by Vi Keeland
I move to the other side of the room and get some much-needed time with Linc. He’s more subdued than the other guys in the band, less of a ball buster and full of passion about the music. I try to prevent my eyes from wandering in Lucky’s direction, but when Dylan’s mouth goes to her neck, our gazes lock. What the fuck am I doing?
Chapter Fourteen
Lucky
I wake to the same dull vibration I fell asleep to last night, only now the constant tremor of the bus is shaking me awake rather than lulling me to dreamland. The large picture window above the bed is masked by a blackout shade that keeps the room perpetually dark. I have no idea if it’s six in the morning or two in the afternoon.
I slip from the bed, careful not to wake Dylan, and make a stop in the bathroom. The golden glow of early morning sunshine filtering through the opaque window tells me my internal alarm clock is still ticking. My reflection catches the effect of the cool morning air under my t-shirt as my perky nipples salute a new day. I wash up, pile my unruly hair on top of my head, and brush my teeth before going in search of a coffee pot.
The bathroom is next to the band’s bunk area, and as I quietly pass through, I wonder which bed Flynn is sleeping in. And if he’s in there alone. Yesterday afternoon we danced and acted like two teenagers. Two teenagers who were very into each other. I start to blush, thinking of the way his body felt behind mine. The way his fingers dug into my hips, guiding my body to move the way he wanted it to. It made me wonder…
Lost in thought, I startle when I pass through the door to the living area of the bus. Flynn’s already there. He’s standing in front of a coffee pot, arms spread wide, gripping the counter in front of him, head hanging down, seemingly in deep thought. And. He’s shirtless. Stunningly shirtless.
I’m not sure if he hears my small gasp or senses my presence, but his head turns and our eyes meet. His blue eyes sparkle and the corner of his mouth tilts up. Lord he even looks like that in the morning.
“Good morning,” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my chest, then flicks back to my eyes with a goofy half grin. “Certainly is.”
He watches every step I take toward him. I can see why women would find him irresistible. Two words and a look and he makes me feel desired. Before I’ve even had morning coffee, no less. Add in a guitar and a voice like an angel, and the line will be wrapping around the bus after his first show.
He reaches into the cabinet above his head and pulls out two mugs. I guess I’m not the only one finding him irresistible this morning. My stomach turns a bit at the thought. “Sleep good?” I say, trying my best to sound light.
“Like a baby. You?”
“I did, actually. It’s been a long time since I was on a tour bus.”
“You always up this early?”
“Yep. Pretty much every day. Six a.m., whether I go to bed at eight p.m. or four in the morning. You?”
He grins before turning his attention to the coffee pot, which beeps as it finishes brewing. “Same.”
He fills two mugs. “Cream and sugar?”
Oh. So he’s not taking coffee for an overnight guest. I perk up at the thought of us having morning coffee together and take a seat at the table. “Yes, please.”
He grins again.
“What?”
He shrugs. “I take it the same way.” He brings a coffee mug to the table and waits for me to sip. “Good?”
It’s exactly the way I like it. “Perfect.”
He turns back to tidy up. Living on a tour bus teaches you to put things away faster than the tire hits the next bump. I’m treated to the sight of his naked back as he cleans up. It’s strong, lean but muscular, and I’m delighted by the way the muscles ripple when he reaches to put the milk away. I totally shouldn’t be getting so turned on watching the man open a damn refrigerator door and close it. I just walked out of the bedroom I’m sharing with my boyfriend, and he’s sleeping less than thirty feet away.
Flynn turns around and catches my stare. Another boyish grin. Damn him. Does he have to be so adorable? With that body? I force my eyes to my coffee and sip again.
“What do you normally do at six a.m.?” he asks. “Do you exercise or something?”
“Exercise? Me? Have you seen the size of my ass?”
“I have. And that reminds me.” He turns back, opening the cabinet above his head, and takes out a few Hershey’s Special Dark bars. “Saw these at the store before we boarded the bus last night, figured I’d grab them in case you weren’t well stocked.” He winks. “Gotta keep that ass in its fine shape.”
Lord help me. The man may be more sinfully sweet than my chocolate bars. “I actually didn’t have any. Thank you.” Flustered, because he’s still watching me, I change the subject quickly. “I write.”
He slides in on the opposite side of the table from me. “What do you write?”
I feel silly for having said anything. No one knows I write poetry. Not even Dylan. “Poetry mostly.”
“Huh. Poetry.”
“What?”
“I write music in the morning.” He dips his chin toward the notebook sitting on the table. “It’s the same thing. At least, if it’s good it is. A good song is just poetry set to music.”
“Are you writing a song now?”
He nods. “I’m still working on the lyrics. Right now it’s just random thoughts and words that need to be sewn together. But I have the concept and, I think, the title. I need to hear the music in my head before I can write the actual lyrics. Once I have the rhythm set, the words come easier.”
“What’s the title?”
“‘Blur.’”
“Hmmm…” I sip my coffee. “Intriguing. What’s it about?”
