Текст книги "Beat"
Автор книги: Vi Keeland
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Chapter Two
Flynn
The sun blares in through the small gap of the drawn curtains and lands directly on my face. I shield my eyes and try to fall back asleep, until I feel tiny hands trace the ink on my forearm. When her little finger follows the path of ink up to my shoulder, I surprise Laney by grabbing her and lifting her over my head. She squeals at the initial shock, but it quickly turns to a giggle. The sound warms me, even though my head is already beginning to throb.
“Uncle Sinn, you scared me!”
I growl, in my best monster voice, “Well, you shouldn’t wake a sleeping lion.”
“You’re not a lion, Uncle Sinn. Lions are scary!”
“And you don’t think I’m scary?” I lower my four-year-old niece from above my head and bring her forehead to my lips for a kiss.
“You can’t be scary, you have funny pictures all over your arms and back.” From the mouths of babes. Tell that to a tatted-up biker dude.
“Will you seep in my room with me tonight?”
“Maybe. If Mom says it’s okay.”
“Will you sing me that song when we go to bed again?”
“Sure.” I don’t have to ask which song. She made me sing it four hundred times the last time I visited.
“How come only one tattoo is colored, Uncle Sinn?” She pokes the red tattoo on my forearm—it’s the only ink that isn’t black or a shade of grey.
I jump up from the bed unexpectedly with her in my arms. She squeals again. “You’re chock-full of questions this morning, aren’t you?”
She nods fast, bursting with excitement, as if shooting off an arsenal of questions early in the morning was a good thing.
“Come on, let’s go find your mother.” I lift her over my head and onto my shoulders. Her tiny hands wrap around my chin.
“You’re up early.” My sister, Becca, is at the kitchen table. I walk to the coffee pot and pour before greeting her. Laney hasn’t said a word; she’s waiting for me to play the “where’s Laney?” game.
“I thought I heard Laney. Have you seen her?” I pivot left, then right, scanning the room.
My sister’s eyes rise to the passenger on my shoulders and she smiles. I picture Laney’s crooked-toothed smile gleaming back at her from above my head. “Nope. Haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s hiding under the bed.”
“That’s too bad. I was going to take her out for waffles and ice cream for breakfast. With whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream.” I grin, knowing my niece’s weakness.
“Uncle Sinn! I’m right here!” Laney screeches and tugs my chin up to look at her.
“Oh. There you are.”
My sister chuckles at the routine. “You know, I’m tempted to tell the speech therapist not to work on her Fs…because her name for you is just too perfect.”
I heave Laney from my shoulders and steady her on her feet. “Why don’t you go get ready for breakfast?”
“I wanna wear my Frozen pajamas to breakfast!” She jumps up and down.
I say okay, just as my sister tells her no. I love my sister dearly, but we’ve always been opposites.
“She can’t go to breakfast in her pajamas,” Becca scolds.
I shrug. “Why not? She’s four, not forty.”
“Because people don’t go out in their pajamas.”
“Your people don’t go out in their pajamas. Mine are perfectly fine with it.”
“Your people are nuts.”
“My people are fun.”
“Because they wear pajamas to breakfast?”
“No. Because they don’t care about what other people think of them wearing pajamas to breakfast. Lighten up, Bec. You sound like Mom.”
Her eyes widen to saucers. She huffs, but I already know she’s gonna cave. “Fine. You can wear your Frozen pajamas. But no slippers. Put on shoes and socks.”
“So how long are you in town for?”
“If everything goes as planned, seven weeks. Then I’m on the road for six months.”
“Six months? That’s a really long time, Flynn. Is the whole thing by bus?”
“Most of it. But Easy Ryder has some dates in Europe. I’m not sure if we’re playing those or the current opening act, Resin, is. That’s one of the things my agent is still working out before we finalize the deal to join the tour.” The original Wylde Ryde tour was supposed to last six months. But the band’s sales have dipped a bit, so they added almost six more months to try to regain momentum before the release of their next album. And the current opening act couldn’t join the extended dates.
“Agent.” She smiles. “Listen to you, big shot. You’re not going to get too famous for us, are you?”
“Never. I’ll always come back for my girl.” I lean over in my seat and kiss Laney on her very full check. She has a dollop of whipped cream on her nose and ice cream dripping down her chin. But she’s smiling from ear to ear. I’m guessing my sister’s idea of a fun breakfast is adding a banana to whole grain oatmeal.
The attentive waitress swings by our table again. “Can I get you anything else?” Her smile is directed at me. I’m not full of myself—well, maybe I am a bit—but I can tell she’s interested in something more than breakfast. She’s cute, although a little on the young side.
“We’re good. But thanks,” Becca responds just as I open my mouth to speak. I know my sister—her over-the-top smile oozes a bit too much sweetness to be real. She barely waits until the waitress is out of earshot. “Jesus, Flynn. Is that the norm for you these days? That waitress was practically drooling.”
