Love Struck

by Laurelin McGee

  Lacy carefully removed Lance’s pillow from his side of the bed and set it gently in her suitcase. It had remained there, unwashed and untouched, since the day of his suicide. She still felt him next to her at night with his pillow. If she was going to be staying the night away from their home for the first time since his death, that pillow was damn well coming with her. And away from those snotty tissues.

  “You know who would just about shit and fall back in it if you invited her to help you plan? Kat. I can leave you her number.”

  Andy looked a little horrified. “Kat? She sets off my cray-dar, big-time. I don’t know if I want her thinking we’re friends.”

  “She does? I thought you liked her. Remember when we all used to go out? You always seemed to enjoy chatting. Kat’s not all bad. And honestly, Andy, it’s not like you have so many other friends there’s no room for her.” Lacy sat on her suitcase and started zipping.

  “I was nice to her because I thought you liked her. Dammit. Without you around, maybe I will be forced to call her. Hey, how do you avoid that perfume she wears? Vicks VapoRub beneath your nostrils? I think cops do that in the morgue.”

  For all her faults, Lacy’s big sister could be a real genius sometimes. She went to the bathroom and returned with the Vicks stowed safely in her purse for later.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day was a blur of preparation and excitement. Luckily, Andy had gone to work after breakfast so Lacy could focus. Their good-bye was tearful and sweet, and Lacy was forced to promise several times that she’d come home if it was terrible and talk to Andy every single day at least by text. It was emotional and draining and best to be done with early.

  The rest of the morning, Lacy finished packing and worked on a few songs for the show. Kat arrived before noon so they had plenty of time to pack the car up and grab lunch before hitting the road. Lacy didn’t even mind that they’d have an hour-long drive because it gave her someone to help plan her set list.

  “You really didn’t have to do this, Kat. I could have taken their car.”

  Kat made a pfft noise. “You think I’d let you play your first show on tour without someone you know in the audience? Hell, no. Darrin’s got tonight covered in the studio, and I’ll just drive back tomorrow.” Lance had always said she was sugar beneath her patchouli. He was right. “Besides, I’m hoping for a repeat with Wes. Did I mention how good he is with, um, tempos?”

  “Please, don’t,” Lacy groaned. “He’s my coworker now. I don’t need to be thinking those kinds of thoughts about him.” Tempos. If it were the banjo player, however, or even that too-pretty-to-touch lead singer …

  There was an inner voice that wanted to tell Lacy to stop that line of thinking, but another voice said, Hey, what happens, happens. It was Lance’s voice. She knew he’d want her to move on with her life, and that made it easy for her to think about being with another man guilt free. That asshole. How he could he be so selfish and leave her and still be the best man she’d ever known was irreconcilable sometimes. Now if only her muse would feel as generous and strike her with some damn songwriting inspiration.

  Sigh.

  But today wasn’t for worrying about new material. It was for focusing on her current repertoire and making it sparkle. And focus on that she did. By the time they arrived in Worchester, she’d settled on a thirty-minute set of her best stuff and even had a couple of options for an encore if the opportunity so arose.

  Lou, the Blue Hills’ manager, was there to meet her when she arrived at the venue. He was bald and plump and talked faster than the most blue-blooded Bostonian, saying things like “kid” and “sweetheart.” The perfect stereotype.

  “Hey doll,” he said when Lacy offered her hand. “Nah, that’s not going to cut it.” He pulled her into a hug that was professional, if hugs could be classified as such, and not skeevy at all. “After listening to your tracks I feel like I know you. We’re on embracing terms.”

  Immediately, Lacy decided she’d like him.

  “Your sound check’s in fifteen. You got thirty minutes. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yeah, sure. Where’s the band?”

  “They get the later sound check. Right before doors open. Privileges of being the headliner. Sorry, kid, you’ll have to do the two trips to the venue thing each night.”

  “I’m cool with that.” She was cool with anything at this point. Maybe she’d get a little more diva after a few tours under her belt, but right now she was all freshman and wide-eyed. “But I’d like to meet them at some point.”

