by Vi Keeland
He holds my eyes for a moment, almost as if he’s searching for something, before he responds. “Your nose scrunched up each time you took a sip.” He shrugs and takes a draw on his beer, eyes watching me over the tipped-up bottle.
I squint at him and lift the drink to my lips.
“Better?” he asks.
“It is. But how did you know what I was drinking?”
“Asked the waitress who kept bringing you the wrong ones.”
“And she suddenly found the recipe to make it right when you asked?” I arch one eyebrow suspiciously. I knew that woman was doing it on purpose.
Flynn looks a bit embarrassed.
“Well, thank you for noticing and coming to my rescue. You’re quite observant.”
He chuckles. “Women tend to call me the other O word.”
My brain jumps to orgasm, even though I know it makes no sense that a woman would call him an orgasm. “What other O word is that?”
“Oblivious.” He drains half of his beer. “So what brings you out here?”
“Just needed some fresh air. You?”
He averts his eyes, looking down almost shyly. Then he shrugs, and the crooked smile that I imagine has charmed the pants off droves of women is back. “I saw you come out here.”
“Won’t your date be looking for you?”
“Didn’t bring a date. Won’t yours?”
“Dylan’s busy. Not even sure he noticed I’m gone.”
He looks at me thoughtfully for a minute, and I think he’s going to say something, but then he seems to think better of it and just nods.
“So you have some pretty legendary parents, huh?”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Stalk much?”
“I prefer to call it industry research.”
“Hmmm. So you know who Avery’s mom is?”
“Avery?”
“My best friend. The new co-owner of Lucky’s.”
“Her parents are in the business too?”
“Nope.” We both laugh. “How’s your voice holding up?”
“It’s hanging in there.”
“You should rest it between the shows on the Wylde Ryde tour. Forty shows in forty days is too much for any set of vocal cords.”
Flynn grins, but says nothing.
“What?” I ask, confused at what I’ve said that’s put the sexy-as-hell smirk on his face.
“Stalk much?”
Damn it. So maybe I learned a little from Google the night after we had breakfast. My cheeks heat, but I pull a play card from his deck. “I prefer to call it industry research.”
He throws his head back and laughs. Innocently closing the small distance between us, Flynn moves to stand next to me at the rail. When his arm brushes against mine, every hair on my body stands up and welcomes the close proximity.
“Leather pants,” he murmurs, then sips his drink. “I hope you know you’re killing me.”
Somehow, I knew he’d remember the conversation we had. I change the subject before he asks if I wore them on purpose. My skin isn’t good at lying. “You know, if you spend too much time out here with me, the blonde who was hanging on you might find another rockstar inside.”
“Oh yeah. Does that work both ways? If I spend too much time out here, is it possible you’ll find a new rockstar, too?” The shy, yet completely irresistible boyish smirk is back. Lord, it’s even more dangerous up close. I need to get out of here before I forget which rockstar I came with. Actually, now that I remember, I came here alone.
“There you are!” The curtain parts and the blonde who was wrapped around Flynn shrieks. She eyes me up and then snuggles close to him, her hands possessively attaching themselves to him from behind.
Suddenly, I feel like a third wheel. And yet I have the urge to peel the woman’s hands off him at the same time. “I should get back. Thank you for the drink.” I force a smile and turn toward the curtain-clad set of double doors.
“Wait.” He reaches for my arm and I turn back. A few awkward heartbeats pass and then a goofy smile lights up his face. He stopped me from leaving as if he had something to say, but now is drawing a blank. “Umm,” he fishes for something. “This is Lucky,” he introduces me to the blonde. “Lucky, this is…” He totally has no idea what her name is, even though she’s been hanging on him for the last few hours.
Blondie takes his cue, not looking even remotely offended. “Kylie.”
Figures.
“Nice to meet you, Kylie,” I say.
