infant child. He ran to the bathroom and vomited again.

That dream. That….fat, he thought as he went back to the cubby for a guilty second look. That was her.

Sure, there had been a little drinking last night. And sure, they’d invited women to come into the tour bus for a little while. But what’d happened? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. All he knew now was one simple thing: they'd fucked.

But ewww, she was disgusting. Jesus Christ. Of all people…why her?

A thought popped into his head: Why ME? Why’s it always ME?

He vomited again in the shower as he washed away the remnants of the dream and the woman. He could imagine her shaking, calling out his name, her lard vibrating like water under her stretched skin. It must’ve been like fucking a hippopotamus! He liked hot women, women with nice, coltish legs and big breasts. The typical deal.

That’s when he was sober.

When he was drunk, however, the rules changed. When he was drunk, if it had a pussy, he was on it, and he was coming. He paid for it in the morning. Nose jobs, face lifts, liposuction: the things he thought about when he usually opened his eyes with a hangover. They’d been big before, oh yes, but never this big.

Thank God for the good old condom . . .

He removed the latex carefully, and dried himself off. He tried to forget about the cunt snoring in his cubby, but

(ugh)

the thought brought his headache back. A kind of disgust settled over him as he grappled in his suitcase for clothes. One-night stands could be great…if the girl was decent. The whole concept of the one-night stand was to find a chick, get drunk, get high or whatever and fuck her brains out. But when the woman had enough facial hair to pass for an Amish priest…well, that was different somehow.

Checked his hair. Trimmed his goatee. Got dressed. He moved through everything mechanically, until he looked like he’d had a fitful night’s sleep. No one’ll know I fucked a whale last night, he thought as he observed the tan face staring back at him. He might be able to fool everyone else. But he’d always know it himself, and that was enough to ruin his day.

He went into the kitchen, determined to have a fucking cigarette before two hours of press and two of signing at the local Sam Goody. Head sat at the table, puffing privately on a Winston. He grunted in greeting when Munky sat across from him. Munky lit his own.

"Heard you last night," Head mentioned casually, and watched with interest as Munky’s head shot up from the morning paper. Those brown eyes burned into Head’s viciously, and Head had the sudden notion that Munky would strangle him.

"Chill out! I’m just saying" Pause as he inhaled. "I got whacked in the head good a couple times. Had to change places."

A wry smile cracked at Munky’s thin lips. Head’s idea of humor. Munky’s eyes softened. This was his brother, man, and suddenly he could care less if he knew about the woman. If he got teased a little, who gave a fuck? Everyone gets porked by a 250-pound whale at least once. Gene Simmons was only human; he couldn’t help everyone. With that thought Munky smiled. He flicked the end of his cigarette into the ashtray. "Ha. Yeah, I guess. I was pretty drunk."

Silence for a couple of minutes as the nicotine worked into their systems, and as the smoke from their labors snaked around them in a cloud of stink.

"Good morning, guys!" Renee whispered loudly as she opened the door to the tour bus. Her long black hair shimmered across narrow shoulders. Dressed in black, as always, she headed to the couch, where Jon slept deeply. She knelt before him, and caressed his dreadlocks. Eventually, she sang to him sweet nothings off the top of her head. Softly and then louder, her voice flittered to Munky, penetrating the smoke—penetrating the wall around him. That sweet, feminine voice. That voice that came from deep within a chest swelled by two lovely breasts. That voice that flowed from beneath a coating of soft skin. That voice that reverberated all around him, filling him. That woman. That woman who loved her man, treated him right, gave up everything to be with him at a moment’s notice. Even if everyone else in the world died, he’d have her, and she’d have him. They loved each other.

"I want that," Munky said quietly. Some small round object pinged against the back of his heart.

Chink.

Head’s eyes flew to meet Munky’s. "Huh?"

Munky, befuddled, caught the words as he whispered them. More confident, eyes still on Renee and Jon, he said bravely, "I want that."

"What—that?" Head asked, motioning subtly behind him, where Renee continued her tuneless hums. His eyebrows lifted. They arched high on the soft lines of a face that, when at home, knew oh so well the joy of "that".

Munky looked to the lip of his coffee. He found the strength to say what he’d always felt deep inside. Something all those ugly women, all those one-night stands, all those front-row tickets, had brought on. "Yeah. I want that. I want someone to care about. I want someone to care about me. I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of waking up with strangers. I’m fucking tired of going home to no one." The last remark stung like a punch in the face.

