Even Lovers Drown

Blake Andrews trudged out of her apartment building, rolling luggage bag in tow. Sunglasses shielded her blue eyes from the rays of the sun but did nothing to protect her throbbing brain. She could feel the consistent pain of her hangover chiding her. "You shouldn't have done that," it told her, "Not the day before tour." But she didn't care. She knew the consequences of her actions. The bus ride would be hell if she couldn't find a way to get to sleep in the cramped bunk spaces.

She wasn't so sure that would happen. While she was exhausted, she didn't think sleep would be possible on the bus. The ache in her head, the rapid flipping of her stomach that would occur with each hop of the bus, and the sensitivity of her eyes would keep her up. The three wakeup calls from Andy sure as hell hadn't helped. Those only reminded her that she needed to kick the black-haired bombshell out of her bed and get ready to leave.

What had that woman's name been? Something with a V. Victoria, Valencia, Valery, something. It didn't matter. She wouldn't see her again. One night, that's what they both wanted. Blake for a little stress relief, a precursor to the upcoming days of tour, and the woman for bragging rights.

Stopping on the sidewalk, she glanced over the parking lot. Expensive cars of varying colors, the cars of residents whose names were unknown to Blake, filled the spots. She didn't care enough to meet the people inhabiting the building with her. There was no point to learning their names. She wasn't there enough to establish a friendship. Between touring, recording, and appearances, she was rarely around the apartments, let alone the town. The little time she had at home was spent relaxing. The residents were a blur of faces, one no different from the last, she saw occasionally.

But they would recognize her. In the elevator, the halls, or the lobby, they would stop and stare, mouths wide, eyes bulging. Some would ask for autographs and pictures, others would be too star struck to move. Blake Andrews lived in their apartment complex, and they didn't know she was there.

A white van stood out from the well kept cars. Blake recognized the never fixed dent in the passenger side door from an accident, the one that left them talking for days. She knew there was a spot of dirt on the opposite side that just wouldn't leave regardless of how hard it was scrubbed. The band's tour van from pre-bus days. Dutifully addressed as the stalker van, it got them where they needed to go when they were still begging for gigs. That van had been a shelter. Too many memories were encased in its bland white casing. Parting with it would never be an option.

Yawning, Blake stepped off the sidewalk and walked down the aisle of cars the van was sandwiched in. She ran a hand through her tousled blonde curls. A dull ache of exhaustion ran through her with each step on the parking lot asphalt. She silently cursed her band mates for deciding not to pull up to the curb.

The backdoor slid open before she reached the van, the green eyes of her longtime friend, and lead guitarist of Say Goodbye, Sage Monroe hit her before the obnoxiously bright red coloring of her hair registered in Blake's already throbbing brain.

"She better have been good," Sage said.

"Not good enough to warrant your hair color at this time of day," Blake mumbled. She stood at the side of the van and stared at her friend's hair. Her sunglasses failed to keep her hangover-effected eyes from aching at the intense coloring. "Did you re-dye that?"

Hayden Young peaked over Sage's shoulder, moss green eyes flickering with mock irritation. His electric blue-streaked black hair was the only physical feature that set him apart from his twin Hunter Young, who Blake knew was lounging in the backseat from the peak of red-streaked black hair she could see from her spot on the pavement. A minor difference, almost as physically minor as the differences between their instrument choices. Hayden opted for guitar, Hunter opted for bass guitar. Instruments that looked so similar yet sounded so different.

"Bitch, get in the car," Hayden said, laughter hiding in his tone.

Reese Edwards turned in the passenger seat, his customary spot, to face Hayden. His dyed white hair was teased to perfection. The septum piercing, bridge piercing, and snake bites made him look more like their drummer than he did on most free days. But he wasn't playing the role of drummer on free days. He was playing the role of father to a three-year-old, the son he had to leave with his fiancé during the span of tour.

"There's no need for that language," Reese said, authoritative, a similar tone he used on his son.

"You're not my daddy," Hayden said.

"Shut up, Hay," Hunter grumbled.

