My fingers are sore, nearly cramping. When my dad was king of the scene, he always talked about how hard he’d get up here, looking out into the lust-filled faces of the girls who were so turned on by his music, they would strip down right in front of him and throw their clothes onto the stage.
This is what those old guys who sit at the top of my old man’s bar, Gatsby’s, reminisce about. It’s a high that can’t be re-created by any drug. No number of pills can light you up inside like this. And I should be enjoying the hell out of it, but I can’t take my eyes off Landry, who’s been chatting up some guy for the last thirty minutes.
Oh, she’s nodded her head a few times with the beat, but mostly she’s engaged in some intense conversation with a guy wearing one of those trendy-as-fuck man buns. He keeps taking it down and wrapping it back up. I’m going to tear it off, since it obviously bothers him so much.
The last note arrives, and Rob, the sound and light guy, douses the lights as we fall completely silent. Ian’s sticks are up. My palm’s flat on the strings. Davis is running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. On stage, we’re silent, but the bar is rocking. It’s the crowd making the noise—screaming for us to play one more song, one more lyric, one more note.
The lights come up in the bar, signaling that our act is over. The crowd isn’t happy. They boo for a bit. Davis grins down from his elevated perch. Rudd joins him and the two spend a long moment looking over the crowd, no doubt deciding which one of the eager honeys they’re going to take back to the bus tonight.
A none-too-quiet shuffling sound offstage to the right grabs my attention. I look up to see Keith waiting impatiently for us to get our asses out of the way.
Ian spots the same thing and hops up from his seat. I drop my guitar into the stand and help Ian break down his kit. Even if Threat Alert’s drummer wouldn’t mind using Ian’s drum set, Ian would pimp out his sister and mother before anyone laid hands on his instruments. Musicians are like that. In all the years I’ve been around music, I’ve seen more fights break out over someone fingering the wrong guitar than someone fingering the wrong girl.
“You’re supposed to warm them up, not give them a full-blown orgasm,” Keith says as he toes his guitar case out of the way.
“They’re wet and ready, dude. That’s the best way to get a woman,” Rudd proclaims as he drags Davis offstage.
“I’m not a fan of sloppy seconds,” Keith’s bassist, Albie, grouches. He’s pissed that we played so well, because it means he’ll have to be on the top of his game to maintain the same crowd response. Albie wants to play well enough to get a few free drinks after the gig and make his girl’s pussy wet. He doesn’t love the music enough to be inspired by someone else’s play. Keith’s going nowhere with this guy, but that’s on Keith. Dude will have to figure it out for himself.
I set the bass drum by the door with the rest of Ian’s kit. Rudd flings open the door to see if Ian’s back from the bus with the cart. He’s not, so I lean against the wall and lift the bottom of my T-shirt to swipe the sweat off my forehead. Across from me, Albie’s pretty girlfriend runs into a mic stand. That boy is punching so far above his weight class, it’s a miracle he hasn’t torn a muscle. The way she’s eating up the glimpse of my abs, though, suggests that the minute he unstraps his guitar, she’ll be moving on. I drop my shirt and angle away from her.
“You ready, man?” Albie asks.
Keith adjusts the strap and shakes his head. “No. Give them a minute to come down off the high.” He leans toward me. “Don’t mind, Albie. He’s bitter cuz his girl followed him down here. He was hoping for the night off, if you know what I mean.”
Translation: Albie was hoping to get laid by some out-of-town strange, and his old lady is ruining it for him.
“That’s unfortunate.” For the girl, for him, for Keith’s band. He’ll need to get that sorted.
“He had his eye on Davis’s girl, I think.” Keith tips his head toward Davis, who’s peering out the back, yelling for Ian to get his ass inside.
“You mean his sister,” I correct sharply.
“Sister. Girl. Whatever,” Keith rolls his eyes. “She’s off-limits, right?”
“Right.” The possessive urge I felt from the first moment I laid eyes on Landry rises up. If she belongs to anyone, it’s me.
