I tap my index and middle fingers against the guitar just beneath the bridge in a quick three count, glancing at Kylie sitting at the piano adjacent to me, turned partially toward me and partially toward the crowd. She grins at me, and on three we're into a cover of "Down" by Jason Walker. The crowd digs it, digs the groove we give it. By the time we finish the song, the audience is starting to pay attention, realizing we don't suck horribly. We do a few current country songs, stripped down and rearranged a bit for our style. They're really into us then, shouting out suggestions, whistling, heads bobbing. Kylie and I are both pumped, grinning crazily at each other. This is fun, exciting, exhilarating. I feel alive, as if electricity is running through my veins, as if my entire being is humming, as if I'm sucking the life and the energy and the excitement rising from the crowd into my soul. There are no nerves, no fear, no inhibitions, only confidence. We dive without pausing into one of our original songs, the first piece we played at the talent show. The crowd isn't quite sure what to make of it at first, but by the end they're howling wildly.
We let the notes fade, and I shift on the stool, clear my throat, and lean into the mic. "Yeah, so that last song we just did was one we wrote ourselves. We hope you liked it. We've got a couple other originals we're gonna do for you. First, though, this next one is a really cool song by a band called Snow Patrol. This is 'Set Fire to the Third Bar.'"
There are a bunch of whistles and scattered applause as I name the band and the song. I let Kylie splurge on a set of effects pedals for me, and I've been spending the last week playing with those, finally discovering how to get the perfect distortion effect for this song.
We shift from that into a few more stock country songs, boring but the kind of thing the crowd can really get into, songs they know and can sing along to, slosh their beers to. Finally, it's time for a break, and Kylie and I slip out into the alley behind the kitchen. As soon as the door closes behind us, Kylie is jumping up and down, squealing and clapping.
"They love us, Oz!" She flings herself into my arms and buries her face in my neck, kicking her feet as I lift her off the ground. "Can you believe it? They really like us! I think we have a real shot at this."
I let her down to the ground, and my hands slide against her back, hold her flush to me. "It's crazy, but I love it. I never thought this would be me, but I really love performing."
She lifts up on her toes and wraps her arms around my neck. "I never doubted you, Oz. You're so talented it's insane."
I can't help but kiss her. "It was all you, Kylie. You believed in me, pushed me. I would never have discovered that I was even any good at this if it wasn't for you."
She smiles, her lips curving against mine. "I'll take the credit for that. But the talent is all you."
The smile and the laughter become heat, become a kiss, become her hands against the back of my neck, pulling me closer, keeping me locked against her, as if I'd ever willingly pull away. The door to the bar opens, and we break apart, only our hands remaining in contact.
"You guys are back on in five," Colt says, lifting an eyebrow.
"Gotcha," I say.
He reaches out a hand and I take it, shake it. "You two are seriously fucking killing it. I'm proud of you."
It should sound condescending -- I should be irritated or pissed at the way he says that, but I'm not. I'm giddy, I'm all sappy and happy-clappy at his praise. Coming from an industry pro like Colt Calloway, it's huge.
"Thanks, Daddy. And thanks for coming. Having you here makes it that much better." Kylie goes in for a hug, and Colt smiles tenderly at his daughter.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Ky." He kisses the top of her head, and then nudges her toward the door. "Ya'll better get back in there. You've got fans waiting. And I think I saw Andersen Mayer from RCA out there, just by the way."
"Way to make me nervous all over again, Dad, thanks." Kylie smacks Colt's shoulder.
"Nah, he's cool. He knows talent when he sees it."
Kylie's eyes narrow. "Did you tip him off?"
Colt gives his best impression of innocence. "Tip him off? No."
"Dad."
He sighs and waves a hand. "For real, I didn't. I was talking to him and just mentioned, in passing, that I was going to watch my daughter play her first gig tonight. That was it, I swear. He came on his own."
Kylie groans. "That counts as tipping him off. You knew he'd show up."
"I didn't know. I just hoped." He takes Kylie by the shoulders. "Listen, Ky. Andy won't even talk to you after the show if he doesn't see potential in you, and that'll have nothing to do with me. He wouldn't sign someone, not even my own daughter, unless he thought they'd sell records. He owes me nothing, so me hinting that you'd be here, hoping he'd come, that was just...stacking the odds in your favor a tiny bit. The rest is up to you. I know you want this to be on your own talent, without using me and Mom, but you can't fault for me for wanting to at least help, just a little."
