Beat

by Vi Keeland

  “You don’t need to ask for time off. There’s been a change of plans with your new job.”

  I freeze. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been reassigned.”

  “Reassigned?”

  “Yes. For the next month, you’re on tour with Easy Ryder.”

  “What? Why?” Why would the label send a voice coach to travel with the band? No one has any issues that I’m aware of. “One of the guys is having trouble with his voice?”

  “No. But Linc’s girl is going to have the babies a few weeks earlier than planned and he needs to go home for a few weeks.” Linc Osborne is Easy Ryder’s bass player and sings a few of the songs on their new album. He’s a tenor with a to-die-for falsetto and the songs he does are very popular. His girlfriend is pregnant with twins and the doctors have had her on bed rest for months, trying to hold off labor as long as they can.

  “I’m missing the connection to me.”

  “I got someone to fill in…but the label is concerned. He’s had voice issues and he’s singing a few weeks earlier than he should be. It’s only two songs a night. They’re just being cautious.”

  “So they want me to work with him? While you’re on the road?”

  “Yep.” Dylan pulls me from sitting to lying down on the bed. I’m quickly on my back beneath him. “And that means we both get what we want. I get to have you with me for a while. And you don’t have to miss any work.”

  I’m not really sure how I feel about spending weeks on a tour bus with the band. With Dylan. I suppose a few weeks of being together might help me move forward in our relationship. Dylan’s been pushing for more and I’ve been hesitant. Yet there’s a nagging feeling in my stomach.

  “Say something. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I am,” I say, but the hesitancy is clear in my voice. Even I don’t believe me.

  “I think I need to show you how much fun being my bunkmate on the bus can be.” Dylan rolls us so I’m on top of him. I can feel his happiness about the arrangement pushing up against my belly.

  “But…but I need my things.”

  “I’ll buy you new things.”

  “What about—”

  “Relax, Lucky, will ya? I thought you’d be excited to come on tour.”

  “I am…” Am I?

  “I’ll fly Avery out to spend the weekend when we hit Austin. There’s a festival and a bunch of parties.” Dylan is not a fan of Avery. I know he’s trying.

  His thumb and forefinger tip my chin up so our eyes meet. “It will give you a chance to see if our future is what you envisioned.”

  It suddenly dawns on me for the first time—I’ve never envisioned our future together.

  As if dinner with the lead singer of Easy Ryder didn’t attract enough attention, the full band all sitting around one large round table is the paparazzi’s dream come true. And the guys certainly don’t attempt to keep under the radar. Duff, the keyboard player, is in a heated exchange with Mick, the drummer, when Dylan and I approach the table. We’re a bit late, but then I had a lot of things to do today since I’ll be heading to Miami tomorrow with a bus full of men, rather than back home as expected.

  “No fucking way. I had to listen to months of this guy’s snoring.” Duff jabs his thumb in Linc’s direction. “I am not listening to your sorry ass boning every night over my head.”

  “Maybe if you could find a piece of ass who wanted to bone your little dick, you wouldn’t notice the sound coming from my bunk.”

  “Accommodations dispute,” Dylan leans in and whispers to me as we take our seats. The next part he says louder. “I swear to God, if they aren’t fighting over which chair to sit in, it’s which bunk they get.”

  “Fuck off, Ryder. If you didn’t take the only bedroom, you’d be in these fights too, asswipe.”

  “That’s why I’m glad I’m the king.” Dylan stretches back in his chair. Duff, Linc and Mick hurl bread at his head. Dylan catches the second piece and takes a bite. “Just give the kid the bottom bunk. Duff can move to the top bunk and you can stay where you are.”

  “I don’t want to room with the kid. What is he, like twenty-four? Dude, think of what we were like ten years ago going on our first tour.” Mick looks at me apologetically. “No offense, Lucky.” Then he continues with his rant to Dylan. “And that kid’s prettier than you were. I’ll never get any sleep with all the babes that are gonna be fuckstruck with that one.”

  “Fuckstruck?”

  “He’s gonna be a pussy machine.”

