Bo & Ember

by Andrea Randall

  Clubs were breeding grounds for, well, breeding, and I wanted to know who got my wife to blush in a way she rarely did.

  “Oh,” Ember giggled, “we went to high school together.”

  “Our parents knew each other when we were little. That’s how Ember’s parents ended up in Connecticut. We went to the same private school.”

  For reasons guided only by testosterone, I leaned in and asked him, “Do you know Willow, too?” I nodded to the DJ booth in case he needed a reference point.

  “Oh yeah,” he chuckled, “we go way back.”

  Ember smacked his shoulder as her jaw dropped. “How far back?”

  “No worries.” He grinned and kissed her cheek before addressing me. “Nice meeting you, Bo. I hope to catch up with you guys after the show tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to it.” And, with that, Beckett slid his way back through the crowd and entered the DJ booth.

  It wasn’t until then that it clicked that he was the DJ when we’d first walked in. I hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention, but once he put the headphones back on, I recognized him. He and Willow got back to work, and both seemed very involved with the task at hand.

  “How far back? No worries?” I flattened my palm against the small of Ember’s back and pulled her toward me.

  She put her arms on my shoulders and ran her fingers through the back of my hair. “Jealous?”

  I shook my head and kissed the tip of her nose. “Not a bit.”

  “Good. He was horrific in bed.”

  I dropped my arms and took a step back. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, get a grip, we were seventeen.” Her eyes were focused on me, and I could tell she was already bored—or was trying to look bored—with conversation about Beckett.

  I wasn’t done.

  “Seventeen? Didn’t you have sex for the first time when you were seventeen?”

  Ember playfully covered my mouth with her hand. “Shout that out, why don’t you!” She moved my hands to her hips since I’d lost control over everything except rage.

  Now, I’m not normally a rage-filled person. I wasn’t going to beat the guy up for having sex with my wife before I even knew she existed. But there are just some things a guy doesn’t need. And putting a face with your wife’s first time is number one on that list of things.

  “Ember, I could have gone my entire life without ever knowing, let alone meeting, your first time.”

  Ember pulled me through the crowd and didn’t speak until we reached the bar and she’d ordered drinks.

  “Ainsley Worthington,” she said after a long sip of her Cosmo, challenging me with her stare.

  “That’s … different,” I tried.

  “Right,” she agreed, “because Ainsley is crazy, and actively tried to get into your pants while we were together.”

  I sighed and growled at the same time. “A.) She only tried, didn’t succeed, and B.) We weren’t together when that happened. We were—”

  “If you say we were on a break, I’ll kick your ass, Cavanaugh.” Ember set her drink down and kissed me deep enough that I could tell she’d ordered that Cosmo with raspberry vodka.

  “Fair enough. Do we have to see Beckett again?” I curled my lip while grinning.

  “He’ll be at the show tomorrow, for sure. Relax. I haven’t seen him since high school, and we were all pretty close when we were real little. Me, him, and Willow.”

  “When did he move to Connecticut?” I asked, not wanting to be a total meathead about the situation.

  Ember looked up for a moment. “Not long before I did … we were twelve or thirteen. Can we be done talking about this and get back on the dance floor?”

  “Let me finish my beer?”

  “Okay, I’m going to go request a song from Willow.” She made a beeline for the DJ booth.

  “And Beckett?” I mumbled under my breath when she was far enough out of earshot.

  “I swear to God,” Georgia quipped as she reached the bar, Regan in tow. “Ember shows up in California, and all of these brand new hot people come out of the woodwork. Who knew hippies could be so hot? Who the hell was that guy?”

  “Beckett Roth. Childhood friend of Ember and Willow, high school boyfriend to Ember.” There was no way in hell I was going to repeat the information that he was the coveted owner of her virginity. Because a Neanderthal thought like that would guarantee me a swift kick in the balls.

  “Oh, I get it.” Regan nodded solemnly and sipped his beer.

