Taming the Storm

by Samantha Towle

  I watch his retreating back as he heads to his bunk to get his clothes. My eyes hone in on the huge tattoo there. It’s a large wooden cross, spanning his entire back, with a blade at the end, like it’s cutting into his skin. It has the words, Only The Strong Survive, woven through it.

  It’s beautiful—in a morbid way.

  Then, my eyes focus on the text directly below the cross. Thomas III, is inked there, and in much smaller text below that is, Rest in the peace that life could no longer give you.

  Tom lost someone important—just like I did.

  I guess we have something in common after all.

  The Next Day—Backstage at a Club, Seattle

  Thomas III.

  I’ve come up with so many scenarios as to whom Thomas III could be. It has to be someone in his family for sure. Tom, Thomas III—I’d be stupid not to figure that one out.

  I thought maybe it was his father, but for some reason, my thoughts keep circling back to a child.

  Rest in the peace that life could no longer give you.

  I’ve never heard anything about Tom Carter having a son, but I also know it is possible to keep things quiet from the press for the right amount of money.

  Rally taught me that.

  I’m not ashamed to admit that after dinner last night—which Tom joined us for, but he was noticeably quiet—I spent the rest of my night in the bedroom Googling him. First search was, Tom Carter’s child. Nothing came up, so then I tried, Tom Carter III. I got nothing relevant, only pictures of Tom. A lot were of him with his band members, but there were also a lot of him with women, lots of women.

  I started to feel a bit ill while looking at the pictures of his skankhood, so I gave up soon after and went to sleep.

  My mind has been on Tom since last night—well, more his tattoo. The mystery is still bugging the hell out of me. I don’t care about him. I’m just incredibly nosy. It’s an illness of mine. It’s something I’m working on.

  “Lyla Summers?”

  I lift my gaze from the piece of paper in front of me, the one I’ve been doodling Tom’s scripture on.

  I came backstage to our dressing room to work on some new song lyrics while the guys do sound tests onstage where we’ll be playing in a few hours. It’s fair to say that I’ve not been very productive with my time.

  Looming over me and smiling widely is a model-thin, beautiful woman, wearing what can only be described as painted on jeans with a low-cut tank revealing a lot of her bust. She has long dark brown hair, flawlessly straight, framing her face that has heavily applied makeup.

  I’m far from ugly. I’m often told I look exactly like my mother, and I know she was beautiful. But this woman before me is making me feel like a little kid. That’s partially due to the fact that I’m dressed like one, wearing my trusty Keds, torn jeans, and a T-shirt that has a picture of Homer Simpson wearing only his underpants with the slogan, The Last Perfect Man, on it. It’s not a slouchy, oversized T-shirt. I always get them fitted, but still, it’s a Simpsons T-shirt.

  God, I’m so lame.

  “Um…yes, I’m Lyla,” I answer with trepidation, wondering who she is.

  “Well, you are just stunning. The photo Zane gave me doesn’t do you justice at all. I’m Shannon, your stylist.” She holds a manicured hand out to me.

  I lift my hand, cringing at the chewed ends and chipped varnish, and shake hers. Releasing my hand, she sits down in the seat before me, dropping a large bag hanging from her slender shoulder onto the table.

  “I didn’t realize I had a stylist,” I reply.

  She lets out a laugh and smacks the gum she’s chewing. “Honey, of course you have a stylist. All performers do. With this being your first tour, we’re on a budget, so it’ll just be Ashlee and me. Ashlee is my assistant.”

  I feel dumb. I should know this stuff. I’m not exactly new to this world.

  “Okay,” I reply.

  Then, she just stares at me, eyeing me up and down. I shift in my seat, feeling beyond uncomfortable. I’ve never been appraised like this before.

  “You have great skin, doll, and your eyes…”

  She leans in close to my face. She’s that close I can smell her minty breath.

  “They are so…unusual. You have any Asian heritage, hon?” Her eyes run over my blonde hair and pale skin.

