by Vi Keeland
“Legions of women would be devastated if they knew your heart was already taken. Laney is a lucky girl.”
“I’m saving room for one more in there, don’t worry.” He winks. And all I can think is that that girl is damn lucky, and part of me wishes it was with a capital L.
Getting through Flynn singing is incredibly hard. Who knew the songs from Frozen could be so unbelievably sexy? The way his throat moves, the way his mouth caresses each syllable of the low, raspy sound that falls from his lips. I should be watching his posture, his breathing, the way his larynx forces out the words—but instead I’m focused on the beauty of his mouth and how the sound of his voice glides over my body, making it feel both warm and tingly at the same time. I’m lost when the song finishes, yet I haven’t really observed him yet.
“So. Give it to me straight. What am I doing wrong?”
Ummm…absolutely nothing from what I can see. Everything was perfect. Don’t change a thing. Shit. “Could you do it again? Maybe a different song, one you haven’t sung in a while. So the sounds are less familiar to your body. Sometimes that can give me a different view.” At least I make it sound like a real thing when the words come out.
He sings again, and this time I force myself to observe. “Hmm…your posture is great. Most people have a tendency to favor one side of their neck, which makes them tilt a bit when they speak, and it becomes magnified when they sing, which puts strain on the muscles around the vocal cords. Your alignment is perfect.”
“Thank you, it goes with the rest of my perfectness,” he says with a teasing arrogance that, from the little I know about him, I know isn’t real.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“You can’t now tell me I’m not perfect. I was already basking in the glow.”
“Actually, it was perfect…but almost a little too perfect. Which makes me think you don’t usually stand this way when you sing.”
“It isn’t the way I normally sing. On stage, I usually have a guitar over my shoulder. Even if I’m not playing it, it’s there.”
“Well, I need to see you holding your instrument to assess you fully, then.”
Flynn’s eyebrows quirk up and the dirty grin on his face is unmistakable.
“The guitar. I’d need to see you holding the guitar.”
“That’s a shame.” He shrugs, the playful smile still on his face. “But okay. It’s your call. Whatever instrument you want to see me hold is fine with me.”
“How big of you.”
“So now we’re talking about the other instrument again?”
I roll my eyes, although this conversation is having more of an effect on me than I let on.
It’s after six when we finish, yet it feels more like fifteen minutes and not two hours that have passed. “I have to run. I’m helping out Avery at Lucky’s tonight. She’s not having much success finding a waitress.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by tonight with some of the guys from the band. If that’s all right?”
“I’m sure Avery would be excited if you came. The place will be buzzing with In Like Flynn making an appearance.”
Flynn leans in to me, the scruff on his jaw rubbing against my cheek. “Isn’t Avery I want excited when I come.” He kisses my cheek and disappears, as if his words aren’t going to leave me flustered for hours.
Chapter Nine
Lucky—
Nine years earlier,
age sixteen
“You excited, princess?” Dad pops a square of the Hershey’s Special Dark we share every day into his mouth.
“I can’t wait. I haven’t seen her in six months.”
Dad’s face falters for a fraction of a second, but then he smiles. “I was talking about getting on stage this afternoon.”
“Oh. Yeah. That too, Dad.”
“You nervous?”
I’m not really sure if he’s asking about Mom or singing this time, so I give an answer that I think will satisfy him for both. “A little.” The truth is, I’m nervous about seeing Mom again. I’m not sure why. I wasn’t even nervous about singing on stage at Lucky’s for the first time, until Dad told me Mom was coming to watch. Then my palms started to sweat when I thought about performing—in front of Iris Nicks.
“You’re going to be great. You were born to be on a stage. I wish I had half the talent you do.” Dad kisses my forehead.
I’ve sung in front of crowds before. A few months ago, the school talent show was sold out when I sang—every seat filled with kids I’d have to see at school the next day, yet I didn’t hesitate when I walked out on stage. I remember standing behind the curtain, watching the Massey twins do their gymnastics routine while I waited for my turn. My eyes scanned the crowd, a feeling of anticipation beginning to creep up from the pit of my stomach as the audience roared with applause when the twins landed their final flips. I was next. Then, right before I got on stage, I caught sight of the man standing in the back corner of the audience. Arms folded, standing tall, a proud look on his smiling face. Dad. The announcer called my name and I took a deep breath and walked slowly to the center of the stage. The lights blinded my vision to everything below. But I still knew he was there. I sang my heart out as if he was the only one watching. Somehow, it was all I needed.
Today, Mom arrives a half hour before my scheduled show time. A flurry of activity surrounds her entrance, as it always does. She’s never alone. I watch from the corner of the room as she kisses Dad hello. On the lips. He smiles and rubs his hands up and down her arms. My parents definitely have a strange relationship. Half of my friends have parents that are divorced, but most of them can’t stand the sight of each other. Maybe it’s because my parents never married that their uncoupling when I was five was so much more harmonious.