  “Have some manners around my girl, asswipe.”

  Listening to the way the guys describe the activity on the bus starts to make me think I was right for feeling unsure about things earlier. Dylan and I spent all afternoon together. His attentiveness and the simplicity of the day—shopping, walking around Atlanta incognito—had started to mollify the anxiousness I felt when Dylan first surprised me with my temporary job assignment. But now, apprehension is starting to creep up again.

  “Why don’t you declare the bus a guest-free zone? That’s what my Dad always did.”

  Every mouth silences and every head turns in my direction.

  “What’s the point of being in a band if you don’t get laid?” Duff says, aghast at the notion.

  “How about for the music?” a voice I recognize says from behind me.

  It couldn’t be.

  I turn.

  Holy shit.

  But how?

  And Why?

  Then the pieces of the puzzle all click into place and I’m able to see the whole picture. The kid. Voice issues.

  I stare up at Flynn.

  He stares back at me.

  And I realize. I’m totally fuckstruck.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Flynn

  Now this is going to be interesting.

  The label told me they were setting me up with a voice coach. Even though I feel fine, the insurance company wouldn’t insure the tour unless I finished the mandated voice rest period my doctor had suggested on the physical he completed. He’d cleared me for In Like Flynn to open for Easy Ryder starting in two months, but filling in for Linc is much earlier than the doctor was comfortable signing off on. The coaching was how the label convinced my doctor and the insurance company I wasn’t a risk. I must be an idiot. It never once crossed my mind that they’d assign me Lucky.

  Damn, she’s beautiful. It shouldn’t surprise me. I’ve been reminded a lot of that lately with how often I find my thoughts wandering back to her.

  “Only a dude that’s as pretty as you can say you do it for the music.” Duff snorts. “Damn. I’m glad I’m behind a drum set. I wouldn’t want to stand next to you.”

  Dylan’s jaw tenses. He nods in my general direction. “Take a seat, Flynn. You remember my girlfriend, Lucky?”

  “I do. Nice to see you.” I smile and tilt my head, curious about how we’re going to play this.

  She looks up at me, squints, assessing, and then smiles. “Nice to see you, too.”

  There are two open seats, one between Duff and Mick and one next to Lucky. I choose the latter. Who wouldn’t?

  “So, Flynn, ya snore?” Linc asks.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “What’s your fucking style?” Mick says, as if he’s just asked the time.

  “My what?”

  “You know, your fucking style? Are you loud? A slammer? Reverse cowboy? Ménage?”

  “Cut the shit, Mick,” Dylan snaps.

  “What? I’m gonna find out soon enough anyway. It’s a small sleeping area.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve had a dry spell of late.”

  “The way you look? You must have been hanging out in a seminary.”

  “Nah. Just haven’t found anyone interesting who’s available.” Lucky and I exchange fleeting glances.

  “Well, one night on stage with Easy Ryder and my guess is your single ass finds someone interesting enough to help you ride the post-sh
ow high.”

  Throughout dinner, I watch the interactions between Dylan and Lucky. He’s into her, there’s no doubt about it. The unmistakable possessive gestures are there; a part of his body always seems to be touching hers. An arm loosely around the back of her chair, his hand on the table brushing up against hers, the way he leans into her when even the waiter comes around to fill water glasses. A lion with a soundless roar.

  But after two hours, I’m still not sure what to make of how Lucky is with him. It’s nothing out of the ordinary that makes me think she may not return the same level of worship…it’s just that what I see is…ordinary.

  After dinner, the maître d’ comes to the table to tell us a crowd has formed outside. He offers the back door, but the band manager had already suggested the guys sign autographs outside before they leave. We’re pulling out of Atlanta right after the last show, so tonight is a local photo op. Dylan reminds me I’m not part of the band yet, and security escorts Lucky and me to the back door. We slip outside into a dark SUV undetected.

  Alone in the car, neither of us says anything for a minute. Then we both start speaking at the same time. “Did you—” We laugh.

  “You had no idea either?” Lucky says.

  “Nope.”

  “Why does our hanging out last week feel wrong to admit now?”

