Текст книги "Beat"
Автор книги: Vi Keeland
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“How long have you been working on the list?”
When I say it aloud, it sounds even more ridiculous. “Two years.”
Flynn smiles. “Two years? Moving at your own pace? What are you, a turtle?”
I laugh. “It sounds worse than it is.”
“I’m sure it does,” he says, not believing a word of it. “Come on. Let’s do it. I’ll carry you up here. You won’t even have to walk the steps.”
“Tomorrow,” I blurt out, nervous that he might hop down from the stage and actually carry me up there.
Flynn squints. “Tomorrow, huh?”
I nod my head.
“All right. But I’m holding you to it.”
We work for two more hours at the arena. I notice that he isn’t arching the soft palate as much as he should, which is limiting his throat space and causing him to strain a bit when he moves into his falsetto. A few other minor posture corrections could also help reduce the tension on his cords and minimize the chances of reinjuring his voice. He’s only singing lead on two songs, but the two songs are challenging for any voice to perform without strain, no less one coming off an injury.
We make plans to return early tomorrow to practice the techniques I suggested so he’ll have a few hours of rest before his debut show tomorrow night. As seems to have become a running theme with us, as soon as the band arrives at the arena, Flynn and I slip back into being distant friends. At this point, it’s easier to ignore each other than it is to hide our obvious attraction. But it makes me wonder how long we can continue to ignore the obvious.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucky—
Eight years earlier,
age seventeen
“Are you nervous?” Avery is lying belly-down, diagonally across my bed, her legs kicking as she talks.
“Not really.” I shrug.
“How many people will be in the audience?”
“I’m not sure. A lot. My mom doesn’t play small places.” I’ve never been to Town Hall, but I know it holds well over a thousand people. Mom thought it would be a good venue for my debut as her opening act. Opening act. Me. In three hours, I’m going to be on stage in front of a shitload of people living my dream. I still can’t believe my dad is letting me go on tour with Mom. When I mentioned it to him more than a year ago, he was initially dead set against it. He wanted me to go to college, have something solid to fall back on, before trying my hand at a career that isn’t an easy one. But somehow Mom and I changed his mind. Now, two weeks after my high school graduation, and one week from my eighteenth birthday, I’m getting ready for my first night as one of two opening acts for Iris Nicks.
Avery rolls onto her back and stretches the gum in her mouth out between her lips and extended fingers. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if some hot guys had a picture of you in their room someday?” She motions to my wall of posters, at the center of which is none other than Dylan Ryder.
The sexiest rockstar in the world. I met him once—well, I was in the same room as him and he brushed by me on his way off the stage. But it counts.
“Imagine all the jerkin’ they’d be doing to your half-naked body pinned to the wall.”
Only my best friend would already have my poster visualized in her head. Not to mention guys fantasizing to it. “Let’s get through the first night of the show before you start selling posters outside, okay?”
“Shit!” She jolts upright. “I didn’t think of that. I could make posters and sell them! Fuck college. I’m totally getting rich off of your rockstar ass.”
I laugh and take one last look in the mirror before turning. “What do you think?”
“You look like a cross between a saint and a sinner. Total wet dream. Guys are going to want to lift that little plaid skirt to see where the garters lead to, and girls are going to be running all over the city trying to find blood-red Mary Jane stilettos.” I’d decided on sexing up a Catholic school uniform for my debut stage outfit. It went well with “Choices a Girl Makes,” the first song I’d be singing. A song about a girl struggling between her beliefs and her desires. Mom loved my choice. Dad…not so much.
“You know, the majority of my mom’s fans are older. So you talking about guys whacking off to me and lifting my skirt is sort of icky. They’re old. Like my parents’ age. Gross, Avery.”
“I thought you liked older men?”
“I do. Like twenty-five. Not twice that. Guys our age are immature.” I take one last look in the mirror and a deep cleansing breath. “You have your backstage pass?”
“Of course. You think I’d chance watching my best friend with the common people? I’m totally standing on the side of the stage and mouthing every word into my fake microphone. When they scream your name, I’m going to pretend they’re screaming mine.”
One of the things Dad insisted on was that I was not the only opening act. He didn’t want me carrying the pressure of being singlehandedly responsible for delivering an enthusiastic crowd. He wanted me to be able to take a break if I needed one, and have someone to share the burden of opening a sold-out tour. It meant I didn’t get to bring my band from high school; I’d be fronting the guys from After Sunday, the band that Lars Michaels plays with right before me.
