“You made it,” a voice says as I’m arranging my belongings. My body immediately knows who’s hovering beside me. Yeah, avoidance on a tour bus might not be the most practical strategy of all time. “We were starting to get worried we’d be doing this tour without our lead singer and drummer.”
“Sorry, yeah. Technical difficulties.” Still on my knees, I adjust enough to send a smile up to our marketing queen. Damn, she looks good. The stuffy business attire has been replaced by tight jeans and a faded tee. Her blonde hair, which always seemed to be twisted back in some kind of intricate bun, is now spilling over her shoulders in loose waves. The kind you want to bury your fists in while she gasps out your name.
I clear my throat and focus back on my bunk.
“Guess being late is why you got stuck on the bottom too,” she says with a smile.
“Too?”
She points to the bunk right across from mine over the other wheel well. You have to be kidding me.
“You’re there?” I ask before I can stop it.
“That okay?”
“Yeah, I mean…” I shake my head. You mean what? That it’ll make things pretty awkward when you’re fantasizing about her each night? “This spot is fine. I don’t mind it.” Well, I didn’t. Hell, if we’re not careful with our curtains, we’ll be staring into each other’s bunks all night.
I’m about to take Zach up on his offer to switch when our tour manager, Kate, calls us to the front of the bus. We gather in the lounge, and I end up behind the group, pressed against the doorframe to the sleeping area.
I also don’t comprehend a word Kate says. See, I’m too busy getting lost in a floral scent that has my muscles straining forward like a plant starved for sunlight. Lydia doesn’t seem to notice how close she’s standing, that by not adhering to proper personal space etiquette she’s ruining any chance our band has of following Kate’s instructions. I know the others aren’t listening either. That’s my job.
Zach chooses that moment to step back, bumping into Lydia and forcing her closer. I reach out to steady her on instinct, but once my hands make contact, they don’t want to let go. The rest of my body celebrates while my brain cringes at the mistake. She turns her crystal blue eyes back to me, and a shudder rushes through my blood. Her skin is warm through her shirt, and is she even closer now? Her back is almost flush to my front for no logistical reason I can figure out. I pull in a deep breath and force my hands to release their hostage. Stepping to a safer distance, I shove my fingers in my back pockets for extra security. Never, ever, touch her, you moron.
My guilty conscience seeks out Matty, and sure enough, his brow has the slightest crease. Did he see my inadvertent brush with Lydia, or is he still upset over what happened with Pai? Either way, I need to be more careful.
By the time Kate finishes her speech and the bus pulls out of the parking lot, I’ve determined I have no choice but to transfer Lydia’s cell in my head to maximum security.
An hour into the drive, I’m seated at the table with my guitar and laptop, while Matty and the guys are stuffed in the back lounge with the Playstation. Kate is in the front seating area with me, reviewing her notes. Lydia… can’t think about her in her bunk right now.
“I like that. New song?” Kate asks, looking up from her computer.
“Yeah. It’s a progression I’ve been playing with for a while. Just trying to figure out how to transition from the verse to the chorus.” It’s almost there, but something’s missing.
I play through it again and sigh when I still can’t hear it. But—"surrender.” That works better for the second line of verse two. Surrender the lie to broken pride. Yeah, that’s it. Biting down on the guitar pick, I lean over my guitar to make the adjustment on my laptop.
The door to the sleeping area slides open, and I glance over to find a heart-stopping marketing siren in sweats and a messy ponytail. Geez, it’s like the less she tries, the more attractive she is. Would I even be able to handle her morning-after look? Shit.
“Always working, huh,” Lydia says with a smile.
I smile back, trying not to stiffen when she takes the seat next to me.
“Who? Xander?” Kate scoffs. “He wears me out just watching him.”
Grinning, I shake my head and focus back on my guitar. Try to focus anyway. Because damn she smells good. What is that, jasmine? Why do I think I even know what jasmine smells like?
“Whatever,” I mumble, running through the verse chords again. Maybe jump to the 4 for a prechorus. I’m coming off the 6 in the verse so—
“I’m gonna go read. You kids have fun,” Kate says, pushing up from the table.
What? No.
Shit.
I struggle not to plead with her as she shuffles past us. Kate has the rest of her life to read. Why now? Lydia and I watch her slip through the door, and the atmosphere immediately shifts when it slides shut. At least mine does. Suddenly, all I can see is Lydia’s left shoulder where her oversized sweatshirt has dropped to reveal a thin, silver bra strap. Pretty, as if it’s meant to be seen. I can’t think about that either because man, do I see it. I blink and force my attention back to my guitar.
“Tell me about the music, Xander,” she says, breaking the silence.
“Is this one of the detailed narrative interviews?”
“Possibly. We’ll see. Right now, it’s conversation.”
I like her honesty and release a sigh. “What do you want to know?”
She shrugs, leaning back against the armrest so she faces me. “Everything. Your style is so unique. It’s modern rock meets Rio. That’s the Brazilian influence?”
“Samba, specifically.”
“And yet, you play a traditional five-piece rock kit.”