  I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”

  My mother was Caucasian, and so is Rally. I don’t know much of his ancestry, so I suppose there could be some Asian heritage. But aside from his eyes, he looks Caucasian to me.

  Unfortunately, I have Rally’s eyes, even down to the crystal-clear blue color of them. I hate my eyes. I wish I had my mother’s eyes, big and doe-like. My eyes aren’t small, but they are narrow and slant downward, giving them a feline look. It’s not unusual for me to receive comments on my eyes. I’ve been told many times that my eyes are the first thing that people notice about me. Apparently, they’re intriguing.

  Personally, I think they look empty and cold.

  Kind of like my heart.

  “We’ll use some shimmering silver and black liner on your lids with those ocean blue eyes. Shit, honey, they will look stunning! Not that they don’t already. You’re gonna be beating those boys, and girls, off with a stick!” She laughs.

  It’s a hearty, warm laugh that kind of endears her to me.

  “Not that I imagine you have any problems in the sex department, looking like you do. Are you straight? I’ve always had a great read on people, and you look straight to me. I’m bisexual.” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’ve always liked a bit of variety in my life.” She winks and laughs again.

  Okay…

  Definitely an information overload.

  I can’t believe that I have known this woman for all of about sixty seconds, and I’m already well acquainted with her sexual preferences. I might spend nearly all my time with three oversexed men, but I’m not particularly open to talking or hearing about sex, especially with a virtual stranger, and even more so since I’m no longer having it.

  “How do you feel about layers?” Shannon asks.

  “Um…what?”

  “Layers. In your hair. The bangs definitely work for you, but I think some layers in the back and around your face will look amazing.”

  On her feet now, she moves to stand behind me, and her hands are fluffing my hair, pulling it this way and that.

  My God, this woman is a whirlwind. I’m getting whiplash from just listening to her.

  “Yeah, maybe. Whatever you think.”

  “Those new lyrics you’re working on?”

  “What?” My eyes hit the table, and I nearly die when I see the piece of paper with Tom’s scripture still sitting there.

  I place my hand over the paper. “Uh…no, it’s nothing.”

  Apparently, I’m not covering the paper that well.

  Shannon leans in over my shoulder and says, “God, that sounds so familiar. Rest in the peace that—”

  I scrap the paper up with my hand and shove it into my pocket. My face is burning.

  “Lyla, you’re—”

  At the sound of Tom’s voice, my head whips around, and I see him standing in the doorway. Then, without warning, Shannon starts shrieking like a fucking banshee, scaring the shit out of me.

  “Oh my fucking God!” Shannon’s hands tighten around my hair as she pulls it, causing me to wince. “Tom Carter!”

  She drops my hair and runs across the room before launching herself at him. And when I say launching, I mean, her long legs wrap around his waist, and her arms link around his neck. Then, she plants her lips straight on his, kissing him.

  I look away. I can feel my face burning with irritation.

  Why am I so irritated that she’s kissing him. It’s not like I want to kiss him.

  Okay…well, maybe my lips would like to kiss Tom’s, but my brain definitely says no.

  I force myself to look back at them, to get over whatever the hell it is I’m fe
eling, but the sight of her long legs still wrapped around Tom’s waist with her lips melded to his scratches over my skin like pins and needles of jealousy.

  Tom breaks the kiss, and his eyes flicker past her and meet mine.

  I look away—again.

  I can feel myself frowning at the sight of her lip gloss shimmering on his lips. I rub my forehead, easing out the frown lines.

  “Shannon Archer,” he says. “Been a long time.”

  He knows her. Of course he knows her—and very well by the looks of things.

  “Too long!” she says in a singsong voice.

  I can see her lowering her perfect legs to the floor, but I notice she doesn’t let go of him while her hands grip his waist.

  “Jake said you were here as tour manager, but I thought he was just shitting me. I mean, this is you we’re talking about, and you know what Jake is like, always teasing me. But here you are. Tom Carter, a tour manager. Well, screw me sideways. Then again, you’ve already screwed me sideways and back ways, right, baby?” She winks.

  I want to vomit. I actually want to vomit.

