Текст книги "Beat"
Автор книги: Vi Keeland
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
As if dinner with the lead singer of Easy Ryder didn’t attract enough attention, the full band all sitting around one large round table is the paparazzi’s dream come true. And the guys certainly don’t attempt to keep under the radar. Duff, the keyboard player, is in a heated exchange with Mick, the drummer, when Dylan and I approach the table. We’re a bit late, but then I had a lot of things to do today since I’ll be heading to Miami tomorrow with a bus full of men, rather than back home as expected.
“No fucking way. I had to listen to months of this guy’s snoring.” Duff jabs his thumb in Linc’s direction. “I am not listening to your sorry ass boning every night over my head.”
“Maybe if you could find a piece of ass who wanted to bone your little dick, you wouldn’t notice the sound coming from my bunk.”
“Accommodations dispute,” Dylan leans in and whispers to me as we take our seats. The next part he says louder. “I swear to God, if they aren’t fighting over which chair to sit in, it’s which bunk they get.”
“Fuck off, Ryder. If you didn’t take the only bedroom, you’d be in these fights too, asswipe.”
“That’s why I’m glad I’m the king.” Dylan stretches back in his chair. Duff, Linc and Mick hurl bread at his head. Dylan catches the second piece and takes a bite. “Just give the kid the bottom bunk. Duff can move to the top bunk and you can stay where you are.”
“I don’t want to room with the kid. What is he, like twenty-four? Dude, think of what we were like ten years ago going on our first tour.” Mick looks at me apologetically. “No offense, Lucky.” Then he continues with his rant to Dylan. “And that kid’s prettier than you were. I’ll never get any sleep with all the babes that are gonna be fuckstruck with that one.”
“Fuckstruck?”
“He’s gonna be a pussy machine.”
“Have some manners around my girl, asswipe.”
Listening to the way the guys describe the activity on the bus starts to make me think I was right for feeling unsure about things earlier. Dylan and I spent all afternoon together. His attentiveness and the simplicity of the day—shopping, walking around Atlanta incognito—had started to mollify the anxiousness I felt when Dylan first surprised me with my temporary job assignment. But now, apprehension is starting to creep up again.
“Why don’t you declare the bus a guest-free zone? That’s what my Dad always did.”
Every mouth silences and every head turns in my direction.
“What’s the point of being in a band if you don’t get laid?” Duff says, aghast at the notion.
“How about for the music?” a voice I recognize says from behind me.
It couldn’t be.
I turn.
Holy shit.
But how?
And Why?
Then the pieces of the puzzle all click into place and I’m able to see the whole picture. The kid. Voice issues.
I stare up at Flynn.
He stares back at me.
And I realize. I’m totally fuckstruck.
Chapter Thirteen
Flynn
Now this is going to be interesting.
The label told me they were setting me up with a voice coach. Even though I feel fine, the insurance company wouldn’t insure the tour unless I finished the mandated voice rest period my doctor had suggested on the physical he completed. He’d cleared me for In Like Flynn to open for Easy Ryder starting in two months, but filling in for Linc is much earlier than the doctor was comfortable signing off on. The coaching was how the label convinced my doctor and the insurance company I wasn’t a risk. I must be an idiot. It never once crossed my mind that they’d assign me Lucky.
Damn, she’s beautiful. It shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been reminded a lot of that lately with how often I find my thoughts wandering back to her.
“Only a dude that’s as pretty as you can say you do it for the music.” Duff snorts. “Damn. I’m glad I’m behind a drum set. I wouldn’t want to stand next to you.”
Dylan’s jaw tenses. He nods in my general direction. “Take a seat, Flynn. You remember my girlfriend, Lucky?”
“I do. Nice to see you.” I smile and tilt my head, curious about how we’re going to play this.
She looks up at me, squints, assessing, and then smiles. “Nice to see you, too.”
There are two open seats, one between Duff and Mick and one next to Lucky. I choose the latter. Who wouldn’t?
“So, Flynn, ya snore?” Linc asks.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“What’s your fucking style?” Mick says, as if he’s just asked the time.
“My what?”
“You know, your fucking style? Are you loud? A slammer? Reverse cowboy? Ménage?”
“Cut the shit, Mick,” Dylan snaps.
“What? I’m gonna find out soon enough anyway. It’s a small sleeping area.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve had a dry spell of late.”
“The way you look? You must have been hanging out in a seminary.”