Hayden turned his attention to his twin, who was still lounging in the back. Blake shook her head at the pair. It was far too early in the morning for this. Though Blake wasn't aware of the time, her headache established that she should be asleep, not listening to arguing band mates.

As long as the band was in one area, they would argue. They were a family made up of friends. Arguments were bound to happen, especially on tour. Another reason Blake shouldn't have gotten drunk the night before.

"You're just jealous because I'm hot," Hayden said.

Andy King didn't look over his seat, didn't glance at the soon to argue twins. He kept his attention forward, blue eyes staring at the expanse of the parking lot in front of him. His mouth was twisted in frustration, a dull white coating his knuckles from his tight grip on the steering wheel.

"Hayden, Hunter, be quiet," Andy commanded.

The irritation in his tone forced Hayden to clasp his hands in his lap and sit properly, his bottom lip captured in his teeth to keep a smile from spreading. Hunter made no movements, didn't appear to take notice of the aggravated manager. Sage held back her own smile and Reese shook his head.

After years working as their manager, Blake figured Andy would be used to the band's aggravation tactics. He had been with them since the beginning, been the one who helped them when they were nothing in the music industry, been there when they made it big. Yet, he still couldn't handle them when he was stressed. An old quirk that would die hard, she guessed. He would relax when things started to move smoothly again, or once he was in the same vicinity as Davy.

"Blake, get in the van," Andy said.

Rolling her eyes, Blake crammed her suitcase into the empty space on the floorboard and climbed in, making sure her already pained head didn't hit against any edges of the van. She wasted no time scooting to the back most seat, where Hunter was stretched out, instead laying over Hayden and Sage's laps. The trip to the buses would be short. She saw no point in disrupting Hunter's rest and she needed a little rest of her own. While sleep wouldn't come in the quick ride, she would at least be able to lie down and ease the hangover pains.

The van door shut with a loud thump, and the ignition started, a roar the shook Blake's body. She groaned, closing her eyes tightly and massaging her temple with her hand. A quiet chuckle she could only place as Sage's met her ears.

"It's not funny," Blake mumbled, cracking her eyes open to look at her friend.

The continual throb of pain behind her eyes and through her head was anything but funny. For fucks sake, it hurt. The unrelenting pain aggravated her, which only increased the ache. Taking pain reliever pills had been a useless attempt before leaving. Though the pains had eased considerably, they flared back up with each bump of the van along the uneven roads.

Perhaps a drink would ease the tension. What better way to fight a hangover than with more alcohol? The defense had worked many times in the past, leaving Blake in a drunken haze for days at a time. Luckily, those instances were during her time off.

She didn't need to be in such a state on tour. In fact, she needed to be quite the opposite. Sober performances tended to go better. No one got hurt, no equipment was damaged, all words were remembered and songs went by without any problems. Everything was under control. By all means, sober was better than drunk.

"Shouldn't get drunk the day before going on tour," Sage said.

There was no motherly tone to her voice, just that of a teasing friend. As long as Blake had known her, Sage had never been the chiding mother figure, preferring to let Blake go through with ridiculous plans. Some days, she would sit to the side and laugh when the plan failed, and others, she would get involved.

But she hadn't always been the friend Blake knew now. They were only classmates at first, sharing the same table in kindergarten and occasionally the same crayons. Sage refused to speak to Blake, as well as the other students. Blake was fine with that, assuming Sage was just stuck up or incredibly shy. It wasn't until later in their elementary school lives that they became friends over a school project, and Blake finally understood that Sage's quiet nature was a self-protecting mechanism.

"Yeah, lush," Hayden added.

"How are you going to meet the new merch workers while hung over?" Sage asked.

"Maybe it'll teach her a lesson," Reese said.

Blake didn't get the chance to defend herself. The van ran over a pothole, jumping and shaking violently. Her stomach leaped into her throat, a wave of nausea sweeping over her at the sudden jerky movement. Placing a hand on her stomach, she groaned, hoping at least her stomach would settle before they reached the loading area.