A Bleu Streak Summer (The Bleu Series Book 3)

by T. I. Lowe

  “I can handle that.”

  “Good, ’cause we need to get a summer tour in before you go off to college. That should fill your checking account up for a while. Then during winter break, we gotta get into the studio.”

  No way could they have ever given Will a better graduation gift than allowing him a summer of touring as an official bandmate of Bleu Streak. Music was not just part of his soul, but the very material it was fashioned from and he knew he was born to create and share it with the world. The young man knew he wouldn’t have to do it on his own. The people surrounding him on that warm May day had built this dynamic family on a firm rock of faith and loyalty, and Will Bleu was honored to be a part of it.

  TWO

  “On My Own”

  -Vincent Vincent and the Villains

  “Day One” (Acoustic)

  -Matthew West

  Any house, no matter if it’s a twelve-bedroom-three-story mansion, will become a cacophony of ruckus when over twenty head of people are gathered. Specifically the bunch residing in the Bleu’s beach house for an entire summer. Before landing in California, the group drew for bedroom assignments. Max lucked up and drew the coveted bottom floor that would serve as his room, the gym, and the band’s practice studio. And that was all fine by him. The solace of having an entire floor to himself at night was beyond appealing, especially with the funk he had found himself stuck in as of late.

  “Hair-cutting time. Get the lead out!” Mave hollered halfway down the stairs before backtracking. It was the third time he had made the trek and irritation had accompanied him that time.

  Max had been glued to the couch, staring at the unanswered text—I miss you—he sent Mona over two hours ago. Giving up, he pocketed the phone and tried to get in the spirit of the afternoons shenanigans. Dillon promised him, and so it was time to go make good on it. Max cracked his neck, excitement finally building for the opportunity to go blow off some steam, before pushing into his boots and heading upstairs.

  The rest of the guys were already loaded up in the oversized black SUV by the time he managed to scarf down a snack of three PB&J sandwiches and a quart of milk. He climbed in and met a stony reception of impatient faces.

  “You do realize we are on a tight schedule today, right?” Blake, the band’s sometimes-annoying but mostly cool assistant, grumbled, his light golden-brown eyes somehow managing to hold an icy glare.

  Max was leaning toward the annoying bit at the moment. He offered up a passive shrug. “We’re the band. We are the schedule.”

  Trace snorted. “Even I know better than that.”

  The crowd released a low chuckle at the keyboardist cracking a joke at his own expense. Common sense sometimes confused the blond guy, but he had enough to accept his character flaw for what it was.

  “I don’t see why we had to wait on slowpoke for haircuts anyway. Dude ain’t got any hair to cut.” Will pointed to Max, who was sporting a military buzz.

  Max rubbed his hand through his hair, measuring the top that finally felt to be at least a half inch long. “Still not over that stunt,” he muttered.

  The guys got ahold of him with a pair of clippers while Dillon and Logan sat on him a few months back. By the time Jen broke it up, the damage was done and poor Max resembled a dog with the mange. Shaving off the remaining chunks of chestnut hair was the only solution.

  The guys kept ribbing him all the way to the salon and Max kept ignoring them. He was an expert at dishing it out and had learned long ago how to take it as well. Besides, he had a pocket full of fun just waiting to be handed out.

  Twenty minutes later, Will sat in the chair staring at the mohawk Max was allowed to carve into his thick black hair. One minute the stylist was whirling the chair away from the mirror to get started, and then the next the chair was whirled back around to reveal Max standing behind him, wearing a wide grin while holding a pair of clippers.

  Will shrugged his shoulder, unperturbed, as he coasted his fingers through the spiky middle. “It’s cool. I always wanted a mohawk, but Momma wouldn’t let me.”

  The grin fell from Max’s face as he cut his eyes to the other guys. “Some initiation.”

  Will bellowed in laughter. “This is the initiation. Man, you old geezers are slipping. Anyway, I thought the tattoo was for that.”

