by Kacey Shea
Just before lunch, Opal asks me which sleeping spot I want. Of course, Austin’s sitting next to her so I can’t make a dirty joke about which position she prefers, top or bottom. Okay, maybe it’s not so much a joke. I really want to know. I want to know everything about her. She screams innocence, and as bad as it sounds, there’s a part of me that’d enjoy corrupting her.
Or maybe it’s an act. There’ve been moments, like yesterday when I caught her shaking her hips in the kitchen, or today when she said she was open to anything, that make me wonder. In prep school it was always the goodie two shoes who were hellcats in the sack. Would she be like that? My interest is piqued.
After lunch I climb into my bunk. I selected the top one since I doubt Opal wants the hassle of getting up there to sleep each night. Settling into the bed with my headphones, I pass the final hours of our journey in a restful sleep.
Once we pull into the stadium, everything is chaos. Orchestrated, but hectic all the same. Lots of introductions. Sound checks. The band goes over last minute changes with our tour and stage managers before an assistant named Dave whisks me off to wardrobe. Bedo sent my measurements ahead of time, but because of my last minute addition, and the fact I don’t already have a celebrity persona, he gave the stylists free rein.
Dave pushes open a door and holds it for me to walk through first.
“This him?” A man who must be one of the stylists smacks his lips and stares with greedy eyes.
The woman behind him stops working to peer over his shoulder. Her smile grows as soon as she spots me. “Oh, he’s just a baby.”
I’m not so sure I like the wardrobe department.
The space is filled with clothing racks, trunks, and one of those makeup vanities you find on a movie set.
Dave chuckles and nudges me further into the room. “Yeah, Bedo said to . . . un-pretty him up?”
“Oh, honey. It’ll be my pleasure,” the man coos, and his eyes narrow at my chest. “Shirt off.”
Okay. Not gonna lie, I’m feeling a little self-conscious. Not that I don’t have a good body. I run and do pushups on the regular, but the way these two are unabashedly staring causes me to pause. Fuck it. Blowing out a rush of breath, I peel my shirt off my back.
Dave chuckles, steps back out the door, and calls over his shoulder. “Green room when he’s done.”
The stylists wave him off, their gaze never leaving my chest.
I flex. If they’re gonna look, I might as well give them something. Not sure what to do or whether this is really part of their process, I try not to fidget under their stares. “I don’t get a shirt?”
The man bites his lower lip and grins. “Sure you do, I just wanted to see that bod.”
“He’s awfully pale,” the woman says.
“No tattoos, either.” His disappointment is as clear in his tone as in the pout of his lips.
“Jesus. I’ll get a tattoo if it makes everyone more comfortable.” I try for a joke, but they ignore me completely.
Hands on hips, she shakes her head and levels an impassive stare. “Pretty. Just don’t look like a rock star.”
“But Lord, he has abs.” The man waves his hand at his face.
She smiles. “Yeah, he does.”
I’m beginning to understand what it’s like to be objectified, and even though it’s being done by professional stylists, it’s unnerving. “So, shirt?”
“Yeah, until we do something with that hair or get you some ink, you’re too baby-faced to pull off the bare look.” The man turns to the racks of clothes and searches through them. “I’m Stu, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Stu.” Though I’m not entirely sure that’s true, it’s a habit from my upbringing to say so regardless. I touch my hair self-consciously. I’ve always had really nice hair. At least that’s what I’ve been told.
“It’s too short. Grow it out. Not as long as Trent’s, but a few more inches,” the woman instructs, walking over to the lighted vanity. She pats the empty chair. “I’m Kellie.”
I take the seat in front of the lighted mirror. “Nice to meet you, Kellie.”
She runs her fingers through my hair and stares at the back of my head. “Let’s ditch the clean cut for something more rock ’n roll.” She met my gaze in the reflection. “Don’t shave on concert days either. Women love the stubble.”
