Beauty and the Bassist (The Extra Series Book 9)

by Megan Walker

  “I’ll be fine. I’m actually really good with money.” He gets a sad kind of smirk on his face. “My dad used to say I’d never amount to anything, and one of the many reasons he’d give is that I wouldn’t ever be smart with my money, get a 401(k) or anything like that.”

  I’m pretty sure I start glowering at even the mention of his dad, let alone hearing again the kinds of things his own father would say to him. But Shane strokes my knuckles with his thumb. “So I made sure everyone in the band had retirement accounts, insurance, savings, all that stuff. I know how to handle these things. Despite that irresponsible bad-boy reputation.”

  I can’t help but smile, and shake my head. “Layers.”

  He reaches up and pushes some of my hair behind my ear, then trails his fingers down the side of my face. “Also, our sales went through the roof after the accident. I have the money, if I move some things around. So, can I invest?”

  The tears are building, and I blink them back. “Yes,” I say, and hug him tight—though I’m careful not to press my face against his suit and leave any makeup stains that Carlyle will have a stroke over. “Thank you.”

  It’s at that moment I realize another reason why I had so much trouble coming to him with this. I was terrified to lose him, yes. But I’ve been independent for so long, especially since the cancer. They say things like that make people realize how much they need to be able to lean on others—and I certainly did so with my family at the time—but afterward it had the opposite effect. I couldn’t stand being an emotional drain on those I loved, and I pulled away from them, away from relationships in general, focusing on my work to the exclusion of anything else. Scared of the cancer coming back and having yet another person to hurt. And—irrationally, I know—scared of it coming back and having no one there for me this time.

  I’ve worked and pushed myself like I’m on my own, and I’ve done that for long enough that it’s hard to trust that I can truly lean on someone else.

  But I don’t want to do that anymore, and with Shane, I don’t have to. More than that, being with Shane makes me see that maybe I never did.

  I want to tell him all of this, want to really apologize for pushing him away like that, for making him not feel needed, but he starts speaking, once again in that cautious tone.

  “You know,” he says. “We talked about you redecorating my place. But if you actually wanted to live there—or maybe if I lived at your place—I’d be fine paying the full rent, if you needed to save some for your line. I mean, I’m paying it anyway, and—”

  “You want to move in together?” My eyes are wide, and my heart is skipping like crazy.

  Shane shifts uncertainly. “Yeah. I mean, if you—”

  He cuts off when Carlyle appears beside us.

  “Allison, I need you to get the girls ready. Shane, you need to get your mic from Henry.” He turns to the practice room in general. “Places, everyone!” he announces, and just like that, the eye of the storm has passed. We’re back to loud exclamations and nervous laughter and the beginning of last-second wardrobe freak-outs—no small number of which are girls checking their heels to make sure they’re still structurally sound.

  Then Carlyle grabs Shane by the arm and practically hauls him toward the stage, like he’s not sure Shane will be able to find it on his own, and Shane gives me a last, beleaguered look before he disappears out the door, and I smile back at him.

  Moving in together. Crazy, but, like everything else crazy this week, it feels right.

  I allow myself one last deep, relieved, breath, so grateful for Shane. For us.

  Then I turn to the room myself and clap my hands sharply to get their attention. It works, and they all look at me, still patting at their hair or tugging at their dresses. Yvonne’s coach smacks her hand to keep her from messing up the boob tape she just applied.

  “Okay, girls,” I say. “I know how nerves get before pageants, but you’ve all done this before and you’ve been brilliant. You’ve had to be, to get this far.”

  There are nods and some smiles. I see growing determination in several expressions.

  So far, so good.

  “You’ve got this. I know you do. And more importantly, you know you do. Each and every one of you is incredible and talented and has earned her spot up on that stage. So let’s go show that to the world.”

  It’s a Southern California beauty pageant, not Miss Universe, so “the world” may be stretching it a bit, but the girls cheer and beam and bounce on their toes excitedly.

