Wherever You Are

When we landed in London's Hearthrow Airport, I only wanted to grab luggage and head to the hotel. Unfortunately, everyone had more desire for food than for sleep. I wasn't going to turn down a meal, especially one that would be paid for by my per diem. That was one of the best parts about touring for Dani Weston. The woman knew how to take care of her staff. On other tours, labels provided a per diem for grocery items. On the last tour I'd been on, it wasn't even two dollars a day. It made it difficult often times, but it was a worry that I didn't have being on tour with Dani, who provided each staff member a checking card that pulled money from a staff account for necessities. Admittedly, I often used mine on the last tour to stock up on alcohol but no one ever complained. Sure, I drank a lot but I was never sloppy so nobody ever mentioned it. Nobody, until fucking Michael Clifford.

I woke up in the morning to him tapping me on the shoulder and offering me a hot tea. He was fully clothed, but a quick glance around my own bedroom found me naked under the sheets with the dress I'd been wearing the night before on the floor. It wasn't the first time that I'd blacked out and done something that I'd regret, but it was definitely not the way that I wanted to kick off a tour. I sat up, unashamed to reveal my body (especially if he's already seen it and God knows what else) and took the tea. I hated seeing his stupid, round face with that irritating smile. At least he wasn't being a jerk. "I thought for a minute that you wouldn't wake up, and that would be bad cause we've got to be at the airport in about an hour." I hated his accent so early in the morning. Was it all that grating the night before? I couldn't remember but I tried to ignore it as I glanced at the alarm clock and sipped down the tea. "Yeah, well I tend to hibernate after sex."

Michael sputtered with laughter as he pulled on his shoes, one right after the other. "Oh, God. We did not have sex." I shot him a look that must have been marked with confusion and made it clear that I didn't remember much from before. He took a seat on the bed to retie his laces. "Don't get me wrong, you definitely wanted to. That's just not how I would want to start tour." I nearly snarled at the arrogance in his low voice and placed the empty cup on my night stand with a loud clink. "Listen, kid-" "I'm no kid." He attempted to interrupt me, but I just spoke over him instead. "I appreciate that you're kind enough to want to look after me, but I don't need looking after. You should get your coat and leave." "I never meant any disrespect by it. It's just that-"

"You want to be friends?" I interrupted him, but unlike me he backed down immediately. I raised a thin, inquisitive eyebrow. "Well then, I agree. We're friends." Still shamelessly naked, I pressed his shoulders to turn him around and lead him to the door, not a difficult task in a studio apartment. "But friends do not wake up in bed together-" I opened the door and he stepped out. He turned around, a shit eating grin across his lips as he said "Well, actually Luke and-" I didn't want him to finish. "Goodbye, Michael." With that, I shut the door and turned the deadbolt. "Okay, then!" He yelled from the hallway. I rolled my eyes and began the walk to my closet. "See you later!" His accent was really starting to get on my nerves. I mocked him the entire time that I got dressed (black denim shorts and a white cropped "be afraid" tee paired with black Heisen boots, if you were wondering) and again through the entire cab ride to LAX. I had to wait for Sarah to get my boarding pass and so we walked through security together, and I wasn't mocking Michael anymore. When we saw each other at the gate, he smiled and waved but I didn't want to talk to him just yet. He had royally pissed me off with that comment about starting the tour. I mean, I didn't want to sleep with him either, but he didn't have to be so god damn honest, did he? I sat away from the group and checked my emails as we waited. It was the best I could do to not look at him every time I could feel him staring at me, until suddenly he wasn't anymore. The kid fell asleep.

In the city, Paul drove us in a twelve passenger van to a diner where Dani insisted we go in and sit down. I would have been happy with fast food, but it was selfish of me because I just wanted to go to sleep as soon as possible. Inside was nice enough, but the lighting was a bit bright for my taste. Mind you, it was nearly four in the morning when we all sat at the table to eat. It was a noisy dinner for breakfast. Everyone laughed over each other, except that I'm shit at these kind of social things. Instead of laughing loudly, I merely chuckled at the outrageous bits and sipped down on English beer. From across the table, Michael kept glancing at me. He was probably confused as to why I'd been so upset but I figured that nearly fourteen hours was enough to sit in limbo. As the group made different plans (Dani and Sarah were going to go to a radio program, for example) I received a text on my phone. Somewhere in the previous night, I had programed Michael's number into my phone.

"I'm not trying to be a dick. Still friends?"