“Nah. Just haven’t found anyone interesting who’s available.” Lucky and I exchange fleeting glances.
“Well, one night on stage with Easy Ryder and my guess is your single ass finds someone interesting enough to help you ride the post-show high.”
Throughout dinner, I watch the interactions between Dylan and Lucky. He’s into her, there’s no doubt about it. The unmistakable possessive gestures are there; a part of his body always seems to be touching hers. An arm loosely around the back of her chair, his hand on the table brushing up against hers, the way he leans into her when even the waiter comes around to fill water glasses. A lion with a soundless roar.
But after two hours, I’m still not sure what to make of how Lucky is with him. It’s nothing out of the ordinary that makes me think she may not return the same level of worship…it’s just that what I see is…ordinary.
After dinner, the maître d’ comes to the table to tell us a crowd has formed outside. He offers the back door, but the band manager had already suggested the guys sign autographs outside before they leave. We’re pulling out of Atlanta right after the last show, so tonight is a local photo op. Dylan reminds me I’m not part of the band yet, and security escorts Lucky and me to the back door. We slip outside into a dark SUV undetected.
Alone in the car, neither of us says anything for a minute. Then we both start speaking at the same time. “Did you—” We laugh.
“You had no idea either?” Lucky says.
“Nope.”
“Why does our hanging out last week feel wrong to admit now?”
I know the answer—it’s a simple one. “Because it felt right.”
Our eyes lock, and I feel it. The shit that stirs through the air when I’m near her. Damn. And fucking A if she doesn’t smell incredible too. The oversized SUV suddenly feels pretty small.
I’m actually grateful when security pulls the SUV around to the front of the restaurant and Dylan and Duff hop inside. I’m not sure how much longer I could sit next to her and not touch. I think about it the whole ride back to the hotel. And I wonder, what would she have done if I had touched?
I load my stuff onto the bus before we head to the final show in Atlanta. Unsure where I’m bunking, I toss my bag under the table and take a look around. To the right, a long desk, equipped with a large flat-screen TV, various game consoles and two laptops securely affixed, dominates the living area. The rest of the space is taken up by a leather couch, capable of holding the entire band, a wide matching recliner, two tables, and compact, but efficiently equipped, stainless steel appliances.
A door separates the living area from the sleeping quarters in the back of the bus. Pulled back curtains showcase bunks that line the walls on both sides, two on each side, a top and a bottom. There’s a shower to the right and a bathroom to the left. Another door in the rear leads to the only private bedroom in the bus. Dylan’s room. The one he’ll be sharing with Lucky.
My band has toured before. Admittedly, our bus looked nothing like this, but I know from experience that walls are thin and groupies have no qualms about who might hear. Hell, the sounds that came out of the back were often the topic of ball-busting the entire next day. I smile, thinking of Nolan’s knack for mimicking a screamer he’d heard the night before. Yet the thought of hearing Lucky leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The thought of anyone mimicking her downright makes me angry.
Eventually, the guys load onto the bus. Dylan and Lucky are the last to join, and the driver takes off for the arena as soon as everyone is situated. The only greeting I offer is a nod at the two of them. They disappear into the back of the bus.
“Welcome to our home.” Mick opens his arms wide. “If you don’t snore, you can take the bunk above me on the right-hand side.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you share?” Mick asks, plopping down on the recliner. He cracks a beer even though it’s only eleven in the morning.
“Share? Like one woman and crossing swords?”
“There’s no room for threesomes in this thing. Unless you use Dylan’s room, and I’m guessing that he’s on a sharing hiatus for a while.” He shrugs. “I meant if your hookup is interested in touring the band. Works both ways, of course.”
“I’m guessing you’ll get all his hookups coming to you, seeing as he can’t satisfy them anymore,” Duff taunts.
“Fuck off. You don’t share because you don’t want them comparing.” Mick grabs his crotch. “My kielbasa to your miniature hotdog.”
Lucky walks to the front of the bus, eyes Mick still holding himself, shakes her head and sits down at the far end of the couch.
“So. You in or you out?” Undaunted by Lucky’s appearance, Mick continues the conversation. I catch her eye before I respond.
“No, thanks. I’m not into sharing.”
Tonight is Linc’s last night of the tour. I’m looking forward to seeing the band and watching the interactions between the guys. It will give me some hint of what to expect when I join on stage two nights from now. So far, it’s an easy fit. Mick and Duff are the most vocal of the group. They enjoy ball-busting, and since I can pretty much let shit roll off my shoulders after years of putting up with Nolan, I don’t suppose we’ll run into any issues. The three of us spent a little time jamming together on the bus this morning, and I get the feeling that I passed their unspoken test.
