by Vi Keeland
“You mean a point other than you think I’m hot,” I tease.
“Seriously. That smile probably gets you laid all the time. But it is not getting me up on that stage.”
“Are you offering to have sex with me rather than go up on the stage?”
She blushes. “You’re in a mood today, aren’t you?”
“I’m always in the mood.”
She smacks my abs playfully and I grab her hand. “Seriously, Lucky. I want to help. If you really don’t want to get up there, I won’t push. But I think you want to. For some reason, I think you need to. And I think you need me to push. I get the feeling no one has pushed you for eight years and, you know what, everyone needs that someone who will be that person for them.”
Our gazes hold and I watch as her eyes soften. “Thank you,” she says.
“Anytime.” And, oddly, I really mean it. Any damn time.
She nods. “How about we work on your performance first. I want your voice to have as long of a rest as it can before you sing tonight.”
“Whatever you say, teach.”
She shakes her head and chuckles. “How about showing me what we talked about yesterday. Did you get a chance to practice?”
“I did.”
She squints, not believing me. But the truth is, I stood in front of the mirror and practiced singing the damn song with my mouth and neck in the position she wants me in. If only I’d put in this much effort in school. Then again, my teachers never looked like Lucky.
Gently push. It’s an odd saying. Can you really gently push someone? And does it even matter if you were gentle or not when the end result is the same? I pushed him over a cliff, so what that he went careening to his untimely death…it was a gentle push. I seriously doubt the last thing that goes through your mind before your brain is splattered all over the ground is, I forgive him, it was a gentle push. Yet here I am, pushing anyway.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I’ll carry you up there. Although I can’t promise my hand won’t connect with your ass when your body is slung over my shoulder.”
Even though she smiles, I can see in her eyes that she’s terrified. She has the kind of eyes that betray her, showing everything she’s feeling even though her face attempts to tell a different story.
“I’m going, I’m going.” She looks like any second tears might come. I’m just about to tell her to forget it—gentle or not, I don’t want to be the cause of her splatter. But then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and walks toward the stairs on the left side of the stage. I take a seat front and center.
She climbs the stairs and stops on the side of the stage. At first, I think she’s steadying herself, taking a deep breath before the plunge. But then a minute passes, then two. I want to give her time, let her do it when she’s ready, but I know from personal experience that the longer you stand up there and think about what you’re about to do, the more the panic starts to set in.
Another minute passes. She’s just staring into space, but I get the feeling she can’t see whatever is in her line of view. She’s seeing something else. Remembering.
More time passes.
Nothing.
Whatever haunts her, I can’t let her face it alone.
Without saying a word, I walk to the stairs and climb them. I stand next to her and wait until she looks over at me. I wait until her eyes focus, really focus on mine, and I know she’s back in the moment. Then I offer her my hand. A sad smile attempts to hide her pain, but fails ruefully.
I take the first step and look back. Even though there is a pleading in her eyes, there’s also a question. An unspoken one. I nod and wait for her to take the step on her own before continuing. Ever so slowly, we walk to the center of the stage. Hand in hand, we stand there until she eventually turns and faces the empty seats in the massive auditorium. Her eyes focus on an area in the center of the first few rows.
The sound comes before the tears. It’s low, but gut-wrenchingly painful—an awful anguish-filled sob. It shreds a hole right through my heart. Whatever causes her pain, I want to slay it. I want to bear the pain for her.
And then everything she’s been holding back releases. Her body begins to shudder, tears stream from her eyes, and she loses it. “He died while I was on stage. I never even got to say good-bye.”
I catch her before she falls, wrapping my arms around her and hugging tight. Her body trembles against mine and my own tears burn in my throat as I hold them at bay. This cry has been kept contained for a long time. It isn’t a cry from a bad memory. It’s an avalanche of pent-up pain that has been building, waiting, needing to release. And it does. Shit, does it ever.
We stay that way for a long time. Until eventually every last sob has wracked its way through her body and I feel what amounts to a sigh of relief wash over her. Her tense limbs ease and she takes a deep breath before she pulls her head back and our silence is finally broken.
“Flynn,” she whispers, and I lean my forehead against hers and watch her eyes close. When they open again, something is different. Her eyes are still filled with emotion, but the sadness is replaced by need. Our gazes lock and both our breaths change, becoming more labored, more heated. My heart pounds in my chest, and it takes every bit of willpower in my body to not take what I so desperately want.
Her lips part and I think she’s about to say something, but then, suddenly, her mouth is on mine. Jesus Christ. My self-control goes out the window, chased out by desperation. Desperation to kiss her. Feel her. Consume her.
She may have started the kiss, but it takes less than a heartbeat for me to take over. One hand fists her hair, wrapping it snuggly around my fingers, while the other tightens around her back, pulling her even closer against me.
Our kiss deepens, tongues frantically find each other, but it’s the little moan that escapes her body and travels through our sealed lips that does me in. Resolve shattered, fire pulses through my veins, any fleeting uncertainty is forgotten by both of us. She reaches up, her fingers tugging at my hair. Her soft curves contour to fit my body. We grope, pull, scratch, tug—to get closer—to get more. Just more.
