Unwritten

by Jen Frederick

  Ian wanders down, a shit-eating grin on his face. He knows me too well, the bastard. But he’s a friend, and he keeps his mouth shut as he slides into the booth next to Landry.

  “What’re we talking about?” he asks, as if he wasn’t hanging out near the door listening to the entire conversation.

  “Adam is going to list all his flaws for us,” she says.

  Ian swivels around to face me. “Wow. Do we really have enough time?”

  I flick him off. “That’s what I told her.”

  “You both say this, but I haven’t heard one flaw yet,” she points out.

  Ian opens his mouth, but I wave him off. “Let me ease into this before you start revealing all my deep, dark secrets.” I consider my list of extensive shortcomings and opt to go with the one that Ian would probably start with. “I’m a perfectionist.”

  “He has a temper, too,” Ian adds.

  “And he’s more stubborn than a mule.” Rudd ambles down the hall to peer over Davis’s shoulder.

  Terrific. They’re making me out to be an inflexible asshole who always has to get his way.

  “You got any complaints?” I ask Davis.

  “Nah, it’s all good. Besides, none of those things has killed your family like Landry’s cooking almost did. We were one meal away from being a Discovery ‘Tragedy in the Kitchen’ special.”

  Landry rips a sheet of paper off the notepad lying on the table and chucks it at Davis’s head. It doesn’t go very far.

  “Oh, and did I mention Landry’s a terrible shot? Never choose her in a game of pick-up basketball.”

  “Noted,” I say and grin at Landry.

  She smiles back and lust surges through me so powerfully that my knees nearly buckle. I force myself to turn away. In a curt voice, I say, “Holler when you’re done. I’m going to take another look at the set list.”

  I leave knowing that there are four sets of bewildered eyes following me into the back. Scratch that. Three sets. Ian probably knows exactly why I’m pissed off. And it’s not at anyone but myself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Landry

  Tour Stop: Augusta

  The bar in Augusta isn’t a bar. It’s a squat, drab gray building with a large parking lot and a fifties-style neon sign that says “Dance’s Hall” with the word “Vacancy” in neon orange underneath.

  “Are we even at the right place?” I ask. We’re all in the front, watching as the driver makes a sharp turn into the parking lot. Our bus driver is a magician because I was sure we were going to hit the stop sign, but he manages to maneuver by it with an inch to spare.

  It’s Adam who answers. “There’s a bar inside.”

  Davis presses his nose to the window. “How many people does it hold?”

  “Three thousand at max capacity.” There’s a healthy dose of satisfaction in Adam’s voice.

  And why shouldn’t there be? Three thousand people? Davis and I exchange surprised looks. Excitement simmers in his eyes. He’s never played in front of a crowd so large. He bolts from the bus almost before the wheels roll to a stop. He can’t wait to see the inside.

  “You excited?” I nudge Rudd with my arm. His head has been buried in his phone for the last half hour.

  “Yup,” he says. But he doesn’t sound excited. Not like Davis is.

  “He’s too busy making arrangements for after the show,” Ian mocks. He taps out a cigarette and pops it into the corner of his mouth before passing the pack to Adam, who plucks one out and tucks it above his ear. The thin hoop threaded through the upper tip catches my eye. It’s the second piercing I’ve seen. Not that I’m counting.

  “I’m doing PR work,” Rudd protests. His fingers fly over the screen’s keyboard. “I’m inviting the local girls to the show.”

  “How’s that PR?” Ian asks skeptically.

  “Simple math. Guys go where the girls go. Get a lot of girls at the show and you’ll have a lot of dicks there, too. You should be paying me for this.”

  “PR work. That’s a new one,” Ian scoffs. He hops out and lights his cigarette.

  Adam is next, but he pauses at the bottom step and looks back. “Coming?” he asks.

  I hesitate, looking around for a moment.