  “It was part of it…” Dillon said as he leaned closer with narrowed eyes and studied something behind his son’s right ear. “But that weren’t. Plus it’s old ink.” He knocked the boy upside his head with a bit of force. “What are you doing, hiding something from me?”

  The other guys leaned around to see what the fuss was all about and saw for the first time a tattoo that had been kept hidden underneath Will’s shaggy hair. An intertwining J and D were tucked behind his ear.

  “Like father, like son,” Mave said on a chuckle with the other guys joining in.

  “It’s my reminder to always listen to my righteous parents,” Will added in a mocking tone, earning another whack to the head. He had to know it was coming with him poking fun at his dad proclaiming something similar about his own first tattoo that had been hidden in the exact same spot. Dillon’s was a tribute to his late father.

  “Well, it’s done you no good, if you’re doing junk behind my back.” Dillon shook his head. “Not cool. Wait till your mom sees it.”

  That comment wiped the smirk off the little-too-cocky guy’s face. “Dude!”

  “Don’t dude me.” Dillon pulled out his wallet and paid generously for the salon allowing the prank and for the others’ hair trimmings. “Let’s roll out. Next stop is wardrobe.”

  “Wardrobe?” Trace whined, looking pained at the very idea, with the others grumbling their disapproval.

  “Since when did you guys start putting up with junk like that?” Will glanced over the group, all clad in various loose-fitting well-worn jeans and dark tees with either Vans or Chucks or scuffed boots on their feet. “And what’s wrong with what we’re wearing now?”

  All eyes darted over to Tate, one of their longtime managers. The redhead’s hands shot up in defense. “Don’t kill the messenger. Sometimes you have to do what the suits at the record label request on special occasions.” He pointed toward the door, leading the group outside.

  After they were loaded back up Will asked, “What’s so special this time?”

  “Summer concert kickoff performance headlining our newest, hottest member. Nuff said,” Logan answered in his lazy drawl while sliding his aviator sunshades over his gold eyes.

  “Yeah. The label is pulling out all the stops for the Will Bleu,” Trace added, which provoked the desired effect on the young guy. Will looked right smug.

  Max averted his face toward the window to conceal the grin as the others took to egging the cockiness right out of the young guy until the SUV pulled into the backlot of a private studio.

  “Sonny, it won’t take us long. You wanna wait here?” Dillon asked their bodyguard who was doubling as driver for the day.

  “Sounds like a plan,” the giant of a man agreed with a knowing look.

  Dillon nodded his head and leaned over the seat to offer Sonny a fist bump before climbing out.

  The group barely made it inside the side door before a team of stylists surrounded them. Each band member was given a garment bag and ushered to a dressing room. There was no denying the excitement in Will’s grin as he spotted the nametag identifying the bag belonging to Will Bleu/Drummer.

  “This way, handsome,” a young woman, wearing oversized maroon glasses that practically shrouded her entire face, cooed as she escorted him to the middle dressing room. “Try the outfit on and then let us have a looksee on how it fits.”

  She pulled the thick curtain shut to allow him some privacy. Zippers being unzipped and rustling of fabric sounded from Will’s dressing room, followed by several struggling grunts. Then…dead silence.

  “What the heck… No way! We ain’t dressing like a flipping boyband!” he hollered in disgust and then added a
growl for good measure.

  “Language, kid,” Dillon reprimanded.

  “Momma said ain’t is in the dictionary,” he called out.

  “You know what word I’m talking about.” Dillon glanced over at the line of guys standing in front of Will’s dressing room ready to pounce.

  “It’s ya’ll’s fault my son talks the way he does.”

  “What’s wrong with the way he talks?” Max asked, shrugging that shoulder as always.

  “What are you guys doing out there?” Will asked as suspicion slowly dripped into his inquiry.

  “We’re already dressed. Just waiting on you, slowpoke. Hurry it up. We’re on a tight schedule,” Max said sarcastically, getting his jab in for both smart remarks from earlier.