  “Of course you do. And you will. Probably after the show. I’ll do all the intros then and I’m sure they’ll even take a pic or two with you for your social media if you ask nicely.”

  Oh. She hadn’t realized there would be that type of segregation. Her face must have shown it.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. The boys are totally down-to-earth for the most part. And you’ll all get bonding time on the bus. Just after the shows there’s the fans and the pretty girls and … well, you know how it goes.” He winked, and Lacy suddenly understood. The “boys” would want to mingle, so to say.

  That was fine. She’d meet them tonight and chat with them tomorrow on the bus. Now that was really what she was looking forward to—hours spent with such inspiring musicians. Some of their creativity had to rub off on her. Didn’t it?

  Another cool part of being on an official tour was there were roadies. Well, roadie. Sammy. Sammy was short haired and butch enough to require several glances before Lacy was certain she was indeed a woman.

  Not the only woman after all, Lacy thought to herself.

  Between Kat, Sammy, and Lacy, her equipment was unloaded from the car in one trip and she was set up for her sound check with minutes to spare.

  “Just mark your stuff with this,” Sammy said, handing Lacy a roll of green electrical tape, “and I’ll make sure it gets on the bus after the show each night and set up like this at the venues. Anything without the tape is your own responsibility.”

  “Great. Thanks.” It took five pieces of tape and exactly three minutes to have all of Lacy’s things marked. Then it was time for sound check, which went smoothly, and she got to run most of her songs.

  “You sounded incredible, kid,” Lou said patting her back as he escorted her off the stage. “Now get yourself settled in the hotel and be back here at six thirty. And don’t forget to eat something. Don’t look at me like I’m being a nag; I know how you folky hipsters get. ‘I can’t eat before a show if I want to fit in my skinny jeans.’ Or, ‘I use my hunger to reinforce the socially conscious vibe of my artistry!’ Next thing I know you’re passed out onstage and Sammy’s the opening act for two nights while you’re checked into the ER getting fluids and a lecture about eating regular meals. So promise me you’ll be smart.”

  “All right,” Lacy said with a chuckle. And, nervous as she was, she intended to keep her promise. Although she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of an opener Sammy would make. Simon & Garfunkel covers? Stand-up? Either way, she wore a skirt, not skinny jeans, and her social conscience remained internal and unrepresented, so it was off for a burger with Kat.

  * * *

  As soon as the lights went down, Eli headed offstage to grab a bottle of water from the cooler and a towel from Sammy. He wiped the sweat from his brow and tossed it in the laundry bucket before heading to the green room. Mingling after shows wasn’t usually his thing—he preferred getting back to his hotel room and online to talk to LoveCoda—but tonight was different. There had been a new opening act, and Eli was dying to meet her. He’d snuck out to watch from the back of the venue since all they could hear backstage was muffled sound, and he was curious. While he’d meant to stay only a few minutes, he found himself glued to her set. That voice, those words—he’d actually sent Lou to go get the other guys, knowing they’d appreciate her as much as he did.

  She was waiting for the band with Lou and some other girl that Eli thought he’d seen wi
th Wes on occasion. This was confirmed when Wes walked immediately up to the girl and open-mouth kissed her like he hadn’t seen a woman in weeks.

  “Get a room,” Jax said, coming in behind Eli.

  As if Jax was one to talk. He’d be out in the bar exactly five minutes after he showered trying to pick up a piece of something for himself. It wouldn’t take that long. All the girls loved him. Eli had razzed Jax about it once and was met with, “Isn’t that the role of a lead singer? To charm the pants off the women? It’s good for the band. It gets us devoted fans. You should be thanking me.”

  Right. More like it lost them fans when Jax never returned phone calls and didn’t bother to remember names the next time they were in town. Sometimes, when Eli had his head about him, he’d realize that Jax should be thanking him. Sure it had been Jax who had wanted to form a band in the first place but since then, Eli had done all the real work. Eli was the one who’d found them a manager. Eli was the one writing all the new material. Eli was the one who’d held the group together when Jax decided to slit his wrists one night after drinking a bottle of Smirnoff.