  Adam’s brown eyes darken. For a moment, apprehension quivers in my tummy at the prospect of seeing the first flare of his supposed temper. But then he reaches a hand toward me and says, “No one’s going to hurt you while I’m around.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks, partly from pleasure but mostly from embarrassment. I force myself to march down the three steps to the pavement. “You must think I’m ridiculous.”

  His arm swings by mine and I regret not taking his hand. “Nope. Smart. My dad had his share of stalkers. Why do you think the celebs all have bodyguards? Because they’re ridiculous or because they’re smart to be on guard against stupid people? But we’re here and the ass-wipe is a day’s drive away. You’re safe.”

  From Marrow, but not from myself. I can’t tell Adam that so I force a smile onto my lips. “Thanks.”

  It’s better he thinks I’m scared of Marrow rather than the truth: that I have a crush so strong that if I ease the lid off my control, I’m going to attack Adam.

  We walk the rest of the way in silence. Inside we find Davis talking to Keith Dieter, the front man for Threat Alert. He’s wearing tight black jeans, a white T-shirt strategically ripped around the torso and collar, and tan Timberlands.

  “What do you think of TA?” Adam jerks his head in Keith’s direction.

  “They’re okay.”

  Adam huffs a small laugh. “Not as good as we are, of course.”

  “Of course.” We share a small smile and the quiver that snaked around my belly earlier reappears. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of an unwanted fixation. I’m not pushing that on Adam.

  But in some way, because I know he isn’t attracted to me at all, the need feels good—healthy, even. Recklessly, I stoke that small fire and let it spread. Standing next to Adam, feeling the burn in my blood like a shot of good whiskey, I have the urge to throw myself at the poor man.

  “You need to stop looking at me like that,” Adam says sharply.

  “Like what?”

  He closes his eyes, as if seeking patience. I wonder if I’m going to be treated to my first exhibition of his temper, but he does nothing except shake his head before stomping off.

  His reaction irritates me a smidge. Yes, I might have an inconvenient crush, but I’m not acting on it. And he can suffer through a few thirsty glances. From what I saw the other night, I’m not the only one who makes those eyes at him.

  My smile dims a bit at that thought, because somehow being one of a crowd of girls who want to see Adam without his clothes doesn’t feel good.

  I rub a hand across my tummy and look around to find Rudd and Ian coming through the doorway, both with their arms full of instruments.

  “How’d the PR go?” I call out to Rudd.

  He lifts his chin. “Awesome, of course. Place is going to be packed.”

  “Of course. What can I bring in?”

  “Nothing, sugar. It’s bad luck to let a non-band member touch these babies before the show.”

  After a few aborted attempts to help, Davis finally sends me away, telling me that I’m being a hindrance and bothering everyone.

  I end up at the bar, sipping water garnished with a lemon and talking to Bob, the bartender. He’s wearing one of those mechanic’s shirts with his name embroidered on it. We chat about his favorite restaurant which happens to be a barbecue spot. We end up spending the next fifteen minutes debating dry rubs over wet rubs. Bob is a wet rub enthusiast.

  It ends up sounding dirty and weird talking about different types of rubs for a particular cut of meat so we shift topic to the crowd he expects tonight. It’s a mix of college students and young professionals. He prefers the young professionals. College students don’t tip worth shit. His words, not mine.

  As the sta
ff starts to trickle in, I see that everyone wears some version of the mechanic’s shirt. A few of the waitresses have the shirt unbuttoned and tied under their boobs. Another bartender wears his open over a torn wifebeater.

  Bob is a chatty guy, and while he does pre-opening prep he shares that the show is sold out and has been since last week. Lots of people want to hear Sid Rees’s son play. Apparently Death to Dusk is strangely popular in Georgia. I assure Bob that the band is awesome, but inwardly worry that everyone will expect screeching guitar solos and screaming vocals, neither of which Adam or Davis deliver.

  FMK is set to play the fourth hour. Starting at eight, each band will play a fifty-minute set separated by a thirty-minute break, which allows the various groups to break down the existing stage and set up for the next set. It’s apparently bad luck to use someone else’s instruments.