At the time, I thought Dad didn’t have enough confidence that I could make it as an opening act on my own. But standing on the side of the stage, waiting for my turn to go on, I finally get it. The opening act has a huge job. People are coming and going, everyone is here to see someone else, yet somehow, through all of the preshow distractions, we are responsible for getting people pumped up. It’s not an easy task.
To lukewarm applause, Lars announces that a second act will be playing the preshow. He makes a big deal about telling the crowd it’s my first tour show and they need to make me feel welcome. Then the stage lights go dark, so the crew can change up the layout and I can walk to the center of the stage. The spotlight won’t come on until I’ve sung the first line of the song in the dark. It’s a bit overly dramatic, but I’ve watched the practice video and it really seems to work.
Mom squeezes my shoulders as people work around us in the dark. “Ninety seconds.” A guy wearing a headset yells in our direction as he lifts an instrument that was just knocked over near his feet. It’s chaos on stage. Ten men run around reconfiguring things, and drills buzz while they call out to each other.
“You’re going to be great,” Mom says from behind me.
“Sixty seconds,” Headset Guy yells again.
“Mom.” I cover her hand on my shoulder with my own. I never call her Mom. When I talk about her to other people she’s Mom, but I’ve always addressed her as Iris as long as I can remember. Until now. I didn’t think about it. The word just came out.
“Right here, baby.” She squeezes harder. “You can do this. By the end of the day, no one is going to remember my name. They’ll all be too busy talking about the songbird who opened for whatshername.”
I take a deep, relaxing breath.
A few of the workmen jog from the stage.
“Thirty seconds.”
“You’d better go. I’ll be right here. Dad is in center stage, row three. Go show your parents how it’s done.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
My hands shake as I walk toward the center of the stage. We’ve rehearsed so many times, I can probably do this on autopilot. At least, I’m hoping I can do this on autopilot, because I’m pretty damn sure I might have forgotten the words now.
Shit. I don’t know the words.
I put my feet on the pink X taped to the floor to indicate where I should stand.
“Five.”
I think I’m going to vomit.
“Four.”
Shit. I really don’t remember the words. What’s the first word?
“Three.”
Panic sets in. The first line is supposed to be sung acoustic, then the spotlight comes on. The band joins in after that. My hands are trembling. And I can’t feel my knees.
“Two.”
Fuck. I have no idea what the first word is. And I’m going to vomit. Right in the center of stage. On the stage Iris Nicks is going to be on in a half hour.
“One. And go.”
I don’t.
I can’t. Because I don’t know the first word. Seconds tick by. I can hear the audience milling around, a loud chatter going on. They don’t know I’m supposed to be starting. Yet.
The spotlight hits me, as timed. I should have already sung the first line.
Nothing.
The band is supposed to join in.
They don’t. Conversations in the audience cease like someone just flicked the off button. I can’t see any of them. But I’m sure they’re all staring at me.
“Lucky,” my mother whispers from the side of the stage, but I don’t turn my head.
I wish I could see the audience. Where’s Dad? Row three, center stage. I remember Mom saying it right before I walked out. But I still can’t remember the damn words to the song I’m supposed to sing.
I hear Mom’s yell again from stage left. “Flood the first five rows. Center only. Turn off the stage.”
A few seconds later, lights come on in the first five rows, and the spotlight shinning on me flicks off. My eyes search the rows until I find him. Just like Mom promised. Third row, center stage. He smiles at me.
I take a deep breath and smile back, even though he can’t see me.
Dad nods. The look on his face isn’t full of panic, like mine. He’s calm, and pride beams from his smile.
A few seconds pass and the words just come to me. So I sing them. In the dark, while looking at my Dad’s soothing smile. The first line done, everything snaps into place.
Lights flick off in the audience.
The stage spotlight shines on me.
The band kicks in. And I go on to sing the entire song.
Flawlessly.
By the time I’m on the third song in the set, I’m walking the stage like a pro. As if it’s rehearsal and not a live show with a couple thousand people watching.
The roar of applause isn’t even necessary when I’m done. I’m high just from being up here. My arms and legs are filled with goose bumps from head to toe. I even hear a few people yelling, “Encore!” as I walk off the stage.
Mom congratulates me and pulls me in for a quick hug before she’s whisked away for last-minute show prep. Avery, of course, is jumping up and down like she just won the lottery. Tons of people come by to tell me how good I was. No one even mentions my momentary meltdown.