Dylan, on the other hand, I’m not quite sure what to make of him. He’s standoffish toward me. There’s a chip on his shoulder, but I honestly don’t blame him—the guy has had a career most people in the music industry can only dream about. Even though he’s never said or done anything specific to confirm it, I get the feeling he looks at me like a younger model. He’s only thirty-five, but something tells me he sees aging as a threat, instead of seeing the benefit of experience. It doesn’t help that the band had a dip in sales with the release of their last album. A dip to a volume most musicians would be ecstatic to achieve, but Easy Ryder’s standards aren’t those of most musicians.
Lucky and I haven’t said much to each other either. We’ve exchanged a lot of quick glances and wordless smiles acknowledging some of Mick and Duff’’s comments, but when the backstage lounge finally empties and the rest of band is gone, we eye each other and both start laughing.
“This is weird,” she says hesitantly.
“Only if we make it weird.”
She smiles. “Then let’s not make it weird. Come on. Let’s go watch the show. It will probably be the last time you go unnoticed in a crowd.” And just like that, whatever we had in New York City is back again.
Lucky talks me into watching the show from the floor, rather than the VIP area. It’s a smaller venue—smaller by Easy Ryder standards, that is—and only the higher-priced tickets have seating. The roped-off section designated for VIPs is nearly filled with guys in grey suits, executives from the corporate sponsors. Lucky took one look, smiled a devilish smile, and tugged my hand toward the other direction.
So now we’re in the middle of a crowd, among the real fans who are dancing and screaming. They’re all riveted to the stage, the entire place alive as Easy Ryder sings one of their biggest hits, “Burn.” A pyrotechnic show plays behind and between the members of the band, shooting flames up from the floor. Yet I find myself forgetting the show, distracted by the woman standing next to me. Lucky is dancing and enjoying the music, letting the vibe take her to her happy place. I watch as she closes her eyes and her body moves to the sound with a sensuality that has me mesmerized. Sensing me watching her, her eyes flutter open and she smiles sweetly when she catches me staring. I force my gaze back to the band I should be watching.
When Dylan hits the chorus, the whole arena sways in unison and sings along. Bodies push in, and the drunken woman behind Lucky stumbles, shoving her forward. I grab her before she falls and the woman apologizes with a slur. A few minutes later, the band changes things up and Linc strums the first chord of “Just Once More”—the song I’ll be singing after tonight. Knowing I’ll be up there in two days, Lucky grabs my arm and looks up at me excitedly. Unlike Dylan, who prowls the stage, working the crowd as he sings, Linc is much more subdued when he performs. It’s an incredible song, with a kick-ass falsetto that people love to sing, but Linc’s performance mellows the crowd from the near hysteria Dylan had built. It’s not a bad thing, just different. And also very different than my style. I hope the crowd likes my delivery as much as Linc’s.
Lucky can barely contain her excitement when the song finishes. “That’s going to be you up there.”
I smile. “I hope I can do it justice.”
“‘Do it justice’? I’ve heard you sing live. You’re going to kick its ass!”
The drunken woman crashes into Lucky again. I stop her from stumbling too far a second time; this time the drunk woman spills a little beer on Lucky’s shoes as she leans forward to slur another apology. Lucky is gracious and waves her off politely. Rather than waiting for a third time, I step behind Lucky and stand between her and drunk girl.
We stay that way for the next few songs, her dancing in front of me, both of us enjoying the show and the electricity of the crowd around us. The few times her ass brushes against me, I’m pretty sure it’s innocent, but my thoughts are anything but.
When one of Easy Ryder’s more mainstream pop-style songs comes on, Lucky turns to face me and we dance together. The entire crowd is moving and grooving and we both fully let go, allowing ourselves to become part of the audience, rather than part of the band. Even though we have limited room, I spin her around a few times and we both laugh. On the last twirl in, she folds into my arms and, with my arm around her waist, my hand resting at the top of her low riding jeans, I pull her against me and we begin to move. Really move. My front against her ass, my hands holding her pressed to me tightly, our hips moving in synch, grinding to the rhythm. It feels wrong, but yet oh-so-fucking-right.
When the song ends, moving to something heavier, more hardcore rock, our dancing comes to a natural stop, but she doesn’t move away from me. And I don’t loosen the grip my hands have on her waist.