I glanced up at him while everyone continued talking about how tired or excited they were. I nodded and damn it if his stupid smile didn't make me want to laugh. He was so stupid that I thought it was obnoxious but funny. I finished my beer and sent a text in response. "Do you want to come hang out with me?" I watched his face as he read my words, and he looked back up at me in a reflection of myself. He nodded, and now I was the one with a stupid smile.

Don't confuse my words. I'm not in love with Michael Clifford. Do you understand how hard it is to make friends if you're someone like me? Keep in mind that I'm not a young bird anymore, as I circle twenty-four and near ever closer to twenty-five. All of the friends I've made since moving to Los Angeles and working in fashion have either died or been arrested. There's not many outside of that circle and while it is tragic, it doesn't scar my heart. In fact, it makes me learn to overcome things like Michael's obnoxious accent and instead focus on the fact that he was kind enough to be honest, and wake me with tea. It takes guts to go through someone else's kitchen, but he did it for the benefit of myself. It was bold and the more that I thought about it, the more that I grew fond of that kindness. Dani paid the tab for the table, and Paul dropped a handful of us off at the hotel. Sarah made sure we were checked in and given keycards before she had to leave for Dani's schedule. In the meantime, I took my luggage (including a few garment bags of Dani's stage dress) and used a cart to take them on the elevator. Ashton, Luke, and Calum didn't ask any questions or give a second glance when Michael got into the elevator with me, and for the entire ride up to the fifteenth floor, we didn't speak. He scrolled through his phone, and I held onto the cart while the floor indicator kept changing. Finally, the bell dinged and the doors opened. Michael began pulling the cart out while I pushed. At the door of my room, I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Michael took the cart and pulled it inside. He grabbed for a garment bad, but I quickly cut him off and carefully moved them from the cart and to the closet in the room. He looked a little wounded. "They're her costumes." I muttered, and he suddenly seemed to feel reassured. "So, you hold onto them?" He asked. "That's my job, to care for them and get them to every show."

We talked about me as we returned the cart and walked back up to my room. I told him about how I moved to Los Angeles with a boy and worked sewing dresses for Muett et Belle, a company that rented red carpet looks to all sorts of celebrities. He genuinely seemed interested with how someone who looked like the embodiment of Halloween could make the shiny, sparkling dresses he'd seen Dani Weston don in her shows. I explained that it wasn't about me or my own preferences. Costumes were about setting the scene and helping to tell a story. He got quiet as we entered the room and I plopped down onto the king size bed. He carefully crawled across the mattress and laid down beside me, so we were both staring at the empty ceiling side by side. "Sarah said you grew up in Japan."

His voice seemed really fucking interested. I didn't want to hesitate, so I mumbled "Yeah." He didn't hesitate to add on to the conversational topic. "You must miss it. I miss it. We went before, and it was awesome. I'll probably live there one day, after all this." He raised his arms to the ceiling and let out a chuckle. I was learning to like the deepness of his voice. I rolled over and leaned up, my weight on my arm. Michael lowered his arms, his eyes staring at me intently. He was expecting something, I could see it on his face. He just didn't know what. I pressed my lips down on his and could feel his whole body tense beneath my chest. His hands grabbed my shoulders, and in the most gentle way possible he pushed me away from him. I could feel my face grow hot, and I must have looked upset because he instantly wanted to explain. "Leda, I don't want to make a mess of things." Things. Was he talking about tour, or did he genuinely just want to be friends? I could be friends. Sometimes, friends kissed. Kissing wasn't the enemy. Was it? I was starting to hate him again in a vicious cycle of wanting to kiss him and wanting to kill him. "It's fine, Michael." His voice pierced through the end of my sentence. "No, you don't understand. I just-" "I said it was fine, Michael."

I laid back down and stared at the ceiling once again. We both stayed silent for what felt like a long time but was merely a few seconds. He let out a deep sigh, and I snuffed the desire to roll my eyes. I didn't want to be so easily offended by him, but the bitter truth was that this was just who I was. I didn't like people judging me. I didn't like being told no. He didn't mean any harm by it, but he might as well have called me an ugly slut. It would have felt the same to me. Actually, being called an ugly slut probably wouldn't have felt so bad. But then, why did it feel so terrible? In the corner of my vision, I watched him sit up and turn his head to look at me. He looked like he wanted to say something so badly, but he clearly didn't know how. "Kid," I began to sit up, and felt him push me down onto my back. He kissed me with fervor, and I let him. Sometimes, friends kissed. Kissing wasn't the enemy.