Mom looks around the room and her smile brightens when her eyes land on me. She walks toward me with her arms open wide, and it takes every bit of my sixteen-year-old cool self not to run to her. Don’t get me wrong, I love living with my dad, I just wish I got to see Iris more.
An hour later, it’s show time. Lucky’s is packed, even though it’s a Sunday afternoon. It’s an odd mix of my parents’ music friends, industry people and a handful of kids from school. Avery stands next to me on the side of the stage as the MC introduces me. With a nudge from her, I walk the few steps until I’m standing front and center. My eyes roam the audience. Unlike the time I sang at school, there are no blinding lights to restrict my view. Instead, I see every face—every face watching me.
Eyes connect with mine. Expecting. Waiting. Watching. I just stand there. A deer frozen in the headlights. Mom sits front and center. She nods. As if to say, go on, start singing already, but I don’t. Instead, I frantically search for Dad. He’s standing in the back of the room. Our eyes lock and I ease a bit just finding him. I look down at his feet and nod to the small band standing behind me and they begin to play. Thirty seconds later, I’m singing my heart out and can’t see a single person, even though nothing has changed.
Chapter Ten
Lucky
It’s been two days since I heard from Dylan. The sound of his sexy voice does what it’s done to me since I was fourteen years old—I grin like a teenager when he says he misses me.
“I miss you, too.”
“What have you got planned for tonight?”
“I’m actually on my way to Lucky’s now. Avery’s still down a waitress, so I’m filling in.”
“Why is it that you’re always there when she needs you, but not when I need you?”
“When did you need me?”
“I need you now.” Dylan wanted me to go with him on tour. Sell Lucky’s entirely and travel with Easy Ryder. It’s been a source of contention between us lately, and part of the reason I decided it was time to start seeing Dr. Curtis again.
“You don’t need me. You want me. There’s a difference.”
“You keep saying that, but you’re disregarding my needs.”
“Really? I thought I did pret
ty good fulfilling your needs.”
“When you’re actually around, you do.”
“We’ll see each other in less than two weeks. I’m coming to the Atlanta show. Remember?”
“Two weeks is a long time.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.”
“That’s bullshit. I still don’t see why you couldn’t come with me.”
“You know why.” We’ve been through this a dozen times and the place to rehash it is not on the phone while I’m walking into Lucky’s. He doesn’t get why I need to keep with my plan. Why not being on stage is holding back more than just my singing career. I need to break through to move forward. “Tonight I’m going to get up on stage after Lucky’s closes.” Saying the words out loud brings a new wave of nausea.
“You’ll do great. Although that little stage is beneath you.”
“You sang on this stage once.”
There are some gargled voices in the background. Dylan covers the phone and then returns. “I gotta run. I need to do a sound check.”
“Okay. Good luck with tonight’s show.”
The bar is busy, but that doesn’t stop me from checking the time on my phone every three minutes. The way I’m watching the minutes tick down with dread, you’d think a bomb was due to explode. Actually, with how terrified I feel, waiting for detonation might be easier.
I clear a table and head toward the bar with new drink orders completely oblivious to my surroundings, when a familiar voice greets me. I jump, the simple sound startles me from my obsessive preoccupation with how many minutes remain until I’m facing the firing squad. My full tray wobbles on my unsteady hands and then tips, sending a half dozen empty glasses smashing to the wooden floor, where they shatter into a million tiny pieces.
“Shit!” I drop to my knees and attempt to rake the glass with my hands, but all it does is slice small shards into my fingers.
“Are you okay?” Flynn says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I thought you saw me.” He’s down on his knees attempting to help me gather the mess I’ve made.
“It’s not your fault. I’m…just a little preoccupied tonight.”
“A little? My uncle Nathan with Parkinson’s has more stable hands than you tonight.” I look up at Avery and she points in the direction of the back. “Go! You need a break. Jase and I got this. Take as long as you need.”
“You sure?”
“I insist.” She jabs her finger at the man next to me. “You. Flynn. Go with her,” Avery orders. She hands him a bottle. “Take this. She needs it.”
A minute later, we’re outside. The fresh air hits me and suddenly I’m bent over, hands on my knees, gulping air like I’ve been deprived.
Flynn wraps his arms around my waist and grabs me tight—he’s afraid I might fall. “You okay?”
I take a few shallow breaths before I respond. “I’m good. Sorry. Panic attack. It’s been a while since I’ve had one. I forgot what they can do to me.”
We’re in the alley behind the bar. Surprisingly, it’s empty—usually there are a few smokers polluting the air back here. Flynn rubs my back as I attempt to regain my composure.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks as my breathing returns to normal.
Two guys stumble loudly into the alley, lighting cigarettes before they’re even fully out the door. Flynn looks at them, then me, and grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
Fingers linked, we walk silently from the alley and make our way around the corner to a bench just outside Bryant Park. It’s after midnight and the street is quiet, especially for New York.
“So, I’d like to think you were so happy to see me, you couldn’t contain your excitement. But something tells me that isn’t it.” Flynn uncaps the bottle of Jack Daniels that Avery handed him and offers it to me.