  He’s had sex with her.

  Of course he’s had sex with her. Half the female population has had sex with him.

  Tom’s eyes flicker past her to meet mine—again.

  What’s he looking at me for?

  I dip my gaze, pretending to be suddenly enthralled by the words on my notepad.

  “Look at you though,” she says, her voice sounding softer. “Your hair has all grown out.”

  My curious eyes have to take a quick look.

  Shannon is running her fingers through his hair in an intimate and familiar way. It causes my stomach to clench.

  “And you’ve grown a beard.” Smiling, she trails her fingernails over his facial hair. “You look all grown-up.”

  He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I grew up a long time ago.”

  “Sure you did, but I like it.”

  He gives her a smile. “You’re looking good, Shan.”

  “Don’t I always?” She wiggles her hips. “So, do you like the new girls?” She steps back and sticks out her chest. “I only went up a cup size. I’m a D now. Didn’t want to go too big, you know? I can’t stand those in-your-face fake boobs. These feel real though. Can’t tell they’re implants at all. Have a feel.”

  Tom’s eyes flash over to me. I look away before he can really catch my gaze.

  Seriously, why does he keep looking at me?

  “Yep, they feel real all right.”

  So, he felt her up. Awesome.

  “Told ya. I’m really happy with them. My surgeon was amazing. They were a present to myself for hitting the wrong side of thirty. God, I can’t believe I’m thirty-five!” She groans. “Where has the time gone?”

  Thirty-five? God, I thought she was around my age, twenty-two. I’d have given her twenty-five max. Hell, I hope I look as good as she does when I’m her age.

  “Yeah, you’re getting old now.” Tom laughs.

  “Hey! You’re not that far behind me. What are you now? Twenty-nine?”

  “Yep. I’m a baby compared to you.”

  “Fuck off,” she gibes good-naturedly. “You never complained about my age when you had your dick in me. And here I was, thinking you liked older women.”

  Oh God. I roll my eyes, stifling a laugh at the absurdity of what I’m listening to.

  Tom lets out a dirty-sounding chuckle. “You know me, Shan. I’ve always liked any kind of woman—as long as she’s hot and game for anything.”

  “Yeah, that I do know for sure.” She giggles.

  I shift in my seat, putting my back to them. I stick two fingers into my mouth and fake gag.

  “Lyla?”

  My head whips around at Tom’s stern tone. My eyes meeting with his, I see he’s frowning at me. Shannon is beside him with her hand on his arm, her face neutral.

  Did he just see me fake gag? I had my back to them, so he couldn’t have—

  Oh, shit.

  I remember there’s a mirror up on the wall. I turn back to look at it.

  My eyes connect with Tom’s in the mirror, and he raises his eyebrows in suggestion as a knowing grin hits his lips.

  He saw what I did.

  Fucking fuck.

  My cheeks are on fire.

  I turn in my seat to face him. “What do you want?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, making me sound like a bitch.

  Tom’s expression hardens at my tone. “You’re needed onstage to do sound checks.”

  Oh. Okay.

  One question—why did he come and get me himself? Why didn’t he send a runner?

  Relieved he didn’t call out my childish behavior, I say, “Let me get my stuff.” I start gathering my cell, notepad, pen, and bottle of water before shoving them into my bag.

  “So, what are your plans for tonight after the show?” Shannon asks Tom. “I was thinking we should hook up. It’s been a few years since we last fucked.”

  My back stiffens.

  Seriously? Fucking seriously?

  I’m standing right here!

  Shannon is nice enough, and I might learn to like her, but I can’t believe she’s trying to arrange a sex date with Tom while I’m standing right here.

  What the hell am I—chopped liver?

  I slam my bag down on the table, the metal buckles clanging loudly. I don’t care if I come across as rude. I’m not here to stand around like a fucking lamppost while these two arrange a banging session.

  My eyes lift to that damn mirror again, and Tom’s eyes are already on me, his gaze burning into mine. In this moment, it’s almost like he’s trying to read me.