  They’ve got this. And so do I.

  Twenty-five

  Allison

  The music swells, and the audience claps, and Shane strides out onto the stage, mic in hand.

  It’s a bigger crowd than normal. The large auditorium is packed. Tickets sold out pretty much the minute the press got wind of Shane Beckstrom’s first public performance since the accident. The fact that he’s only hosting and not playing music doesn’t seem to have deterred anyone.

  And right now, it doesn’t seem to deter him. Despite the fact that emceeing a beauty pageant is new and different for him—and not exactly something he’s been thrilled about—the man knows how to own a stage. He flashes that charming smile to the packed audience, welcomes them all to the pageant, then launches into the opening lines from the script, which are now scrolling past on a teleprompter.

  The jokes are cheesy as ever—Carlyle can run a good pageant, but he insists on being way too involved in the scriptwriting, and it shows—but Shane manages to sell them, or at least show by his tone that he’s aware of how cheesy they are. And the audience loves it.

  I want to pay attention to Shane during his opener, but I’m busy making sure the girls are lined up in the correct order and that nothing’s out of place with their wardrobe or hair. Their sequined dresses are all basically the same cut, with minor variance in sleeves and straps, and they fidget with the fabric and with the small matching tiaras in their hair.

  “Now I know what you’re really here for—let’s see the lovely contestants!” Shane’s voice filters back through the speakers, and the girl-power pop music for the group dance number kicks off.

  Shane comes off stage by us, just as the girls paste on their biggest smiles and saunter out in front of the audience, hips swaying in time with the music.

  “Hey,” I say to Shane, smiling, as he walks over to me. “You’re doing great.”

  “Yeah?” He looks a little abashed, like he doesn’t want to feel as proud of that as he is.

  “Clearly you could have a future in this.”

  He gives a mock-grimace. “I might have to. The chance of me having the cred to start a music festival is going down dramatically with every stupid pageant pun.”

  I laugh, but really it warms me to hear him even joke about the music festival. I think he’s starting to really think of it as more than just a far-off possibility.

  The first group number finishes and Shane heads back out there for the girls’ quick contestant intros—each giving their names and which city they represent. As the girls file off one by one, hustling back to the dressing room to do a quick-change into their swimsuits, I can tell by the grins and even-greater determination that they’re feeling more confidence now.

  Which gives me more confidence too. I don’t believe in Collette’s visions, but I sure do believe in the power of self­-fulfilling prophecy, especially where pageant panic is concerned.

  While the girls get ready, Shane introduces the judges one by one, and they stand up and wave to the audience and the cameras in the back. In addition to the three who actually have significant pageant judging experience but who no one outside of the pageant circle recognizes, we also have three “celebrity” judges. One is a former Miss California, another is a minor-league baseball player I’ve never heard of.

  The third, though, is the pageant’s biggest
get—before Shane Beckstrom, of course—and receives by far the most applause. Bridget Messler, famous soap opera star from Passion Medical. She gives a pageant-worthy wave to the crowd and sits down.

  The music kicks up again, and the swimsuit portion of the competition begins. Once again, the girls do great, their turns well executed, their walks poised and yet sexy. Carmen especially nails this mix, and, in true beauty-queen fashion, doesn’t show a hint of her unhappiness at being forced into a swimsuit with an actual lower half. My heart skips a beat when I see Yvonne wobble, but she rights herself quickly.

  I let out a breath.

  The talent portion starts right after, and the nice thing about this part—other than it being the most interesting to watch, in my opinion—is that while Shane needs to introduce each one before they perform, he’s not on the stage for the actual talent. Which means he gets to watch with me from the wings.

  Heather does some excellent face-painting on a volunteer from the audience, making her look like the scream figure from that Edvard Munsch painting.

  “Do you think she could make me look like Gene Simmons from Kiss for the evening gown intro?” Shane asks.