He looked to Head for his approval.

Head just sighed, however. He grinded his Winston into the ashtray they shared. He spoke perfectly clear, as if he were an old man,

"It’s hard to be married, man. Especially with a lifestyle like ours. You’d have to be careful, ‘cuz—"

A guilty look stole across his face. Finding a good woman for Munky would be like finding a needle in a haystack. And Munky knew it. Head couldn’t figure out why Munky was suddenly so depressed. He could have any woman he wanted, anytime, anywhere! Keeping Jennea (Head’s daughter) made it worth the sacrifice to Head, and he loved his wife to pieces. He couldn’t imagine living without their love . . . but how could he tell Munky that? How could Head ever encourage him to find a woman to fall in ‘love’ with? This man, this lonely man, would never understand what it was like to be in love. Not now. Not with his bank account in the 8^th digit.

Would Head ever tell his best friend that? Not on his life.

"What about Jennea? You love her," Munky offered. He knew Head was better off. A family was far better than a whore. Munky’s doubts disappeared when Head’s eyes became fat and dreamy.

Head rested an elbow against the wall, and puffed again forlornly before meeting Munky’s gaze. "Well, Jennea—Well, she’s my everything." A tear rose in his eye, but was gone with a blunt wipe of his face.

That same heartthrob. That same pinging sensation.

Chink.

"I don’t wanna get married. I just wanna have someone I can be with for a little while. Someone I can trust, and someone I can eventually—maybe—love." He finished his last cigarette, and crossed his long fingers. "I think that would be great. I can’t keep living like this. The pussy’s great most of the time, but—it’s not worth it."

"She was that ugly this time, man?"

They burst into laughter, which broke both Renee’s hums and Jon’s dreams.

Munky joked with Head for a spell, wasting the time before their manager would come with the plans for the day. Somehow talking about his secret desire made Munky feel good. A weight lifted off his chest, as he realized that maybe it was possible. Maybe he could find someone like that. Not today, not tomorrow. . .but maybe. Just maybe. He temporarily forgot about the snoring hog in the cubbies as he listened to some of Head’s rantings.

Then it happened.

"Come on, man. What the hell? We don’t have time to stop at no fuckin’ pharmacy," Fieldy shouts, burying himself in another Marlborough. Halfway through the twelve pack he’s starting to feel good, starting to feel drunk. A little scare today with Jon and all, but he’ll be okay. Time to celebrate with a little beer. And why the fuck does Munky think he can pick up a chick or two at the pharmacy?

"Stop here!" Munky says. He’s out of Trojans; he used the last one on the toe-licking bitch, and particularly enjoyed the fact that he hadn’t seen her in the front row at the concert. As far as Munky was concerned, she got what she deserved.

Stepping out of the tour bus, he makes his way carefully into the General Drug, wearing a down-turned hat and dark glasses to avoid being recognized. The last thing he needs is to sign a million autographs and have Fieldy in a pissy mood when he gets back. In and out, he thinks quickly as he opens the glass entrance doors and listens to the tiny bells jingle as he walks in.

I don’t know, man, he thinks as he makes his way to the register. I guess it’s extra pleasure to me. I don’t even know what it’s like to have unsafe sex.

Yet another disadvantage of not having a wife. Or a steady girlfriend. Gotta wear them condoms, my friend. Don’t want to leave a little trail of bastards behind you. He may have a lot of money, but he sure as hell doesn’t wanna waste it all paying child support. With a man of his income, that would be a hefty amount. Maybe he cheats himself--and cheats the girls he was with--by using a condom, but a transectomy is out of the question. He is tying his tubes for no one.

There are two girls at the cash register. The closest one is slim, blonde . . .everything Munky favors in a woman. Her deep-green eyes shine into his, and color rises in her cheeks as he approaches. She’s young, maybe 18. Her deep dimples accent two silver eyebrow rings in her left eyebrow. A tight-stretched shirt with the letters KoRn stenciled on it makes him smile. He’d designed that shirt, especially for girls like her. It was small, tight, shaped just right to accent one of his favorite female assets. In that shirt, she looks like she just might be a D Cup. Folded against a breast is a nametag that reads Tasha.