  I know the answer—it’s a simple one. “Because it felt right.”

  Our eyes lock, and I feel it. The shit that stirs through the air when I’m near her. Damn. And fucking A if she doesn’t smell incredible too. The oversized SUV suddenly feels pretty small.

  I’m actually grateful when security pulls the SUV around to the front of the restaurant and Dylan and Duff hop inside. I’m not sure how much longer I could sit next to her and not touch. I think about it the whole ride back to the hotel. And I wonder, what would she have done if I had touched?

  I load my stuff onto the bus before we head to the final show in Atlanta. Unsure where I’m bunking, I toss my bag under the table and take a look around. To the right, a long desk, equipped with a large flat-screen TV, various game consoles and two laptops securely affixed, dominates the living area. The rest of the space is taken up by a leather couch, capable of holding the entire band, a wide matching recliner, two tables, and compact, but efficiently equipped, stainless steel appliances.

  A door separates the living area from the sleeping quarters in the back of the bus. Pulled back curtains showcase bunks that line the walls on both sides, two on each side, a top and a bottom. There’s a shower to the right and a bathroom to the left. Another door in the rear leads to the only private bedroom in the bus. Dylan’s room. The one he’ll be sharing with Lucky.

  My band has toured before. Admittedly, our bus looked nothing like this, but I know from experience that walls are thin and groupies have no qualms about who might hear. Hell, the sounds that came out of the back were often the topic of ball-busting the entire next day. I smile, thinking of Nolan’s knack for mimicking a screamer he’d heard the night before. Yet the thought of hearing Lucky leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The thought of anyone mimicking her downright makes me angry.

  Eventually, the guys load onto the bus. Dylan and Lucky are the last to join, and the driver takes off for the arena as soon as everyone is situated. The only greeting I offer is a nod at the two of them. They disappear into the back of the bus.

  “Welcome to our home.” Mick opens his arms wide. “If you don’t snore, you can take the bunk above me on the right-hand side.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you share?” Mick asks, plopping down on the recliner. He cracks a beer even though it’s only eleven in the morning.

  “Share? Like one woman and crossing swords?”

  “There’s no room for threesomes in this thing. Unless you use Dylan’s room, and I’m guessing that he’s on a sharing hiatus for a while.” He shrugs. “I meant if your hookup is interested in touring the band. Works both ways, of course.”

  “I’m guessing you’ll get all his hookups coming to you, seeing as he can’t satisfy them anymore,” Duff taunts.

  “Fuck off. You don’t share because you don’t want them comparing.” Mick grabs his crotch. “My kielbasa to your miniature hotdog.”

  Lucky walks to the front of the bus, eyes Mick still holding himself, shakes her head and sits down at the far end of the couch.

  “So. You in or you out?” Undaunted by Lucky’s appearance, Mick continues the conversation. I catch her eye before I respond.

  “No, thanks. I’m not into sharing.”

  Tonight is Linc’s last night of the tour. I’m looking forward to seeing the band and watching the interactions between the guys. It will give me some hint of what to expect when I join on stage two nights from now. So far, it’s an easy fit. Mick and Duff are the most vocal of the group. They enjoy ball-busting, and since I can pretty much let shit roll off my shoulders after years of putting up with Nolan, I don’t suppose we’ll run into any issues. The three of us spent a little time jamming together on the bus this morning, and I get the feeling that I passed their unspoken test.

  Dylan, on the other hand, I’m not quite sure what to make of him. He’s standoffish toward me. There’s a chip on his shoulder, but I honestly don’t blame him—the guy has had a career most people in the music industry can only dream about. Even though he’s never said or done anything specific to confirm it, I get the feeling he looks at me like a younger model. He’s only thirty-five, but something tells me he sees aging as a threat, instead of seeing the benefit of experience. It doesn’t help that the band had a dip in sales with the release of their last album. A dip to a volume most musicians would be ecstatic to achieve, but Easy Ryder’s standards aren’t those of most musicians.