When we finally break the kiss, we’re both panting. My lips move over her neck, my ragged breath intensifies the rawness of my words when I speak. “I’ve wanted you since the minute I laid eyes on you,” I whisper into her ear. “God, I fucking want you.”
Between the sound of my heart ricocheting loudly against my chest, our heavy breathing and the lust pulsing through my veins, we don’t even hear the sound of a person approaching, until the voice startles us.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucky
“Sorry to interrupt,” the blond facilities manager says snidely.
Startled, I jump. My instinct is to back away from Flynn. Unravel myself from his arms. But when I try to, he tightens his grip and holds me in place.
“What can we do for you?” Flynn says, impatience obvious.
“The electricians need to turn the power off to wire in some pyrotechnics for tonight’s show. It will only take about fifteen minutes, but the lighting needs to be off.” She plasters on a smile that is way too sugary to be sweet. “Doesn’t look like you’ll mind a little darkness though.”
“By all means.” Flynn shrugs. I’m not sure if he doesn’t pick up her sarcasm or just doesn’t care.
With a toss of her bleached hair, she turns and disappears. The clickity-clack of her heels sound in her wake until the door slams closed. I look at Flynn. “I don’t think she was happy.”
“I don’t think I care.” He grins.
Reality begins to come flooding back, hitting like a tidal wave. My head spins. What did I just do? “Flynn…I…we…”
He pulls his head back, taking in the confusion that’s written all over my face. His grip around me loosens a bit, although he still doesn’t let go. “You okay?”
I’m not. I’m elated, sad, happy, guilt-ridden, emotionally spent and entirely bewildered. What the he
ll did I do? I’m the one who initiated the kiss—it wasn’t like it just happened. “Yes. No. Yes. I mean…”
Flynn grins. “You sound sure of yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have.”
The look of disappointment on his face makes my heart break into a thousand little pieces. He releases me from his hold, taking a step back. Blowing out a thick stream of air, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “No. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“But I kissed you.”
“Pretty sure we were both involved in that kiss.”
“I know. But I…” I look away, guilt beginning to eclipse my other emotions, making me see things more clearly. Making me feel sick.
The sound of a door opening and workmen coming in interrupts our conversation. A man’s voice calls out to us, “We’re about to cut the electricity. You might want to step down from the stage. Gets pretty dark in here.”
Awkwardness has descended between us—the first since the day we met. We leave the arena and ride back to the hotel in deafening silence. I’m lost in thought, my mind whirling between what I’ve done and why I did it, but mostly I find myself thinking about how right it felt, even though it was clearly wrong.
“Hey,” Flynn says as we pull up to the hotel. I’m looking out the window and barely notice we’ve stopped. With his thumb and forefinger, he lifts my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “You kicked step six’s ass.”
I smile. “You’re being kind. I didn’t kick its ass. I tripped over it and fell. But you were there to save me.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit. But whatever part I had, the pleasure was all mine.” He opens the door to the SUV and hops out. Standing, he offers his hand to help me exit, then closes the door behind me and raps on the hood twice to let the driver know to take off.
We’re almost at the entrance to the hotel when I slow down. “Flynn.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m sorry I kissed you.”
He winks at me. “I’m not.”
Dylan was supposed to hit more radio stations this afternoon, so I’m surprised when I open the door and find him lounging on the bed, watching TV.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I say, almost accusingly. Not a very nice way to greet your boyfriend.
“You don’t sound happy that I am.” His brows knit together.
“I am. It’s just…I thought you had to go to the radio stations, so I was surprised. And I’m sort of not feeling well.”
“Mick went missing again.” Dylan sits up on the edge of the bed and pats his lap.
“Missing?”
“Yeah. He does that every once in a while. Ties one on and no one knows where he is, so we wind up changing our schedule.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
Dylan shrugs. “The tour manager hates it. But we’re all used to it by now. Used to happen every few days. He’s slowed down in his old age. Why are you all the way over there still? Come here.”
I walk to him, my steps heavy, laden down with guilt.
He pulls me onto his lap. “I’m actually glad the interview was canceled. They’ve had me so booked with crap, we haven’t had a chance to enjoy being off the tour bus and properly take advantage of this big bed.” He nuzzles against my neck. The exact same spot Flynn was nibbling on only an hour ago. A real wave of nausea hits me. I seriously think I’m going to be sick.
“I’m sorry. I think I’m going to…” I dart to the bathroom.
I splash my face with water and look in the mirror. Unable to stand the sight of myself, I slide down the wall behind me and sit on the floor with my head in my hands. How long can I hide out in here? Dylan will eventually check on me. I decide to take a shower, wash some of the guilt away, or at least the remnants of another man’s mouth on me. It’s the least I can do.
When I emerge in a towel, Dylan’s on the phone. He smiles at me and his eyes drop to my bare legs.
“No. Just cancel it. I have other plans for this afternoon now.”
Other plans? I really need to be alone right now, and something tells me his other plans are me.
He hangs up just as I’ve pulled out a change of clothes from the drawer. He comes up behind me and gently kisses my bare shoulder. “You feeling better?”