Kylie kisses him on the cheek. "I know, Daddy. And thank you."
He nods, and pushes her toward the door. "Now get. Go play your ass off." I follow a few steps behind Kylie, but stop when I feel Colt's hand on my bicep. "Hey, one quick thing. She's happy with you. So...good job. You're a good guy, Oz."
I feel emotion squeezing my throat. "Thanks, Colt. That means a lot." I suck in a deep breath and push the emotions down. "Gotta go play. I'll see you after."
The rest of the gig goes even better than the first part. There's an older man sitting at Nell and Colt's table. He's slim, trim, wearing a pair of faded dark-wash jeans and a white button-down, black belt, and black boots. Silver hair swept back, glittering, sharp dark eyes, thin mouth. He's focused on us, on me. Watching my hands as I play, I can tell he's thinking, considering, listening carefully to each note. This has to be Andersen Mayer, the record label guy. What is he, an executive? Talent scout? I don't know. I know jack shit about the music industry, the way it works behind the scenes. I try to push him out of my mind and focus on playing, on singing, on my breathing, on not straining my vocal chords. Nell sat in during a few of the practice sessions in Kylie's basement, and she gave me some pointers on how to improve my singing. After I started using her advice, I heard an immediate difference in the sound of my voice. The breathing especially made things a shitload better. Knowing when to draw breath, how to let it out with the notes, it all made a huge difference. So instead of wondering what Andy Mayer thought, I focused on my breathing. On each chord, each shift of my fingers.
We did two more original songs, and we closed with "She Is Love" by Parachute. We stripped that song down to a very basic series of chords, making our harmony the focal point of the piece. We'd practiced this song a hundred times, I think, knowing it was probably our best cover, and I couldn't help glancing at the man sitting with the Calloways, watching his eyes and the toe of his boot tapping, the nod of approval, the way he leaned in to whisper to Colt, his eyes on Kylie and me.
When we say goodnight to the audience and unplug is when the nerves really hit, when the disbelief that we really pulled this off slams into me. I mean, shit. I learned enough material for a two-and-a-half-hour set in less than a month. I messed up a couple of times, missed a word, skipped a line, but nothing major. Which, to my thinking, is pretty amazing, considering I'd never even thought about actually performing before the talent show. I mean, sure, I'd daydream about being in a metal band or something, but it was just daydreaming, idle thoughts that I never tried to turn into reality.
We don't have much gear to pack up, so it doesn't take us long. I'm stacking the guitar cases into Mom's pickup, which I borrowed for this gig, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around to see the guy from the label standing behind me. Kylie is leaning against the truck, facing away, tapping at her phone. I nudge her as I shake his hand.
"Oz Hyde," I tell him.
"Andersen Mayer, RCA records." His grip is firm, but not crushing, and his smile is easy. "I have to say I was very impressed
by your performance today, you two. Miss Calloway, you are every bit as talented as your parents, which isn't surprising. But you, Mr. Hyde. I have to admit, when I first saw you, your appearance threw me off, led me to expect a...different kind of sound. You're far more talented than I'd initially expected."
Kind of a backhanded compliment, but I only shrugged. "Appearances can be deceiving. I'm glad you liked our music, Mr. Mayer."
"Do ya'll have any other original material you didn't play today? Your covers were excellent, of course, but your original songs were fascinating. They almost defy genre, but with the right producer in the booth, I think we could tweak your sound enough to appeal to both the mainstream rock crowd and the edgier country people." Andersen seems excited. "In fact, I think I have a producer in mind, actually. He's kinda new to the game, but he's done some really amazing work. Would you be interested in a meeting?"
Kylie and I exchange glances. "We'd love to," Kylie answered for us. "I'd have to talk to my mom and dad first, but--"
"Of course, of course. I know you'll want their help navigating the sometimes treacherous waters of the music business." He fishes a business card from a metal case in his back pocket. "Call me first thing in the morning. I've got to go over my schedule with my assistant, but I'd like to set up a meeting with ya'll sometime in the next week or so. I'll get ahold of Jerry and see when he can hook up with us."