  The space fills up quick once the doors open, and Bob has little time to chat with me after that. I leave him a hefty tip and find a quiet booth in the corner where I can see the stage and the door. I’m not looking for Marrow anymore. Detective Pressley kept a close eye on him while I was preparing to leave, and aside from her, my parents, and May, no one knows I left with Davis. Heck, I’m not even sure Davis’s former coworkers know where he is.

  Davis joins me when the first band, whose name is Jane Eyre Sucks so I automatically hate them, starts playing. Adam is close to the stage, surrounded by a swarm of girls. I don’t know where the other two are.

  “How’re you doing?” my brother asks.

  “I’m good. How about you? Nervous?”

  “Nah. Excited,” he admits. “This is wild.”

  He’s wired and not from booze, because Davis doesn’t drink before he plays. During? Yes. After? Hell, yes. But not before. I wish he’d give it up, but so far he appears to have it all under control.

  His fingers drum against the tabletop. His knee bounces repeatedly. He stares at the crowd, too, but for different reasons. He can’t believe how many people are going to see him play. I’m so happy for him. He’s earned this.

  I need to stop monitoring his liquor intake. He didn’t invite me on to the tour to keep track of how many times he gets drunk. Even Davis deserves to lose control now and again.

  He leans close so I can hear him over the music. “I know it was selfish of me to make you come with me, to give you the ultimatum, but I’m not sorry now. You still mad?”

  “You know I’m not.” I reach across to squeeze his hand. “What would I have done at home? Sat in front of the computer screen and pretended not to be incredibly lonely while you, May, and Mom and Dad were gone? This is an adventure.”

  “See, I was right,” he says smugly.

  “Don’t make me come over this table,” I threaten.

  He gives me a return squeeze before sliding out of the seat. “I’m going to get a water and chat up the fans. Adam wants us to do some in-person marketing.”

  Is that what Adam is doing? Because it looks like he’s flirting with dozens of different girls, flashing his beautiful smile in their direction, allowing them to touch his tats. One girl even sticks out her tongue and pretends to lick his arm. Gross. Thankfully, Adam backs away from her.

  “Sounds miserable. I’m going to hide in the corner.”

  “We’re watching out for you, Landry. Nothing’s going to happen while you’re on tour with us.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Worry about Adam getting a disease from the arm-licker. “I’m fine. This is awesome.” It’s a good thing that noses don’t grow when you lie or mine would be poking Davis in the arm.

  He gives me another squeeze, probably to reassure himself as much as anything, and disappears into the crowd.

  By the time FMK takes the stage, I’m close to better. A drink or three has helped, but I stay in the booth and for the most part, I’m left alone. A couple of girls wander over, wanting to find out why so many FMK members are talking to me, but they take off when the music starts. The stage is an inexorable draw. Davis’s voice is so gorgeous, full-bodied and deep with a surprising dash of falsetto. And Adam? His music is exactly right for Davis’s voice. In the back, Ian’s arms flash in and out of view. I boost myself onto the back of the booth so I can see over the waving hands and jumping bodies. The crowd’s in a frenzy, particularly the ladies. I swear a few of them are trying to haul the guys down off the stage.

  A cute guy with Fabio hair wanders over shortly before the end of the set.

  “You look lonely!” he yells. He waves a hand and a waitress appears almost immediately. “Corona and…?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Whatever’s on tap is good for me.”

  “She’ll have a Corona, too.”

  I open my mouth to object, but the guy speaks over me. “Bottles make more money, and as part of the band, spending some of the money on the house makes a good impression.”

  I shut up. I’ve got a lot to learn about this touring business. I should start taking notes.

  “I’m Mike. Saw you rolled in on the grand deluxe.”

  “Landry Olsen.” I shake his hand. “And if that’s what you’re calling the bus, then yes. Adam calls her Bessie.”

  “It’s a girl?”

  “I guess? I mean, we could change her name to Mike.”

  “That’s just mean.” He winks and lifts his hands behind his head, catching his hair in a pony and twisting it into a bun with more efficiency than I’ve ever seen a girl wield.