This is it, he thinks, and leans casually against the counter. "No one. Not yet. Gonna have ‘em around just in case anyone comes along."

And it isn’t fair! Tasha always gets the guys, she thinks, and shifts her large stomach, planting a chubby bare foot on the floor. With much effort, she gets to her feet. Just because she’s skinny. And I’m sick of it. I could’ve told on her long ago, when I caught her fucking her boyfriend in the walk-in freezer. It’s my turn to get someone. She may be able to fuck you, oh yes, Kathryn thinks as she makes her way to the couple on the leather couch. But I can make you squirm.

It’s my turn! My turn! Kathryn screams, and with bulging eyes she waddles to Munky, and pulls him up. He soon hangs over her like a sack of potatoes. All the ridicule, all the looks, this is what it all comes down to. She’d packed a lot of Twinkies to get to her current state. A lot of late night binges. Uncountable nights of pizza-pies. For a second she stands in front of the bus fridge, and entertains the notion of eating

(actually eating)

Time walked out.

And Sheena walked in.

Munky’s head turned casually to the screen door. His eyes widened in unpronounced amazement. The first thing he noticed was her long brown hair; soft and wavy, falling down the length of her upper body freely to accent her slim waist.

She headed to Jon, and knelt before him. Munky made eye contact with Head. Head had been watching Munky’s stricken face, and trying desperately not to laugh.

"Who is that?" Munky asked, in utter amazement. All his attention was fixed on her; he could already imagine—with a twinge of guilt—what it would be like to wake up with her. No more fatty for Munky. This right here was Grade-A choice meat, the type of girl he deserved. God fucking dammit, he was a millionaire

(though his hair was just…’eeww’..)

and a rock-star.

"What? You haven’t met her yet?"

All he could do was shake his head, no. He heard nothing, saw nothing. The world, right now, revolved around this beautiful girl. If he still had not been disgusted for porking a 250 lb. woman only hours before, he may have found the strength to coax her to his cubby, and…

But no. That was wrong, because he knew all too well who still slept there. Besides, Sheena was too beautiful. Her green eyes pierced through him as she glanced over, and then glanced quickly back. This girl wasn’t cheap, he could tell. She could care less that he was a famous guitarist, or that he had a lot of money. It would take more than a ticket offer to get into her pants.

Head read his thoughts. "Hey, man. That girl’s been my homie for years. She’s not cheap or anything like that. This is a normal girl, not a whore. I mean, she got in trouble when she was in high school, but..."

"What kind of trouble? You knew her in high school? She went to your high school? How come I never—"

Head’s face wiped clean of emotion. Head only did that when something had gone terribly wrong. "I’d tell you to ask Jon about it, but not in his current position. Just forget it. That’s not the point." He leaned closer, so that it was utterly impossible for anyone else to hear what he said next. "This is a real girl. You’ll have to treat her like one. She’s how I met my wife, and she means a lot to me. I swear to God if you ever—"

"I get your point!" Munky exclaimed, and then said more softly, "I get it. I know she’s different. I can just tell. Is she a musician, or what? Why is she here, really?"

Head grinned, and settled back in his chair. "I’m not going to tell you. You’ll have to find out." After major fisheye from Munky, Head threw his head back and laughed. "What? Ask her yourself and find out. Flirting hasn’t gone out of style, has it? I bet you if you ever asked that she’d really like to answer you. Don’t be fooled by how hot she is: she’s really, really nice and caring."

"I can tell you’ve been married for a long time."

Munky sighed. How am I ever gonna talk to a girl like that? Munky could truthfully say he’d never been with anyone like Sheena. A dreadful prospect shot through him: does that mean that he, the great Munky, was as cheap and fucked up as his lovers?

Shudder.

Hug. "Brian, good morning, sweetie!" Sheena smiled, and wrapped her arms around Head. Head winked to Munky, and made him scowl in jealousy. He kissed her on the cheek, just for Munky, and asked her how her sleep was.

She turned around and grabbed a can of applesauce before answering. She took a can opener (not an automatic; those were too expensive for a tour bus) and struggled to get it open. "The cubby’s kinda small, but I’ll live. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really sleep last night. I’m starting on this new novel. I just finished my third book. It’s awesome…not to be modest or anything."

"You know, you could always come and snuggle with me if the cubby’s too small," Head teased.

