The Invisible Thread (The Unbreakable Thread Book 2)

by Lisa Suzanne

  He clears his throat. “What’s in the box?” he asks, nodding toward it.

  I shrug. “A gift from Ethan.” I’m dying to know what’s inside, but I’m not ready to open it right now. I’m afraid of the distractions, afraid of the emotions whatever’s inside might bring up. So instead of opening it, I say, “Will you make sure it gets back to the bus?” I’ll open it later when I’m not about to take the stage in front of sixteen thousand people.

  My heart races as I ponder that number.

  I know they’re mostly here for Vail. I get that. But some of them are here for me, and my goal is to sell myself to the ones who aren’t. I go out every night and give it everything I’ve got to prove I deserve to share the stage with one of the top rock bands in the world.

  “Of course. I just touched base with Vail’s publicist. She said everything’s lined up for the collab later this week. Mark sent a demo of the tune if you want to hear it.”

  I nod. “After the show,” I say. I don’t want a random melody in my head when I need to start my breathing exercises that never work to calm me down.

  “I’ll have it ready for you later,” he says. “You need anything?”

  I shake my head.

  I’d love something to take the edge off my nerves tonight. They’re stronger than normal, probably an effect of the hormones ricocheting through me—the exact reason why I can’t have something that’ll take the edge off.

  Instead, I focus on breathing.

  We head out to the stage, and I pace around as I wait for my cue. I feel nauseous again, but I can’t get sick right now. It’ll fuck up my vocals for the opening song. I don’t respond when Griffin shoots me a strange look after I ask for ice chips instead of a hit of a joint or a shot of whiskey. I chew on the ice he magically procures for me as I focus on breathing in and out, in and out.

  My heart races and the familiar nerves of performing take over, but I push them away. I remind myself who the fuck I am and how the fuck I got here, and it’s enough to blast away the voices telling me I’m not good enough. I think it’s because the one voice that was the loudest in my head has always been Ethan’s.

  Tonight, though, that voice telling me I don’t have any talent instead says he fucking loves me, and it’s the soothing balm my nerves need as I hear my name and follow Griff out to take my place on the stage.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ETHAN

  I stand with my arms folded on the side of the stage. It’ll be time to take shots with my boys and then hold our pre-show rituals only members of Vail are privy to, but I want to watch Maci more than I want to have a few extra drinks before I take the stage. I’m still a little hungover from my morning cocktail, anyway, and listening to Maci’s voice somehow makes it all go away.

  I can’t think of another song that hits me in the chest the way her “Break Me” does. She belts out the words with so much passion I feel it buzzing through my blood to my very cells. It speaks to me, to her fans, in a way none of her other songs do—in a way no other song I’ve ever heard does.

  I’ve only missed one night of her performing that song on this tour, but she doesn’t know that. Sometimes I need to get back to the dressing room or I have shit to work out with the band before we take the stage, so I miss the end of her set. But when I can, I stay for the entire thing, and I realize every time I watch her how remarkably talented she is.

  Her voice has always reminded me of Dani’s, even before I met her in person, but even more so now. I just can’t understand how two people can be so similar, how I can be so sure of something she’s still denying. But I can’t force her to tell me something she doesn’t want to tell me, and I can’t force it to be true if it’s not. I’m dropping it for now, but I’m not convinced I’m wrong about who she really is.

  I watch as she sings her last song, the same one I sang with her at a club appearance a few weeks ago. So much has changed in those weeks, but in some ways, it’s all the same, too, because the moment I met her, I was a different man. A new man—a better man, hopefully.

  She bolts off the stage after her set and beelines for a garbage can, which she nearly misses as she heaves her dinner into it. I rush to help her, but Griffin beats me to it. His hand is on her back while she vomits, and all I can think is that it should be my hand there holding her and talking soothingly to her and making her feel better.

  She finishes and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

  “Fuck, I’m so embarrassed you saw that.”

  “Great set,” I say, and I give her a grin and a wink to ignore the fact that I just saw her spaghetti make its reappearance.

  “I think this might be more than just food poisoning, Maci,” Griffin says. “I think we need to get you to a doctor.”

  I’m surprised he doesn’t know.

  “I’m fine,” she mutters.

  I look around and find a sealed bottle of water. It’s one of Mark’s that he requests to be on hand for our set, but surely he won’t care if we’re one short after a pregnant woman just threw up. I grab it, twist off the cap, and hand it to her.

  “Thanks,” she says, giving me some sort of look like I handed her the moon and not a bottle of water. Griffin looks between the two of us and sighs, and I can’t help but feel a bit puffed with pride at the fact that I took care of her needs when Griffin didn’t know what to do.

  And even though she just tossed it into a garbage can, she’s still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s glowing. It might be from her performance, might be from the sweats that accompany the act of getting sick, but she’s never looked more stunning to me than she does right now, cheeks flushed, hair a tangled mess, make-up smeared.