I don’t bother telling her I didn’t shave this morning. I don’t think that nugget of knowledge would be appreciated. In no time at all Kellie works my dark locks into a messy arrangement. Next, she applies a thin layer of foundation to my cheeks. A first for me. She reaches for the black eyeliner and I almost protest. She raises her brow as if to say Really, pretty boy? I snap my mouth shut because hell, who am I to tell her how to do her job? Besides, she could totally kick my ass.
Stu sifts through the racks of clothes, sighing and groaning. I don’t know whether he’s always this dramatic or I’m that difficult to dress. Doesn’t he know I’m gonna be stuck behind a drum set for the entire show?
“Okay, beautiful.” Kellie caps the eyeliner, winks, and steps to the side so I can see my reflection. Whoa. Not anything I’d ever do, but damn! I look badass and rock star . . . and my mother would hate it.
“I love it.” I offer praise to her expectant stare.
Her lips split into a radiant smile. “Come on, Stu. We don’t have all night.”
“Can’t rush perfection,” Stu sasses, turning toward me with a roll of his eyes. He hands me a shirt. “Here. This.”
Vintage Van Halen. Nice.
He watches as I put it on and turns to Kellie. “Jean jacket or leather?”
“Try the leather.”
He nods and slides one off the rack and onto my arms. If the makeup weren’t enough, this jacket is something Mother would have burned on sight. I fucking love it.
“Jesus, we have ourselves a baby James Dean.” Stu fans his face.
Kellie grins as I check myself out in the mirror. “God, the women are gonna love you,” she says.
Stu whistles and shakes his head. “Not only the women.” He holds out his hand and snaps. “Finishing touch. Pants.”
“You want me to take off my pants?” I step back. “Here?”
Kellie laughs. “My God! Would you give him a break? You’re gonna scare the poor thing.”
Stu grins and lets loose a chuckle. “You can change through that door.” He picks up a pair of black jeans and tosses them my way.
I catch them and balk. “You mean there was a changing room this entire time?”
“Sorry, honey.” He shrugs but by the smile on his and Kellie’s faces, neither of them feels bad.
I push into the room, take off my jeans and tug on the black pants. I thought they were jean, but they’re softer and stretchy. Good thing because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to pull them over my thighs. There’s no mirror in this room, but I don’t need one to know these pants show everything, including the bulge at the front.
I open the door and once again I’m greeted by one of Stu’s whistles. He hands me a pair of black boots and nods in appreciation.
Kellie offers the same satisfied smile. “Leighton, you’re ready, kid. Go break a leg.”
After a quick chat with Everlyn, the three-member band who’s opening for us on this tour, we head into the green room to wait. I never get nervous before a performance, and that’s because I’m always prepared. Tonight is different.
I’ve memorized the music, and I know my part, but I have no idea what it’s like to perform to a screaming crowd. I’ve only played for reverent orchestra goers. I haven’t ventured out of a practice studio with these guys. Do they follow the set? Improvise on the spot? I’m used to a conductor, someone who calls the shots and keeps the music on track. Questions and possible scenarios for how this could go wrong spin in my mind on a loop.
Damn. Is this what performance anxiety feels like? In all my years as a classical concert pianist I’ve never felt this much pressure. To battle my n
erves, I tap out the set on a pair of rubber practice pads, going through the entire show, but it barely eases my building fears.
The guys sip beer and watch the Giants game, shouting obscenities at the screen every few minutes as if they aren’t about to kick off their next North American tour. It’s almost go time. I expect more enthusiasm. Partying? Shots? Something. Instead they appear more chill than ever. We all might as well be sitting in a sports bar.
My cell buzzes with a text alert.
The Devil: Meet in five. Restrooms south of green room.
My uncle. I’d rather not deal with him, now or at all this evening. But considering how incessant he is when he wants something, I better get it over with. Setting my sticks on the table, I push off the couch.
“Everything cool?” Sean tips his chin.
“Yeah, gotta piss.” I start for the door.
Trent blocks my path with his arm. “You sure? ’Cause you don’t look so great.”