  “I ain’t wearing this cr—” The word froze on Will’s tongue as he slung the curtain open. He was decked out in bright-white super-skinny jeans that were loudly paired with bulky, neon-pink high-tops and a purple tank top with Pretty Boy emblazed in metallic gold across the front.

  Before the poor kid could react to the entire group still donning their earlier attire, all five guys ambushed him. Not going down without a fight, Will bucked and kicked and wiggled as his bandmates grabbed hold of him and carried him outside, leaving his personal clothes and most of his pride behind. As soon as they had him wrestled into the backseat, the guys loaded up and Sonny sped off before he could make a break for it. He glared at his dad on one side of him and then to Logan on the other, knowing the two biggest guys of the band had him trapped. All three sat shoulder to shoulder.

  Will kept fidgeting in the pinching pants while eyeing the red-faced group. Heavy wheezing heaved out as their chests rose and fell in a labored pace.

  “Why are you old geezers so winded?” Will asked, but no one seemed in the mood—or maybe due to the lack of breath—to reward his taunt with a response.

  The silence held until everyone’s breathing slowed back to normal.

  “Mave, why’s your lip bleeding?” Dillon asked, knowing Jen or one of the other women or probably all of them would surely wring them out for instigating another Mave booboo.

  Mave cautiously dabbed at his lip. “You’re six-three two-hundred-pound baby punched me while he was jack-rabbiting around like a fool.”

  Will leveled his mentor with a look. “I’d apologize if I was sorry, but I’m not.” He held up his arm, showing off an angry whelp. “That dang cast of yours hurts.”

  “Language,” Dillon growled, shaking his head.

  The SUV pulled up to the undisclosed destination. Max looked out the window before pulling his own secrets out of his pocket. “You’ve got a good hour or so to find your way to the concert.” He handed Will a list of concert venues.

  “But in the meeting I remember Tate saying we’re at Hollywood tonight,” Will shot back, thinking he had one-upped them again.

  “Did I say Hollywood?” Tate’s grin was all the evidence needed to show he was in on the scheme, too.

  “Sounds like you should have paid attention to that tour date shirt I gave you for graduation, bro.” Logan’s lips pulled into a lazy grin as he handed Will his wallet. “You best be on with it.”

  “What about my phone?” The kid’s brows pinched severely.

  “Now we can’t make it that easy for you.” Mave opened the door as Logan began pushing Will in that direction, but the young guy braced his vivid pink shoes to counteract the progress.

  “Dressed like this? I’ll either get beat up or raped!”

  “You’re a fast runner, Bieb. All’s good.” Max couldn’t resist getting in a snide remark about Will’s tacky attire beings they dressed him something similar to that certain singer.

  “Dad!” he whined, sounding like a frightened little boy trapped in a grown man’s body.

  Dillon started pulling on Will’s arm as he said, “Welcome to the band, son.”

  “Seriously?” He tried wiggling his arm out of his dad’s grasp, grunting as he fought against Logan’s efforts.

  “Pretty good initiation idea, Max,” Dillon commented on a huff as he continued to wrestle with Will.

  Will stopped fighting and threw his hands up in defeat, sweat trickling down his forehead as he cut a glare at his dad. “Fine! You know Momma is gonna lose it when she finds out about this.” The others snickered and snorted at his futile attempt at sounding menacing, the faint tremble in his voice ruining it. He redirected his fury to the others. “Laugh it up, you punks. She ain’t gonna let y’all get away with this either!”

  That threat made them pause for a second before they all put effort into pushing him out of the SUV and onto his butt in the parking lot. As he stood up, they pulled the door shut and hit the locks. The guys cracked up as they sat there and watched him unsuccessfully try to cram the wallet into his too-tight back pocket.

  “How in the heck did he get them suckers zipped?” Max asked.

  All eyes were glued to the Will show. The frustrated guy waved the wallet in the air, gesturing wildly while his lips moved in a hasty tempo.