  My male instinct calls out to me first. I usually don’t go on stage with a boner—there’s almost always someone backstage who’s ready and willing to take care of it, which relaxes me before a show. But it’s not like I can fuck a girl who just puked, and it’s not like I want a quick fuck with her, anyway. I want to take my time. I want to show her how strongly I feel about her, and a quickie in a dressing room isn’t the solution.

  So I’ll wait.

  I’ve never had to wait on a woman like I am with this one, but she’s worth it—of that, I’m sure.

  I kiss her forehead. “I have to go.”

  She looks up at me with pleading eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. She can’t—she knows this business. She knows I can’t stop the show and she knows I have things to take care of before I hit the stage to bang on the drums for the next couple hours.

  “Break a leg,” she says.

  “You’ll be okay?” I ask.

  She holds up her water bottle as if it’s a toast and nods.

  “Are you up for the finale tonight?”

  “Yeah.” She nods to the garbage can. “I feel better now.”

  “Can I walk you back to your dressing room?” I ask.

  She laces her fingers through mine and we walk together toward the hallway where our dressing rooms are. We stand in front of her door, and I brush a soft kiss against her lips.

  “I’ll see you on stage in just under three hours,” she says.

  “I’ll be the one behind the drum kit.”

  She leans in close to me. “I’ll be the one wishing it was me you were banging on instead of those drums.”

  I close my eyes as all the blood in my body rushes straight to my dick, and she laughs as she turns toward her room. Just before the door closes, she turns back toward me and blows me a kiss then slaps her ass.

  This. This right here. This is why I love this girl.

  When I walk into the dressing room I’m sharing with Mark tonight, the room is empty but for the three other members of Vail.

  “We almost started without you,” James says.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say. I close the door behind me and lean back on it for a second.

  “You okay?” Steve asks.

/>   “Yeah. Just a crazy day.”

  “Getting high in the morning will do that to you,” James says. He glances over at Steve. “God, it’s been years since we did that.” Steve laughs.

  I shake my head. “It’s not that. Well, it’s not entirely that.” I blow out a breath. These guys are my best friends, and I want to tell them Maci’s pregnant...but something stops me. Maybe because it’s so early, or maybe because Steve and Angelique struggled for years to get pregnant, or maybe because I’m not ready yet and Steve and James don’t even know that Maci and I hooked up.

  “What is it, then?” James asks.

  “Maci’s got me all fucked in the head.”

  He purses his lips in mock disdain. “Fucking women.”

  “Seriously,” I say.

  “What’s going on?” Steve asks.

  My eyes dart over toward Mark, who stands in warrior pose as he quietly does yoga before we go on stage. He always starts with a few cardio poses and moves into the more calming ones. Right before a show is pretty much the only time he ever does yoga. He did a few stretches before our first show a million years ago, and the tradition has stuck with us over the years. We all stretch together as part of our pre-show ritual, getting in touch with our bodies and getting into the right headspace before we head out to the stage. It’s only step one of our four step ritual, the calm before the storm.

  I let out a long exhale. “I told her I love her.”

  “You did?” Mark asks, the first words he’s spoken since I walked into the room. He’s the only one who knows Maci’s pregnant, so he knows what’s at stake here.

  “Yeah. And she didn’t say it back.”

  “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it, though,” Mark says.

  I shrug and kick off my shoes. “She said she does, but she wasn’t ready to say the words.”

  “She’ll get there,” he assures me, like he has all the answers now that he’s married and in love and has a baby on the way—one that he planned for and that he and his wife together want.

  “I need to get my head in the game,” I say, futilely trying to shake off all thoughts of Maci. It’s impossible. She’s somehow embedded into my brain, and for better or worse, there’s nothing I can do to get her out of my head.

  I bend forward into the downward dog position. I stop talking and force everything from my mind. I focus on my breathing and try to listen to what my body’s telling me, but all I can hear is the pounding of blood still beating through my cock. It’s screaming for her, screaming for release, and I won’t be able to calm until I get it out. But I can hardly do that in a room with three other men.

  It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but when you’re used to multiple times a day, suddenly cutting yourself off is downright painful.

  I force the thought away. Mind over matter. I can do this.

  I draw in a deep breath and release it. When I breathe in again, I focus my attention on my shoulders and my arms, and when I breathe out, I focus my attention on my legs, starting with my thighs and ending all the way down in my heels. I repeat the motion. Someone in the room says something, but I’m so focused on my breathing that I don’t hear it—or maybe I ignore it. They’re used to me ignoring them, though, and they’ve learned through the years that they have to tell me things two or three times before it settles into my consciousness. It’s not because I’m a self-centered asshole—oh wait...yeah, that’s why.

  It’s another thing Maci makes me want to change. I want to be more present, more in the moment. I don’t want the false sense of joy that comes from pot or coke or Xanax. I want the real sense of joy that comes from loving another person and feeling that same love returned to you. This time when I breathe in, I focus on myself—what I can do to be a better man, to be worthy of Maci’s love. When I breathe out, I focus on her—what I can do to show her I deserve her, even though I know deep down I don’t...I never will. I’ll never be man enough for her, never be good enough for her, no matter how hard I try. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still try anyway.

