by Vi Keeland
Unfortunately, Dylan isn’t feeling the post-show happiness that I am. “What’s the matter? You guys were incredible,” I say.
“Mick came in three bars late in ‘Solace.’ Duff played the recorded version of ‘To the Wall’ instead of the live version, and I couldn’t hear out of one of my earpieces. It was a shit show,” he says angrily.
I may be partial to the band, but I didn’t pick up on Mick’s or Duff’s flubs. “I didn’t catch it. I’m sure no one else noticed.”
“You were probably too busy dancing around in the audience.” I know how Dylan can get when he’s not happy with his music. He’s a perfectionist. It’s a large part of why Easy Ryder has been successful for so long. But usually his attitude isn’t directed toward me.
Security brings back a half dozen women—they’re winners of a radio contest and the prize was tickets to the show and meeting the band. Dylan unenthusiastically shakes their hands. The other members of Easy Ryder at least act gracious. They stand around and chatter to the star-struck fans, making them feel at ease.
Eventually, Flynn walks in and I sit back and observe the reception he gets. Everyone is congratulating him, slapping him on the back and telling him how great he did. Everyone, that is, except Dylan. Security begins to usher the contest winners out when one brave woman yells, “Wait! We didn’t get to meet the last member of the band. Flynn, I love you!”
Flynn turns and smiles. Dylan looks at Flynn on one side of the room, then back at security. “They’re done. He’s not part of the band.”
The thing about lead singers is, they’re the face of the band. So while that often leads to overinflated egos, it also leads to singers bearing the weight of the band on their shoulders. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell which of the two is causing the front man to act a certain way.
“Remember when we were his age and hit our first tour?” Duff lifts his chin toward the bar area where Flynn has just walked into the after-party at a club on the strip in South Beach.
“Nope.” Dylan knocks back the remainder of his glass. He’s usually a beer drinker, but tonight he’s drinking vodka on the rocks and the effect is noticeable. He’s relaxed a little, his anger seemingly dissipating more with each refill. He holds his glass above his head, rattling around the ice as the waitress passes.
“Another one, Mr. Ryder?”
“Keep ‘em coming.”
“Well, I remember,” Duff continues without being asked. “That first year. It was better than the highest high. Probably why I ended up in rehab a couple of times after that first tour. Chasing that high was like a dog chasing his tail. The kid’s good. He’s gonna do well.”
“It’s not his first tour.”
“You can’t count road trips in a van with truck-stop showers as a tour. Or the little gigs he played before this. This is a fucking tour. Sold-out arenas, a coach bus with gold fixtures in the bathroom. Groupies who want to do shit to you beyond your wildest dreams.”
“I didn’t mean it wasn’t his big show. I meant it’s our fucking tour, not his. He’s filling in for Linc and then he’s in the opening act in a few months.”
“Why do you got a hard-on for this kid? You jealous because he’s prettier than you?”
“Fuck off.” Dylan stands. “This waitress is taking forever. I’m going to go get my own drink.”
Seeing him stand, Dylan’s security walks over. “Just going to get a drink.”
“The bar is pretty crowded. That’s not advisable, sir. Would you like one of us to get it for you?”
“No. I’m going to get it myself,” Dylan snaps before storming off to the bar.
Duff watches his friend walk away and turns back amused. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“See what?” I ask.
“The day Dylan Ryder starts to question his greatness. I’d say he’s a little bit jealous of the fresh meat.”
Duff motions toward the bar. As security had warned, the crammed bar has turned into mayhem. Fans mob Dylan before he even orders a drink. “That should make him feel a little better.”
“What? Getting mobbed?”
“Yep. Love him like a brother, but the arrogant fuck just needed some attention. He’s not used to anyone else in the spotlight. Never been good at sharing.”