“It’s about how two very different things can be closely connected. Sometimes polar opposites, yet the line that separates them is very fine. And as you get closer to the line, things become a blur. The blur is almost a state of euphoria between the two sides, but you can’t stay in the blur forever. Something pushes you from one side to the other, and then there’s no coming back.”
“Like love and hate?”
“Exactly like love and hate.” Flynn reaches for his notebook and flips a few pages, then points to sets of words. The first set is love and hate. He smiles at me, then covers the rest of the page with his hand. “I was thinking of writing it like a bunch of sonnets. Fourteen lines for each pair of connected words…each verse a sonnet on its own. Okay, smarty pants, what else you got?”
“Hmmm…give me a minute, I don’t have enough caffeine in me yet.” We sit quietly for a while, then I say, “Pleasure and pain.” The blush creeps up my cheeks before I even get the words out.
“Very good.” He opens his notebook and points to the pair of words. “That pair is definitely all about the blur zone. The state of euphoria from pleasure as it dips in the range of pain, or pain as it dips into pleasure, is complete bliss. But push too far, leave the blur zone on the other side of the line, and there’s no coming back. It’s pain without any pleasure. Stay too far from the line on the pleasure side and you miss euphoria.”
I wiggle in my seat, a bit of a swell going on between my legs as I listen to him. It makes me wonder what the blur zone would be like with him. I attempt to steer the conversation to a more clinical place. “It’s the endorphins.”
“It’s about the feeling, not the chemistry. Plus, ‘Blur’ is a much better title than ‘Endorphins.’”
I laugh. “Genius and crazy.”
“I didn’t have that one. But you’re right. The blur between genius and crazy must be an awesome place to be. Imagine the incredible high your mind gets as the line between the two comes closer. Too bad people don’t get to stay there forever and genius sometimes turns into crazy passing through the blur.”
“Why can’t we stay in the blur?”
“I don’t know. But once you cross that line, there’s no coming back.”
We spend the next three hours spiraling through conver
sation. He hums some music that’s flowing through his head for the song’s rhythm. I tell him about my life on a tour bus with my dad. He shares stories about his niece, Laney. We’re so engrossed in our own little world, I almost forget there are four other people on the bus. Until Dylan opens the door to the back. He looks back and forth between the two of us for a moment and then comes to plant a kiss on my mouth, his head leaning down so it’s basically over the table, between Flynn and me.
“Morning,” he says. Then looks at the two of us again. “How long you two been out here?”
Flynn responds, “Not long.” He lifts his chin toward the other side of the room. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
Dylan turns around, opens the refrigerator and grumbles, “Don’t drink coffee.”
A minute or two later, Flynn excuses himself to take a shower. Dylan takes Flynn’s seat and I find myself looking across the table at my handsome boyfriend, wishing he were someone else.
We arrive in Miami at two in the afternoon. Our home for the next four days. Dylan has a busy schedule of radio station stops and sponsor meet-and-greets, so we agree to connect at the venue later tonight. The band has never played the American Airlines Arena and wants to get an idea of the setup before checking into the hotel we’ll be at for the next few days. Flynn and I are going to the arena early so we can work on his voice training.
The cavernous host to the Miami Heat is intimidating to say the least. With its modern white-and-glass façade and inviting views of Biscayne Bay, the arena reminds me how different Dylan’s tours are than my dad’s were. Dad’s stops were more like the bars across the street, waiting to take in the after-crowd from the main show.
“Wow. It’s beautiful,” I say after the arena manager lets us in. Easy Ryder’s tour manager called ahead and made arrangements for the two of us to spend some time here today. There are no performances tonight, so the tremendous complex is almost eerily quiet.
“It is,” the manager says and overtly licks her glossy lips. She’s looking at Flynn like he’s a mouthwatering steak and she’s a pit bull that hasn’t been fed in days. Seriously? She doesn’t even know my relationship with him, yet she completely disregards me. “What can I do for you?” She tilts her head, addressing Flynn, offering him much more than a tour of the arena.
“We’re just going to take a look around and then head to the stage, if that’s all right with you.”
“Anything you want.” She slips her card into the front pocket of his jeans. Into the front pocket of his jeans. Really? “My cell is on the back. Call me if you need anything.”
Flynn nods.
I wait until she’s out of earshot. Barely. “Could she be any more obvious?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Mr. Beckham. That woman practically threw herself at you.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes. That. You make it sound so commonplace.”
Flynn shrugs.
“Oh. My. God. Seriously?”
“What?”
“That’s how women react around you?”
“Sometimes.” He looks down, almost a little embarrassed about it.
“It’s like having free room service at your fingertips.”
Flynn’s brows draw together.
“You know. You can whip out your phone when the mood strikes and pick whatever you want from the menu.”
Holding out his hand to me, a charismatic smile adorning his ridiculously handsome face, he shrugs. “Problem is, I’m in the mood for something that’s not on the menu.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, but it’s really to cover the flutter in my belly. Then, hand in hand, together we tour the stadium.
An hour later Flynn is up on stage and I’m sitting in the first row. “Why do I need to be up here while you’re down there?”
“So I can see you in action.”