  “Are you with a band?” I ask, guessing that he’s connected somehow because of his ease and the way the waitress came over so quick.

  “I’m Threat Alert’s manager.”

  It’s said with an air of importance, so I pretend to be impressed even though I have no idea what he does. “This seems really well put together. I thought everyone’d be playing at bars. This the biggest crowd they’ve had yet.”

  “Georgia’s a great state for live music. Most places down here are. Plus, it helps that Rees is involved.”

  That’s the same thing that Bob told me. “How so?” I ask. “FMK doesn’t play heavy metal.” I looked up Sid Rees’ band, and while their wiki page said that they were one of the greatest metal bands in the last couple of decades, I couldn’t make it through even one of their songs.

  “A bunch of reasons. He’s got a lot of connections, so places like this open their doors. He’s a known name. People think they’ve heard of him before and so they come, thinking it’s a sound that’s familiar,” he explains. “Plus, of course, Threat Alert just signed to a label, so they’re big.”

  I don’t tell him I’ve never heard of them before this tour. “That’s awesome. They must be loving this crowd tonight.”

  He nods almost absently. His hands go up and the hair comes down. “So I hear you’re the new front man’s sister?”

  I sip from my drink before nodding. “Yes. Davis is my brother.”

  “He’s a good fit. Hopefully Rees won’t drive him off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rees is a musical genius, but he’s difficult as fuck to get along with, don’t you think?”

  “No, actually I don’t think so. He’s been nothing but good to”—I was going to say me, but I adjust—“to Davis and me.”

  Mike shrugs carelessly. “It’s new. Wait a bit and he’ll do something to piss you off. He always does. It’s why this is his third band. He’s a stubborn prick that always wants things his way.” Mike slides a curious glance in my direction. “You don’t see it?”

  I fold my arms across my chest and give him a chilly stare. “No.”

  He meets my gaze for a moment before shifting his attention back to the stage. “Didn’t mean to piss you off. Look, Davis is a talent. When Adam’s done with him, send him my way.” He slides a card across the table.

  I let it lie there.

  Mike shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn.”

  “Give the card to my brother directly.” When Mike doesn’t reply, it dawns on me. He al
ready tried and that’s why he’s cozying up to me. I huff in irritation. “I make no decisions in the band. If you want to break up FMK, that’s on you. I’m here to enjoy the tour before I go back home.”

  “Because of the stalker?” Mike asks with narrowed eyes.

  I glare at him in dismay. “How do you know about that?”

  He waves his hand. “Everyone does. I think I even bought drugs off that guy once. He lives over in Oak Park, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I always thought he was weird.” Mike taps his finger on the table before getting to his feet. “When the honeymoon is over, give me a holler. My door will always be open.”

  I still make no move to take it, eyeing the white card like it might turn into a snake and bite me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Adam

  My mood doesn’t improve. Not even after the righteous set.

  The cheers grow as Davis holds the last note, and the longer he sings it, the louder the crowd gets. He holds the final syllable in the last lyric as Ian riffs heavily on the snare. Rudd and I lock eyes as we slash our strings, the pick digging into my thumb. I’ve played so hard tonight blood is trickling from the frets to my wrist.

  Davis raises his fist, the sign to cut off all sound. Rudd and I slam our palms against our guitars. Ian catches his sticks.

  And while the stage falls silent, the crowd yells the last line again and again and again. They don’t want to let go.

  From the back, Ian counts down from five, four, three, two. On one, we pick up the bridge again. The crowd screams in glee. Hands go up, bodies start jumping. Hair is swung around. Davis wraps one hand around the pole of the mic stand, one hand fisted around the mic itself, and then leans over the edge of the stage, dripping his sweat onto the front row.

  Hands reach out to grab his jeans. He steadies himself, singing about how much he wants his girl’s sweet taste on his tongue, all over his body, all over him.

  He’s getting laid tonight by at least one of those honeys, if not more. Hell, we all could. Even Rudd.