<div align="center">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/87/6214936415_6702b778a6_o.jpg)</div>Half a million dollars worth of diesel tour bus glided down the American highway in the dead of night. It was an investment in good faith representing bank loans, family loans, student loans, car title loans, all gambled on the success of the genre-elusive band whose name was emblazoned across the bus.<span class="bbc_u">Eleanore</span>(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/88/Shadowrun_hacker.jpg) couldn't recall, offhand, what the name was anymore. It had changed and been re-painted too many times. That seemed counterproductive to spreading word about the band's existence, but just the opposite. The indie music scene worked in mysterious ways.<br/><br/>The hands on the wheel were warmed with<span class="bbc_u">fingerless black lace</span>(http://th09.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/f/2011/319/5/6/isabel_lace_extra_long_arm_warmers_by_zenandcoffee-d4gao30.jpg), steady on the road with fifteen tonnes of sensitive electronic equipment and lovely young creatures at her responsibility. Eleanore's eyes seldom opened further than a smoky half-lidded, but even with the darkness yawning before her she was not tired. The night was her element. Her posture was firm in a<span class="bbc_u">black fabric corset<span class="bbc_u"></span></span>(http://www.devilnight.co.uk/gothic/521-black-corset-high-low-layer-skirt-gothic-party-dress.html), sheet satin across the bust and ribbed tightness everywhere else. Layers upon layers of patterned black lace formed a skirt that only barely cleared the driver's seat, and left flashes of fishnet stockings and ribboned boots poised at a jaunty angle atop the accelerator.<br/><br/><table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/b/b5/MG_5879.jpg)</td><td>The passenger side seat could swivel, so Eleanore's company up front could join her watching the dark road for miles on end, or sit and stare at the quiet goth, or look back into all the more comfortable places she could be sitting. Just behind the front seats and the bus door, the luxury started. A leather couch and finely finished kitchenette to one side of the narrow single-file hall, and opposite, a dinette with cozy suede seating, plugs for the laptops and chargers for the phones, a big flat screen mounted in the corner for everyone save Eleanore to enjoy. That was fine. Eleanore had never been much of a television watcher. Popular culture made her roll her eyes.</td></tr><tr><td>(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e8/MG_5881.jpg)</td><td>Farther back, crowded into four compartments, were most of the sleeping arrangements. The thin, narrow mattresses could take some getting used to, and pillows were routinely hoarded to compensate. Heavy privacy curtains could draw or retreat along rails, opaque both to light and to sound, a small confidential space for each woman with its own climate control, earphone jack, and reading light. Sometimes the discomfort of being packed into a miniature bunk, lacking even the space to sit upright, was necessary just to get some alone time. Being on the road and playing every gig possible meant spending almost every hour of the day and night together. The band had to live as harmoniously as their instruments played.</td></tr><tr><td>(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/83/MG_5884.jpg)</td><td>Just beyond this, a necessary sight to reach the shower and facilities, was the big bed. The big queen-sized mattress and full sized pillows, taking up most of the back of the bus, suitable for two to be comfortably oblivious to the bus' slow turns and changes of speed.<br/><br/>This was Eleanore's bed.<br/><br/>It was her bed by agreement of fronting much of the money for this elaborate conveyance from midwestern music festival to third tier on the concert lineup to club gig. The sheets were imbued with her dark perfume, black wine, plum blossom, blood musk and sweet myrrh. It was elegant and decadent, just like the woman driving, with a wardrobe stocked with corsets and fishnet, double ruffle skirts, lace with skulls and roses, and a violin named Lamentia painted in the image of a woman's ribcage and pelvis on a field of black.</td></tr></tbody></table><br/>Eleanore's hand eased away from the wheel to the dizzying array of buttons, switches, dials, enough to pilot a plane. She depressed a back lit button, and her soft voice purred through the speakers, "Rest stop in twenty, girls. I'm going to stretch my legs." It was a velvety voice just perfect for gentle reminders and bedroom teasing, but much too intimate for the stage. On stage, she was quiet, menacing, seeming to make Lamentia sing of her personal pain. There was no pain. She had money to fall back on and shared her nights with beautiful and adventurous women. What wasn't to like?