It was a much newer model. Maybe they figured he wouldn’t trash it like a heavy metal band might. Maybe they thought he had more class. Or maybe it was all just chance, the luck of the draw on whatever the leasing company sent out. He liked it, though; it suited him with dark colors and simple lines.
He strolled to the back where he had a big bedroom all to himself. Pulling off his shirt and grabbing a clean one, he moved to the small nightstand where he’d left his cell phone charging.
He picked it up, sat on the bed, and called Tommy.
Rory was almost surprised when his old band mate actually picked up. He wouldn’t blame Tommy if he held a grudge and blew him off.
“Well, look who it is. Mr. Big-Shot-Rock-Star,” Tommy answered him with the snide greeting.
“Funny.”
“Not really. What the fuck are you calling for? To apologize?”
“I’m sorry, man. It all happened so fast.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“How have things been with the band?”
“What band? We don’t have any gigs lined up, we’re barely playing, we get together and practice, but it usually disintegrates into Hamish getting drunk and running his mouth about how every fucking thing in his life that sucks is all your fault.”
“He’s a fucking pussy. But I’m sorry about the band.”
“Um hmm.”
“So, the other reason I called—”
“Oh, there’s more?”
“I need a bassist. You interested?”
Tommy chuckled. “Are you shitting me? Hell, yeah.”
“Great. I’ll tell Lou.”
“Oh, Lou, is it? You’re on a first named basis with an industry legend now, huh?”
Rory smiled. “Kinda. Except he only refers to me as ‘kid.’ So, not sure he remembers my name half the time.”
“If you’re putting coin in his pocket, he knows your name.”
Rory huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”
“So, am I supposed to hitchhike to wherever the fuck you are, or what?”
“Vegas. I think he might spring for a plane ticket.”
“First class?”
“No, dipshit. Coach. Or he might make you take a Greyhound.”
“I hope you’re kidding.”
“I hope I am, too. I’ll call you back with the details.”
“So, I guess I’ll see you soon?”
“Pack your shit. I need you here by tomorrow night.”
“Groovy.”
“Goofball.”
After Rory hung up, he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
This wasn’t exactly how he’d dreamed of hitting it big. He’d never meant to screw over the band. He’d had some great years with them, but now was his shot and he had to take it. At least it seemed Tommy was willing to forgive him.
Chapter Sixteen
November—
Rory moved to the fridge and pulled out a beer, then sat and stared out the bus window across the hot sunlit parking lot to the back of some nameless auditorium in a city he couldn’t remember. Then he glanced up at a billboard in the distance—one that advertised Miami’s hot new radio show. Right. They were in Miami.
He took a hit off his beer.
The days and nights were all starting to run together, and he was finding touring wasn’t as fulfilling as he’d thought it would be. The only thing he enjoyed about it was the short amount of time he was on stage in front of the audience actually playing his music. Well, that and riding across the country. He found something appealing about rolling down the highway. Of course, he’d rather be on his bike, but he enjoyed sitting up by the driver in the comfortable armchair and watch the road and the landscape roll past.
It was the business side of the industry he couldn’t stand. All the hustling and tight time schedules they had to keep to, all the media interviews and public relations, all the crappy food and not being able to ride his motorcycle…
He knew he sounded like a spoiled ungrateful brat, but those forty minutes on stage every night somehow made up for it all. That and the fans he actually got close enough to meet. Not the groupies—those he wasn’t interested in. For some reason since he’d met Rayne, he’d lost all attraction for the easy lays he was bombarded with on a nightly basis. In fact, it had gotten so uncomfortable trying to cut them off after just a few kisses or blow them off before it went too far because he just didn’t feel it, that he’d begun to avoid them all together.
He didn’t want to ruin his rock-star reputation, especially when he’d in the past with Convicted Chrome, been all too happy for the attention of the ladies. But now something had changed. They just did nothing for him, except depress him. He compared all of them to Rayne, and they always came up short. He could search from one end of the country to the other, but he’d never find a soul mate among any of those women, because he’d already found her, and her eyes were brown and her hair was lavender.
So, he took to drinking, heavier than he should, because it was an easy way to avoid the women Tommy always brought on the bus. Last thing he wanted was for the media to start to question his sexual preferences or piss those girls off enough to start rumors, so in an effort to avoid the problem, he got drunk—totally wasted. Then he could go crash in his room, lock the door, and just pass out.
This was no way to live, but he didn’t know how to get around it. This was supposed to be his dream—the fame, the money… He’d wanted it as long as he could remember. Why wasn’t it making him happy?
Rory dug his phone out of his pocket and the folded sheet of numbers he’d scribbled with names and numbers of every bike shop in Denver he could find. He called the next on the list.
“Connor Motor Works.”
“Hi. Do you happen to have someone who works there—a girl—by the name of Rayne?”
“Layne?”
“No, Rayne, with an R.”
“Like Rain and snow?”
“Yes.” Was he talking to an idiot? He thought he heard snickering in the background.
“Nope. No one here by that name.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” More laughter.