  “I think the better question is, could I ever have sex again with you after I saw that?”

  “Hmm,” Shane says, pretending to consider. “Not worth the risk.”

  Next up is Sherry and her (fully recovered) poodles, the third of which, I have since learned, is named Ellen Degeneruff. This act is a real crowd pleaser—in addition to the cuteness factor, the dogs are actually impressive. One of them jumps rope with her, another rides a little scooter. They all three dance in unison. Even Shane seems slightly charmed by this, though he maintains that Lord Shelldon could kick their asses at a talent competition if he was ever so inclined.

  I disagree, because I have seen Lord Shelldon jump headfirst into a wall to catch a moving bit of reflected light, but I appreciate Shane’s faith in him.

  I make sure that Gwen’s marimba is far away from Becky’s camellias (and that Gwen is far away from Becky) while each of them take their turns, and the flowers and instrument all come away unharmed. Carmen sings her aria beautifully, and Angelica’s speed-painting (done with glow paint while the canvas is upside down) garners lots of oohs from the crowd when she flips it right-side up and voila! It’s Jack Sparrow. Deena entrances them with her scarves, and Collette—whose talent, shockingly, isn’t related to her psychic abilities—freestyle roller skates to “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee.” It seems like a weird combination to me, but the judges appear to really dig roller-skating patriotism. Even Bridget Messler looks a little teary-eyed.

  One by one, Shane announces, and the girls perform, and Carlyle—standing on the wings on the other side of the stage—slowly looks less and less like he’s about to have a panic-induced stroke.

  When the applause dies down for the final girl, Simone, who I’m helping to shimmy into her poppy costume right here backstage due to lack of time to run to the dressing room, Shane launches into his intro for the second pageant group dance number. He even says the tragic line, “And I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to seeing this”—and here he turns to give me an almost imperceptible head shake and a you owe me expression—“bouquet of beauty.”

  I grin back at him. God, this man really must love me.

  The first batch of five girls in their glittering green “stem” gowns and their big petal headdresses walk out to the beat of the dance music, and Shane passes them as he walks off stage to me.

  “Well,” I say, smiling at him, “if you hadn’t already lost all your punk-rock cred before, you definitely—”

  “I thought you were going to fix that!” a male voice says from behind me, and I turn to see Thomas rushing up the backstage steps toward Collette standing in her still-offstage group, waiting for their music cue. She gapes at him, and I find myself frozen for a beat in shock.

  “Thomas, you can’t be here right now!” she says. “You can’t—”

  “You can’t wear that slit out there, Collette,” he growls, and grabs her by the arm. “Looking like a slut like that, no way.”

  Oh hell no. He is not doing this, not here. Not to one of my girls.

  “Let her go, and get the hell out of here!” I demand, stepping between them, trying to physically pry his fingers off of her arm.

  Collette squeals as he grips tighter, and the next batch of girls sauntering onto the stage is a beat behind the music, looking back to see what’s happening.

  Even in the relative dark of the stage wings, I can tell that Thomas’s face is bright red, and he shoves me back into Amanda, who lets out a little shriek, and it’s all I can do to stay upright in my heels and not take both of us down.

  And suddenly Shane’s in between Thomas and Collette, and his fists are clenched. I think he might punch Thomas—and I’m generally anti-violence, but god, I think that jerk deserves it—but Thomas is apparently afraid enough of Shane, who has a good six inches of height on him and a lot more muscle, that he dodges back. There’s a ripping sound as the sleeve of Collette’s dress tears, and Collette yells, “Thomas, stop!”

  Shane grabs Thomas by the shoulder, but Thomas twists himself free and darts past him—

  Right onto the stage, where the next group of five girls has just entered, joining the other ten. Several stop in shock and then get bumped into by the contestants who keep dancing. Two girls—Chloe and Sherry—fall down, and the audience gasps.