“You wanna see me in action?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
I smile. “It’s like when you run on a treadmill, you don’t run naturally…your feet have to fit the limited space that you have to run, so it changes your stride. When I watched you in the studio, it was different than watching you on stage. Performing in a real live setting will allow your natural habits to show through better.”
“Do you have any requests?” he teases.
“Just sing something that comes easily. What’s the most popular song you sang when you were on tour with In Like Flynn?”
“‘Back on Top.’”
“Okay, sing that.”
The song is one of his band’s slower ones, but it’s actually a perfect display of everything I need to see—range, reach, falsetto, reverb, movement. His voice is expressive, deep and rich at some points, with a flawless transition into the falsetto that makes women go crazy. He sings about being broken, climbing back to the top after falling hard. His delivery is so convincing, I find myself mesmerized by the story he’s telling, really listening to the lyrics when I should be watching him with a clinician’s eye.
As the song comes to a close, I softly sing along to the final chorus. “Wow. That was…incredible. You showed your feelings rather than singing about them. I felt everything you gave.”
“Thank you,” he says, with a modest smile this time. It’s absolutely endearing that he still hasn’t gotten used to praise.
“You’re going to steal the show.” The words leave my mouth before I think about them. Before I think who it is he’d be stealing the show from.
“Not sure that would go over well.”
I’m positive it wouldn’t. In fact, after watching his performance, it makes me a bit nervous. Linc is a good singer, his voice complements Dylan’s well. But that’s what it does, it complements. It doesn’t compete with. Flynn’s voice…it might just give Dylan a run for his money on stage.
“Come up here and sing one with me,” Flynn says, surprising me.
I shake my head.
“Come on. It’s just us. No one will see. We’ll take off our shoes and everything.”
I force a smile. “Thanks. But it will take a lot more than that to get my ass on that stage.”
“I’m willing to take off more than my shoes if it helps.”
“You’re so dedicated to the cause.”
“Hey. I’m all in for you, baby.” He winks.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I really do. But…”
Flynn walks to the end of the stage and sits on the edge, his long, lanky legs hang almost to the floor. “Come here.”
I hold his stare for a moment before rising from my front-row seat and walking to him. He reaches out to offer me his hand. I take it without hesitation and he weaves our fingers together.
“This stage is just higher off the ground. It’s no different than the one you sang on at Lucky’s.”
“It’s step six. I’m only up to step five.”
Flynn’s face expresses I’ve lost him…understandably.
“My therapist and I made a twelve-step-ish program to try and get me back on stage. It’s not actually twelve steps…but you get the idea. One foot in front of the other on the road to recovery. Step four was singing in front of three people at Lucky’s.”
“There were more than three people there.”
“I know.” I smile
“So you kicked step four’s ass. Just take a flying leap over step five and land on step six.”
“I’m moving along. I’m just doing it at my own pace.”
“How long have you been working on the list?”
When I say it aloud, it sounds even more ridiculous. “Two years.”
Flynn smiles. “Two years? Moving at your own pace? What are you, a turtle?”
I laugh. “It sounds worse than it is.”
“I’m sure it does,” he says, not believing a word of it. “Come on. Let’s do it. I’ll carry you up here. You won’t even have to walk the steps.”
“Tomorrow,” I blurt out, nervous that he might hop down from the
stage and actually carry me up there.
Flynn squints. “Tomorrow, huh?”
I nod my head.
“All right. But I’m holding you to it.”
We work for two more hours at the arena. I notice that he isn’t arching the soft palate as much as he should, which is limiting his throat space and causing him to strain a bit when he moves into his falsetto. A few other minor posture corrections could also help reduce the tension on his cords and minimize the chances of reinjuring his voice. He’s only singing lead on two songs, but the two songs are challenging for any voice to perform without strain, no less one coming off an injury.
We make plans to return early tomorrow to practice the techniques I suggested so he’ll have a few hours of rest before his debut show tomorrow night. As seems to have become a running theme with us, as soon as the band arrives at the arena, Flynn and I slip back into being distant friends. At this point, it’s easier to ignore each other than it is to hide our obvious attraction. But it makes me wonder how long we can continue to ignore the obvious.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucky—
Eight years earlier,
age seventeen
“Are you nervous?” Avery is lying belly-down, diagonally across my bed, her legs kicking as she talks.
“Not really.” I shrug.
“How many people will be in the audience?”
“I’m not sure. A lot. My mom doesn’t play small places.” I’ve never been to Town Hall, but I know it holds well over a thousand people. Mom thought it would be a good venue for my debut as her opening act. Opening act. Me. In three hours, I’m going to be on stage in front of a shitload of people living my dream. I still can’t believe my dad is letting me go on tour with Mom. When I mentioned it to him more than a year ago, he was initially dead set against it. He wanted me to go to college, have something solid to fall back on, before trying my hand at a career that isn’t an easy one. But somehow Mom and I changed his mind. Now, two weeks after my high school graduation, and one week from my eighteenth birthday, I’m getting ready for my first night as one of two opening acts for Iris Nicks.