“Can’t blame her. I am one of America’s most eligible bachelors, you know.” I sigh loudly, clasp my hands behind my head, and tip my chair back.
Six months ago I was on a reality TV program, where I was the bachelor. I fell hard for Kate, one of the contestants, but my feelings weren’t returned. Last I spoke to her, she had just found out she was having a baby girl with her new husband, Cooper.
A few weeks after the show ended, a magazine came out with their annual list of America’s most eligible bachelors, and my name was somehow on it. I thought it was pretty comical that anyone would describe me as an eligible bachelor, seeing as I was unemployed at the time. But that doesn’t stop me from gloating about it to my sister and my buddies.
My sister rolls her eyes. “You were an honorable mention on the last page of the article. The writer probably just felt bad for you because you did that stupid show and didn’t get the girl in the end.”
“You just can’t see the hotness of your own brother,” I tease. “Laney, who is the handsomest man in the world?”
She immediately points to me, her sticky lips smiling brightly, barely containing her mouth full of food.
“See.”
“Is that what you do, you shovel their mouths full of sweets to get them to fall in love with you?”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Gross, Flynn. Just gross.”
The lead singer of Easy Ryder is a bit of a douche. He made me wait at a bar for hours the other night before canceling, then today he’s more than an hour late. I get it, shit happens. But walk in the room and at least pretend you give a crap by expressing an insincere apology. Instead, the minute he sits down at the conference table with me, Nolan and nine suits from Pulse Records, Dylan Ryder starts bitching.
“I asked for Throat Coat tea. That’s not what this is,” Dylan berates the assistant who just delivered his drink without ever looking up at her.
“It is Throat Coat tea, I made it myself,” she says in a timid voice.
“Then your water tastes like shit. Use Voss.”
“I don’t think we have Voss.”
“Well, then go to a store,” he barks and lifts the cup over his head for her to take it away.
The assistant’s face flushes. “Okay.”
“So.” He turns his attention to me and dives right in. “I wanna be clear about one thing before we bring your band on board.”
“All right.”
“This is my show. The name on the tour is Easy Ryder, not Flynn fucking Beckham or In Like Flynn, or whatever it is you call yourselves. I like your sound or you wouldn’t be here. But my tour is my tour. We aren’t coheadlining, you aren’t playing encores and cutting into my show, and you certainly aren’t selling your crap in my arenas.” He stops and glares at me. “You good with that?”
Total douchebag. “Got it.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it. Pussy is going to love your pretty face. Will make you feel like you’re more important than you are. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Like you? “No problem.”
Again, he glares at me. My short, stoic answers leave him questioning if I’m mocking him or responding with the respect a petty soldier shows a commanding officer. Eventually, he nods and turns to his manager. “Sign ‘em. You leave in less than two months.”
And just like that, In Like Flynn is going on tour.
Chapter Three
Lucky
My father swears I was tapping a rhythmic beat in my mother’s belly before I even took my first breath. Honestly, I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. It’s always revolved around music. My father was a drummer in two different bands for more than twenty years. My mother—well, singing is still her first love. Music. It’s in the blood that pumps through my veins, keeps me alive as much as my own heartbeat.
Not being able to get up on stage and do what I love is a curse, but in a weird way, it was also a blessing for a time. Staying behind the scenes has taught me so much about music. There’s certainly something to be said about the old truism Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.
“Thank you, Lucky. I swear, I’ve learned more in the last week than I have in the last five years.”
“You’re sweet, Chelsea. But you’re the one doing all the work. I’m only here to guide you to be the best you can.”
“Same days next week?” she asks.
“I look forward to it. Try to rest your voice over the weekend. You worked hard this week.”
I pack up after my last session of the day and look around at the sound studio. When Dylan first mentioned his record label was looking for a full-time voice coach, I was leery for so many reasons. Since going back to school and getting my degree, I’d trained only a select few people on a very part-time basis. Lucky’s was my home, my comfort zone, but I hated the damn place almost as much as I loved it. Not to mention that the thought of having to demonstrate vocal techniques for more than one or two people was enough to make my palms break out into a sweat. Yet I knew it was time for a change. I’d been standing in place long enough—so I took the job. Step three, Dad. You see that? I’m making progress. If the first week has been any indication of things to come, I’m going to be very happy here.
With my last coaching of the week done, where else would I go to celebrate, but Lucky’s?
The bar is crowded, even for a Friday night. It feels odd to stand on the patron side of the bar when I walk in.
Avery spots me immediately. “Hey, stranger! What the heck are you doing on that side of the bar? Come help me out. I’m drowning back here.”
I smile. Oddly, I’m glad she needs me. I throw on an apron and start taking orders and mixing drinks. Avery and I catch up as we work.