  Georgia took a shot and slid her glass back to the bartender. “Get what? That they screwed?”

  “She told you?” I planted myself on a stool.

  “Ha. No. It was obvious, though. She was all blush and giggles, and he was all sweaty palmed.”

  “The good news is, he seems to know Willow pretty well.” Regan pointed the neck of his beer bottle toward the DJ booth, where Beckett had his arm around Willow’s waist while Ember talked with them.

  Georgia smacked my shoulder. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  I put my hands up in defense. “No. Not at all. We’re married. I wouldn’t have married her if I had any reason not to trust her.”

  “It’s just a guy thing,” Regan cut in, in my defense. “We just don’t want to know. Ever.”

  Georgia rolled her eyes, causing me to challenge her.

  “Are you telling me, G, that you want to know about all the gory details about Regan’s sex life?” I sat straighter, confident that I’d found a loophole in her condescending attitude.

  “Yep.” She shrugged and ordered another shot. “Here’s the thing. It’s no secret that I don’t give a shit what people think, but I still have insecurities. It’s not like I want to invite Regan’s ex-conquests over for tea, but I need to know where I stand.”

  “You’re standing next to me, aren’t you?” Regan held out his hands, sounding annoyed, as though they’d been through this before.

  Georgia sighed audibly and perched on the stool next to mine. “That doesn’t matter. I want to know, in my own terms how I stand up. Irrationally, it has very little to do with you, but in the coven of womenkind, I need to know where you went with them. Emotionally, physically, all of that. I need to know in myself that I can give you above and beyond that, so I don’t end up on the list of exes. Don’t shoot me down with feminist propaganda. This is self-preservation. You’re amazing in bed, and I know I am, too. I just want to make sure I’m pushing all the right buttons. The more I know about your sexual history, the more I can do that.”

  She crossed her legs, allowing her short skirt to ride further up her legs.

  “The problem with you guys,” she continued, “is you don’t want to admit that that’s exactly why you don’t want to hear about it. We view your sexual histories as a challenge worth accepting. You view ours as a threat.”

  She had a point. I didn’t agree with everything she said, but it served the purpose of making me feel ridiculous about how I felt about Beckett.

  “Hey, you’re Bo Cavanaugh. Great show tonight.” A college-aged guy with black hipster glasses and dirty blonde hair held out his hand, interrupting my battle of the sexes with Georgia.

  I shook his hand and talked music with him for several minutes, until a familiar song came through the speakers. I’d often heard Ember sing along to the mind-numbingly overplayed pop song while she got ready in the morning, and, apparently, the rest of the club felt the same way about it as Ember did. A brief cheer rose through the club and I watched Ember bound excitedly through the crowd toward me.

  “Dance with me. Now.” She grabbed my wrist and I followed her, glancing over my shoulder toward Georgia, who just winked and patiently sat by Regan, who was talking with a fan who’d approached him earlier.

  “You’re hot, you know that?” I ran my hands down her arms as we settled into our crowded spot on the dance floor.

  “Mm-hmm,” she exaggerated a grin, “I know. What were you and Georgia talking about while I was in the booth? It looked i
ntense.”

  “Spying on us?”

  Ember’s gaze turned serious, but she didn’t stop her hips. “I never have my eyes on anyone else, Bo. Even if my back is turned, my eyes are always itching for you.”

  Suddenly I felt like a child for my reaction earlier. “I didn’t mean to get weird about Beckett.”

  “It’s okay. We’ve each got our own history. But, we get a joint future.” She kissed me and resumed dancing with the energy of her usual morning routine.

  Damn, she’s gorgeous.

  “Nervous for tomorrow?” I asked, allowing my hands further down on her hips than I did when her parents were around.

  “Terrified.” She smiled. “But, right now, it’s just us.”

  That’s how it always felt with Ember and me. In the middle of a crowded bar or sitting alone on the beach. It was always just us.

  Ember

  It’s time for a goodbye

  No time for a hard cry.