Two hours later, Dylan is happily shitfaced and I’m ready to call it a night. Flynn and I have been playing cat and mouse with our eyes all evening, but I haven’t had a chance to speak to him. Until now. Dylan’s in the men’s room and I’m standing with security, waiting to leave. He walks over, nods at the hulking security guard to my left, and turns his back so we can talk in something approaching privacy.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You were absolutely incredible on stage.”
“Are you referring to this afternoon or this evening?”
My eyes nearly bulge from my head and I look around to see if anyone heard. “I meant the concert. You were…amazing.”
“So I wasn’t this afternoon?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Behave,” I warn.
“Nope.” He shakes his head slowly.
“No? You’re not going to behave.”
“Nope. I’ve decided what happened today was too good. It needs to happen again. Frequently, in fact.”
“How much have you had to drink?”
He holds up his glass. “Water. All night.”
My eyes widen. “But…” I stagger to find the right words. “I’m not a cheater. Really. I wasn’t anyway…until today,” I say softly.
Flynn looks me in the eyes. “Neither am I. Not talking about cheating.”
“What…then, what are you talking—”
“Here comes your soon-to-be ex.” He tips his glass in Dylan’s direction as he approaches.
My heart almost stops when Dylan arrives next to us. He scowls at Flynn, then says to me, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Good night, Flynn.”
I look back over my shoulder twice on my way to the door. Flynn is watching with a devilish smile and gleam in his eye. My mind is jumbled as I climb into the back of the SUV, but one thing is clear…I’m totally screwed.
Chapter Eighteen
Flynn
The bus was rocking last night, but it had nothing to do with the hundreds of miles we traveled in the darkness after the final show in Miami. The roads were smooth, although not nearly as smooth as Mick Stonewood. I have no idea how he even made the logistics work, bringing two women back to his little cubbyhole of a bunk. Yet somehow he kept the wall on our side of the bus banging half the night. I finally put my Bose noise-canceling headphones on and lulled myself into pretending the steady rocking I was feeling was the road beneath the tires, rather than the drummer beneath my bunk. I suppose I should be grateful the bastard fucks like he drums…with the rhythm of a master.
I stretch out my body as I wait for the coffee to finish brewing, then pour two mugs and jot down some notes for “Blur.” One more set of connections and I’ll have a decent first draft. Turns out, I’ve saved the best for last. I’m looking forward to Lucky’s poetic tongue helping me with this one today.
It’s not long before she rises. I hear the click of the bathroom door, and a few minutes later she’s quietly closing the door to the living area behind her.
“Morning,” she whispers.
“Good morning.” I nod. The day just got a whole lot better.
She eyes two mugs on the table. “One of them for me?”
“Just as we like it.”
She smiles and slides into the seat across from me, wrapping her hands around the mug and bringing it to her lips. “I could get used to this service.”
“There’re plenty of other services I’d be happy to provide.” I cock one eyebrow.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“You did.” I sip my coffee, watching her over the brim of my mug.
“How did you sleep?” she asks.
“Not so good. A lot of banging k
ept me up.” It’s the truth, wrapped up in politeness.
“You felt that too?”
How could I not, my bunk was literally rocking. “Yep.”
“I thought we might be getting a flat tire at one point.”
I was hoping that damn thing would deflate. “Seems like the ride is smooth this morning. You ready to finish off ‘Blur’?”
“I was hoping you’d want to do that this morning.”
“I think it needs one more verse. Another sonnet for the last set of connections.”
“I’m ready. What line are we writing about crossing today?”
“Friends and lovers.” Our eyes lock and my mouth spreads a slow grin.
Fourteen lines, ten syllables each. It may not look like much on paper, but there’s nothing quick about writing a sonnet that’s a song. Especially with Lucky. Even though I clearly had less-than-virtuous reasons for suggesting friends and lovers as the topic of the last verse, she still gives no less to our writing. We’re sitting here for three hours discussing and debating words and feelings that shift from friends to lovers, yet I still have to bait her to take the conversation out of the realm of professional.