An hour later, the show’s almost over and we’re backstage in the lounge. We laugh and talk and even share a beer—literally share—both of us drinking out of the same bottle. Then the band comes back. They’re pumped from the show, the electricity flowing with them as they bring the lounge to life. Dylan grabs a beer and pulls Lucky to his side. We exchange glances a few times. But she and I are back to being strangers.
I move to the other side of the room and get some much-needed time with Linc. He’s more subdued than the other guys in the band, less of a ball buster and full of passion about the music. I try to prevent my eyes from wandering in Lucky’s direction, but when Dylan’s mouth goes to her neck, our gazes lock. What the fuck am I doing?
Chapter Fourteen
Lucky
I wake to the same dull vibration I fell asleep to last night, only now the constant tremor of the bus is shaking me awake rather than lulling me to dreamland. The large picture window above the bed is masked by a blackout shade that keeps the room perpetually dark. I have no idea if it’s six in the morning or two in the afternoon.
I slip from the bed, careful not to wake Dylan, and make a stop in the bathroom. The golden glow of early morning sunshine filtering through the opaque window tells me my internal alarm clock is still ticking. My reflection catches the effect of the cool morning air under my t-shirt as my perky nipples salute a new day. I wash up, pile my unruly hair on top of my head, and brush my teeth before going in search of a coffee pot.
The bathroom is next to the band’s bunk area, and as I quietly pass through, I wonder which bed Flynn is sleeping in. And if he’s in there alone. Yesterday afternoon we danced and acted like two teenagers. Two teenagers who were very into each other. I start to blush, thinking of the way his body felt behind mine. The way his fingers dug into my hips, guiding my body to move the way he wanted it to. It made me wonder…
Lost in thought, I startle when I pass through the door to the living area of the bus. Flynn’s already there. He’s standing in front of a coffee pot, arms spread wide, gripping the counter in front of him, head hanging down, seemingly in deep thought. And. He’s shirtless. Stunningly shirtless.
I’m not sure if he hears my small gasp or senses my presence, but his head turns and our eyes meet. His blue eyes sparkle and the corner of his mouth tilts up. Lord he even looks like that in the morning.
“Good morning,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my chest, then flicks back to my eyes with a goofy half grin. “Certainly is.”
He watches every step I take toward him. I can see why women would find him irresistible. Two words and a look and he makes me feel desired. Before I’ve even had morning coffee, no less. Add in a guitar and a voice like an angel, and the line will be wrapping around the bus after his first show.
He reaches into the cabinet above his head and pulls out two mugs. I guess I’m not the only one finding him irresistible this morning. My stomach turns a bit at the thought. “Sleep good?” I say, trying my best to sound light.
“Like a baby. You?”
“I did, actually. It’s been a long time since I was on a tour bus.”
“You always up this early?”
“Yep. Pretty much every day. Six a.m., whether I go to bed at eight p.m. or four in the morning. You?”
He grins before turning his attention to the coffee pot, which beeps as it finishes brewing. “Same.”
He fills two mugs. “Cream and sugar?”
Oh. So he’s not taking coffee for an overnight guest. I perk up at the thought of us having morning coffee together and take a seat at the table. “Yes, please.”
He grins again.
“What?”
He shrugs. “I take it the same way.” He brings a coffee mug to the table and waits for me to sip. “Good?”
It’s exactly the way I like it. “Perfect.”
He turns back to tidy up. Living on a tour bus teaches you to put things away faster than the tire hits the next bump. I’m treated to the sight of his naked back as he cleans up. It’s strong, lean but muscular, and I’m delighted by the way the muscles ripple when he reaches to put the milk away. I totally shouldn’t be getting so turned on watching the man open a damn refrigerator door and close it. I just walked out of the bedroom I’m sharing with my boyfriend, and he’s sleeping less than thirty feet away.
Flynn turns around and catches my stare. Another boyish grin. Damn him. Does he have to be so adorable? With that body? I force my eyes to my coffee and sip again.
“What do you normally do at six a.m.?” he asks. “Do you exercise or something?”
“Exercise? Me? Have you seen the size of my ass?”
“I have. And that reminds me.” He turns back, opening the cabinet above his head, and takes out a few Hershey’s Special Dark bars. “Saw these at the store before we boarded the bus last night, figured I’d grab them in case you weren’t well stocked.” He winks. “Gotta keep that ass in its fine shape.”