  I don’t mind,

  But honey, don’t haunt my dreams…

  As I sang lead with Journey to the fast-paced and bluegrass-flavored Six song, “Ghosts Ahead,” I let myself sink into the music.

  The night before was a trip. Watching Willow work in the DJ booth with Beckett Roth, of all people, was a nice blast from the past. Beckett’s parents often jammed with my parents and the band, right up until they moved. I knew Bo was uncomfortable with the fact that I’d slept with Beckett, but, really, it was nothing. He was my first and he said I was his, but, still, we were seventeen. I’m not sure of any seventeen-year-old that brags about their sex life. It was just sex, then we argued like the children we were, and we broke up.

  Our parents took it hard. They’d all met and gotten together when they were in high school, and I think they held out a fantasy that we would do the same. Seeing Beckett again was like the final piece of the puzzle of my past that reminded me of the world I’d be stepping back into if Bo and I kept our music careers going. The last year had certainly been a whirlwind, but one we’d gratefully accepted.

  Bo and I often acknowledged with each other that second chances in the entertainment industry were rare, and if we were granted something bigger than what we were doing now, we were going to take it.

  As my dad plucked the strings of his banjo with fervor, and sweat from Regan’s forehead splashed in the glow from the spotlight, I grabbed the mic from its stand and danced.

  They tell us the past is never far behind

  That ghosts ahead are what the signs all read

  I’ll take the road less travelled

  The one you paved with regret

  For me…

  While bluegrass wasn’t a style I was usually comfortable with, I loved the contradiction of the fast beats and the heavy lyrics. And, fans over the last several months seemed to favor these kinds of songs over our others.

  The whole band was involved in this song, and by the time I worked my way over to Bo's stool, using the stage to spread out my nervous energy, it was time for his entrance. I placed my hand on his shoulder as he looked up at me, and whistles and cheers fluttered through the crowd as we started the chorus again.

  It’s time for a goodbye

  No time for a hard cry

  I don’t mind,

  But honey, don’t haunt my dreams…

  The humidity stuck some of my hair to my back and chest as I leaned forward to kiss Bo after we finished the lyrics, and he, Regan, and my dad raced the song to its close. My mom worked her slim hips into sensual curves as she shook the hell out of her tambourine, Mags held a beautiful, high note on her flute, Solstice’s shoulders moved gracefully as she struck the keyboard, and Michael worked the bass drum with vivid intensity with his right foot as he strummed his guitar.

  By this point, the crowd was on their feet, clapping and dancing. Living the music through their bodies, just the way it should be. Watching the crowd’s response filled me with a joy that I knew was branded into my DNA. Aside from my wedding night—and anything involving Bo—there was no more beautiful sight in the world than people feeling music that I helped create.

  While I didn’t tend to focus on specific faces in the crowd, because that could cause me to stumble over my own concentration, I searched for Willow. She was supposed to be there with Beckett, and, sure enough, I spotted them near the pool at the edge of the garden.

  Willow was moving her ethereal body along with the rest of us and the audience in a flow that looked so much like her mother’s it was nearly distracting. Beckett was watching and nodding along with the beat, talking with two people to his right. I recognized Jan Lieberman from the night before. She and Beckett seemed to know each other pretty well, given the casual and friendly facial expression Beckett wore. I didn’t recognize the woman standing next to Jan. She was much younger and incredibly attractive. Beckett thought so too, based on the mere flickers of eye contact he afforded her. He always wanted women to want him to look at them.

  And he was good at making that happen.

  I made my way back to center stage and met Journey at our original spot so we could sing the last note together. After holding the long, high note, and reveling in the praise roaring throughout the crowd, Journey and I smiled at each other and hugged tightly.

  She kissed my cheek with the tenderness of a mother, and spoke in my ear. “You were on fire tonight, sweetness.”

  “Thanks to you,” I complimented back.

  I was thrilled to be singing with Journey. She had a slightly deeper voice than I did, and harmonizing with her was always a blast.