“No, if we use the word certain when crossing the line, that would mean crossing the line is inevitable,” she says.
I shrug. “Sometimes it is.”
“Nothing is inevitable except death.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Some things are just fate. And you can’t fight fate.”
“But—”
I interrupt her. “You keep telling yourself you can fight fate. But I promise you, you’re wrong. Some things are just meant to happen.”
She stares at me, I can see the wheels in motion—she’s inwardly fighting the truth. At the sound of the door behind me, my head turns. Mick stumbles in with one of his two half-dressed brunettes in tow. I collect my stuff from the table and decide it’s time for a shower. But not before I lean down and quietly leave Lucky with one last thought. “I can’t wait till the day I get to wake up next to you and kiss the hell out of you in public.”
Both the shower and the bathroom are occupied, so I try to get in a little exercise. I haven’t been to the gym in almost a week, and I’m going to have to figure out a routine that works on a bus or I’ll look like an aging forty-year-old father of triplets before we make it to LA.
In the hallway between the front lounge area and back bedroom, there’s a storage area with a pull-up bar installed. Duff gave me the quick tour the other day—there are free weights in the bottom of the lower cabinet and even a collapsible bench for pressing. I hit the floor for fifty pushups, do some lunges to stretch out and let my muscles relax, then grab the pull-up bar. My muscles burn, but it’s a feeling I relish. I’m on number eighteen when the door to the front lounge area opens and Lucky walks in.
Muscles tensed and straining, my eyes are glued to her as she stands there while I slowly finish the last two pull-ups. Even though my muscles were starting to falter only a minute ago, I suddenly have perfect form and control over my body while I fluidly rise up and down. Thank you, testosterone.
I watch as she swallows, taking in my shirtless torso flexing while I lift and slowly come back down. The look in her eyes conveys what she hasn’t accepted yet. I jump to my feet after I finish the set of twenty I’d set out to do. It’s a narrow hallway and she can’t get by without my moving, so I step aside to give her room to pass. Well, to give her some room to pass. I could definitely back up so there’s enough room for two without touching. But what fun would that be?
“I thought you were going to shower,” she says to my naked chest, with a huskiness in her voice that makes me harden instantly.
“Occupied,” I say as I catch my breath.
She nods. Then moves to pass me, turning her back to sidle through the little room I’ve left. But in the tight confinement of the hallway, her ass brushes up against me and my self-control slips. I put my hand out to stop her from passing, fingers gripping her hip tightly. My shirtless, sweaty front to her back, Lucky’s breath hitches and I exhale a jagged breath. I want to run my lips across that neck and push her up against the wall she’s standing in front of. Show her what being near her does to me as I press myself up against her ass. She doesn’t try to move.
I exhale again, my warm breath landing on her neck.
She inhales sharply.
I hear the shower water turn off in the distance, but I’m stuck in this bubble, interpreting what she feels by only the sound of her breathing and the reaction of her body. Normally, I like music when I have a woman beneath me. A rhythm we can both let flow through our bodies and move to. But I want the first time I’m inside of her to be quiet. So I can listen to her breathing and let her breaths tell me what she needs from me.
Jesus, this woman tests every bit of restraint I have. My body aches for her. Without a doubt I want her. But not like this. Not with her boyfriend twenty feet away. Not with her still sleeping in his bed at night. I drop my hand and release her, backing away. I’m going to walk away because I want her. And not this way.
I manage to accomplish the impossible, keeping distance from Lucky when she’s with Dylan, on a bus where there are few places to hide. The sun is setting by the time we pull into Little Rock. The tour manager hops on the bus at the airport and hands Mick two plane tickets. Mick has a fistful of ass from the woman on his left, and his tongue in the other one’s mouth.