  Lucky and I haven’t said much to each other either. We’ve exchanged a lot of quick glances and wordless smiles acknowledging some of Mick and Duff’’s comments, but when the backstage lounge finally empties and the rest of band is gone, we eye each other and both start laughing.

  “This is weird,” she says hesitantly.

  “Only if we make it weird.”

  She smiles. “Then let’s not make it weird. Come on. Let’s go watch the show. It will probably be the last time you go unnoticed in a crowd.” And just like that, whatever we had in New York City is back again.

  Lucky talks me into watching the show from the floor, rather than the VIP area. It’s a smaller venue—smaller by Easy Ryder standards, that is—and only the higher-priced tickets have seating. The roped-off section designated for VIPs is nearly filled with guys in grey suits, executives from the corporate sponsors. Lucky took one look, smiled a devilish smile, and tugged my hand toward the other direction.

  So now we’re in the middle of a crowd, among the real fans who are dancing and screaming. They’re all riveted to the stage, the entire place alive as Easy Ryder sings one of their biggest hits, “Burn.” A pyrotechnic show plays behind and between the members of the band, shooting flames up from the floor. Yet I find myself forgetting the show, distracted by the woman standing next to me. Lucky is dancing and enjoying the music, letting the vibe take her to her happy place. I watch as she closes her eyes and her body moves to the sound with a sensuality that has me mesmerized. Sensing me watching her, her eyes flutter open and she smiles sweetly when she catches me staring. I force my gaze back to the band I should be watching.

  When Dylan hits the chorus, the whole arena sways in unison and sings along. Bodies push in, and the drunken woman behind Lucky stumbles, shoving her forward. I grab her before she falls and the woman apologizes with a slur. A few minutes later, the band changes things up and Linc strums the first chord of “Just Once More”—the song I’ll be singing after tonight. Knowing I’ll be up there in two days, Lucky grabs my arm and looks up at me excitedly. Unlike Dylan, who prowls the stage, working the crowd as he sings, Linc is much more subdued when he performs. It’s an incredible song, with a kick-ass falsetto that people love to sing,
but Linc’s performance mellows the crowd from the near hysteria Dylan had built. It’s not a bad thing, just different. And also very different than my style. I hope the crowd likes my delivery as much as Linc’s.

  Lucky can barely contain her excitement when the song finishes. “That’s going to be you up there.”

  I smile. “I hope I can do it justice.”

  “‘Do it justice’? I’ve heard you sing live. You’re going to kick its ass!”

  The drunken woman crashes into Lucky again. I stop her from stumbling too far a second time; this time the drunk woman spills a little beer on Lucky’s shoes as she leans forward to slur another apology. Lucky is gracious and waves her off politely. Rather than waiting for a third time, I step behind Lucky and stand between her and drunk girl.

  We stay that way for the next few songs, her dancing in front of me, both of us enjoying the show and the electricity of the crowd around us. The few times her ass brushes against me, I’m pretty sure it’s innocent, but my thoughts are anything but.

  When one of Easy Ryder’s more mainstream pop-style songs comes on, Lucky turns to face me and we dance together. The entire crowd is moving and grooving and we both fully let go, allowing ourselves to become part of the audience, rather than part of the band. Even though we have limited room, I spin her around a few times and we both laugh. On the last twirl in, she folds into my arms and, with my arm around her waist, my hand resting at the top of her low riding jeans, I pull her against me and we begin to move. Really move. My front against her ass, my hands holding her pressed to me tightly, our hips moving in synch, grinding to the rhythm. It feels wrong, but yet oh-so-fucking-right.

  When the song ends, moving to something heavier, more hardcore rock, our dancing comes to a natural stop, but she doesn’t move away from me. And I don’t loosen the grip my hands have on her waist.

  An hour later, the show’s almost over and we’re backstage in the lounge. We laugh and talk and even share a beer—literally share—both of us drinking out of the same bottle. Then the band comes back. They’re pumped from the show, the electricity flowing with them as they bring the lounge to life. Dylan grabs a beer and pulls Lucky to his side. We exchange glances a few times. But she and I are back to being strangers.