  I breathe in again and focus on myself. Me, me, me. It won’t just be me in nine months, though. It’ll be me and another human being, one created from a single action I performed. As I breathe out, it’s all Maci again. Maci, Maci, Maci. I picture her as a mother cradling our child in her arms, and my chest aches at the image, an actual memory in my head that hasn’t happened yet.

  An unfamiliar heat pricks behind my closed eyes as I imagine her as a mother to our children, as I imagine a life I never thought I wanted…never thought I could have.

  I breathe in again and it’s me, just me. Alone in the world, jumping from one meaningless night to the next, not wanting anything more than that. On the same inhale, I picture my mother. I haven’t seen my father since I was a kid, so I don’t know how to picture him. But two people came together to create the mess that’s me.

  I don’t want that for my child.

  I breathe out again, picturing a baby who grows into a man, a new Fuller who was raised by parents who adore him, who care about him—who are just there for him in every way they can be. Even if things don’t work out for Maci and me, a thought that presses another frustrating sting behind my eyes and another ache to my chest, I never want that child to feel the way I felt as I grew up. I never want that child to go through life thinking he doesn’t deserve love, not ever knowing what it feels like to love and be loved in return. I want that child to feel the unconditional love of two parents who will fight to protect him, who will put him first, who will make sure he never wants for anything, who will make sure his most basic needs are always fulfilled.

  I breathe in again, and somehow the structure of my breathing has merged the internal, selfish focus with the external. As I inhale, the selfish part, the me-me-me, changes to us-us-us like I’ve breathed her into my very soul. It forces me to mingle with Maci in my own mind, just as our bodies merged together to create the life that resides inside hers now. We become one in my mind, and as I exhale this time, I do it with the realization that I belong to someone else.

  “Ethan!”

  I open my eyes and snap to attention as I straighten from my stretch. James is standing mere feet from me, snapping his fingers in my face. “Dude, are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I called your name like ten times,” he says.

  My brows furrow. “I’m sorry. I was really focused.”

  “On what this time?” Mark asks. “Sex, drugs, or rock and roll?”

  I shake my head to clear it, but it doesn’t work. I can’t shake out something that’s embedded in my soul, and even if I could, I don’t want to. Whether we were looking for it or not, Maci and I will forever carry a connection to one another.

  And instead of scaring the fuck out of me like it should, the thought somehow comforts me.

  We huddle together in our pre-show ritual. “Why are we here tonight?” Mark asks.

  It’s the single most important question he asks us before a show. It places us all on the same page. It reminds us that there are four of us in this together. I love hearing why my brothers in Vail are doing this tonight. We’re all here for the same reason, but we’re also here for different reasons. Sometimes it’s meaningful and sometimes it’s corny. Sometimes it’s people and sometimes it’s things or emotions or places. But it’s always a moment the four of us share alone.

  “For Adelaide,” Steve says, naming his daughter.

  “For my mother,” James says. I pat him on the back. His mom has been sick, and I know how emotional he is about it right now.

  “For the three of you,” I say, but in my head, the truth emerges. It’s for Maci and our unborn child tonight. I’m just not in a place where I can say it aloud. Not yet.

  “For Reese,” Mark says.

  We take a few seconds of silence as we all think our own thoughts together as a group in our huddle, and after a few quiet beats, Mark sets his hand in the middle of our huddle and we all p
ile ours on top for our chant. Mark says, “V-A!”

  The three of us finish with “I-L!”

  “V-A!”

  “I-L!”

  “V-A!”

  “I-L!”

  “Vail! Vail! Vail!” we chant in unison, and then we throw our hands up in the air and head out the door toward our pre-show Jägermeister shots.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ETHAN

  I can’t remember such an atrocious performance in my entire career as a drummer. I think it’s because I lied in the huddle. I said I was playing for the guys, and it cursed me. I should’ve said Maci. I should’ve said the baby. I could have even told them it was for personal things I’m not ready to talk about yet, but I didn’t. And I’m paying the price of the curse.

  I miss my cues, which is rough since I’m the one who provides the cues for everyone else in the band. Even though everyone—not just the public, our fans, but us, the members of Vail—looks at Mark as our band’s leader, in a lot of ways, it’s me. Drums are the foundation of every song. They keep the rhythm and cadence. They provide the beat that holds the entire song together. And when I fuck that up, I fuck up the entire show.

  Maybe I’m being harder on myself than I should be. The guys I’ve played with for twenty years are professionals. They keep going even when one of the others in the band is having a bad night.

  But I’ve never had a bad night like this.

  When we’re supposed to slide into our second song, I play the wrong one despite the set list in front of me that hasn’t changed in seventeen shows. I shift easily into the correct one the second I realize my mistake, and I’m thankful for the practice sessions where Steve forced us to practice recovery and not simply practice our songs. He’s big into this theory he heard somewhere about how amateurs practice until they get it right but professionals practice until they can’t get it wrong. I’m thankful for his insistence tonight, but I know I’ll be facing hell when I walk off the stage.

  The crowd won’t know the difference. Even the trained ear won’t discern my mistakes, but we know, and that’s enough for me.