I keep looking for my dad, but he doesn’t come backstage. Knowing him, he probably wants to give me time to enjoy the post-show high. But all I really want to do is thank him. For being there for me. And not just for today. For every day of my life. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
Avery and I stay on the side of the stage watching my mom’s show. When the lights finally go dark, Mom comes off and grabs a water bottle. Security and the tour manager rush over to speak with her. The conversation looks serious, so I eavesdrop.
“There’s a medical issue in the audience. The medics are working. They’re going to need a clear path, so we don’t want anyone to fill the aisles. Can you skip the break and go back and play the encore right away?”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll go back out right now.”
“Thanks, ma’am, we appreciate that,” the security guard says.
Mom goes back out onto the stage and starts talking to the crowd about what her next song means to her. I follow the security guard.
“Sir.”
He turns around.
“What happened? Did someone get injured?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Young guy. Heart attack. Just keeled over in his seat. Doesn’t look good.”
Somehow, in the pit of my stomach, I just know. My life forever changed tonight. And it wasn’t just from my debut on stage.
Chapter Sixteen
Flynn
I’ve never been a morning person. I might rise at the ass crack of dawn, but that doesn’t mean I look forward to being awake. Most days after my eyes see the first rays of daylight, I pull the blanket over my head and try my damnedest to go back to sleep.
But not today. I’m looking forward to having coffee. At six in the morning. And the fucked-up thing is, I wish I were back on the bus. I’ve come to look forward to seeing those thin little shirts that Lucky wears to bed. Chances are, she’s going to cover up before heading downstairs to the lobby for her coffee.
I throw on a pair of sweats, t-shirt, knit hat and some sunglasses to shield my identity as much as I can. Word got out that Easy Ryder was staying at this hotel, and last night the place was flooded with groupies when Mick and I came back from dinner. A few even recognized me. Mick, of course, happily indulged. Last I saw him before I called it a night, he had a blonde on each knee at the bar. And his bed hadn’t been touched when I got up this morning. I suppose I should be grateful that he didn’t bring the party back to our room.
Despite the fact that Lucky had just casually mentioned that the lobby lounge serves coffee beginning at six a.m., I’m pretty sure of myself that she’ll be down there. But when I step off the elevator, the lobby is quiet. Empty. The coffee urns are just being set up in the lounge. I pour two mugs, make them just as we like it, and settle on one of the couches on the far side of the room where it’s private, yet I can still keep an eye on the door.
I grab a newspaper and begin to flip through to kill time. Then my eyes catch a pair of pink-painted toes in flip-flops. I don’t know why, but it’s in this moment that I realize, I’m fucked.
The sight of her toes makes me smile.
I’m falling for another guy’s girl. Something I promised myself I’d never do.
But then I reason with myself. I haven’t done anything wrong. Thinking a woman is beautiful and spending time with her doesn’t have to turn into anything, right? They’re just toes after all. But look how cute they are. I’ve never been a foot guy, yet I wouldn’t mind sucking… Stop. Just stop. We’re just friends.
Because I’ve been friends with so many hot women in the past and not fucked them? Yep. I’m screwed. I need to get the hell out of here.
“Good morning,” she whispers and smiles down at me. My eyes lazily travel up from her toes.
I’m totally not going anywhere.
I hold up her mug of coffee. And then I realize she still has the thin shirt she wears to sleep on and I’m eye-level with the sexiest taut nipples I’ve ever seen.
Screw sucking her toes… “Certainly is.” I grin.
We spend nearly three hours in the lobby lounge, drinking coffee and turning the pairs of words for my song into sonnet verses. The only reason we decide it’s time to leave is because we need to get ready to leave again. The tour manager got us access into the arena at noon so I could practice the new techniques Lucky showed me up on stage. And today Lucky is getting her ass up on that stage if I have anything to do about it.
My phone buzzes as I step from the shower. The face flashing on the screen makes me smile. I wrap a towel around my waist and answer it before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Uncle Sinn!” Laney screams. She’s got it in her head that she needs to talk louder when people are farther away. My sister can’t convince her otherwise. I actually hold the phone away from my ear when I answer, knowing she’s already drilled Becca on how far away I am. Long car ride equals loud; plane equals screaming. I hear my sister yelling from somewhere in the background, “I told you, Laney, you don’t have to yell. He hears you just like as if you are sitting next to him.”
“Hi, beautiful. How are you?”
Laney spends the next five minutes telling me all the songs she learned on her new karaoke machine. Lady Gaga, One Direction, Taylor Swift. My sister’s music taste is like mine—rock, blues, a little Johnny Cash—definitely not Top 100 pop charts. She must be ready to kick my ass.