"You’re a writer?" Munky asked, in severe surprise. Never, in all his life, would he ever think of her as any kind of author. She seemed much too…well, he didn’t know. It was unjust to keep a beautiful girl like that in front of a computer all day. She smiled at him in the most friendly and warm way. Fate had suddenly handed Munky some awful Chemistry final:

But he decided instead to just sit there, and try to look interested as her words flew over his head. He heard two words out of her whole little shpeel: Medical Horror.

She’s looking at me.

When Sheena’s beautiful voice stopped and Head’s began again, adding to what she said, Munky’s ears immediately stopped ringing with choir bells.

"She can take care of Jon because in order to write her stories she got her Bachelor’s in medical science, right?" Sheena nodded, yes, and he continued to Munky, "She writes the best horror stories. They all take place in hospitals . . .and they’re so original. She started this whole, like, new genre of mystery books. It’s amazing."

"Why thank you, Head," she said lightly, now blushing deeply. As her cheeks reddened, Munky’s pulse slowed. His headache came throbbing back, and suddenly he sought Sheena’s face for comfort. Head was right: she was definitely warm and caring. Her smile never left her face, and the small looks she gave to Munky were soft and sincere. That was a first.

Head lit another cigarette, and took a draft of it. "And you know, that first book you wrote? That was the best one."

"Why do you think that? That’s the worst piece of junk I’ve ever written in my entire life. I hate it. I like the new one, but not the other ones." She stirred the applesauce now in a bowl, preparing to take it to Jon.

"You know why I like it," Head insisted confidently.

"No, I don’t," Sheena countered.

"You didn’t go to medical school for nothing. Damn. What the hell do they teach you there? Or do you write from experience, huh? But, oh damn." By now Sheena knew very well what he was leading to, and her beautiful cheekbones reddened as laughter pulsed behind her cheeks. Head continued on. "Go check! I have that book in my cubby with all the good parts all marked out. I have never read a book with such vivid and wonderful sex scenes in my entire—"

"OK! That’s enough, Brian. It’s just a book! It doesn’t mean anything!"

By now, the whole tour bus was awake, and secretly listening in on the conversation. Even Jon, who was now busy watching Barney with Nathan. Also, the walls were very thin in their tour bus. Fieldy laughed in the bathroom while gargling at Sheena’s pathetic comebacks and Head’s hysterical comments.

"Oh, it meant something to me. Do you have any idea how many nights I’ve stayed awake, reading those over and over…"

All of a sudden, a thin weight rested on Munky’s shoulder. It surprised him so severely that he jumped from his trance. There, right before him was Sheena. Up close he saw more extensively how beautiful she really was. He fantasized briefly that she could hear his heart hammering in his chest like some lunatic drummer. To his relief it slowed again. But his headache came pounding back.

"Hangover?" Sheena asked pitifully, and all Munky did was nod numbly. If he had tried to speak, he knew it would only be gargled. Head had stopped his ranting suddenly, as he realized that Sheena would rather not talk about that right now. (Especially with Jon there, in the condition that he was). So instead, Head watched the interesting little scene that had begun to unfold. What she did next totally surprised both him and Munky.

"Poor thing. I’ll get you an ice pack. I hate hangovers. They suck. Let me see if this won’t help," she said as she walked over and got an ice pack from the freezer, wrapped it in a paper towel, and sat down next to Munky. Instead of just handing him the ice pack, she pressed it against his head. He visibly slumped towards her.

She didn’t seem to mind in the least.

Munky was far from making a move on her. The drugged haze brought on by half-a-pack of cigarettes, sex with an obese woman, and a night of alcohol took him one step from passing out. For minutes she sat, talking to him. She asked him if he’d thrown up already; yes, he had. She asked him how many beers he’d had and what kind, and when he had gone to sleep. She was obviously worried about alcohol poisoning, but Munky knew it was nothing of the sort. A cold kind of worry knot was forming in his thin stomach, growing like a tumor. It told him to get Sheena out of here, get her away, away from this place before something awful happened and she was taken away from him forever. As if he were a psychic, two women, one very thin and the other extremely not, walked into the room.

"Where are we?" they asked, and Head said he didn’t know, answering for Munky. As Head commented, Sheena’s attention turned toward the scene and away from him. Munky felt his heart drop; and could swear that Sheena heard it as it dropped to the bottom of his rib cage and smashed into a million pieces.