“What happened to the new girl you hired?”
“Fired.”
“What? Already?”
“Her customer service skills were a little too friendly.”
“She was giving away too many buybacks?”
“Caught her giving a blow job in the bathroom while she was supposed to be waiting tables.”
“Maybe he ordered a Screaming Orgasm.” I grin, remembering Beautiful Man.
Together we clear the bar orders in less than half an hour, and I tell her about my first week at Pulse Records.
“That reminds me,” she says. “The hot guy who was lusting after you last week came back in.”
“He did?” My interest perks up. I’ve found my thoughts wandering to Flynn on more than one occasion. There was just something about him, aside from the obvious—that he was ridiculously good-looking.
“Yep. Twice.”
“Did he come in to sing?”
Avery shakes her head and smiles. “Came in looking for you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him the first time that you weren’t here. The second time, I told him to try back tonight. That maybe you would stop in.”
My eyes bulge. “What? Why did you do that? You know I’m meeting Dylan here.”
“So?” She shrugs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Might do Sleazy Ryder some good to see other men interested in you.”
“You just like to screw with him.”
“That’s just a bonus.”
“Be nice.” I slide two wine glasses out of the rack above my head. “Or I’ll tell Dylan that you had his poster on your bedroom wall when we were teens, too.”
Avery stops. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh I would. I might even embellish the truth a little and tell him you still have a big ole crush on him. You’re really just jealous I was the one working the second time he visited Lucky’s a year ago. And that’s why you give him an attitude.”
My best friend flips me the bird with a smile and returns to the business of waiting on customers.
Easy Ryder is on a short tour break. They’ve been on the road for four months already, and still have almost eight more months ahead of them now that they’ve extended their tour. Dating a rockstar is counted in dog years—Dylan and I have been together for nearly a year, but that only equates to a few months in the real world.
Word spread quickly that Dylan and his entourage were at Lucky’s tonight. Avery had to lock the door fifteen minutes after their arrival, and now the line waiting to get in extends around the corner.
“You’ve been behind the bar all night,” Dylan says. “Come sit with me.”
“I can’t. Look at this place.” I take a quick glimpse around. The last hour that I’ve been pouring drinks hasn’t made a dent in the three rows of people waiting to be served.
“You don’t work here anymore.”
“No. But Avery does. What am I supposed to do, let her drown? Plus, I’m still half owner.”
Dylan sips his beer. “She should have hired someone.”
“She did. It didn’t work out.”
“Excuse me. Mr. Ryder?” We’re interrupted by yet another duo of girls saddling up to Dylan. Both blond, both wearing bustiers, with skintight jeans and leather boots reaching to the knee. “Can we take your picture?”
Dylan looks to me and then to the two girls.
“Can I see some ID, ladies?” I lean closer to the bar and extend my hand palm up.
“We showed it at the door.”
Jase is working the door tonight. His idea of proper identification when a young, hot girl wants inside is to measure their bra cup size. Anything better than a C is automatically of age. My eyes drop to their well-endowed chests. “Still going to need to see ID to stay inside.”
The eye contact between the two girls as they stall, fishing for their fake IDs, confirms my suspicion. Definitely underage. I’d guess nineteen at best. Hesitantly, they pass me their licenses. The picture on one resembles the first girl, but her age is certainly not thirty-two. The second girl doesn’t come close to being the woman in the picture I’m looking at.
“Sorry, ladies. You’re going to need to leave.”
The two girls pout but are smart enough not to argue. They’re lucky I’m even offering the licenses back to them. With a scowl at me, they snatch the IDs from my hand and return their attention to Dylan. “Can we please”—they coo in unison—”take a quick picture before we go?”
Dylan looks to me and I lift my hand as if to say, by all means. The two snuggle against him and extend their arms for a barrage of pictures—all three smiling.
I tend to a few customers, then walk around the bar to greet Dylan properly for the first time.
He curls his arms around my waist and pulls me close to him, rubbing his nose to mine. “I like you jealous.”
“I wasn’t jealous.” Maybe just a little.
“Mmm mmm.” He kisses me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” I rest my head to his shoulder and sag into him as he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed his touch—until I feel it again.
“I thought now that you had a normal job I would have more nights with you to myself. Why don’t we get out of here?” His hand slips into the back of my jeans.
“I can’t. Avery needs me.”
“I need you.” His lips brush against my neck. “Need to be inside you.”
I groan. “That will give me incentive to work faster.”
Dylan shifts me so our bodies are lined up and draws me even closer. “Feel what you do to me?” Evidence of his arousal digs into my stomach. “The longer you keep us here, the more difficult it will be for you to walk tomorrow.”