  Uncomfortable from his stare and their screwing conversation, my eyes hit the floor. I pick up my bag and sling it on my shoulder. I’m more than ready to leave this room and these two sex maniacs.

  “Sorry, Shan, no can do,” Tom utters.

  What?

  That lifts my gaze just in time to see a flicker of confusion cross over Shannon’s face.

  “Okay…well, how about tomorrow?”

  Tom shakes his head.

  Did he just…turn her down? Did Tom Carter just refuse sex from a woman?

  My God, am I seeing stars?

  “Oh, you’re seeing someone.” She nods with certainty.

  Is he?

  That possibility doesn’t sit right with me.

  Shannon doesn’t seem upset or embarrassed by his blow off. If it were me, I would be mortified. But then again, I’d never proposition a man for sex like she just did.

  “Well, will wonders never cease?” She laughs. “Tom Carter has settled down!” She claps her hands together.

  Tom doesn’t respond to her in any way. Actually, all he’s doing is staring straight at me.

  Why is he looking at me like that?

  And why does his eye keep twitching?

  What the hell is wrong with him?

  Shannon turns and follows his eyes to me. Her eyebrow lifts. She looks back at Tom and then to me again. She grins.

  Why is she grinning? Am I missing something here?

  “You’re seeing Lyla!” she exclaims. “Jesus, Tom! Why didn’t you say before?”

  One Second Later—Backstage at a Club, Seattle

  My body jerks in shock like I’ve been shot.

  What?

  What the hell?

  “No!” I yell. “He’s not seeing me! I mean, he sees me here, of course, but he’s not seeing me, seeing me. We’re not sleeping together. Jesus Christ!” I drag my hand through my hair. “Tom and I are not together! The end!” I jab a finger in Tom’s direction. “Tell her.”

  He says nothing. He’s completely blank. There’s nothing but a sly smile on his smug face that I’m more than ready to wipe off.

  What the hell is he playing at?

  Shannon looks between us again. “Okay…” she drawls out, a bemused look on her face. “I get it.” She winks at me and lowers her voice as she says, “Don’t
you worry, Lyla. I’m awesome at keeping secrets.”

  Secrets! What secrets? There are no secrets to keep!

  Jesus, I feel like I’ve just stepped into a parallel universe.

  “Um…there’s no secret to keep because nothing is going on between Tom and me.” My voice is rising an octave higher with each word I speak.

  I throw an expectant look at Tom, desperate for him to say something, to tell her the truth. But he’s just standing there, smirking and not saying shit. So, basically, he’s as much use to me as a chocolate fire suit.

  “Ugh!” I throw my hands up in the air, more angry than anything.

  I realize that if I stay here a moment longer, I’m going to pummel Tom Carter to death.

  “I have no clue what the hell is going on here! Especially with you!” I point at Tom. “I don’t have time for this bizarre crap, so I’ll leave you to your craziness. I’m going to go onstage and do my job. Nice to meet you, Shannon. Tom, I’ll hopefully see you…never!”

  I stomp past them, and I’m out the door in a flash, my face burning like a furnace.

  What the hell was that about? Why did Tom let Shannon think we were together?

  Fucking Tom Carter!

  Maybe he’s gone crazy. He has seemed different from the guy I met before. And he has gone all hobo with the hair and beard.

  Men! See? This is why I stay clear of them. They’re all crazy bastards.

  “So, we’re not together then?” Tom’s lush deep voice comes from behind me.

  Shivers prickle the hairs on the nape of my neck at the baritone of his voice.

  I ignore the sensation and spin around, my anger unleashed to rain hell all over him.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Have you lost your goddamn mind?” I’m yelling at him, and he totally deserves it. “Why did you let Shannon think that you and I are together?”

  His brow furrows. Being this close to him, I notice a little cute line that has appeared from his frown.

  Cute? Jesus, Lyla. Get your head back in the game.

  “I didn’t make Shannon think anything,” he replies evenly.

  “Um…yes, you did. She assumed you were seeing someone, and you looked directly at me! I mean, what the hell, Tom? We don’t even like each other.”