"Hey you, too good for me now, huh? This whore’s better for you than me, I guess. Look, I’m not interested in you anymore. I wanna get home. We both do. I wanted you, but forget it now. I’m scared," Tasha insisted. Sheena heard the "whore" part, and nothing else. She got up from Munky, and proceeded to bitch Tasha out with an uncanny sense of severity. She had no idea…

"I’m not a whore! If you call me that one more time I swear to God I will knock your front teeth out. I don’t know why you’re here, but you’d better—"

"We’re here because that asshole holding the ice pack tricked us into coming onto this bus. He said he was from some band or whatever, but…" To Munky’s complete horror, Kathryn snickered. "But I gave him something to think about. Something he liked a whole lot."

"Shut up and get outta here. I was drunk." It was the only defense he could muster without breaking down.

Sheena suddenly knew what was going on, and talked much more kindly to the girls. She told them where they must be, and Renee escorted them off the bus and onto the streets, to get a taxi. To say the least, an uncomfortable silence had come upon the tour bus as Munky fought tears. Sheena knew whom he’d slept with, and what had gone on. She probably thought he was some kind of desperate womanizer, someone who picked on hot little girls and lonely obese old women . . . and with a sort of shock Munky realized that it was true, that he did womanize. The thought was a hard lump of shit in his throat that he could not swallow. When Sheena went to retrieve the ice pack from him, her hands were not warm and gentle; they were cold and harsh. Half an hour before press time, he cried, alone in the bathroom. He couldn’t understand why he liked Sheena so much, and why he cared what she thought. He tried to convince himself that he’d known he’d never have her ever since he first saw her; but that didn’t make sense. He was a star. He could have anything he wanted! The prospect that a girl was too good for him was the hardest thing he’d had to face. This girl . . .why was she so special? He didn’t know, and that made him cry only harder.

The walls in the tour bus were thin, yes. But not thin enough that she heard Munky’s soft whimpers of despair as she washed the bowl Jon had eaten from.

"I love you, Munky! Oh, my God!" Tara screamed, running to Munky and wrapping her arms around him before he could blink. She was about fourteen, the first layer of her hair braided, and the rest done up in black dreadlocks, which Munky thought were really taken care of, considering her long hair. She wore thick black combat boots that encased her thin legs to the kneecap. A pair of red Dickie shorts and a black shirt reading "Wonka" completed the racy outfit.

"You love me?" he said, laughing. When she released her hold, he signed her pallet, and wrote, "I love you, too" in his scratchy, thin cursive. After a silver kiss on the cheek from his "lover", he shook hands with her friend and signed her pallet also. Tara cried briefly when she met Jon, and confessed to him that she’d been raped, too. He’d saved her life again and again with his music. He rose weakly and hugged her. Munky watched Jon’s face crease with joy. This was what he’d stayed alive for, for girls and guys like Tara who needed someone they could relate to.

Munky signed autographs for hundreds of fans, all enthused to see him. Meeting fans was important to Korn, just as enjoyable as playing. It was just that the stress sometimes got to one of them, and . . .

Munky had a lot of stress.

Korn stayed as long as possible, until every fan in the area had an autograph from each of the members. Munky went behind the curtain labeled "KoRn" to wipe the various shades of lipstick from his face, but as soon as he stepped behind it he stopped dead in his tracks.

Sheena sat on her crate, talking to the young police officer that had led her behind the curtain. In her hands was a ticket, it seemed . . . but the policeman was much too friendly to be prosecuting her. There was a dreamy, far-gone look in his eyes. Within seconds he had Sheena laughing. A foreign anger Munky had never known bubbled within him. It was pregnant with hate and brimming with raw instinct: jealousy. He watched them for a minute, transfixed, as this officer wooed Sheena. She soon turned her head, however, and stopped in mid-laugh. She bid farewell to the officer. Holding his cap in his hand, he watched, smitten, as Sheena walked from him. As she approached he saw that the cop had written a telephone number on the pamphlet.

"Hey," Munky said, carefully neutral, and turned to walk next to her.

"Munky, I really don’t want to talk to you right now," she said coldly, and walked away. He stopped dead in his tracks as she left with Jon, the ticket still in her hand.