After a quick peck on the lips that Dylan tries to turn into more, I hurry back behind the bar, before I don’t. Sometimes I still can’t believe how things turned out. I’m dating the man whose poster spent years on my bedroom wall, the rockstar who helped put Lucky’s on the map. The sign behind the bar catches my eye, and I’m suddenly feeling nostalgic about so many things.
Lucky—
Twelve years earlier,
age thirteen
“Keep your eyes shut, Luciana.”
Uh oh. He’s using Luciana. That usually means I’m in trouble. I was named after my grandfather, Luciano Valentine. My parents thought changing the o to an a would make it a more acceptable feminine name. They’d planned to call me Luciana Alessandra Valentine, until I was born. Apparently, my auburn hair and fair skin didn’t match the name, so Lucky I became.
“Where are we going?” Dad insisted I keep my eyes closed since we climbed the stairs from the subway. That had to be a whole block ago.
“We’re almost there. No peeking.” A door creaks and he guides me inside. I open my lids just enough for a quick peep, but wherever he’s taking me is darker inside than outside, and the sun is already long gone.
Another couple of steps, the floor squeaks beneath us, and then I hear a light switch flip on.
“Okay. You can open up.”
I open my eyes and look around. The big room is empty, but I know where I am. I should have guessed from the smell. He’s snuck me into the back room at plenty of places like this, since the day I could walk. “A bar? You brought me to a bar?”
He smiles. “It’s not just any bar.” Dad’s eyes meet mine. “It’s ours.”
“What do you mean, it’s ours?”
“I mean, no more road. I know you like it here. So we’re going to stay.”
“Really?” The teenage I-don’t-give-a-crap attitude I wear most of the time slips off, the excitement of a little kid gleaming through in its place. Of all the places we’ve lived, I love New York the most. The trains, the sidewalks packed with people, even the blare of the cabbies’ horns sounds like urban music to my ears. And I have a best friend here. OhmyGod. I can’t wait to tell Avery.
“Yep. I’m going to turn it into a karaoke bar.” Dad lifts me up onto the dusty bar and points to a corner. The dimly lit room is mostly empty, with some lingering garbage strewn over the floor, but I can see the vision through Dad’s excited eyes. “We’re going to build a stage over there. And over here”—he waves his hand toward the other side—”we’ll put little round tables for people to watch the singers.”
“Can I sing on stage?”
My dad chuckles. “Once we’re open, it will be over twenty-one only, squirt.”
The enthusiasm I felt fades a bit. My life has been filled with places I’m not really supposed to be. Bars, clubs, festivals. I’m always stuck hiding backstage. I’ve heard some of the best bands play, but seen only a few perform.
Dad lifts my chin. “You will be on that stage when you’re ready. If it’s before you’re twenty-one, we’ll shut the bar down and have a private party. Think your old man will be good enough on drums to back you?”
“Do you think Mom will come?”
His face wilts a bit. “I don’t know, Lucky. She’s on the road a lot.”
“Can I ask her?”
“Of course.”
“So what’s the name of this place?”
“I was thinking of naming it after my favorite woman.”
“Iris sounds nice. I’m sure Mom will love it.”
“Who said anything about Iris? This place is ours. I’m going to call it Lucky’s.”
Unlike most bars in New York City, Lucky’s has been blessed with a crowd since the first night we opened. We get an eclectic mix of tourists who’ve read about the occasional surprise musical guest that stops in, and the local crowd that appreciates friendly service with live music. On nights like tonight, when a celebrity is in the bar, word spreads quickly.
“Hey, Avery,” Dylan calls. His posse seems to have grown from ten to thirty over the last hour; they’re taking up one entire end of the bar. Dylan has his phone up to his ear and he’s gesturing Avery over, even though her hands are elbow-deep in the double sink.
“Sure. Don’t get up,” she mutters so I can hear her as she passes.
“The guy you have working the door won’t let someone in who’s coming to meet me.”
“That’s because we’re at capacity. Someone needs to leave in order to let someone in.”
“It’s one person.”
“It’s a five-thousand-dollar fine, not to mention a fire hazard.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “So kick someone out.”
“I’m not going to kick out people. Tell someone from your entourage to leave.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dylan’s voice rises, so I step in.
“What’s wrong?”
“Rockstar here wants me to kick a customer out so he can bring another member of his tribe in.”
“You know what, don’t do me any favors.” Dylan looks around and calls to a guy I’ve seen before. I think he’s part of the road crew. “You.” He points. “Go wait outside.”
The man points to himself.
Dylan huffs, annoyed that he has to explain. “The place is at capacity. I’m meeting someone here and they won’t let him in until someone leaves. Can you go outside so he can get in?”
“Sure.” The guy looks put off, but finishes his beer and heads to the door.
Avery disappears to serve customers. “Who else are you meeting? It looks like you have your usual crew all here.”
“The singer from the new band we signed to open the tour.”
