Beat

by Vi Keeland

  Avery rolls onto her back and stretches the gum in her mouth out between her lips and extended fingers. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if some hot guys had a picture of you in their room someday?” She motions to my wall of posters, at the center of which is none other than Dylan Ryder.

  The sexiest rockstar in the world. I met him once—well, I was in the same room as him and he brushed by me on his way off the stage. But it counts.

  “Imagine all the jerkin’ they’d be doing to your half-naked body pinned to the wall.”

  Only my best friend would already have my poster visualized in her head. Not to mention guys fantasizing to it. “Let’s get through the first night of the show before you start selling posters outside, okay?”

  “Shit!” She jolts upright. “I didn’t think of that. I could make posters and sell them! Fuck college. I’m totally getting rich off of your rockstar ass.”

  I laugh and take one last look in the mirror before turning. “What do you think?”

  “You look like a cross between a saint and a sinner. Total wet dream. Guys are going to want to lift that little plaid skirt to see where the garters lead to, and girls are going to be running all over the city trying to find blood-red Mary Jane stilettos.” I’d decided on sexing up a Catholic school uniform for my debut stage outfit. It went well with “Choices a Girl Makes,” the first song I’d be singing. A song about a girl struggling between her beliefs and her desires. Mom loved my choice. Dad…not so much.

  “You know, the majority of my mom’s fans are older. So you talking about guys whacking off to me and lifting my skirt is sort of icky. They’re old. Like my parents’ age. Gross, Avery.”

  “I thought you liked older men?”

  “I do. Like twenty-five. Not twice that. Guys our age are immature.” I take one last look in the mirror and a deep cleansing breath. “You have your backstage pass?”

  “Of course. You think I’d chance watching my best friend with the common people? I’m totally standing on the side of the stage and mouthing every word into my fake microphone. When they scream your name, I’m going to pretend they’re screaming mine.”

  One of the things Dad insisted on was that I was not the only opening act. He didn’t want me carrying the pressure of being singlehandedly responsible for delivering an enthusiastic crowd. He wanted me to be able to take a break if I needed one, and have someone to share the burden of opening a sold-out tour. It meant I didn’t get to bring my band from high school; I’d be fronting the guys from After Sunday, the band that Lars Michaels plays with right before me.

  At the time, I thought Dad didn’t have enough confidence that I could make it as an opening act on my own. But standing on the side of the stage, waiting for my turn to go on, I finally get it. The opening act has a huge job. People are coming and going, everyone is here to see someone else, yet somehow, through all of the preshow distractions, we are responsible for getting people pumped up. It’s not an easy task.

  To lukewarm applause, Lars announces that a second act will be playing the preshow. He makes a big deal about telling the crowd it’s my first tour show and they need to make me feel welcome. Then the stage lights go dark, so the crew can change up the layout and I can walk to the center of the stage. The spotlight won’t come on until I’ve sung the first line of the song in the dark. It’s a bit overly dramatic, but I’ve watched the practice video and it really seems to work.

  Mom squeezes my shoulders as people work around us in the dark. “Ninety seconds.” A guy wearing a headset yells in our direction as he lifts an instrument that was just knocked over near his feet. It’s chaos on stage. Ten men run around reconfiguring things, and drills buzz while they call out to each other.

  “You’re going to be great,” Mom says from behind me.

  “Sixty seconds,” Headset Guy yells again.

  “Mom.” I cover her hand on my shoulder with my own. I never call her Mom. When I talk about her to other people she’s Mom, but I’ve always addressed her as Iris as long as I can remember. Until now. I didn’t think about it. The word just came out.

  “Right here, baby.” She squeezes harder. “You can do this. By the end of the day, no one is going to remember my name. They’ll all be too busy talking about the songbird who opened for whatshername.”

  I take a deep, relaxing breath.

  A few of the workmen jog from the stage.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “You’d better go. I’ll be right here. Dad is in center stage, row three. Go show your parents how it’s done.”

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  My hands shake as I walk toward the center of the stage. We’ve rehearsed so many times, I can probably do this on autopilot. At least, I’m hoping I can do this on autopilot, because I’m pretty damn sure I might have forgotten the words now.

  Shit. I don’t know the words.

  I put my feet on the pink X taped to the floor to indicate where I should stand.

  “Five.”

  I think I’m going to vomit.

  “Four.”

  Shit. I really don’t remember the words. What’s the first word?

  “Three.”

  Panic sets in. The first line is supposed to be sung acoustic, then the spotlight comes on. The band joins in after that. My hands are trembling. And I can’t feel my knees.

  “Two.”

  Fuck. I have no idea what the first word is. And I’m going to vomit. Right in the center of stage. On the stage Iris Nicks is going to be on in a half hour.

  “One. And go.”

  I don’t.

  I can’t. Because I don’t know the first word. Seconds tick by. I can hear the audience milling around, a loud chatter going on. They don’t know I’m supposed to be starting. Yet.

  The spotlight hits me, as timed. I should have already sung the first line.

