Unwritten

by Jen Frederick

  Ian is watching Rudd hit on a very pretty blonde while Davis and I enjoy a moment alone.

  “You holding up okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, it’s not as bad as I thought it’d be.”

  “I know. I’ve heard horror stories about touring in a van. Usually, you crash on someone’s floor—hopefully not someone with pets. Remember Pete Appleton?”

  “Vaguely. You went to college with him?” Davis brought a lot of guys home over break, but I never paid much attention to them. I was too busy with my own stuff.

  “Well, he was in a band and they’d drive five hours for one gig and turn around and drive back home so he could be at work the next day. So this,” Davis waves around the room, “this is great.” He drops his arm back on the table. “I wish Adam wasn’t such a tight-ass about his music, though. Can you imagine me singing on a commercial?”

  “No, that’d be amazing. I think we’d have to call Mom and Dad and make them come home for that.”

  He grins. “No kidding. Although, from what Hollister says, it’d be months before the ad would air. Rudd was telling me that Fitz and The Tantrums’ songs are on video games and TV promo spots.” He whistles a few bars.

  “Oh shit. I recognize that!” I exclaim. “That was on The CW last fall.”

  Davis slaps a hand on the table. “Exactly. They had their own tour last summer and now they have a couple billboard hits. They’re the next big thing.” He shifts in his seat so that he can see Adam better. Or maybe so he can glare at Adam better. “I don’t get him, Landry. He’s obviously a musical genius. He’s got more connections to this industry than most and not just because of his dad.” He turns back to me. “Did you know he writes music for other artists? That he wrote four hits last year and three the year before that?”

  I recoil in surprise. “No. I had no idea.”

  The information hits me like a brick. I don’t know much about Adam other than what I’ve read on the internet and what little Davis has shared. Sure, we’ve had breakfast with each other every day for two weeks straight, but in all that time, he’s not once mentioned his music writing career.

  I’ve had this suspicion that our connection would last only as long as the tour. Heck, I sort of set the parameters myself because I knew, deep down, that this is where his head was. If he really wanted a lasting relationship, we’d be telling each other everything. But, we aren’t. We’re both holding back.

  Why that thought depresses me, I’m not sure. It’s not like we’re in love. We’re hot for each other. We’ll enjoy each other and go our separate ways. He’s gorgeous, and I haven’t had sex in a long time. So long that I’m a little nervous about tonight. He has a lot of experience and I’ve had close to none. What if I’m terrible and he doesn’t want to hook up again? Wouldn’t that be humiliating?

  “It’s true. I mean, to some extent, I understand where he’s coming from. We don’t want to become known for only one song. But if he can write seven hits in two years, there’s no reason he can’t do the same for us, right?”

  I shrug, because music isn’t my thing. Davis makes a frustrated sound, either at my lack of understanding or Adam’s stubbornness. To Davis, whose mantra is getting shit done, both are likely incredibly annoying. But he surprises me with a self-deprecating laugh. “Christ, I’m a shithead for complaining. I’ve got it so good compared to other people. Slap me upside the head the next time I bitch and moan about this band, okay?”

  “That I can do,” I say with a smile.

  He stands up and reaches out to ruffle my hair. “Be good, little sis.”

  I bat his hand away. “Whenever am I not?”

  “True,” he says nonchalantly as he walks away, not realizing the sting of his words.

  I’ve been good, closeted in the basement working away, ignoring the outside world and what did it get me? A nice bank account, a stalker, and a dusty vagina.

  I peek over at Adam. He wants me. He turns me on. I mean, what more could I ask for? I don’t need a love connection or a promise of forever. I like him. He’s safe and he’s experienced. Some girls might not like that, but I think I’ll enjoy the benefit of his expertise. If we keep our hookup on the down low, there’s no reason why we can’t enjoy each other for the rest of the tour.

  “You look happy, girl.”

  I glance up to see Mike sliding into Davis’s abandoned chair.

  “It’s a great night in a great city with great music on tap.”