Ignoring me completely now, she focuses her attention on Flynn, who has turned his body in my direction. Not garnering the response she seeks, she walks around to face him, effectively standing between the two of us, her back to me. “I was hoping for just me and you. But if you want a three-way, can we make it a four-way? My friend would love to join, too.”
My eyes flash with irritation at her assumption. Yet Flynn takes her offer in perfect stride—as if an offer for a threesome, or foursome for that matter, is an everyday occurrence. He rubs his hands up and down Blondie’s arms, more soothing than enticing. “Thanks, maybe another time.” He looks to me apologetically.
With only a roll of my eyes as a parting gesture, I turn to make my way back into the party. I don’t belong out here with Flynn anyway. Not when the man I’ve dreamed about for half my life is waiting for me inside, and he’s leaving to go back on tour tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Flynn
“Fucker needs to get a damn coffee pot,” I grumble, grabbing a container of orange juice from the top shelf of the fridge. I lift, expecting weight, but it’s light as air. Shaking it up and down, there’s no swish of juice inside. Of course.
A warm hand on my bare back surprises me. “Morning,” a come-hither voice purrs. I turn to find a naked woman. She’s tall, only an inch or two shorter than me, probably almost six feet, with bleached blond spiky hair and tan skin. Her body is toned and sinewy, not generally my type, but damn if she isn’t sexy as hell.
“Morning. Nolan still sleeping?”
“He snores.”
I chuckle. “No shit. Try sleeping on a bus with him. The shake from his snore is worse than the vibration of the engine. He also doesn’t have a coffee pot.”
“You’re Flynn, right?”
“I am.”
Naked Woman pours herself a glass of water and drinks it, then refills it and offers the glass to me. I take it and guzzle down half of it.
“I like the rain, Flynn,” she says in a husky voice as she presses her palms against my bare chest. I’m wearing boxer briefs, didn’t bother to slip on the pants I left next to the couch when I crashed last night. It was quiet when I let myself in; I assumed Nolan was alone or not home yet.
“Don’t think it’s supposed to rain today.”
She reaches down and squeezes a handful of my morning wood. “You can make it rain. Golden showers in the morning bring sunshine the rest of the day.”
I choke on the last mouthful of water. “Ummm…thanks, but I have to run.” As in, run the fuck out of this place. I take a few steps toward the couch to collect my things, and can’t help myself. “You know, Nolan loves to be woken up with a heavy rain.”
The woman’s eyes glimmer with excitement and she hurriedly retreats toward the bedroom. Nolan knows how to pick ‘em. I’d better disappear quickly; he’s going to kick my ass after getting woken up by a warm stream of yellow on his face that isn’t sunshine.
I stop by Becca’s and hang with Laney for a few hours before grabbing a quick shower. I trade my usual coffee in for hot tea in an attempt to soothe my raw throat. It’s on fire from the smoky after-party that made the label’s Easy Ryder album release party seem like a party full of priests.
Unlike most nights lately, I went home alone at the end of the party. Although it definitely wasn’t for lack of opportunity. The Easy Ryder guys may have ten years on us, their groupies are older, but it doesn’t mean things have slowed for them by any means. Just the opposite, in fact. The s
mokin’ hot thirty-somethings are more aggressive than the barely legal women who tend to follow In Like Flynn around.
I walk into Pulse Records right at three. Afternoon appointments for musicians tend to be a given. Today Nolan and I are being introduced to our practice manager—the person assigned to keep our asses in line as we get ready to join the Wylde Ryde tour. She won’t have any problem with In Like Flynn showing up for the practice schedule she sets, but I hope she’s got thick skin with Nolan and the rest of the guys.
Nolan strides in looking like what he is—severely hung over, maybe even still drunk. Tabby, the practice manager, takes one look at him and tells him she’s going to get him a protein shake.
“How was your morning?” Lounging back in my chair, I link my fingers together behind my head and settle in to enjoy the entertainment.
Nolan groans. “I’m not sure if night ended and morning actually began yet.”