"Sounds good," I say, and we both shake Andersen's hand.
He's gone then, striding down the street with his phone in hand, already dialing a number. When he's out of earshot, Kylie turns to me, eyes wide as saucers, giddy excitement shivering through her. She's about to hyperventilate, I'm pretty sure.
"Holy shit, Oz! Holyshitholyshitholyshit! That was Andersen Mayer. We've got an interview with Andersen Mayer. And Jerry? I wonder if he's talking about Jerry Gross? Dad would know, but if it is, that would be huge, too."
"Why?"
I can tell Kylie's brain is going a million miles a second. "He's the producer behind some of the best music to come out of Nashville over the last three years. He did Brent Howell's new album, which was edgy as hell. A lot like Eric Church's harder stuff, 'The Outsiders' and whatever."
"You really know a lot about this business, huh?" I ask, impressed.
She shrugs. "Well, yeah. I've grown up listening to my parents talk. They're indie, on their own label, but they know everyone in this town, and I've paid attention. Music is...all I know, really. It's what I've wanted to do since the first time I watched Mom and Dad perform live. I was six, and I sat in a little chair just off-stage, and I was just...in awe. I knew then that I would be just like them."
"And now you're on your way."
She grins at me. "We're on our way." She leans up and kisses me. "Come on. Let's go celebrate!"
We get our cash from Dan, say goodbye to Nell and Colt--after updating them on the quick conversation with Andersen--and head out. We go, of course, to my place, but after carting the gear into my room, Kylie pulls me back outside.
"I don't want to stay in. Not yet. I'm too excited. Take me for a ride on your bike! Please?"
"Where do you want to go?" I ask.
She shrugs, smiles. "I don't care. We don't have to go anywhere. Just ride."
"Sounds good to me."
So we ride. I bought Kylie a leather jacket to wear while we rode, and she's got it on now. The engine roars in our ears, the road flies under the tires, and Kylie's arms wrap tight and low around my waist. Her cheek rests against my shoulder, her breasts squish against my back, and all is perfect. It's a warm spring night, clear, the moon high and a few bright stars shining through the city-glow. I head out of the city, away from the suburbs and away from the city lights. We ride until the night turns black and dark and thick, finding a two-lane highway cutting through rolling fields.
I turn off the highway, onto a narrow dirt road beside a fenced-in pasture. A stand of trees lines the pasture on one side, and a single orange light glows over the road, suspended from a power line. I let the bike slow to a stop beneath the light, at the edge of the road, kick out the stand, and slip off my helmet, hang it from the handlebar. Kylie does the same, leaning over me to hang the strap. She doesn't back away but lifts up on the footrest to press her nose into my neck, her breath hot on my skin, her hands sneaking up under my shirt to graze my stomach and chest.
Crickets sing, and a bullfrog croaks from somewhere in the distance. An owl hoots, eerie and haunting. Out here, far from the city lights, the stars are a diamond veil across the black sky, the crescent moon pale.
Kylie stands on the footrest, swings her leg around to sit on the gas tank, facing me. Straddling me. Kissing me. Hands on my cheeks, breathing my breath, eager for me. Needing me. I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, deepen the kiss, and search for the hem of her shirt. Find it, slide my palm up her back.
"I want you, Oz," she whispers in my ear.
"On the bike?"
"Why not?"
"Well, we'll just have to be careful of the pipes. They're hot as fuck still."
Kylie slides off the bike, shrugs out of her jacket, stands facing me, peels off her forest-green long-sleeve T-shirt, slips out of her bra. Unbuttons her tight black jeans, kicks off her flats. Hangs her clothes on the handle of my bike, stands before me in nothing but a pair of black-and-white lacy panties. She turns around, showing me how the panties are cut high across the cheeks of her ass. Bends at the waist, teasing me with the round perfection of her ass, sliding off her underwear. Straightens, turns, approaches me. Stuffs the scrap of lace into my hip pocket. Pushes my jacket off. Unbuckles my belt. Lowers the zipper. Opens the button. Pulls my cock out of my boxers, slides her fist around me.
"This is so fucking hot, Oz." She puts her feet on the tops of my boots, swings astride the bike. "Being naked outside like this, with you? On your bike? God, I could come just from how exciting this is. It feels naughty."