I glance at her, surprised. “Yeah. I do.” I can’t help but smile and make the mistake of showing her how impressed I am. “I’m just one dude. Have to make the beat work on my own. Plus, our sound is a fusion, not pure samba, so plenty of rock rhythms in there.”
“It’s amazing. I especially loved watching you in the videos. Your live sound seems pretty different than your studio sound from what I could tell.”
“Ya think?” The bitterness slips out before I can stop it.
She seems to pick up on it when her stare intensifies. “I sensed tension in that initial meeting every time we mentioned White Flame. What’s that about?”
My fingers tighten around the neck of my guitar. She’s on our side, right? How’s that supposed to work when her dad completely owns my ass?
“Are you close to your father?” I ask pointedly. Our gazes lock in the loaded silence. I already know she’s smart enough to pick up on my real question.
“No. Actually, I’m not. I work for Turner, and therefore, you. I have no ties to White Flame other than as a professional who works with some of their artists.”
She doesn’t move, holding her ground in our standoff. Can we trust each other? That’s the question we’re deliberating right now.
“White Flame took creative control of our single and butchered it.” I let the words linger in the air, studying how they settle around her. “From our perspective,” I add dryly.
“How so?” Her tone is even.
“They added a ton of production. Toned down the… percussion.”
“The samba vibe, you mean?”
I shrug. “Radio-friendly, right? They love that we’re Brazilian… just not too Brazilian. ‘The market isn’t ready for that quite yet.’” I echo the mantra we heard every time we tried to put up a fight until we finally gave up. Apparently, when you sign on the dotted line, it also means your dog in the fight gets muzzled and shipped off to the pound.
Her expression hardens ever so slightly. “Then I’m really looking forward to seeing you live.”
“It’s our sweet spot. We’re better when we can let loose. Uncaged.”
“So I’ve been told.” Her gaze runs up my body and settles on my eyes. I suck in a breath. “You grew up listening to
samba, then?”
“Listening?” I say with a smirk. “You don’t listen to samba. You experience it, but yeah. We listened to a lot of rock as well, though.”
“Brazilian bands?”
“And international, but mostly Brazilian until we moved to the states.”
“When did you move?”
“When I was twelve.”
“That must have been a big change.”
I swallow to block out images of pale streetlight stabbing through dirty windows. Cold floors. Empty stomachs. “It was.”
“So English isn’t your first language? You only have a slight accent, and Matheus doesn’t at all.”
“Our mother is American. He was seven when we relocated to live with her. English isn’t our first language, but it’s our primary language now.”
“I noticed you never mention either of your parents in your posts and interviews. Only an Aunt Mary and Uncle Ron.”
“We’re not close to our parents. We pretty much raised ourselves, but our aunt and uncle were more parents to us than they were.”
“Mary and Ron… Haines? They’re Elliot’s parents, right?”
I nod and trace a scratch on my guitar. My fingers find the frets to start working through the progression again. Maybe music will make this interrogation stop. I’d much rather go back to whining about the label.
“I’d prefer if none of this made it into the narrative, except maybe Mary and Ron. They’re the only ones who give a shit about any of this anyway. If you need a family section, use them.”
Crap, revealed too much. Her eyes change as they explore my face for more unspoken clues. I’m careful not to give them. The Narrative will have to be content with our favorite colors and movies for now.
“Titãs, Jota Quest, Legião Urbana,” I blurt out to distract her. “Brazilian bands I grew up on,” I explain when her brow lifts in question.
“Oh, interesting. I will have to check them out. Can you text those to me?”
Why do I think she actually will?
“Do you still speak Portuguese a lot?” she asks.
“With Matty.”
“But you only write in English?”
“No,” I say with a smile. “We only perform my English songs.”
I immediately regret the confession when her eyes light up. “Really? Will you play one of the Portuguese ones?”
“Right now?” I laugh.
“Yes! I want to hear you… I mean, it.”
A blush spreads over her cheeks, and I look away. My own blood is racing again. Somehow she’s shifted closer so the body of my guitar is brushing her leg. On purpose? I don’t think so. I believe her when she says she has no intention of pursuing me. I also know how powerful a rebellious subconscious can be. Maybe it’s me who’s been inching closer. Her sweatshirt is halfway down her arm now, exposing an entire upper arm and more than just the strap of her bra. The cups are lacy silver as well, judging by the hint of fabric I can see. My eyes lock on it. I wonder what it would be like to yank the sleeve all the way down—or watch her do it.
She straightens and adjusts her shirt back in place. It starts to slip again, though, and I’m pretty sure this is the last time I’ll see her in this particular outfit. It probably wasn’t sexy when she packed it. My hungry gaze transformed the sweatshirt into lingerie. I fix my eyes on the guitar again.
“Actually, maybe another time. I should finish working on this song,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” With a weak smile, she waves away her request. “I shouldn’t have interrupted in the first place.”
She pushes up from the seat, and my heart clenches at the hurt look on her face. It’s screaming for me to take it back, to tell her the truth: that’d I’d play every damn song I’ve ever written in any language for her if she wants. That I’ve never seen a shoulder as beautiful as hers. That I can barely breathe right now, and can’t stop hoping she’s in pain too, even if that makes me a dick. But none of that is the right response. No, everything happens just as it should when she backs toward the door and slides it open.