“Usually, I call morning anything after I take a shower. I feel like my morning shower is a rebirth of sorts. Almost like a christening.”
Nolan shoots me a look that tells me he knows I’m up to something, yet he’s still in the dark about what the hell it is. “What the fuck is up with you today?”
“Nothing.” My face gives away that I’m full of shit.
A few minutes, later Tabby comes back in with Nolan’s shake. “Ready to get started?”
“I’m sorry. I need to hit the restroom before we get started. Can you just give me a minute, Tabby?”
“Sure, of course. No problem. Nolan and I will get to know each other.”
“You sure you don’t have to go, Nolan?” I ask as I unfold from my chair.
“What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t take a piss on your own now?” Hung over and suspicious equates to a short fuse for my longtime friend and bass player.
I pat him on the back as I pass by the seat he’s slumped in and lean down so only he can hear. “Thought maybe you’d want to stand in front of the urinal. Heard you like golden showers these days.”
Sick, hung over, drunk or not, Nolan tears ass and chases me around the entire floor. I’m going to guess Tabby got a fair sample of what she’s in for over the next few months.
I told myself I was going to the meeting and leaving. I wasn’t going to hang around like a puppy looking for scraps of something he has no business sniffing around. Yet here I am, for the fourth time, passing by the studio where I know she works. I grumble at myself and set off to grab the coffee I avoided earlier before traveling back downtown.
Deciding some fresh air will do me good, help clear my head, I stroll to the main entrance. In the reflection on the glass lobby doors, a set of legs catches my attention. I’ve never seen them before, yet I know who they belong to before I raise my eyes to take in her beautiful face.
I hold the door open and wait for Lucky to pass. She’s busy messing with her phone and doesn’t look up until she’s about to cross the threshold. “Thank you,” she says, and then her eyes focus on my face and surprise registers on hers.
“Flynn?”
“At your service.” I bow my head and pull the door wider, sweeping my hand for her to walk through.
She smiles, but squints to assess me. “Are you following me, Mr. Beckham?”
The way my last name falls from her lips has me momentarily glad she knows I’m Mr. Beckham, because I could definitely get lost in this woman and forget my own name. “Wouldn’t I be behind you if I was following you?”
“I suppose…” she trails off suspiciously.
“You’re following me, aren’t you?” I deadpan.
“What? No! I am not. I was just leaving. I didn’t—”
“Relax. I’m kidding.”
“Oh.”
Without thinking, I rest my hand on the small of her back and guide her the rest of the way out of the building. It feels natural—right—so I don’t let go even when we’re outside.
“Your voice sounds hoarse, is it bothering you?”
It’s not. “Maybe a little.”
With concern in her eyes, Lucky stops and lifts her hands to my throat. “Is it sensitive to my touch?”
No. Although some other parts of my body feel your touch. “A little.”
“You need to retrain your voice or you’re going to wind up without one. Come by the studio. At least let me teach you some new techniques to help keep the strain off your cords.”
If she were any other woman, with the way my body reacts around her, I’d be detailing the techniques I’d like to show her in return. But I don’t. She’s not just any woman…she’s Dylan freaking Ryder’s woman. I should walk away, not even go near the temptation. But living life without temptation is like having a heart that doesn’t beat. And I’m a musician. I need a good strong beat.
Chapter Eight
Lucky
I peer at the clock through sleepy eyes and want nothing more than to turn over and pretend today isn’t today. But it is. Cheery sunlight flitters into the room through the open blinds and lands straight on my face. Dark clouds and rain would be more appropriate to match my temperament for the day I’m facing.
The life we want does not often come easy. It was one of my dad’s favorite dadisms. I used to ignore most of them, sometimes even roll my eyes when I heard them spoken. I listened to the words a hundred times, yet I never really heard him. Not until I woke up one day and realized I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m frozen in place. And it isn’t just the singing.