  He picks up my glass and sniffs it. “How much have you had to drink tonight?” he asks suspiciously.

  I laugh. “One glass. And no, I’m not drunk.”

  “Then you’re getting laid, because the band sucks, the crowds suck, and the tap beer is weaker than piss.”

  I avoid the first part of his statement. “You have a lot of experience tasting pee?”

  Mike snorts into his bottle. “Not as much as the bartenders have if this is what they drink every night.” He looks around the bar. “Why do you think it’s so dead?”

  I have no idea. “I write lines of code for a living. The social decisions people make are beyond me.”

  He turns slightly to look at the empty stage. “The natives are restless tonight. I don’t know. Maybe FMK can get them out of their seats.” He swivels back. “TA’s falling apart and I wanted to offer Davis a job. I had that wrong, didn’t I?”

  Disarmed by his honesty, I can only blink in return. Mike doesn’t require a response.

  He taps his fingers. “Thank fuck Adam agreed to do the collaboration.” The two bands are performing together at the end of FMK’s set. “Wonder if we should change up the set list. Maybe start with ‘Destiny’s Here.’ What do you think?”

  Their hit single? Blowing out of the gate with the one song everyone wants to hear doesn’t seem to be the best idea. Then again, like I told him before: I write code, not music sets. “You guys should just go with your gut.”

  He grimaces. “That’s the problem. My gut is fucked up.” Lines crease his perfect forehead. “Can I be straight with you, Landry?”

  “Of course.”

  “This tour is killing me. Hollister expects Keith to be on social media, schmoozing all the girls. Back home in Central City, we have this solid crowd and Keith doesn’t have to offer himself up like a piece of meat. Out on the road, he has to constantly be on—both in the club and every minute leading up to the show. He’s got to be sending winky faces and compliments. Tweeting out pics of his abs and shit.” Mike rubs a hand across his chest, as if trying to soothe a bad ache. “I hate all this fucking hiding.”

  “Why can’t you come out?”

  He gives me a disdainful look. “Because the front man brings in the girls. If they find out he’s gay, they can’t imagine themselves with him. It ruins their fantasy.”

  “I dunno. I don’t think you give women enough credit.” Two attractive guys together? That’s hot.

  Mike doesn’t agree. “Hollister would kill us. He told me that if I even hinted at Keith being in a relationship with me, that he’d drop us. He says we need to wait to get bigger and then we can go public.”

  “That sucks,” I say, but I feel like a fraud.

  Hiding is what I want to do. What I’m asking Adam to do. It’s not that I’m ashamed of hooking up with him, but I don’t want to make waves, and while my reasoning is not remotely the same as Hollister’s, the result is the same. I’m asking Adam to be dishonest.

  Glumly we both fall silent, brooding over our beers.

  “Fuck. Now I’ve depressed both of us,” Mike laments.

  “Nah. I’m not depressed.” I’m more confused, feeling both horny and guilty at the same time.

  “Let’s talk about something else. Word is that FMK might be the soundtrack to some commercial.”

  “I, ah, I…” I look around, unsure of what I should say. Is this band-only business? I don’t want to leak something.

  He clucks his tongue. “Honey, there’s nothing in this industry that stay
s secret long. They going to do it?”

  “I don’t know.” That seems like a safe answer.

  “Adam probably said no.”

  “Why would you say that?” I ask, defensive on Adam’s behalf.

  “Because he’s been asked before and always says no, that’s why.”

  “He’s been asked before?” I repeat dumbly.

  “Yeah. Don’t know how many times, but it’s been a few. He’s written a lot of pop hits, which is kind of funny if you think about it.” At my look of confusion, he says, “Because his dad is the opposite. His dad shits on pop music.”

  “Oh, right.” Sid Rees’s music is heavy on the guitar and light on the melody. It sounded more like screeching to me. So, yes—a far cry from the peppy, upbeat, bubblegum tunes that populate the radio stations. “Is that why he doesn’t sell his stuff?”

  “Who knows? Rees is one of those musicians who has money, so he’s a little off. I can’t really read him.”