Chapter Thirteen
Landry
Threat Alert is good, but they’re not FMK. The crowd never gets as loud, never gets as hyped. They still have fun, though. A couple of Threat Alert’s girlfriends come to collect me again, and I end up a sweaty mess by the end of the night. After Threat Alert finishes its playlist, a DJ takes over.
Rudd’s stumbling around while Ian smokes something that’s not a cigarette in the booth I abandoned. Davis is in a deep conversation with a pretty blonde. She’s so close to him, she’s practically inside his T-shirt. I turn away from that scene, because there are things I don’t need to see, especially when they involve my brother.
My eyes scan the large venue for Adam, but I don’t find him. Even though I know I’m just having an affair with him in my head, I’m sad that he’s already replaced me with a real girl.
“We’re headed to the bus, dollface,” Rudd says. “It’s party time!” There’s a girl on either side of him. They all look lit.
“What about the party in here?”
“Nah, we need some privacy, don’t we, girls?” He squeezes them tight and, like Tickle Me Elmo dolls, they giggle on cue.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.
“They’re coming.” He jerks his head. “Come on.”
That wasn’t a real answer, but when I look over at the booth I vacated, a new crowd has taken over. Ian and his smoking buddies are gone. Davis has disappeared, too. I spent way too much time searching for Adam, I conclude.
“All right.”
Rudd gives me the thumbs-up, or as much of one as he can provide without taking his hands away from the girls’ waists.
“Who are these lovely ladies?” I ask as we push our way through the crowd.
“I’m Lacey,” the one closest to me says. “And this is Meg, my sister.”
“Sisters!” Rudd exclaims in a theatrical whisper.
“I don’t think they actually are, Rudd.” Lacey has short, black hair and Meg is a half foot taller with dark, smooth skin I’d kill for.
“Shhh,” he says in a voice that’s way too loud. “You’re ruining the fantasy.”
The girls don’t mind, though. And hell—if they don’t, neither do I. The three are full of drunken confidence that’s almost charming.
The bus is already crowded when we arrive. Several other band members are there. Some guy I don’t know palms my ass. Rudd plants himself in the back, one girl on each side, making up his metaphorical sister sandwich. In the front, the blonde Davis was talking to is now straddling his lap. His hands are busily pulling her dress completely off. Ian’s propped in the banquette watching it all. I avert my eyes and flee.
Outside, I see a pinpoint of red light flicker.
“Adam?” I call out.
“The one and only,” he replies.
It’s not quite an invitation, but I’ll take it. I follow the flare to the rear of the bus to find Adam lounging on the bumper. A tall, thin, gangly man with a wispy goatee slouches across from him, using the back of a van as a rest.
“Oh, am I interrupting?”
Please say no.
“Nah, have a seat.” Adam points to the side of the bumper next to him. “Landry, this is George Dance. He owns this joint.”
“Dance? Really?” I ask. “That’s amazing.” The name of the place, Dance’s Hall, takes on new meaning.
“It is now. Not so much when I was in school,” he jokes. “Want some?” He offers me a hit off his joint.
I shake my head and lower myself next to Adam. “I thought the apostrophe on the sign was a mistake.”
“Ha! I wish. Had to have the damn thing remade three times because the fuc
king signmaker thought he knew better. You have a good time tonight?”
“Yes, it was great. I couldn’t believe how well your staff kept up with the crowd.”
“They’re a good group of kids.” He inhales deeply before offering it again. Both Adam and I refuse. George pinches off the burnt end of his joint and sticks it in his shirt pocket. “Well, I’m going to take my old ass home. Thanks for playing. Your riffs had shades of your old man tonight.”
Beside me, Adam’s shoulders stiffen, but his tone is light as he replies, “Thanks for having us. We had a great time.”
“Tell your dad hey for me next time you see him. We’d love to have him down for an event.”
“I’ll pass the word along.”