By the time Laney decides to hand the phone to her mother, I’m pretty sure my niece must be tinted a lovely shade of blue. Not one pause for a breath in five minutes. My sister needs to introduce commas and periods to our little princess.
Bec and I catch up. The last time we talked, I didn’t even have all the details about filling in for Linc yet. “So, when do I get to meet her?”
“Who?”
“The girl you’re crazy about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You sound normal. The only time you sound normal is when there’s a woman you’re trying to impress.”
“Normal? What the hell does that even mean?”
“Are there any women in your room right now?”
“No.”
“Did you go to sleep before midnight?”
“Yeah. I was wiped out.”
“Look around the room, are there empty beer cans all over?”
I scan the room. Not one. “No.”
“Have you showered already today?”
“Yes.”
“Normal. You’re acting like a regular person instead of a rockstar.”
“Whatever, Bec. I’m just trying to make a good impression with the new band, that’s all.”
“What are you doing now?” My sister is a bloodhound. If she thinks I’m hiding something, she doesn’t stop sniffing until she finds it.
“I’m going to meet my voice coach and head over to the arena to work on some things.”
“Is your voice coach a woman?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lucky. Why?”
“The same Lucky you had Laney dedicate a song to?” she says with a tone that tells me she thinks she’s figured out the puzzle she’s been trying to solve.
“You need to get a life, Bec. You spend way too much time analyzing me.” And, shit, you know me so well.
“That’s actually why I was calling. I went through the tour schedule that you emailed, and I was thinking maybe we could fly out for the Austin show next week. I’ve been promising Alana that we’d come to visit, and since Professor Douchebag gave me a decent-size guilt check instead of coming to his own daughter’s birthday party, I have some extra cash.”
I love that I have even her calling her ex Professor Douchebag. “That would be great. We’re there for three nights, and one of the days is a big festival. I’ll book a suite at the hotel they put us up at.”
“Laney is going to be so excited. You can get us tickets to the show, right?”
“Sure.”
“Will Lucky still be there?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Because I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
“Good-bye, Bec,” I say in a warning tone.
“Good-bye, Flynn,” she says in that singsongy way.
The blond manager is slightly less aggressive when we arrive at the arena today. Although, she does mention she’ll be at the show tonight if I need anything. Her smile makes it clear that anything includes fucking. I already tossed her card in the garbage when I emptied my pants pockets yesterday.
“So, you wanna go first or should I?” I ask Lucky as we enter the massive seating area. It’s transformed since only yesterday. The stage is set up for tonight’s show. The floor level is filled with red cushioned folding chairs, and a VIP area with new seating has been installed and sectioned off with velvet ropes.
“I was thinking. I don’t think I should skip step five. What if step five is critical to my overall success and I fail after going through all this work, just because of poor neglected step five?” She’s teasing, but it’s obvious there’s real fear in her voice.
“You’re going to be fine. I’ll be right here with you.” I put my hands on her shoulders and speak into her eyes, trying to reassure her.
“But…”
“We got this.”
“But…”
“What’s step five, Lucky?”
“I have to write a letter?”
“Step five is a writing assignment?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s sit down. We can knock it out quick. We wrote three sonnets before our second cup of coffee.” I smile at her. “We’re a good team.”
“That gets you whatever you want normally, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“The dimples. The smile. The…” She waves her hand up and down my body, frustrated. “The whole hot-guy package.”
“You think I’m hot?” I grin.
She rolls her eyes. “Can we get back to the point, please?”
“You mean a point other than you think I’m hot,” I tease.
“Seriously. That smile probably gets you laid all the time. But it is not getting me up on that stage.”
“Are you offering to have sex with me rather than go up on the stage?”
She blushes. “You’re in a mood today, aren’t you?”
“I’m always in the mood.”
She smacks my abs playfully and I grab her hand. “Seriously, Lucky. I want to help. If you really don’t want to get up there, I won’t push. But I think you want to. For some reason, I think you need to. And I think you need me to push. I get the feeling no one has pushed you for eight years and, you know what, everyone needs that someone who will be that person for them.”
Our gazes hold and I watch as her eyes soften. “Thank you,” she says.
“Anytime.” And, oddly, I really mean it. Any damn time.
She nods. “How about we work on your performance first. I want your voice to have as long of a rest as it can before you sing tonight.”
“Whatever you say, teach.”
She shakes her head and chuckles. “How about showing me what we talked about yesterday. Did you get a chance to practice?”
“I did.”