I take a swig. My face scrunches up from the taste. “Thank you for walking with me. I actually feel better already.” I extend the uncapped bottle back to him.
He lifts the bottle to his lips, and then stops. “Glad I can help. Hope it’s my company and not the alcohol.” He gulps a shot from the bottle and smiles. “So tell me what’s going on? What’s got you so anxious?”
“It’s just…anticipation of something I need to do.”
“You breaking up with Dylan?” His voice sounds hopeful.
“No. Nothing like that.”
He brings the bottle to his mouth a second time, mumbling before he drinks, “That’s too bad.”
The first real smile of the day threatens my lips. “You’re ridiculously charming, Mr. Beckham. Women must fall at your feet.”
“Not the right ones,” he says and offers me the bottle, but I decline. “So talk to me. What’s got your sexy self all twisted up tonight?”
“It’s nothing, really. I…” It’s difficult to admit my fears to anyone, let alone a guy who does what I fear most on a regular basis and makes it look as easy as breathing. “I sort of have stage fright.”
“Okay…” he says, waiting for more.
“And I’m supposed to sing tonight at the bar.”
“When was the last time you got up on stage?”
“Eight years ago.”
“Wow. It’s been a while. Have you tried before tonight?”
“No.” I chuckle, knowing how ridiculous I must sound. “I’ve been working up my courage.”
I expect him to laugh at my admission, but he doesn’t. “Did you always have a fear, or did something happen that scared you?”
“A little of both.” It’s the truth. Well, sort of. I was always nervous when I got on stage, but then…one day…everything changed.
“When you used to go on stage, what calmed you when your nerves got the best of you?”
I don’t have to think about the answer, yet I take a minute to steady myself before I speak. “My dad.” It’s ironic how the man could be the source of my strength and now, a big part of my fear.
Flynn takes my hand and squeezes. There is something so comforting about the way he looks at me, waits for me to continue. It makes me feel like he really wants to hear whatever I have to say—like each conversation is a layer he peels back, yet his goal isn’t to strip me bare. Instead, he leaves me feeling blanketed.
“The first time I went on stage, other than at school, was here at Lucky’s. I was nervous. The crowd was pretty much filled with faces that I’d already won over before singing my first note—my friends, my mom’s friends, my dad’s buddies. It wasn’t a tough crowd. But I got up there and froze anyway. I looked around the room. Every smiling face my eyes landed on made my heart thump louder in my chest. Until I found my dad in the crowd. He was beaming proudly. It helped to take the edge off, although I still wasn’t sure I could go through with it. But then I looked down and saw he was barefoot.”
“Barefoot in the bar?”
I smile, remembering back to that exact moment. Looking down at his wiggling toes, the spirit of who my father was somehow cracked through all of my tension and brought me relief. “My dad always played barefoot. He liked the feel of the drum pedal under his foot and the vibration that caught on the floorboards and seeped up into his legs. But it was more than that. He said the earth under his feet made him feel grounded…somehow balanced. It helped him forget everything else and give everything over to the sound.” My voice breaks as I finish.
Flynn wraps his arm around me and pulls me close. It feels good, comforting, I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop a few wayward tears from falling. My dad was everything to me.
Although he keeps me physically close at his side, Flynn gives me the mental space I need for a few minutes before he speaks. “He’s going to be watching you tonight. With a big smile and bare feet. He may not be in the audience anymore, but that doesn’t mean he can’t see you. You just need to close your eyes and see him.”
I look up into Flynn’s beautiful blue eyes. “He’d want me to sing.”
“So that’s what you need to
do, then,” he declares with unerring confidence. “You want to know my secret for calming my nerves on stage?”
“You still get nervous?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s worse than others. I can’t even figure out what makes it easier for one show than the next. You’d think it was the venue or size of the audience…but it’s just random for me.”
“Well, tell me your secrets, rockstar.”
“I’ll tell you. But if word gets out, it might tarnish my rockstar status. So you have to keep it to yourself.”
I make an X across my chest. “You have my word.”
“I recite the words to a song in my head and take a walk around the stage.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“The song is ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”
“Oh.” I chuckle. “Guess that might soften the bad-boy rockstar image just a bit.”
“Did you know it has five verses?”
“‘Twinkle, Twinkle’? You mean there’s more to it than just, ‘how I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky’?”
“Yep. A lot more. Most of the world doesn’t know the best parts.”
I shake my head, amused, yet intrigued by his enthusiasm. “Why did we only learn two verses as kids if there are five? And more importantly, why do you know the five?”
“I don’t know why we’ve been deprived of the other three. But I found out about them in college. Astronomy major. Did a paper on what makes stars appear to twinkle and titled it ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, How I Wonder What You Are.’ I looked up the lyrics to make sure I had them right, since half of us sing things we learned as a kid wrong, and found the whole song.”
“Astronomy major, huh? The more I get to know you, the more I find you’re a complete enigma, Flynn Beckham.”