"It is naughty. We could get caught."
"That just makes it even more fun." She lifts my shirt up and off, pushes at my open pants to free more of my cock.
I lift up and wiggle my jeans under my ass. Lift her by the hips, lean in to suck her hardened nipple into my mouth. She moans, lets her head hang back on her shoulders, writhing into my mouth, moving her wet slit against my aching cock.
Just before I slide into her, I pause and groan. "We don't have a condom. I didn't bring any. They're in my bag at home."
Kylie grips my shoulders with clawing fingers, lifts higher, and impales herself on me. "It's fine. I'm on the pill. I can't wait. I need this, Oz. You don't even know how bad I need this."
I bite the round of her shoulder, growling. "Fuck, Kylie. I think I do. I need it just as bad. I just don't want to make any mistakes."
She sinks down so we're flush. "Nothing about us could ever be a mistake. Nothing. Oh, god, oh, god. Yeah, Oz, just like that."
I push up with my hips, grinding into her. She's riding me hard, rolling her pussy onto me, deep and fast. No finesse, no gentility, just my mouth on her tits and her hands gouging reddened claw marks in my skin, her moans loud and unbridled, our bodies merging. There's nothing between us, just my flesh and hers, her wet slick heat clinging to my cock, her embrace around me, her tits bouncing beautifully with our motion. This, us bare to each other, there's never been anything better, no intimacy more profound than this.
I hold onto her ass, slip my fingers into the crease, clutching the firm hot globes and lifting her, letting her fall. She moves, groans, rests her forehead against mine, pushing down on my shoulders to lift up. By accident, my middle finger slides in a little too far, touches her tight little asshole. I feel her muscles clench, her body freeze, her breath cut in, sharp and surprised.
"Oz...oh, god, Oz. What are you doing?" She pulls away enough to meet my eyes.
I start to move my hands. "I'm sorry, babe, I didn't mean to--"
She sinks down, pinioning my hands between her ass and my thighs. "Wait
...just--it just took me by surprise." She lifts up, eyes on me. "Try it, Oz. Just--just a little."
"Wait, what? You want me to..."
"Just touch me there. Just a little bit." She's breathless. I hesitate, and then wiggle my middle finger. Just a tiny, slight pressure. She tenses, shifts up, and then arches her back, and I feel her relax. I apply gentle pressure, and tight warmth pinches the tip of my finger. "Yeah--oh--oh, yeah. Oh, fuck, Oz. I--I like that. I like it, just like that."
She lifts up, sinks down, and my hand stays flush against her ass cheek, and she moans, writhes on me. Her moans become shrieks, and her grinding on me becomes frantic. I can only move with her, keep us balanced, let her do the work. I can't even breathe, can't even believe she's doing this, letting me touch her like this, and how much she likes it. She's rolling hard and fast, wild, screaming. The quiet is sliced by her voice, by mine now grunting and growling and cursing and murmuring her name, and I feel the tight heat around my finger pinch, release, pinch, release, pulsating, and then she's lifting and sinking with manic, rhythmless frenzy.
The stars themselves brighten above me, and the moon fills out, and the earth rumbles, and I come apart inside her as she screams with deafening volume, and the tip my finger is almost crushed by the way her body clenches around me, and we're moving, moving...the sky shatters and the planets wobble in their orbits.
Kylie rests her mouth against my shoulder, gasping. "Oh, my fucking god, Oz. I came so hard it literally hurt. I can't--it's hard to breathe. I can't move. Oh, god. You just killed me, baby."
The starlight coats her pale skin silver, and I can only marvel, wonder, hold her and hope she never stops wanting me. Words tumble in my head. Emotions whirl, collide. A thought hammers in my head, demanding release. But the fear of what it means, of saying it, of meaning it, it's almost too much.
"Say something, Oz." Kylie sits back. "I feel you thinking." Her blueblue eyes pierce me, demanding my truth.
I hesitate, suck in oxygen and wish it was courage. "I love you, Kylie."
Holy shit, I said it.
She's stunned silent. Her eyes fill, waver. A tear falls. She swallows hard. "You--you do?"
I laugh. "Yeah, I do. I have for a while, I think. I'm just now realizing how much."
Falling Under Page 18