Lord help me. The man may be more sinfully sweet than my chocolate bars. “I actually didn’t have any. Thank you.” Flustered, because he’s still watching me, I change the subject quickly. “I write.”
He slides in on the opposite side of the table from me. “What do you write?”
I feel silly for having said anything. No one knows I write poetry. Not even Dylan. “Poetry mostly.”
“Huh. Poetry.”
“What?”
“I write music in the morning.” He dips his chin toward the notebook sitting on the table. “It’s the same thing. At least, if it’s good it is. A good song is just poetry set to music.”
“Are you writing a song now?”
He nods. “I’m still working on the lyrics. Right now it’s just random thoughts and words that need to be sewn together. But I have the concept and, I think, the title. I need to hear the music in my head before I can write the actual lyrics. Once I have the rhythm set, the words come easier.”
“What’s the title?”
“‘Blur.’”
“Hmmm…” I sip my coffee. “Intriguing. What’s it about?”
“It’s about how two very different things can be closely connected. Sometimes polar opposites, yet the line that separates them is very fine. And as you get closer to the line, things become a blur. The blur is almost a state of euphoria between the two sides, but you can’t stay in the blur forever. Something pushes you from one side to the other, and then there’s no coming back.”
“Like love and hate?”
“Exactly like love and hate.” Flynn reaches for his notebook and flips a few pages, then points to sets of words. The first set is love and hate. He smiles at me, then covers the rest of the page with his hand. “I was thinking of writing it like a bunch of sonnets. Fourteen lines for each pair of connected words…each verse a sonnet on its own. Okay, smarty pants, what else you got?”
“Hmmm…give me a minute, I don’t have enough caffeine in me yet.” We sit quietly for a while, then I say, “Pleasure and pain.” The blush creeps up my cheeks before I even get the words out.
“Very good.” He opens his notebook and points to the pair of words. “That pair is definitely all about the blur zone. The state of euphoria from pleasure as it dips in the range of pain, or pain as it dips into pleasure, is complete bliss. But push too far, leave the blur zone on the other side of the line, and there’s no coming back. It’s pain without any pleasure. Stay too far from the line on the pleasure side and you miss euphoria.”
I wiggle in my seat, a bit of a swell going on between my legs as I listen to him. It makes me wonder what the blur zone would be like with him. I attempt to steer the conversation to a more clinical place. “It’s the endorphins.”
“It’s about the feeling, not the chemistry. Plus, ‘Blur’ is a much better title than ‘Endorphins.’”
I laugh. “Genius and crazy.”
“I didn’t have that one. But you’re right. The blur between genius and crazy must be an awesome place to be. Imagine the incredible high your mind gets as the line between the two comes closer. Too bad people don’t get to stay there forever and genius sometimes turns into crazy passing through the blur.”
“Why can’t we stay in the blur?”
“I don’t know. But once you cross that line, there’s no coming back.”
We spend the next three hours spiraling through conversation. He hums some music that’s flowing through his head for the song’s rhythm. I tell him about my life on a tour bus with my dad. He shares stories about his niece, Laney. We’re so engrossed in our own little world, I almost forget there are four other people on the bus. Until Dylan opens the door to the back. He looks back and forth between the two of us for a moment and then comes to plant a kiss on my mouth, his head leaning down so it’s basically over the table, between Flynn and me.
“Morning,” he says. Then looks at the two of us again. “How long you two been out here?”
Flynn responds, “Not long.” He lifts his chin toward the other side of the room. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
Dylan turns around, opens the refrigerator and grumbles, “Don’t drink coffee.”
A minute or two later, Flynn excuses himself to take a shower. Dylan takes Flynn’s seat and I find myself looking across the table at my handsome boyfriend, wishing he were someone else.
We arrive in Miami at two in the afternoon. Our home for the next four days. Dylan has a busy schedule of radio station stops and sponsor meet-and-greets, so we agree to connect at the venue later tonight. The band has never played the American Airlines Arena and wants to get an idea of the setup before checking into the hotel we’ll be at for the next few days. Flynn and I are going to the arena early so we can work on his voice training.
The cavernous host to the Miami Heat is intimidating to say the least. With its modern white-and-glass façade and inviting views of Biscayne Bay, the arena reminds me how different Dylan’s tours are than my dad’s were. Dad’s stops were more like the bars across the street, waiting to take in the after-crowd from the main show.