  Mags joined us at the front of the small stage and kissed her partner before the rest of the group joined us for our bow.

  Journey and Mags had been a mainstay in my life for as long as the rest of The Six. It was of no surprise to me ten years ago when they found themselves in love. I’d watched them in other relationships in their lives, including Mags’s brief marriage to the male lead singer of another band they traveled with frequently. That those two women remained friends all of these years and found love right where they’d been all along was always particularly precious to me.

  After we took our final bow, Jan Lieberman slid over to my mic, announcing the two-hour break in the afternoon before the evening performances were slated to start. As a matter of habit, I turned and started helping to pack up our instruments. Before I got very far, Jan tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Sorry to interrupt, November,” she said with an endearing smile. The kind that lures you in. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  I was grateful my pulse was already faster than usual from the performance adrenaline rush, or I’d have felt faint from the fresh batch of nerves her request presented.

  “Sure.” I nodded and kept my stage smile at full wattage.

  “Bo? Regan? Can you follow us?” Jan called over my shoulder.

  Bo slid a casual arm around my shoulder. “Nice high note at the end.” He grinned and bit his lip, which made me want to drag him back to the RV.

  “Not so bad yourselves, boys. That was a great set.” I eyed Regan who had the same post-performance look on his face I always did. Dazed. Bo was always full-throttle energy. Regan and I usually needed a nap.

  Jan briefly looked back over her shoulder. “That was one of the most lively shows I’ve seen in a long time. Great crowd involvement.”

  She walked us over to where Willow and Beckett were standing. They were still talking with the younger woman, who I was able to get a clear picture of as we got closer. She was taller than Willow, who was 5’10”. A quick look at her feet told me she was probably six-feet tall, since she was wearing sparkly ballet flats. Her hair was blonde and professionally thick. The kind of thickness you’d see on a network news anchor.

  She turned toward us and smiled as we approached. “Well, here they are now!”

  Her smile got impossibly bigger as her unapologetically rich southern accent took over the airwaves.

  “He
llo.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m N—”

  “November Blue Cavanaugh.” She took my hand gingerly and arched her right eyebrow. My name sounded entirely different coming from her lips. It felt like I was seated on a porch swing sipping sweet tea.

  “Yes.” I nodded politely, shooting a quick glance to Willow, who gave me a quick wink.

  “I’m Yardley Honeywell.” She tilted her head to the side, like she was waiting for her name to sink in.

  That was going to take a long time.

  I know it seems hypocritical for me to bat a single friggen eyelash at anyone’s name, given I was named after words people learn in preschool, but, come on.

  Always my saving grace, Bo spoke up. “Ms. Honeywell, it’s nice to meet you. Your family does some fantastic work over at GSE.” He took her hand and gave her a perfect business smile.

  “You’re sweet, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Regan wipe his right hand on the back of his jeans before offering it up. Rosin could feel a little off-putting in the middle of a handshake if one wasn’t prepared for it, and Regan was always covered in the stuff.

  Grounded Sound Entertainment.

  I couldn’t believe the name clicked so fast, given I paid a fraction of the attention Bo did to the goings on in the industry side of the business. I remembered Bo and Regan talking the previous week about a list of possible labels that would be sniffing around Live at the Vineyard, and this was one of them. Bo had told me that Luke and Ginger Honeywell were grooming their children to take over, and one of their daughters had a particular interest in raw sound. She preferred musicians who could easily sing live, and—most importantly—could play instruments.

  The only reason I picked up on this name and the others they talked about was because of the possibility of working with cool people who appreciated our sound, and what we were trying to do. Which was, largely, go back to basics. Voices. Instruments. That’s it.

  The young woman who I was face to face with, however, wasn’t what I expected. Her face looked more pageant than festival ready, and her clothes were a confusing blend of casual and business. The ballet flats, a quite short black skirt and a white long-sleeved button down shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and the top two buttons unbuttoned.