“Twenty bucks says he’s gonna puke.” Austin laughs.
“It’s okay, man.” Trent appears genuinely concerned. “Aust pukes all the time before shows.” He bursts into laughter.
“I do not!”
“Not anymore, but you used to.” Trent rolls his eyes, and before I can dart out of the room, he turns his stare back to me. “Sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. I’ll be right back.”
Sean grimaces, offering what must be his idea of sound advice. “Just let it all out. One and done. Then get your ass back here.”
I nod and shut the door behind me, exhaling a sigh of relief that none of them decide to follow me out. I walk south, glancing around to make sure no one watches while I search for my uncle.
“There’s the rock star.” He steps from behind an alcove.
“Hey, Bedo.” The nerves I worked so hard to keep at bay come rushing forward. I feel like I might faint.
“Ready?” My uncle furrows his brow, his voice turning hard. “You better not—”
I lift my hands to stop him. “—Fuck this up, I know. And I won’t. Give me some credit.”
“You’re right. I apologize.” He gives me a onceover. “Eyeliner? How Duran Duran.”
“That all you wanted? To bust my chops?” I raise my brows and nod back the way I came. “I’ll be on my way.”
“No.” Bedo grabs my elbow before I turn. “What’s with the girl?”
“Girl?” I furrow my brow, but I can guess exactly which woman he’s referring to. “You mean Opal?”
“Yeah. What’s her deal? Why did Trent insist she come along as his personal assistant?” He lowers his voice and takes a step closer. “He’s looking to make a move, isn’t he? Break away from the label?” There’s a desperation to his words that I’ve never witnessed before. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then I remember who I’m talking with.
An impulsive need to protect Opal rushes through my mind. It’s odd. I don’t know anything about her other than I’m insanely attracted to her. I shake off my feelings and shrug. “I don’t know, but she’s hot. Got that whole innocent act down pat.”
His lips pinch together and he smacks his pointer finger into my chest. “Oh, no, you don’t. Stay away from her. You are here to help, not cause more trouble.”
“Funny.” I force a chuckle through my lips. “I thought I was here to play drums.”
His brow pulls with his frown and he takes a step closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t forget why you’re here.”
I lean in closer. “Oh, I haven’t . . . Uncle.”
“That’s enough.” He steps back, annoyance written in his scowl as he pulls his phone from his pocket and begins tapping on the damn thing. “Find out why the girl’s here. Who she is. She’s got to be connected to another label. I’m certain. And keep your ears and eyes open for anything else.” He doesn’t lift his gaze.
“If you ask me to sleep with her, I’d find all that out and more.”
Bedo’s gaze snaps up. It was my intent to gain his attention with my comment, but I’m surprised to find the trace of a smile cross his lips. “You know what? That might just work. Last resort, of course. Toy with her for now. Keep her close but no fucking. I mean it. You’re nothing to these guys, totally replaceable. It’s not worth the risk. Not yet.”
“Sure, whatever you want.” I try not to let his words get to me, because I know they’re true, and not personal. Doesn’t mean they sting any less. I wonder what it’d be like, to be wanted for more than social connections or sex or temporary motives. What it’d be like to have friends who go to bat and have your back no matter what life throws. Sad. Really, because that’s something I’ll never experience. Not with millions for an inheritance and Wellington as a last name.
“Bedo?” Trent calls down the hall.
Shit. I don’t know what to do. I can’t run or slink off without Trent noticing, so I turn and act like it’s no big deal to be having a private chat with the band manager. Fuck, I hope I pull it off.
Trent’s eyes widen as they meet mine, and he tilts his head. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“New kid forgot to initial one of the pages to his contract.” My uncle slaps my back before patting the briefcase in his other hand—a briefcase I never even noticed him carrying. Maybe he really is the devil. “Everything good, Trent?”
“Ready to hit the stage. We almost on?”
“I’ll check with Jimmy.” Bedo strides toward the hall that leads back stage. The bass drum reverberates along with the wail of a guitar. Everlyn stops playing, and in the absence of their music a roar of applause hits my ears.