“Wow. It’s beautiful,” I say after the arena manager lets us in. Easy Ryder’s tour manager called ahead and made arrangements for the two of us to spend some time here today. There are no performances tonight, so the tremendous complex is almost eerily quiet.
“It is,” the manager says and overtly licks her glossy lips. She’s looking at Flynn like he’s a mouthwatering steak and she’s a pit bull that hasn’t been fed in days. Seriously? She doesn’t even know my relationship with him, yet she completely disregards me. “What can I do for you?” She tilts her head, addressing Flynn, offering him much more than a tour of the arena.
“We’re just going to take a look around and then head to the stage, if that’s all right with you.”
“Anything you want.” She slips her card into the front pocket of his jeans. Into the front pocket of his jeans. Really? “My cell is on the back. Call me if you need anything.”
Flynn nods.
I wait until she’s out of earshot. Barely. “Could she be any more obvious?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Beckham. That woman practically threw herself at you.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes. That. You make it sound so commonplace.”
Flynn shrugs.
“Oh. My. God. Seriously?”
“What?”
“That’s how women react around you?”
“Sometimes.” He looks down, almost a little embarrassed about it.
“It’s like having free room service at your fingertips.”
Flynn’s brows draw together.
“You know. You can whip out your phone when the mood strikes and pick whatever you want from the menu.”
Holding out his hand to me, a charismatic smile adorning his ridiculously handsome face, he shrugs. “Problem is, I’m in the mood for something that’s not on the menu.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, but it’s really to cover the flutter in my belly. Then, hand in hand, together we tour the stadium.
An hour later Flynn is up on stage and I’m sitting in the first row. “Why do I need to be up here while you’re down there?”
“So I can see you in action.”
“You wanna see me in action?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
I smile. “It’s like when you run on a treadmill, you don’t run naturally…your feet have to fit the limited space that you have to run, so it changes your stride. When I watched you in the studio, it was different than watching you on stage. Performing in a real live setting will allow your natural habits to show through better.”
“Do you have any requests?” he teases.
“Just sing something that comes easily. What’s the most popular song you sang when you were on tour with In Like Flynn?”
“‘Back on Top.’”
“Okay, sing that.”
The song is one of his band’s slower ones, but it’s actually a perfect display of everything I need to see—range, reach, falsetto, reverb, movement. His voice is expressive, deep and rich at some points, with a flawless transition into the falsetto that makes women go crazy. He sings about being broken, climbing back to the top after falling hard. His delivery is so convincing, I find myself mesmerized by the story he’s telling, really listening to the lyrics when I should be watching him with a clinician’s eye.
As the song comes to a close, I softly sing along to the final chorus. “Wow. That was…incredible. You showed your feelings rather than singing about them. I felt everything you gave.”
“Thank you,” he says, with a modest smile this time. It’s absolutely endearing that he still hasn’t gotten used to praise.
“You’re going to steal the show.” The words leave my mouth before I think about them. Before I think who it is he’d be stealing the show from.
“Not sure that would go over well.”
I’m positive it wouldn’t. In fact, after watching his performance, it makes me a bit nervous. Linc is a good singer, his voice complements Dylan’s well. But that’s what it does, it complements. It doesn’t compete with. Flynn’s voice…it might just give Dylan a run for his money on stage.
“Come up here and sing one with me,” Flynn says, surprising me.
I shake my head.
“Come on. It’s just us. No one will see. We’ll take off our shoes and everything.”
I force a smile. “Thanks. But it will take a lot more than that to get my ass on that stage.”
“I’m willing to take off more than my shoes if it helps.”
“You’re so dedicated to the cause.”
“Hey. I’m all in for you, baby.” He winks.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I really do. But…”
Flynn walks to the end of the stage and sits on the edge, his long, lanky legs hang almost to the floor. “Come here.”
I hold his stare for a moment before rising from my front-row seat and walking to him. He reaches out to offer me his hand. I take it without hesitation and he weaves our fingers together.
“This stage is just higher off the ground. It’s no different than the one you sang on at Lucky’s.”
“It’s step six. I’m only up to step five.”
Flynn’s face expresses I’ve lost him…understandably.
“My therapist and I made a twelve-step-ish program to try and get me back on stage. It’s not actually twelve steps…but you get the idea. One foot in front of the other on the road to recovery. Step four was singing in front of three people at Lucky’s.”
“There were more than three people there.”
“I know.” I smile
“So you kicked step four’s ass. Just take a flying leap over step five and land on step six.”
“I’m moving along. I’m just doing it at my own pace.”