“Not really. Sorry. Must be a stomach flu.”
He turns me and parts my towel at my stomach. Bending down, his lips brush against the skin of my belly. “Let me kiss it and make it feel better.”
“I…I don’t want to get you sick.”
He drops to his knees and tugs harshly so my towel falls to the floor. “I won’t catch anything. Not from the parts I’m going to kiss.”
Part of me really wanted to skip the concert tonight. Feign sickness and stay in bed all night to avoid seeing Flynn. Seeing anyone, actually. But a bigger part of me wanted to see him up on stage. It’s his first night filling in for Linc and playing with Easy Ryder. He’s been there for me and my big moments lately, so I want to be there for his.
The backstage area at the American Airlines Arena is huge. Somehow, we manage not to run into each other before the show. After Dylan leaves to get ready to go on stage, I head down to watch the concert from the floor. Winding my way through the maze of halls backstage, I make my way to the floor exit. As soon as I turn the last corner, I catch a glimpse of Flynn at the other end of the hall. He’s talking to a woman. She’s super tall, almost as tall as him, and model-waif thin. Between her cropped top and low-waisted skirt, the bare expanse of her skin runs a mile long. Flawless, exposed skin. Long, wavy chestnut hair hangs loose, framing her abundant cleavage. She has one hand on Flynn’s chest and her head is tipped in that provocative, flirty way that makes a man’s eyes focus on her neck.
As I step closer, Flynn’s head turns in my direction and Waif Girl follows his line of sight. I’ve never had an issue with confidence, but suddenly I feel short and regret eating that donut an hour ago.
“Hey. I was just coming to look for you,” Flynn says with an easy smile.
My brain short circuits watching his lips move as he speaks. Lips I can almost still feel on me. I’m momentarily lost, remembering the way his hands threaded tightly through my hair. I blink myself out of the haze. “Well.” My arms rise and fall at my sides. “You found me.” Seriously? Nice moves, Lucky.
I watch as his eyes drop to my lips. Knowing his mind is in the same place as mine makes it that much more difficult to focus.
He cocks his head, a smile dangling at the corner of his mouth. “Can you give us a minute?” he says to the waif, without taking his eyes off me. She walks away, annoyed.
“You okay?” He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing along the top of mine.
I nod.
“I’ve been thinking about this morning all day…”
So have I. God, so have I. “Me too.”
“I’m sorry if I pushed too hard.”
“You didn’t push. I kissed you.”
He grins. “I meant step six. I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard to go up on stage.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m glad to know you were thinking about our kiss all day.”
“I wasn’t…I meant…I…”
He leans in and whispers, “I was too. I can still feel your body against mine.”
A voice comes over the backstage intercom. “Five minutes, Easy Ryder.”
“Guess that’s me now, too.”
“Guess it is.”
“You going to watch from the audience?”
I nod.
“I’ll see you from the stage, then.”
“You won’t be able to see anyone in the audience with the lights.”
“Don’t need to.” He taps his finger to his temple. “When I close my eyes, I see your face right here.”
Even before Dylan and I started dating, I’d been to dozens of Easy Ryder concerts. They’re legendary, even after only twelve years of playing together. The type of band that i
s so in tune, the show is never the same because someone makes a change on the fly and the band just goes with it seamlessly. Tonight is no different. The pull of the show has been intense and there’s a crackle in the audience, a sort of slow burn that feels like it will turn into a wildfire when the spark hits the flint in just the right spot. That flint has been “Sins of Mine,” the latest single that is climbing the chart. I know for a fact that the song was written with Dylan’s voice in mind, and it’s obvious the crowds have loved it so far.
Not having the play list, I assume we’re about to get to that moment with “Sins of Mine,” when the stage goes dark. I’m surprised when the first chord strums and it’s “Just Once More,” Linc’s song. But tonight it’s Flynn’s to sing. I hold my breath until we’re pulled from the darkness and a spotlight shines on only him.
Jesus. Holy mother of all sinners. I seriously need to remember to breathe.
He looks like a rock god on the stage. Perfectly magnificent in the spotlight as he sits on a stool with a guitar resting on his lap. It’s impossible to tear your eyes away. The crowd stands in silent worship as he looks down and leisurely strums the intro. Then slowly, from the darkness behind him, the drums start to roll…at first low, then louder and louder. Until we can feel the vibration in our chest. Flynn stops playing for a moment, the spotlight dims, the arena goes dark again, and when the lights come back on, the full band starts playing. Right before he begins to sing, Flynn closes his eyes for a moment and then finally looks up and smiles to the audience. That lazy, slow-spreading, dimple-bearing, completely titillating smile. And the place goes mad.
Flint to spark.
Fire.
Even though the place is rocking, I seriously don’t move for the entire performance. I’m captivated. By every note. Every lyric. Everything about the man. If I were fifteen, his poster would definitely be pinned on my wall…maybe even right over Dylan’s.
After the show, I head backstage to the band’s lounge. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to get through because security is flanked by women. More than one has the name Flynn Beckham on her lips. I’m so excited for him, I’m still smiling even after being pushed and shoved as I attempt to show my badge to the guard.