Duff and I are sitting on the couch watching the end of a movie. He takes a draw on his beer, lifts his chin toward Mick and his two fuck buddies and says, “It’s like having live porn. Watch the next move. He’s gonna turn his head to the other side and stick his tongue in her mouth. The left hand will slide up to that one’s back while the right hand grabs a handful of the other one’s ass. Then he’s gonna whip two signed postcards out of his back pocket with his autograph next to the city he met them in.”
Amused, I sit and watch the end of the Mick show rather than the movie. The last scene plays out exactly as Duff described it. The two women giggle when he hands them the postcards and escorts them off the bus. I chuckle. “Guess he’s been using those moves for a while, huh?”
“Yep. Two-on-one gets a signed postcard. Mick’s an ass man. Taking it Greek gets you tickets to the next night’s show and an encore performance before you’re handed the one-way first-class plane ride and a kiss-off at the airport.”
“Shit. He kept me up half the night with those two. Guess I should be glad they weren’t Greek or I wouldn’t sleep again tonight at the hotel.”
Duff finishes off his beer. “Nah. They would have been postcarded anyway. We’re in Little Rock, it’s wife night.”
“Mick’s married?”
“Yep. Going on fifteen years. Married his high-school-fucking-sweetheart. Lydia. She’s a bitch. But who could blame her, married to that jackass? Two kids, a dog and a white picket fence around his house in the suburbs too.”
“No shit. You married?”
“Divorced.” He shakes his head and laughs cynically. “It’s ironic. I’m the only asshole that stopped dipping my pen in the tour ink when I found a good woman. Surprised her one night by coming home early from a gig. Had flowers in my hand and all when I found her blowing our CPA. A fucking accountant for Christ’s sake.”
“Wow. Sorry.”
“The worst part? She stopped giving me head after the wedding, and here she is on her knees for some pencil dick.”
“What did you do?”
“Broke the asshole’s nose, divorced the bitch and vowed never to get married again.” He shrugs. “I like getting head too much to try it again anyway.” Duff reaches into the small fridge on the side of the couch that’s only stocked with beer and pulls us each out one. “You got a girl?”
“I’m working on it.”
He nods. “Well. Wife night usually means the band goes out to dinner. Tour manager has a steady woman who will come and won’t say two words. Lydia will pick a f
ight with Mick during appetizers. And Lucky will obviously be there.”
Not wanting to call attention to my interest in Lucky, I haven’t poked around any. But a little poking here won’t seem out of the ordinary. We’ve already chatted about all the other guys’ women. “Those two serious?” I ask casually and crack open my beer.
“As serious as Ryder gets.”
And that means? “Not the settling-down type?”
“He wants to spawn. Lucky seems like a good woman. I’d bet he makes it official sooner rather than later.” He sips his beer and I think he’s done, but then he adds, “But doubt it will stop him from banging groupies. He’s got a twenty-nine-year-old retired porn star he hooks up with every time we pass through Vegas the last ten years. Be interesting to see if he disappears for a few hours while Lucky’s on the tour with us.”
With no sign of Mick since we pulled into Little Rock, I’d suggested Lucky and I work on my voice rehab in my room. She’d hesitated to agree at first, taking that plump bottom lip in between her teeth while she mulled it over. When she’d said yes, I’d smiled in victory, doing a little internal fist pump.
But as I wait for the knock to come at my door, I realize it probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas. Privacy, a big bed, and a woman I want beneath me so badly, I’m fucking dreaming about her at night. Yeah…not too bright.
The full-of-myself part of me thinks if I pushed, there’s a good chance we’d wind up clawing each other’s clothes off. But I don’t want to be the other guy. She’s inside me, I want to be inside her. And, for a change, not just my cock.
A few minutes later, the knock comes and I open the door to find her standing there. She’s wearing white shorts and a tight white tank top that has the Rolling Stones’ iconic mouth made from crystals of some sort. I step aside for her to enter, and light from the tall windows streams in and hits her at just the right angle so her glossed lips sparkle as much as her shirt. Fuck. Definitely a bad idea.