“New kid, you ready for all this?” Trent nods toward the noise.
God, I really hope that nickname doesn’t stick. “Oh, I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this my whole life.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “And that’s what exactly? Twenty-one, twenty-two years?”
I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I’ll be nineteen at the end of summer.”
“No shit!” Trent’s eyes go wide and he meets my stare. When I don’t look away or change my answer he glances up at the sky and squeezes his eyes shut as if that’ll make me older. Or maybe he’s only attempting to tamp down his irritation.
Sucks, I get it, but I don’t have it in me to feel bad. His reaction is familiar territory. I played my first symphony at ten years old. People have always assumed I’m older than I am. Mostly because of my skills as a musician, but also because of how I carry myself—one positive attribute from the etiquette training my parents insisted upon.
Trent meets my gaze. He’s not mad. “You really are a musical genius, aren’t you?” He shakes his head, the hint of laughter in his tone.
I shrug, not wanting to come across as arrogant.
“You can’t even deny it. I remember what we sounded like when we were nineteen and it was pretty much crap. Dude. We’re so lucky to have you.” He lifts his hand for a high five.
“Thanks.” I slap his hand and he pulls me in to clasp my back before stepping away. His compliment is unexpected. It takes me off guard. “I’m thankful for the opportunity. I love your music. I’ve been following you guys since Pursuit of Ugliness dropped.”
“Dude.” Trent shakes his head, his hair falling into his face before he whips it back. “Just stop. What were you, like fifteen?”
I let loose a chuckle. “Yeah.”
“Let’s not mention that again.” He slings his arm around my shoulder and walks us toward the green room. “Like, ever.”
“Deal.” My lips pull wide with a genuine smile and I realize I’m not nervous anymore.
80
Opal
From the second we hit San Francisco the guys are whisked off to get ready for the show and I can finally breathe. Free. Not that there’s anything wrong with the guys. It’s more I don’t know how to relax in a room of hot and famous rock stars. Especially the two I’m painstakingly attracted to.
A
ustin’s a flirt, and friendlier than the bad boy he portrays online. Yeah, I Googled him after he offered to teach me to play guitar. He’s insanely gorgeous, and his inked skin only adds to the attraction. But I can’t imagine I’m more than a toy to him. He’s older than me by more than ten years, and more experienced in every facet of life. Totally intimidating. Even though he has this uncanny ability to make me laugh, I feel the need to guard my heart against his infectious smile. He’s trouble and I know it.
Then there’s Leighton. Sigh. He’s the type of guy I’d crush on back home. Clean cut. Intelligent. A strong jaw and cheekbones reminiscent of the old Hollywood bad boys. James Dean. Brando. Those deep-set eyes that hold equal parts mischief and darkness. I don’t know his exact age but I’d guess he’s much closer to me than Austin. Which is stupid to even contemplate because neither man is interested. They’re not merely way out of my league, they’re in another atmosphere.
A knock at the bus door draws me from my thoughts. The man who pokes his head inside is familiar. I didn’t catch his name, but he was there when we left LA this morning. “Opal?”
“That’s me.” I stand up and wave.
“I’m Dave. Trent asked me to escort you backstage. You ready?”
I nod and glance down at my sundress once more before I follow Dave outside and through the back entrance of the arena. The floral patterned fabric of the skirt brushes my knees. It’s one of the nicest outfits I own, and even paired with my brown leather boots, I feel as though I stick out like a sore thumb. Too country. Too modest. First opportunity I have, I’m splurging on new clothes.
“Excuse the madness.” Dave grins, and not a second later yanks me to the side as a roadie barrels through and almost knocks me to the ground. “Whoa. You okay?”
“I’m good.” Eyes wide, I nod and follow his path. That roadie would have run me over. Rolled right over my feet like I don’t even exist. I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it rattles more than my nerves. Am I really so invisible? I don’t give voice to the answer.