Settled into a comfortable life, I resist most change. My career, my friends—even my relationship with Dylan. He’s older, and moves at a faster pace than me. I don’t want to leave another one of my dreams behind. So I started seeing Dr. Curtis again. We worked together on my stage fright for almost four years, before I finally gave up. Six months ago, I decided it was time to try again. I realized I was more afraid of regret than I was of making changes.
When Dr. Curtis and I came up with the twelve-step-like program to combat my fear of singing on stage, it seemed so easy. The plans were all in the future, not the here and now. Now the day of reckoning is staring me in my face.
Step one: Admit you have a problem. That was a piece of cake.
Step two: Let go of the past. And so I sold half of Lucky’s to Avery. Became a silent partner only. Check.
Step three: Get a job that involves music. Pulse Records voice coach. Check. I’m making progress. On a roll now.
Step four: Sing for a small crowd of friends on a small stage.
The needle of progress makes a loud screeching sound as it halts. Herein lies the reason for my racing pulse this morning. I’ve already spent hours debating the definition of “a small crowd.” My definition was Avery and Jase. Somehow, I let Avery talk me into three more. Five is most definitely a small crowd. The idea of singing in front of one person makes my palms sweat. Two makes me lightheaded. I can’t even imagine what five will bring.
To make matters worse, I have to get through a packed day at work, which includes an hour of one-on-one coaching with Flynn. It’s not that I don’t want to help Flynn…it’s that I really want to help Flynn. Perhaps I’m a little too eager.
My entire life has been spent around musicians. Famous, infamous—legends, even—I stopped getting anxious around them years ago. But something about Flynn Beckham makes me nervous. He’s different. Sure, from the outside he’s a rockstar, all gorgeous and self-confident, with that laid-back swagger that comes with years of being praised for a multitude of talents. Yet somehow he still feels unaffected by fame. He’s playful. And comforting. Oddly, I find myself thinking my dad would have liked him.
The first step in assessing a singer’s vocal health is to observe. I ask the artist to recite the words to the song they last sang so I can examine their vocal posture during normal speech and inflection.
“Just a verse is fine. I want to see how you’re filtering laryngeally generated sound up through your vocal tract.”
Flyn
n shrugs. “If you say so.” Then he proceeds to recite some lyrics, “‘When life gets rough, I like to hold on to my dream of relaxing in the summer sun, just lettin’ off steam.’”
The words are vaguely familiar. “Is that from one of your songs?”
“Nope.” He offers nothing more.
“It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. Who sings it?”
“Olaf.”
“Olaf?”
He smiles. “It’s from the Frozen soundtrack.”
“That’s the last song you sang?”
“Sang it three times just this morning.”
“Disney fanatic?”
“My niece, Laney, loves it.”
Earrings, rings, leather tied around his wrists, tatted skin, scruff on his face, hair a sexy mess—and sings Disney songs to his niece. The inside of this man may just be as beautiful as the outside.
“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. How old is she?”
“Four.”
“Does she know her uncle is a rockstar?”
“Definitely not. Did you know your parents were rockstars?”
I laugh at the notion. “Definitely not. My dad was a total goofball.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s how Laney feels. I’m the uncle who lets her eat crap and go out in her pajamas. She jumps up and down when I enter a room, but it’s basically because I bribe her to think I’m cool.”
“Sounds more like she thinks you’re cool because she knows the real you.”
“Did you think your dad was cool?”
“Not until I was an adult. I remember this one time, I must have been about twelve, we were walking down the street and this woman ran up to him and asked him for his autograph. She whipped open her shirt, right there on the street, for him to sign her boob and she wasn’t wearing a bra.”
“What did your dad do?”
“He pulled her shirt closed and told her to have some respect for his daughter. I thought the woman had to have escaped from a mental institution to do that to my dad. I mean, he was just Dad.”
“You saw him for who he really was. Everyone else saw the image they wanted to see. The hard part of fame is remembering which expectation you need to live up to. It’s easier to do what the fans expect. Living up to the Laney standard is much harder.”