“Sorry again,” she says quietly and disappears.
I clench my eyes shut and exhale a frustrated curse.
CHAPTER 6
LYDIA
“Lydia?”
“Hey, Mom.” I breathe a little easier once I hear my mother’s voice. “Sorry I’m just calling back now. I can’t really talk on the bus.”
“Does that mean you’ve stopped driving?”
“Yeah. We’re in Columbus for our first show tonight.”
“Columbus! Exciting.” She pauses. “Are you excited? You don’t sound excited, sweetheart.”
I sigh and lean against the railing around a service entrance at the venue. It seemed as good a spot as any to return my mother’s call from yesterday. Privacy on a tour bus—not a thing.
“I am. I mean, the assignment itself is going great. My boss and Turner are really happy with what I’ve done so far.”
“But?”
“But nothing. Everything is fine. The band is great. They’re taking my direction well and being respectful of my authority.” Facts. All of them. I’m good at stating things. Personal feelings beyond that? Not so much. “They’re really talented too. I can’t wait to see them perform tonight.”
“And it’s not weird living with a bunch of strangers?”
“They don’t feel like strangers.” Especially one. I push Xander out of my head so my mother can’t hear him in my voice. “The guys are great. So’s the tour manager and crew. Solid group. Now it’s up to me to sell them.”
“Of course you will. You’re going to knock this one out of the park, honey.”
“I hope so.”
I don’t realize I’m chewing my nail until I bite too close to the nailbed. I stare down at the throbbing red mark. “Mom?”
I hear it now. What my mother did the second our call connected. Some strange mass in my throat that typically only threatens to erupt when I’m alone.
“I’m here, sweetie.”
“I know. Just…” I close my eyes. “What if I can’t this time?” The words come out in a whisper, as if they didn’t exist until now.
“Can’t what?”
“Succeed.”
My mother must be shocked as well when she stutters out her initial response. But the sunshine is back in her second attempt.
“Of course you can, Lydia. You’re intelligent, talented, hardworking, and creative. There’s nothing you can’t do.”
No, I’m good at making people believe that. I can own a conference room, or a podium, or a college dean’s list. I make them believe because I don’t fail. I can’t fail. I would never forgive myself. For twenty-six years I’ve been perfect. It’s the privacy of my head where the truth lies, and I’ve learned there’s only one way to guarantee success: don’t take risks. Don’t aspire to more than you can touch in the present. Certainly don’t take on the project of a lifetime and then fall for the client.
“What is it, honey? Something is troubling you. Talk to me.”
My body erupts in panicked chills when Xander’s name hovers on my tongue. You fell for a client. You can’t let him go even though it’s impossible. You’re this close to blowing everything right out of the gate. Tell her that, Lydia. Go ahead. Show your mother the truth about her “perfect” daughter.
“How’s Jeff doing? Things still good there?” I ask, clearing any emotion from my voice.
She’s silent for a moment, probably considering my subject change. As much as she loves me, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to believe the truth either. Daughters are designed to redeem the mistakes you made.
“Great. He’s looking forward to meeting you. I so hope you can come visit us soon. You spent Easter with your father, in case you forgot.”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t forget.” As if either of them would let me overlook the balance sheet. “I already told you, I’m doing Thanksgiving with you and Jeff.”
&n
bsp; “Good. But a month and a half is too far away. Maybe you could come for a weekend before then?”
“Mom, I’m on the east coast touring with a band right now. We’re going to be in a different city every night.”
“But never Seattle.”
“Mom.”
“Okay, okay. Well, if you have a break maybe. I miss you, sweetie.”
I trace a crack in the concrete steps with my shoe. “I miss you too, Mom.” I really do. As much as she drives me crazy sometimes, she’s also one of my favorite people on the planet. Plus, with everything going on, a weekend of pretending I’m ten again sounds amazing.
“You’re going to be fine, Lydia. You always come out on top. I’m so proud of you.”
My chest starts to close again. Did the air suddenly get thinner?
“Thanks, Mom. Of course you’re right.”
I’ve studied the videos, poured over every frame and photo I could find of Falling Back North. Those amateur shots did nothing to depict the otherworldly charisma of Matheus and the band. Their energy is off the charts, and the crowd has absorbed, multiplied, and is now spitting it back at them in surges. If these people weren’t fans before, they are now. I feel the electricity in my bloodstream and find myself craving the next explosive surprise. Xander was right. This band was meant to be consumed live. I make a mental note to explore that concept more.
I can’t keep the grin from my face as I duck around the perimeter of the stage, snapping pictures and recording footage that will better capture the true brilliance of their performance. Matheus (or Matty as the others call him) makes the large stage seem small with his animated presence and keen awareness of the crowd. The women are going nuts for him; the guys are in awe. I’ve noticed several unconsciously emulating him. My earlier gloom fades beneath the excitement of such untapped potential. This band is a drug for eager marketing directors. White Flame was crazy to tone them down. No wonder the band is upset about the singles.
Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2) Page 5