  Nothing.

  The band is supposed to join in.

  They don’t. Conversations in the audience cease like someone just flicked the off button. I can’t see any of them. But I’m sure they’re all staring at me.

  “Lucky,” my mother whispers from the side of the stage, but I don’t turn my head.

  I wish I could see the audience. Where’s Dad? Row three, center stage. I remember Mom saying it right before I walked out. But I still can’t remember the damn words to the song I’m supposed to sing.

  I hear Mom’s yell again from stage left. “Flood the first five rows. Center only. Turn off the stage.”

  A few seconds later, lights come on in the first five rows, and the spotlight shinning on me flicks off. My eyes search the rows until I find him. Just like Mom promised. Third row, center stage. He smiles at me.

  I take a deep breath and smile back, even though he can’t see me.

  Dad nods. The look on his face isn’t full of panic, like mine. He’s calm, and pride beams from his smile.

  A few seconds pass and the words just come to me. So I sing them. In the dark, while looking at my Dad’s soothing smile. The first line done, everything snaps into place.

  Lights flick off in the audience.

  The stage spotlight shines on me.

  The band kicks in. And I go on to sing the entire song.

  Flawlessly.

  By the time I’m on the third song in the set, I’m walking the stage like a pro. As if it’s rehearsal and not a live show with a couple thousand people watching.

  The roar of applause isn’t even necessary when I’m done. I’m high just from being up here. My arms and legs are filled with goose bumps from head to toe. I even hear a few people yelling, “Encore!” as I walk off the stage.

  Mom congratulates me and pulls me in for a quick hug before she’s whisked away for last-minute show prep. Avery, of course, is jumping up and down like she just won the lottery. Tons of people come by to tell me how good I was. No one even mentions my momentary meltdown.

  I keep looking for my dad, but he doesn’t come backstage. Knowing him, he probably wants to give
me time to enjoy the post-show high. But all I really want to do is thank him. For being there for me. And not just for today. For every day of my life. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  Avery and I stay on the side of the stage watching my mom’s show. When the lights finally go dark, Mom comes off and grabs a water bottle. Security and the tour manager rush over to speak with her. The conversation looks serious, so I eavesdrop.

  “There’s a medical issue in the audience. The medics are working. They’re going to need a clear path, so we don’t want anyone to fill the aisles. Can you skip the break and go back and play the encore right away?”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll go back out right now.”

  “Thanks, ma’am, we appreciate that,” the security guard says.

  Mom goes back out onto the stage and starts talking to the crowd about what her next song means to her. I follow the security guard.

  “Sir.”

  He turns around.

  “What happened? Did someone get injured?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Young guy. Heart attack. Just keeled over in his seat. Doesn’t look good.”

  Somehow, in the pit of my stomach, I just know. My life forever changed tonight. And it wasn’t just from my debut on stage.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Flynn

  I’ve never been a morning person. I might rise at the ass crack of dawn, but that doesn’t mean I look forward to being awake. Most days after my eyes see the first rays of daylight, I pull the blanket over my head and try my damnedest to go back to sleep.

  But not today. I’m looking forward to having coffee. At six in the morning. And the fucked-up thing is, I wish I were back on the bus. I’ve come to look forward to seeing those thin little shirts that Lucky wears to bed. Chances are, she’s going to cover up before heading downstairs to the lobby for her coffee.

  I throw on a pair of sweats, t-shirt, knit hat and some sunglasses to shield my identity as much as I can. Word got out that Easy Ryder was staying at this hotel, and last night the place was flooded with groupies when Mick and I came back from dinner. A few even recognized me. Mick, of course, happily indulged. Last I saw him before I called it a night, he had a blonde on each knee at the bar. And his bed hadn’t been touched when I got up this morning. I suppose I should be grateful that he didn’t bring the party back to our room.

  Despite the fact that Lucky had just casually mentioned that the lobby lounge serves coffee beginning at six a.m., I’m pretty sure of myself that she’ll be down there. But when I step off the elevator, the lobby is quiet. Empty. The coffee urns are just being set up in the lounge. I pour two mugs, make them just as we like it, and settle on one of the couches on the far side of the room where it’s private, yet I can still keep an eye on the door.

  I grab a newspaper and begin to flip through to kill time. Then my eyes catch a pair of pink-painted toes in flip-flops. I don’t know why, but it’s in this moment that I realize, I’m fucked.

  The sight of her toes makes me smile.

  I’m falling for another guy’s girl. Something I promised myself I’d never do.

  But then I reason with myself. I haven’t done anything wrong. Thinking a woman is beautiful and spending time with her doesn’t have to turn into anything, right? They’re just toes after all. But look how cute they are. I’ve never been a foot guy, yet I wouldn’t mind sucking… Stop. Just stop. We’re just friends.

  Because I’ve been friends with so many hot women in the past and not fucked them? Yep. I’m screwed. I need to get the hell out of here.

  “Good morning,” she whispers and smiles down at me. My eyes lazily travel up from her toes.