  “It was art,” Jax had insisted in his hospital room. “Jesus, I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I did it for the scars.”

  And maybe Jax was just emo enough that he really had just been trying to decorate his body with “pain.” But Eli didn’t believe that, and, really, could he take that chance? So instead, he treated Jax with kid gloves, afraid to push him, always ready to kiss his ass. It was a detriment to Eli’s own artistry—and hence the reason he’d joined SoWriAn—but it was necessary for the band. And wasn’t that what mattered most—keeping the band on their track to stardom?

  “And Eli Frank is that loser over there in la-la land. He plays banjo and mandolin and sometimes even hops on the piano.”

  At the sound of Lou saying his name, Eli snapped to attention. Apparently his manager was introducing everyone to the new girl. And he’d been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to have heard her name.

  He stepped forward and held his hand out. “Sorry about that. Good to meet you. But I didn’t catch your name?” He’d seen her before, he realized, at a previous show. That explained how familiar she’d seemed when he saw her onstage earlier.

  “Lacy Dawson.” She took his hand and a shock ran up his spine. Not like the kind from an electricity transfer, but the kind that sparked from an attractive girl. A girl with pouty lips and dark blonde hair that fell in waves around her face. A girl with curves to match the sexy tone that came out of her mouth when she opened it to sing. Her smile was dazzling, her eyes hypnotic, and she smelled like something flowery with a faint hint of patchouli. Which was odd, but added to her mystique.

  “It’s really great to meet you,” Eli said, his gaze still locked on hers. “Your set was good.” Not good. That was a lame adjective. “Really good.” Yeah, much better wordsmith. “Fantastic, actually.” And he was still holding her hand. God, when had he turned into such a moron around pretty talented women?

  Lacy—a much classier person than he was, Eli decided—slipped her hand from his gracefully and brought it to her chest in surprise. “You liked my set?”

  “I did.” Unlike the other guys who generally liked to hang out and shoot the shit in the green room before a show, Eli preferred a more meditative method of preparation. Often he’d sit with his headphones in a dark corner. He would have done that tonight if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in the new girl’s performance. Her music was at once interesting and intriguing. The chords she played were simple but she patterned them in her own style. Her voice was pure and unadorned with an occasional edge that hit the listener unexpectedly.

  And her lyrics …

  They were clever and poignant. He’d love to talk to her more about them, but her focus had switched now to Jax. In fact, it appeared as if Lacy Dawson, artist extraordinaire, was now getting acquainted with the Blue Hills’ lead singer’s infamous charm. And it didn’t seem like she minded. Typical. And disappointing. He’d hoped her music proved a better indication of her taste.

  Oh, well. He had LoveCoda. Why did he care about catching the eye of anyone else? Though he still felt a pinch of letdown as Jax perched on the arm of the couch next to where she was sitting, and she shifted to give all her attention to him.

  Eli took the cushion on the other side of her—because it was the only seat left, not because he was trying to stay close or compete or anything—and listened to Jax tell his usual band stories, laughing on cue like the good friend he was. When Jax picked up James’ guitar and strummed the opening chords to one of the only three songs he could play on the thing, Eli decided that further Jax kiss-up required beer.

  He crossed to the mini-fridge across the room and grabbed a hard cider. As he turned back, he caught Lacy’s eye. “Can I get you something?”

  She paused, during which Jax’s phone buzzed. He stopped his performance and glanced at the screen. “Excuse me, I gotta take this. Be right back, sweetheart.” He patted Lacy’s arm before taking his call to a quiet corner.

  Calling her “sweetheart.” Personal touching. Serenading. Yeah, Jax had already put Lacy on his list of possible conquests. Too bad. But, hey, if that’s what she was into, he supposed it shouldn’t be any of his concern.

  Lacy pulled her gaze from Jax back to Eli, who was still waiting for her answer. “Yes, please. Same thing.”

  He grabbed a second bottle and returned to her, taking off the cap before handing it to her. “I didn’t take you for a cider girl.”