Rory disconnected, disappointment flooding through him once again. The hopelessness of this search weighed heavily on him.
He tossed his phone on the table and took a long pull of his beer. He let his mind drift, his thoughts filling—like they often did when he had a moment’s peace—with visions of Rayne, her smile, her hair, the way she’d looked up at him with those huge beautiful eyes the first time he’d slid inside her.
He smiled at the good memories of the night they’d spent together.
His phone vibrated on the table with an incoming call. He picked it up, looking at the screen. Lou.
Rory grimaced and took the call. “Hey, Lou.”
“Where the hell are you? You’ve got an interview backstage with Show Biz Tonight in five minutes. They’re waiting!”
“Shit. Sorry. I forgot. I’ll be right in.”
“Never mind. They’re coming to you. Her and her crew.”
“What? She who?”
“Brandy Brock. She’s decided she wants to do the interview on your tour bus.”
“Shit, Lou. It’s not even clean.”
“Well, piece of advice, this is what happens when you keep a woman waiting; they change their fucking mind.”
“Lou—”
“I’ll stall her as long as I can, but you better be ready when we get there.”
Rory disconnected and dashed to the back. He quickly put on a clean shirt and then made the bed, shoving everything else in the small closet. He moved past the rows of bunks. They were all unused except for the one Tommy occupied, still asleep, and the other one he had all his crap on. That was an easy fix; he yanked the curtains shut. Then he cleaned the table and counters of beer bottles, food wrappers, and ashtrays. He shoved them into the cabinet. Then sprayed some air freshener, waving his hand and coughing at the awful
smell.
Dipping his head to glance outside, he saw Lou, a woman who must be Brandy Brock, and her cameraman and sound guy following in her wake as she headed across the lot toward his bus.
He took in a deep breath and sat on the couch. Then his gaze fell on a pair of lacy panties stuck in the fold of the opposite couch. Shit! He dove across the space, snatched them up and shoved them under a throw pillow behind him.
The bus door opened and he stood, smiling.
Lou waved the female host ahead of him. “After you, Ms. Brock.”
She walked up the steps and into the bus. “Well, hello, Rory.”
“Ms. Brock.” He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for coming out today.”
“My pleasure, Rory.” She indicated the couch. “How about we do the interview right here.”
“Sure. That’s great.”
They both sat and Lou stood in the kitchen, watching. The sound guy and cameraman got set up and indicated they were ready. “And go.”
“Hi, this is Brandy Brock coming to you from Miami. We’re catching up with the hottest new artist climbing the charts today, Rory O’Rourke.”
“Hi, Brandy.”
“So tell me, what’s it like to have this sudden success? Your song took off practically overnight from a video a fan posted.”
“Yes, that’s right. I owe that break to Charlotte Justice. She heard my song and pulled me out on stage to perform it for her fans. It was an amazing gesture, giving me time out of her show like she did. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
Brandy smiled big. “I can tell you’re a big Charlotte Justice fan.”
“Huge. She’s talented and one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.”
“Her tour is sold out, so a lot of people agree with you.” She leaned closer. “I have a surprise for you, Rory.” She looked at the camera. “He doesn’t even know this yet.” She looked back at him. “I was just told by your manager before we sat down that I can share some big news with you. Taking into account digital downloads and streaming, your single, A Song for Rayne, has just achieved platinum status! Congratulations, Rory!”
“Holy…” He covered his mouth before the swear word escaped him, and Brandy laughed. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, sir. It’s true.”
“Oh, my gosh. That’s freaking awesome!” He turned to look at Lou, who nodded confirmation.
“So, tell me about A Song for Rayne. Is it based on someone you know?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her brows rose. “And who is Rayne?”
Rory rubbed his hands up and down his jeans. “Just someone who told me about the pain in her life. Her story touched me, deeply.”
“It’s a beautiful song about loss. Is it a true story?”
“Yes, well, based on one.”
“How did she take it—having her story out there in a song that’s on practically every radio station’s playlist?”
Rory shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, put his boot on his knee and cleared his throat. His boot began bouncing a mile a minute. “Well, I, ah, haven’t talked to her since the song went big.”
“I see.”
Lou motioned with a wave of his hand, and she changed the topic.
“So the tour takes you up the East Coast, the West Coast, and then there’s a break before the European leg begins. Will you be headlining that part as well?”
Rory glanced at Lou who just lifted his chin, in a non-committal way. “Well, that’s not set in stone yet. We’ll have to see how the audiences like me.”
She smiled at the camera. “Well with A Song for Rayne going certified platinum, I’m betting Europe is ready for Rory O’Rourke. Stay with us, we’ll be right back with my interview of Charlotte Justice.”
The camera cut off, and she lowered the microphone.
“It was nice meeting you, Rory. Congratulations!” She shook his hand and stood.
Lou nodded to his assistant, who spoke into a radio. “We’re headed up to Charlotte, now.”
Rory stood. “Thank you so much for coming out, Ms. Brock.”
“My pleasure, Rory.”
Lou led her off the bus, pausing to pat Rory’s shoulder as he moved past. “Good job, kid.”