  Ditto, apparently. In fact, I’d like to go clear some things up with Adam. I don’t need to know every single secret of his before we have sex, but I don’t want to sleep with a mystery, either. But I don’t have time, because FMK hits the stage. Mike leaves me in the middle of the set, but I barely notice. My eyes are glued to the band.

  Davis is worked up, chatting with the crowd between songs, telling little stories which he must’ve cribbed from Adam and the rest of them since Davis wasn’t around when these songs were written.

  “Love Scars” was the song Adam wrote after Rudd admitted he was afraid of dogs because he’d been bitten by a Rottie when he’d delivered food as a teen. The story, as Rudd tells it, is that as he ran toward his car, the dog bit him. The bite in the ass caused him to stumble. The pie went flying and some landed on his bare arm, burning him. He said his love of pizza was forever ruined after that.

  He does have a strange pepperoni-shaped scar on his forearm. Hence the lyric, “my love left a mark on me.”

  Davis regales the audience with the story and they are screaming their laughter.

  He isn’t the only one who draws the eyes. Plenty of thirsty girls are positioned on Adam’s side of the stage, their faces upturned, their hands in the air. He walks to the edge, dips his shoulder low, making them scream with excitement. Davis is flirting with them and Adam’s teasing them. Ian and Rudd provide the beat and the bass to anchor the sex that Davis and Adam are selling.

  And it’s working, because the once sleepy crowd is vibrating with excitement. I rub my hands between my legs, as if I can exorcise the heat Adam’s performance is generating inside of me. He’s too damn talented. My body doesn’t care that he’s a mystery. My body is just thrilled with the attention and the idea of all that muscle and sex appeal at its disposal.

  “Austin, we love you. We’d play all night, but I know you’re excited to hear Threat Alert,” Davis shouts into the mic.

  There’s a chorus of noes but FMK drowns them out by barreling forward into “Destiny’s Here,” Threat Alert’s hit song. As choreographed, Kevin strides out, playing his guitar. He stops next to Davis, who holds the mic out for Kev, and the two sing together, ensuring that the crowd is happy once again.

  They jam together for two more songs—a cover of an old Fleetwood Mac song called “Landslide,” then one of their originals that Mike suggested, “Those Aren’t Tears,” before announcing that the set is over.

  I join the guys in the back. Adam is the first to reach me. His eyes are lit up and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. His T-shirt looks drenched, too. But that’s hardly a turnoff. I lick my lips, wondering what he’d taste like.

  His eyes darken knowingly. “Liked the show, did you?”

  “A little bit.”

  His laugh is rough and sexy.

  I take a deep breath, barely able to hear myself over the pounding of my excited heart. “How long do we have to stay?”

  His eyes gleam. “Not long at all.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adam

  Landry looks like she’s ready to burst. I’m only a half step behind her and that’s because I’m exerting phenomenal self-control over my dick right now. Otherwise, he’d be standing fully upright, flying his eager flag for everyone and their brothers to see. And since we’re supposed to be keeping this from Davis, I’m thinking about amps and riffs and tour schedules. Basically, anything but how amazing she looks in her uniform of tight jeans and slouchy shirt, anything but how good she smells, clean and fresh.

  Oh hell. My jeans get tight. Reluctantly, I turn away. The disappointed sound that sneaks out of her mouth makes me want to bend her over the nearest table and take her right there.

  “If we ever want to get out of here without Davis knowing, I need to calm down,” I mutter.

  “Oh,” she says, all wide-eyed and intrigued.

  “Not helping.” I turn my attention to the stage and take a long draw from my water bottle.

  “Sorry,” she says, but the quiet glee in that one word tells me she’s not repentant at all.

  Threat Alert runs off stage which means I need to get out there to help break down our equipment and make room for theirs. It’s a much-needed distraction.

  “Took you long enough,” Albie grouses as we haul our shit off the stage.

  “Sorry about that,” Davis says. “Lost track of the time.”

  “Do better, dickhead. This is a group effort, not a one-band show.”