  She chortled in a way that shouldn’t be sexy, yet somehow was. “Uh, you don’t even know me. So I’m more than intrigued to hear what you did take me for with such little to go on.”

  “After that song of yours midway in your set, I’d take you as a wine lover. You know, the one where you specifically referenced a bottle of red.” He took a long pull from his drink.

  “Oh that.” Her eyes looked away self-consciously. It was understandable. Many artists were uncomfortable talking about their songs. It was funny how many nonmusicians didn’t understand that. How it was easier to stand in front of an audience of hundreds and sing out your soul than it was to have a conversation with even one other person about the same things you sang about. He got that.

  Still, he wanted to keep talking to her. And he was more than intrigued with her work.”What was that anyway? Ode to Chianti?”

  “Congratulations. You correctly guessed the title of the song.” She lifted her bottle in mock acclaim.

  “I did?”

  “No. I was teasing.” Her lips curved into a radiant smile that made Eli want to be teased more. Then she pulled it in and he nearly sighed at its loss. “Actually,” she said, not meeting his eyes, “it’s not even a song about wine.”

  Eli frowned as he remembered the lyric from earlier.

  The slope of your curve

  Round bottom fiasco,

  I go to you when I’m aching, aching

  The sweet taste of you, Sangiovese

  Buzzing through my veins

  Your sugar running through my, ah, ah, body

  The fiasco bottle and the Sangiovese grapes—definitely Chianti references. “Well, it’s a metaphor then, right? For a relationship you turn to when you’re in need?”

  She took a swallow from her cider, then said bluntly, “It’s a metaphor for masturbation.”

  “Oh.” Then, since he didn’t know what else to say, he added, “Ah.” And, when his mind had wandered where it shouldn’t—to imagining the song in action, Lacy’s face flushed and her breath short—he said, “Hmm.”

  There may have been just a little too much moan in that “hmm,” but it wasn’t like he could take it back after it was out there. So he simply smiled.

  “I mean, it’s really old. I wrote it a long time ago. Not recently.” Lacy seemed to have misinterpreted his “hmm” as judgment.

  She paused for a second, her brow knit in thought. “I don’t know why I told you that. As if it matte
rs if I wrote it recently or not. Like the fact that it’s old means that I don’t do that now. Because obviously it doesn’t mean that at all. I could totally still do it now. Which I don’t. I mean…” Her cheeks reddened. “I’m not against it or anything. It’s great and…” She brought her hand to her face and covered her eyes, her cheeks reddening. “I’m making this worse than it needs to be, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t know. I’m enjoying it.” He knocked his shoulder playfully against hers.

  And there it was again—her smile. Coyer this time, but still as radiant. “Obviously I’m still working on discussing the stories behind my lyrics without being worried about what people think of me.” She shaped her fingers on her thigh as she spoke, a nervous tic Eli supposed, and he recognized she was playing guitar chords. He wondered if she even knew. Probably not. Music was just in her. Like it was in him.

  “It’s not easy. For any of us.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Lyrics are too personal. Like journal entries.”

  He held her gaze as he thought about that. Maybe that was part of the reason he let Jax take the credit for the songs. People usually assumed that since he was the lead singer, and since he was so good at connecting with the songs emotionally, that Jax had written them. Eli rarely bothered to correct them. Was this why? Because they were too personal?

  Or was he just an easy-to-walk-over chickenshit?

  Whichever it was, he hoped he wasn’t blowing smoke up her ass when he said, “You’ll get more comfortable with it. Give yourself time.”

  “Thanks. Because it’s really so hard.”

  He couldn’t help himself. “That’s what she said.”

  Her eyes widened, and Eli suddenly felt like the biggest twelve-year-old in the world. “I’m sorry. That was lame. Office joke.”

  But she was laughing. “No, it was funny. And I got the reference. Just unexpected.”

  Her expression was so sincere, her blue-grey eyes so pure, her smile so brilliant. She’d laughed at his dorky humor. And her music … God, her music was so charming and her lyrics so fresh that he opened his mouth to invite her out for drinks.