  Thomas has run to the middle of the stage, looking frantically back to see if Shane is chasing him, but Shane is watching him from next to me. The girls who had managed to keep dancing all pause, and I hear Carlyle yelling for security.

  I think my heart has entirely stopped.

  I’m about to run out there myself, maybe with Shane, to drag Thomas off stage, security be damned, but suddenly Gwendolyn’s furious voice rings out from her place center stage.

  “You jerk! Stay away from Collette!”

  “Damn right,” Becky yells, in perhaps the first agreement with Gwen I’ve ever heard her utter. Becky shoves him and he stumbles into Angelica, who shoves him back.

  “Yeah, leave her alone!” she cries.

  “She deserves better than you!” Carmen says, and oh my god, she’s taken off her shoe and throws it at him, heel first. It bounces off his back, and he flinches and wheels around.

  But before he can retaliate or even say anything, Wendy and Deena have also stripped off their shoes and are hitting him on the shoulders with them, and Heather and Simone have taken off their poppy petal headwear and are using those like floral whips, and Thomas is curling up on himself, protecting his head from the wrath of the vengeful beauty queens.

  The vengeful beauty queens protecting one of their own.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be proud, but dammit, I kind of am. And I’m also having trouble breathing.

  Because there’s a huge audience out there, and this is being televised. Poor Collette runs off sobbing, and I hear Carlyle now yelling for the curtains to be closed, and security has finally, finally gotten to the stage.

  But Thomas has seen this, too, and he starts to run away from them—only to slip on a fallen fabric poppy petal and land face-first on the stage with a massive thump that makes us all gasp yet again.

  He turns just as security parts the sea of angry women to grab him, and my jaw drops as I see him clutching his nose, blood streaming down his face.

  Oh my god. My pageant girls have broken his nose.

  I can’t see Shane among the girls who have swarmed backstage, some of whom are still jeering at Thomas, and I can’t see Carlyle, and oh my god, the pageant is falling apart.

  But I can’t think of anything I can do to save the pageant, so instead I run to find Collette.

  Twenty-six

  Shane

  As security drags t
hat asshole off the stage, I stare him down. I may not feel protective over these girls like Allison does, but I can recognize a total douche when I see one. And if anyone was going to get a broken nose—shit, did that actually happen?—I’m glad it was him. Several of the girls are standing around looking smug, and others look horrified. The curtain is closed, and I can hear the murmuring of the audience as they wonder what the hell is going to happen next.

  What is going to happen? Where’s Allison? I suspect she went after Collette, but someone has to get these girls ready for the next act, which is—god, where did my script go?

  Carlyle comes charging around the scrim at the back of the stage. He’ll get it under control, I’m sure.

  Except what he does is shove an acoustic guitar into my hands. “Here,” he says.

  I hold it up by the neck. “What the hell do you want me to do with this?”

  “You’re a musician, right?” he snaps. “Play!” Then he turns me around by the shoulders and shoves me toward the stage.

  Oh, shit. I was a musician. Now I’m a has-been who hasn’t played guitar in months. It’s not that I can’t play. I’ve mostly done bass but I could play lead almost as well as Kevin. I remember how, but the idea of doing so in front of people makes my blood run cold.

  Carlyle’s shove propels me forward, and I’m at the curtain. I could throw a fit, say I can’t work like this and storm out. But somewhere backstage Allison is panicking. Her pageant is falling apart. Someone needs to give the audience something to focus on while she and Carlyle and the girls pull it back together.

  I used to love this. I used to live to be up in front of people.

  That feels like another life, but here goes.

  I step out onto the stage, and the crowd quiets, staring up at me. I realize I don’t even know if this guitar is in tune, and so I give it an experimental strum as I step up to the microphone. The mic is set high, since I’ve been speaking into it, but I don’t adjust it. If I’m going to perform solo I’d better sing, which was always JT’s thing, but I’ve done back up long enough.