  I’m totally not going anywhere.

  I hold up her mug of coffee. And then I realize she still has the thin shirt she wears to sleep on and I’m eye-level with the sexiest taut nipples I’ve ever seen.

  Screw sucking her toes… “Certainly is.” I grin.

  We spend nearly three hours in the lobby lounge, drinking coffee and turning the pairs of words for my song into sonnet verses. The only reason we decide it’s time to leave is because we need to get ready to leave again. The tour manager got us access into the arena at noon so I could practice the new techniques Lucky showed me up on stage. And today Lucky is getting her ass up on that stage if I have anything to do about it.

  My phone buzzes as I step from the shower. The face flashing on the screen makes me smile. I wrap a towel around my waist and answer it before it goes to voicemail.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Uncle Sinn!” Laney screams. She’s got it in her head that she needs to talk louder when people are farther away. My sister can’t convince her otherwise. I actually hold the phone away from my ear when I answer, knowing she’s already drilled Becca on how far away I am. Long car ride equals loud; plane equals screaming. I hear my sister yelling from somewhere in the background, “I told you, Laney, you don’t have to yell. He hears you just like as if you are sitting next to him.”

  “Hi, beautiful. How are you?”

  Laney spends the next five minutes telling me all the songs she learned on her new karaoke machine. Lady Gaga, One Direction, Taylor Swift. My sister’s music taste is like mine—rock, blues, a little Johnny Cash—definitely not Top 100 pop charts. She must be ready to kick my ass.

  By the time Laney decides to hand the phone to her mother, I’m pretty sure my niece must be tinted a lovely shade of blue. Not one pause for a breath in five minutes. My sister needs to introduce commas and periods to our little princess.

  Bec and I catch up. The last time we talked, I didn’t even have all the details about filling in for Linc yet. “So, when do I get to meet her?”

  “Who?”

  “The girl you’re crazy about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You sound normal. The only time you sound normal is when there’s a woman you’re trying to impress.”

  “Normal? What the hell does that even mean?”

  “Are there any women in your room right now?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go to sleep before midnight?”

  “Yeah. I was wiped out.”

  “Look around the room, are there empty beer cans all over?”

  I scan the room. Not one. “No.”

  “Have you showered already today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Normal. You’re acting like a regular person instead of a rockstar.”

  “Whatever, Bec. I’m just trying to make a good impression with the new band, that’s all.”

  “What are you doing now?” My sister is a bloodhound. If she thinks I’m hiding something, she doesn’t stop sniffing until she finds it.

  “I’m going to meet my voice coach and head over to the arena to work on some things.”

  “Is your voice coach a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lucky. Why?”

  “The same Lucky you had Laney dedicate a song to?” she says with a tone that tells me she thinks she’s figured out the puzzle she’s been trying to solve.

  “You need to get a life, Bec. You spend way too much time analyzing me.” And, shit, you know me so well.

  “That’s actually why I was calling. I went through the tour schedule that you emailed, and I was thinking maybe we could fly out for the Austin show next week. I’ve been promising Alana that we’d come to visit, and since Professor Douchebag gave me a decent-size guilt check instead of coming to his own daughter’s birthday party, I have some extra cash.”

  I love that I have even her calling her ex Professor Douchebag. “That would be great. We’re there for three nights, and one of the days is a big festival. I’ll book a suite at the hotel they put us up at.”

  “Laney is going to be so excited. You can get us tickets to the show, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will Lucky still be there?”

  “I think so. Why?”
>
  “Because I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “Good-bye, Bec,” I say in a warning tone.

  “Good-bye, Flynn,” she says in that singsongy way.

  The blond manager is slightly less aggressive when we arrive at the arena today. Although, she does mention she’ll be at the show tonight if I need anything. Her smile makes it clear that anything includes fucking. I already tossed her card in the garbage when I emptied my pants pockets yesterday.

  “So, you wanna go first or should I?” I ask Lucky as we enter the massive seating area. It’s transformed since only yesterday. The stage is set up for tonight’s show. The floor level is filled with red cushioned folding chairs, and a VIP area with new seating has been installed and sectioned off with velvet ropes.

  “I was thinking. I don’t think I should skip step five. What if step five is critical to my overall success and I fail after going through all this work, just because of poor neglected step five?” She’s teasing, but it’s obvious there’s real fear in her voice.

  “You’re going to be fine. I’ll be right here with you.” I put my hands on her shoulders and speak into her eyes, trying to reassure her.

  “But…”

  “We got this.”

  “But…”

  “What’s step five, Lucky?”

  “I have to write a letter?”

  “Step five is a writing assignment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s sit down. We can knock it out quick. We wrote three sonnets before our second cup of coffee.” I smile at her. “We’re a good team.”

  “That gets you whatever you want normally, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “The dimples. The smile. The…” She waves her hand up and down my body, frustrated. “The whole hot-guy package.”

  “You think I’m hot?” I grin.

  She rolls her eyes. “Can we get back to the point, please?”