Adam rises and gives the older man a hug, and then it’s just the two of us. I rub my arms briskly. I didn’t grab a jacket when I bolted from the bus, and now that there aren’t a thousand people pressed against me, the early spring weather is making itself known.
“Here.”
I look up to see a piece of fabric dangling in front of me. I realize it’s a shirt. Specifically, Adam’s shirt. He’d pulled off his long-sleeve oatmeal-colored Henley and is offering it to me.
“It’s clean,” he says, jiggling it slightly. “I changed after the set.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” I say, taking it. “I just don’t want you to be cold.”
“I can’t feel it. Don’t worry.”
I slip my arms into the sleeves and let the big shirt fall around my shoulders. It smells like warm man and tobacco. It occurs to me that if I’m wearing Adam’s shirt, then he’s naked. Right? RIGHT?
“Better?” he asks as he settles back beside me.
Is he closer or is it my imagination? I peek to the side and am super disappointed to see he’s wearing a wife-beater.
“Better,” I confirm, slumping backward in disappointment. “You guys were amazing tonight.”
“Yeah, although I think the transition from ‘Flip Out’ to ‘You Kill Me’ wasn’t as smooth as it could’ve been.”
“You sound like Davis, obsessing over the smallest detail that no one knows about but you.” The sleeves of Adam’s shirt are so long that my fingers stop before the cuff. I keep my hands tucked inside, enjoying the warmth.
“I guess Davis is a good fit for me, then.”
It’s funny how chemistry works. Earlier on the bus, I sat next to Rudd and felt nothing. Now, my heart beats faster and goosebumps are surfacing despite the fact I am fully covered head to toe. My skinny jeans feel tight, the lace on my bra strap feels extra scratchy. I want to throw all my clothes off and then rip Adam’s off as well.
I allow a small smile to settle across my face. It’s dark and I doubt that Adam can see it. And if he did, he’d just assume that I was happy, not that I was embracing the way he turns me on like a light bulb. When you’ve been in the dark for a long time, being lit up is a treasure.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask curiously. “Shouldn’t you be inside, celebrating?”
“Tired of me already?” he teases. He bends forward, resting his bare forearms on his knees. Long, elegant fingers dangle between his legs. I wonder how he’d react if I started tracing his tattoos with my tongue.
“Hardly.” The word comes out a little too hot, a little too eager, even for me. I bite my lip and wait to see if he notices.
But he doesn’t move from his position. His tautly muscled arm and equally built leg rest next to me. I swear I can feel heat radiating off his big frame. I’d like to curl up like a cat beneath a ray of sunshine and sleep basking in his warmth. That’s not weird, right? As long as I don’t say it or do it, it’s not weird. It’s just my own private, safe fantasy. I take my glasses off and use Adam’s shirt to wipe off the foggy lenses.
“Is Man Bun not on the bus?”
“Man Bun?” I’m confused.
Adam twirls his finger next to his head. “The guy with the long hair that was sitting with you during our set.”
“Oh, you could see us?” When he gives me a curt nod, I continue with, “That was Mike. He’s Threat Alert’s manager. And anyway, my brother is currently putting on a public sex show. So, no—nothing and no one could entice me back on the bus right now.” Thinking about Davis mauling that poor girl kind of puts a damper on my own lusty feelings.
“Not even Man Bun?” Adam’s grinning now.
“Especially not Man Bun. I don’t think he could love anyone more than he loves his hair.”
Adam hoots. “True.”
“How about you? Why aren’t you inside partying?” There are many pretty girls more than willing to lavish attention on him.
He leans back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His shoulder brushes mine, but despite all the available space, neither of us makes an effort to give the other one more room.
“Guys like George Dance are the backbone of the scene. Sure, a few bands make it to the top, although these days it’s more about individual voices than actual bands. But for the most part, what makes the music world go around are people like George. If venues like his close, most bands couldn’t afford to tour.”
“Spending time with George is more important than Rudd’s marketing?”
“Nah, Rudd’s marketing is important, too.” Adam cocks his head. “You bothered by Rudd’s techniques? Because I can tell him to knock it off.”