When they were gone, Rory collapsed onto the couch and stared into space. He ran both hands through his hair and whispered, “Holy fuck.”
His song had gone platinum!
He jumped to his feet and moved down the corridor to the bunks, yanked aside the curtain, and shook Tommy. “Get up, Tommy! Get up.”
Tommy surged up, hit his head and muttered a string of curses. “What the fuck, man! Is the goddamn bus on fire?”
“No, my song just went platinum!”
Tommy swung his legs to the side and dropped down to stand. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“No! Just now! Lou let Brandy Brock break the news to me live in an interview. Can you believe it?”
“Wait. Brandy Brock was here?”
“Yes. Just now.”
“Here? On this bus?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t wake me the fuck up? What kind of friend are you? That chick is hot as sin, man.”
“Sorry. It all happened so fast.”
Tommy brushed past him.
“Where are you going?”
Tommy opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “We need champagne. You have a hit song. We need to celebrate. Ain’t nothin’ in here but a bottle of Patron Silver.”
“That’ll do.” Rory grinned.
Tommy got two glasses and poured them each a shot. He passed one to Rory and held his up. “Here’s to my good buddy, Rory, who finally hit the big time and who will hopefully keep me employed for many years to come.”
Rory chuckled. “Maybe.”
Tommy continued. “To fame and everything that comes with it, good buddy—fast cars and faster women.”
Rory clinked his glass to Tommy’s and downed his drink.
Three quarters of a bottle later, Rory sat on the couch, took a long toke off a joint and passed it to Tommy who sat at the table.
Rory leaned back and exhaled slowly toward the ceiling, his thoughts on the question Brandy had asked him—about what Rayne thought of having her life story on every radio station across the nation. He couldn’t get it out of his head. It was stuck there in a way that told him it would gnaw at him all night.
He couldn’t help but wonder how she was reacting to the song, and doubts began to plague him. Was he wrong to record the song? Was he wrong to perform it on stage that first time? Hell, was he wrong for even writing it to begin with?
He believed in that song and the power of those words, but it was her pain he was laying out there, not his. She was the one made vulnerable, not him. What really bothered him was he hadn’t been able to play it for her before it was out in the world, that he hadn’t even been able to tell her about it.
Leaning forward, his forearms on his knees, he ran a hand down his face in disgust with himself. He was a first class asshole for doing this to her. Hell, he could have at least changed the names. What was he thinking? She must hate him now.
He pushed to his feet and staggered a step, but righted himself as he swayed, suddenly lightheaded. He took a step and reached for the near-empty bottle, pouring himself another shot.
“Sit down, man. You’re swaying, and it’s making me seasick,” Tommy murmured, drawing on the joint.
Rory collapsed in the booth across the table from him. “I fucked up, man.”
Tommy quirked a brow and eyed him through the smoke trailing up from the joint. He exhaled slowly. “How’s that?”
“With Rayne. I fucked up, man.”
“The chick you were in love with.” He nodded. “Right. Whatever happened with that? You find her?”
“Nope. Tried.” Rory slumped against the wall, one leg bent and resting against the back of the booth, the other extended. His eyes slid closed.
He was tired; tired and drunk.
“Party pooper.” Tommy kicked his side of the booth. “Wake up, fucker. We need to get some more booze… and women. We need some women. You’re a big rock star now. Start acting like one.”
“Fuck off,” Rory muttered without opening his eyes.
“I’m goin’ to find some women.” Tommy stood and stumbled off the bus. Rory waved him off weakly.
“Go. Go get women. It’s too fucking hot out there.”
***
That night after the show, the bus was filled with musicians, groupies, and pot smoke. The place was cluttered with empty bottles of booze and overrun ashtrays.
Rory was in the booth, necking with some blue-eyed blonde with a fake tan. He didn’t feel anything for her, but he was a big deal now, and shouldn’t he be enjoying this? Shouldn’t he want the women, the partying? Why wasn’t it making him happy? Didn’t he have everything he’d always wanted?
But it was lavender hair he wanted to thread around his hands. It was pale skin he wanted to run his mouth along. It was brown eyes he wanted staring at him as he sank into her body.
He closed his eyes, remembering her sweet scent, but when he drew in a breath all he smelled was this blonde’s exotic, spicy perfume. He pulled his face away and reached for a bottle of booze. He turned it up, and she put her hand over his crotch. It did nothing for him. He just wanted her off him, so he pushed her away and got up out of the booth.
She fell back. “Hey!”
He grabbed her hand, pulling her up and pushed her into the drummer’s arms. “Here, man. Take her.”
The drummer smiled and pulled her onto his lap. “Hey, pretty girl.”
The blonde gave Rory a pouting look, but he ignored her and stumbled back to his bedroom. Tommy was on the bed, mauling some topless redhead.
“Tommy, get out,” Rory snapped.
The girl rolled and looked at him, smiling, thinking she was going to have a turn with him, too.
Rory corrected her. “And take your lady with you.”
She huffed and scooted off the bed, moving toward the door.
Rory Page 9