She squints, not believing me. But the truth is, I stood in front of the mirror and practiced singing the damn song with my mouth and neck in the position she wants me in. If only I’d put in this much effort in school. Then again, my teachers never looked like Lucky.
Gently push. It’s an odd saying. Can you really gently push someone? And does it even matter if you were gentle or not when the end result is the same? I pushed him over a cliff, so what that he went careening to his untimely death…it was a gentle push. I seriously doubt the last thing that goes through your mind before your brain is splattered all over the ground is, I forgive him, it was a gentle push. Yet here I am, pushing anyway.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I’ll carry you up there. Although I can’t promise my hand won’t connect with your ass when your body is slung over my shoulder.”
Even though she smiles, I can see in her eyes that she’s terrified. She has the kind of eyes that betray her, showing everything she’s feeling even though her face attempts to tell a different story.
“I’m going, I’m going.” She looks like any second tears might come. I’m just about to tell her to forget it—gentle or not, I don’t want to be the cause of her splatter. But then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and walks toward the stairs on the left side of the stage. I take a seat front and center.
She climbs the stairs and stops on the side of the stage. At first, I think she’s steadying herself, taking a deep breath before the plunge. But then a minute passes, then two. I want to give her time, let her do it when she’s ready, but I know from personal experience that the longer you stand up there and think about what you’re about to do, the more the panic starts to set in.
Another minute passes. She’s just staring into space, but I get the feeling she can’t see whatever is in her line of view. She’s seeing something else. Remembering.
More time passes.
Nothing.
Whatever haunts her, I can’t let her face it alone.
Without saying a word, I walk to the stairs and climb them. I stand next to her and wait until she looks over at me. I wait until her eyes focus, really focus on mine, and I know she’s back in the moment. Then I offer her my hand. A sad smile attempts to hide her pain, but fails ruefully.
I take the first step and look back. Even though there is a pleading in her eyes, there’s also a question. An unspoken one. I nod and wait for her to take the step on her own before continuing. Ever so slowly, we walk to the center of the stage. Hand in hand, we stand there until she eventually turns and faces the empty seats in the massive auditorium. Her eyes focus on an area in the center of the first few rows.
The sound comes before the tears. It’s low, but gut-wrenchingly painful—an awful anguish-filled sob. It shreds a hole right through my heart. Whatever causes her pain, I want to slay it. I want to bear the pain for her.
And then everything she’s been holding back releases. Her body begins to shudder, tears stream from her eyes, and she loses it. “He died while I was on stage. I never even got to say good-bye.”
I catch her before she falls, wrapping my arms around her and hugging tight. Her body trembles against mine and my own tears burn in my throat as I hold them at bay. This cry has been kept contained for a long time. It isn’t a cry from a bad memory. It’s an avalanche of pent-up pain that has been building, waiting, needing to release. And it does. Shit, does it ever.
We stay that way for a long time. Until eventually every last sob has wracked its way through her body and I feel what amounts to a sigh of relief wash over her. Her tense limbs ease and she takes a deep breath before she pulls her head back and our silence is finally broken.
“Flynn,” she whispers, and I lean my forehead against hers and watch her eyes close. When they open again, something is different. Her eyes are still filled with emotion, but the sadness is replaced by need. Our gazes lock and both our breaths change, becoming more labored, more heated. My heart pounds in my chest, and it takes every bit of willpower in my body to not take what I so desperately want.
Her lips part and I think she’s about to say something, but then, suddenly, her mouth is on mine. Jesus Christ. My self-control goes out the window, chased out by desperation. Desperation to kiss her. Feel her. Consume her.
She may have started the kiss, but it takes less than a heartbeat for me to take over. One hand fists her hair, wrapping it snuggly around my fingers, while the other tightens around her back, pulling her even closer against me.
Our kiss deepens, tongues frantically find each other, but it’s the little moan that escapes her body and travels through our sealed lips that does me in. Resolve shattered, fire pulses through my veins, any fleeting uncertainty is forgotten by both of us. She reaches up, her fingers tugging at my hair. Her soft curves contour to fit my body. We grope, pull, scratch, tug—to get closer—to get more. Just more.
When we finally break the kiss, we’re both panting. My lips move over her neck, my ragged breath intensifies the rawness of my words when I speak. “I’ve wanted you since the minute I laid eyes on you,” I whisper into her ear. “God, I fucking want you.”
Between the sound of my heart ricocheting loudly against my chest, our heavy breathing and the lust pulsing through my veins, we don’t even hear the sound of a person approaching, until the voice startles us.