  “Albie, it’s fine,” Keith says. “No big deal.”

  “What’s going on here?” Hollister steps up.

  I exchange looks with Keith. You take care of your act and I’ll take care of mine. No sense in making Hollister believe that his tour isn’t running smoothly.

  Keith gives me a terse nod of agreement. “Nothing, man. We’re discussing the next set.”

  “A little loudly. I can hear you out there.”

  “Sorry.”

  Immediately we all look shamefaced. No need for anyone to hear the family fighting.

  Davis sticks out his hand. “I’ll do better next time.”

  Albie brushes his fingers against Davis, albeit reluctantly.”

  “We all right?” Hollister presses.

  I nod. “Hunky dory.”

  Hollister draws me aside. “You need to do a little sucking up here. There’s already some hard feelings developing because of the crowd response. Throw in the rolling hotel-on-wheels that you and your crew sleep in as opposed to crashing on floors or staying in motels that have more rats than maids, and you’ve a recipe for a lot of resentment. This tour is dependent on five bands, not one.”

  “How about we invite them to the hotel tonight,” Davis suggests.

  “What’s this?” Hollister perks up.

  “We were thinking of staying in a hotel tonight. Why not invite the guys to come over and crash. We have what? Five rooms? That’ll house twenty guys.”

  Hollister looks in my direction.

  I clench my teeth together. Christ, what a disaster. All I want to do is have sex with my girl. In relative privacy. Not in the dark against the bumper of a bus. Not against a fake tree in a mini-golf park. But in a bed. In a room with four walls.

  I want to take her clothes off, worship every part of her beautiful body

  “Rees?”

  “Yeah, fine. We’ll get more rooms, though.”

  “I’m not paying for this,” Hollister warns.

  “I’ll pay.”

  “Great.” Hollister claps his hands. “The tour is springing for hotel rooms tonight.”

  A cheer goes up.

  “Thanks for taking credit,” I grouse.

  Hollister slaps me on the back. “Thanks for paying.”

  Threat Alert makes its way back onstage. The only salvageable thing about this whole situation is that Landry looks as miserable as I feel.

  “I’m tired,” she says. “Can we go to the hotel?”

  I shake my head regretfully. “We better not. Threat Alert
’s on stage. We need to support them.”

  Davis throws an arm around her shoulder. “You love their song.”

  “But not more than ours, right?” Rudd says, taking up the spot on her other side.

  I fall in behind them, content to stare at her ass.

  “Your music is the best music in the entire world,” she proclaims.

  “That sounds sincere,” Davis replies dryly.

  “I’ll take it,” Rudd announces. “What other music do you like? You look like a goth chic.”

  “How so? I love color.”

  “You’re serious, so I think you’d like mysterious, meaningful lyrics.”

  “Instead of ones about dogs?” she teases.

  “That dog ruined my life. I can’t have a pet now,” Rudd complains.

  We reach the booth, and when Davis turns to look for a waitress, I push Landry onto the bench and slide in next to her. Ignoring Ian’s glare of exasperation, I ask Davis to get me a beer.

  “Want anything?” Davis asks his sister.

  “Whiskey sour.” She turns to Rudd. “No goth chic likes whiskey sours.”

  “Not true. I knew a girl once who wore all black, even down to her underwear. All her drinks were green.”

  “Absinthe is often green.”

  “Oh. Didn’t know that.” Rudd sits back, momentarily nonplussed. “Think she lied about being goth like those two girls lied about being sisters?”

  Ian puts his head in his arms while Landry presses her lips together to stifle a laugh. My chest tightens. Her kindness is one of the traits I find so attractive.

  “Tell me the story behind the lyrics,” she says to change the subject.

  “Sure.” He’s always happiest talking about himself. “When I was a wee lad of fifteen, I got a pizza delivery job. At the end of Mulberry Street was this big white house with a ginormous lawn—” He spreads his arms wide, almost knocking the drink glasses out of Davis’s grasp.

  I get up and help Davis distribute the drinks while Rudd regales Landry.