“Not at all. He comes off as harmless. I’m sure that if I returned any of his passes, he’d run away screaming. I’ve developed a pretty good radar when it comes to guys.”
“Oh yeah? Where do I fall?”
“What’s the Byronic saying? ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know’?” I quip.
I sense his frown rather than see it.
“Is that how you view me?” There’s almost a hint of hurt in his voice.
I hurry to assure him. “No. It was a stupid joke. There was this poet in London, and he was all the rage at the time—”
“I know who Byron is,” he cuts in. “You afraid of me?”
“No. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I was.”
“Good. Good.” He adds the last one almost as an aside.
In between the tall bus and the long van, almost no light creeps in, but the dark isn’t scary. I tip my head back against the bus and stretch my legs out. They barely reach Adam’s calves.
“Your legs are really long,” I remark.
“Or yours are really short.”
“I’m above average in height for women,” I inform him. “You’re the one who’s freakishly tall.”
“Six three is not freakishly tall.”
“The average height for a man is five feet nine inches. At six three, you’re eight percent taller than the average man.“
“Are you just pulling these stats out of your ass?”
I snicker. “Nope. It’s fact. I’m on the computer a lot, remember?”
“Right. Well, I don’t think I qualify as freakishly tall. Like, no one is going to pay to come see the six-foot-three-inch man.”
“If you were displayed in a community of Lilliputians, you would be freakishly tall.”
“You’ve got me there.” His shoulders shake again. He reaches up and grabs his cigarette. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. It’s your cancerous lung problem, not mine.”
“I know. I keep trying to quit. I used electronic cigs for about six months, but it’s not the same.” He flips the cigarette in his hand. “Maybe after the tour is over.”
We share a look and then say, “Nah,” in unison.
I wish I could sit next to Adam in this dark, safe place forever. Or for another hour or so, at least.
“How long have you smoked?” I ask.
He digs in his pocket and pulls out a matchbook that says “Dance’s Hall” on it. “Since I was a kid. I think I was nine or ten when I had my first one.”
“That young?”
“My dad toured for most of my life.” He jerks a thumb
toward the bus. “Think what’s going on inside the tin can is shocking? That was nothing compared to what Dad and his crew got up to.”
“Um, do I say I’m sorry or that’s awesome?”
He snorts. “Both and neither, I guess. I grew up fast, but I learned a lot.”
“Did your mom tour, too?”
“The first time,” he says with amusement. “She was a groupie. Seventeen when he knocked her up. He had to get permission from her parents to marry her.”
“Wow.” Adam’s life is completely different than my sedate suburban one.
“Yeah, I don’t know what was more surprising—that he married her or that her parents were okay with it.”
“Are they still together?”
“No. They divorced a long time ago.” He looks in my direction again. “Heard your parents are having a rough time of it.”
I nod. Davis must’ve told him. “Dad is, or was, a workaholic and missed a lot of important events in my mom’s life. She got sick of it and told him she was leaving. I guess it woke him up because he sold his business and booked a three-month trip around the world. I think they’re in Turkey right now. That’s why I’m here, you know? Otherwise, I could’ve just stayed home.”
He pulls a match out. “Care to tell me about it? About this Marrow guy, I mean.”
“Not really. It’s weird and embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t even know this guy.”
“So his problem doesn’t make it weird or embarrassing for you.”
“In my head I know that, but it’s still awkward to explain.”
“Then we don’t talk about it again.” He doesn’t press and I could kiss him for that. “At least you’re feeling better.”
“I am. And I’m so grateful to be here. I know it’s a huge inconvenience, dragging my ass along. I’m probably cramping your style, and—”
He interrupts me by placing a warm palm over my hands. “Do I look like a person who does things he doesn’t want to do?”
I consider the litany of flaws that Adam and his bandmates recited and none of them lend themselves to him doing an entirely selfless act. “No.”
Unwritten Page 10
