DOWNSTAIRS AT THE back of the hotel, Ruin’s tour bus idles loudly, the sound echoing off the brick of the hotel.
“I like the way my band’s shirt looks on you,” Keelin says. I discarded my torn tights and replaced my blood-stained shirt with one of Ruin’s merchandise shirts. The way he says it is as if it marks me in some possessive way, but I don’t say anything.
“What the f**k took you…” Keelin’s bandmate, Rob, pauses when he sees me, “holy s**t, Mia Stone.” He greets me as he stumbles off the bus, looking as though he enjoyed himself last night. His hair is unruly and his eyes are a little bloodshot. Rob and Adam were always the ones that hung out with us the most when they opened for Mogo. Rob is easygoing and doesn’t let band drama get in the way of his good time. Keelin was always qu