  “Bet he’s using lots of nice language,” Blake said, releasing a deep belly laugh from the front passenger’s seat.

  “Alright, Sonny. Let’s head out so he can get on with his little journey.” Dillon’s tone wasn’t as laidback as before and he fidgeted a bit with discomfort.

  “Our baby boy is gonna be just fine.” Logan gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder with Dillon relenting a hesitant nod in agreement.

  As part of the plan, Blake reached over and cranked up the sound system to earsplitting. He then cracked the windows and opened the sunroof so Will could hear the selected song “On My Own” to inspire him.

  Sonny put the SUV in drive. As he began to pull out of the lot, Will reared back and threw his wallet with all his might, hitting the darkly tinted window in an aggressive thud. The guys laughed all the way to the concert venue and continued reveling in the hilarity until they crossed paths with Jewels…

  •♫•♫•♫•

  Heavy bass thumped the arena as the opening act drove it home. The guys stood at the side of the stage watching the scholarship winners of their charity rock out. Gemma and the Gents was made up of college age guys with one lone girl, who was the lead vocalist. Gemma’s voice was a powerful soprano that could rival in range with Adele. The day the Bleu guys listened to her for the first time, they were already blown away before she made it to the chorus of her audition piece. The raven beauty’s talent would shoot her to the top and they were just happy to give Gemma and her band the sturdy foundation to take off from. The west coast tour was their introduction to the world, and from the sounds of the arena, the world was quite welcoming. The young band did remixes of Bleu Streak hits as the opener for the tour that night and the crowd seemed to love it.

  “If he’s not here in ten minutes, every one of you jerks will be finding a new home tonight!”

  The guys reluctantly turned away from the show and regarded the petite blonde, her wavy long locks quivered with her wrath. Arms crossed, green eyes piercing each bandmate, there was no doubting she would follow through with the threat of kicking them out. She had already handed out a butt-chewing and a forceful punch to each one of their arms earlier.

  Dillon tried to place his hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she yanked away. “Will is fine—”

  “How could you just abandon our child in the middle of nowhere?” Her wrath was steady building with each tick of the clock that showed up without any sign of her boy.

  “He’s a grown man, Pretty Girl.”

  “Don’t you dare Pretty Girl me!”

  Tate came closer while studying his phone. “He’s only about five minutes out.” He turned the phone so Jewels and Dillon could see the little red dot blinking as it moved closer to the arena.

  “You’re tracking him?”

  “Yes, and Joe is following closely behind him.” Dillon bent his knees to get closer to eye level with his wife, who was over a foot shorter t
han him. “Baby, he’s going to be away at college in only a few short months. He’s gotta get used to finding his own way around this life.” He motioned around him as though the backstage held their entire world, but from the tears welling in her eyes, Jewels got it. He pulled her in for a hug, allowing his wife the moment she needed.

  It was short-lived.

  Busting through the side entrance sans purple tank top, Will sauntered over like nothing was amiss. “Yo, we ready to do this?” His cocky façade back into place.

  Dillon looked up and grinned while Jewels pushed out of his arms. Her tears immediately ceased. “Dillon Dawson Bleu! His hair! And what on earth is our son wearing?”

  “He had on a shirt when we left him.” Dillon eyed his son. “Where’s the tank top?”

  “Some chicks said they’d give me a ride if they could have it with my autograph. Seemed a reasonable sacrifice.” His lips tipped up.

  Jewels moved closer to him to inspect the mohawk that was still holding its sharp form from the high-tech product the stylist used earlier. Will kept her to his left and when she leaned around the other side, he took to rubbing behind his ear and looking away.

  “What’s up behind that right ear, kid?” Dillon smirked when his words made Will squirm.

  “Just a little itchy.” He widened his blue eyes, relaying a silent message for mercy from his dad.

  Dillon in reply narrowed his identical eyes with the message being clear he’d have to pay up later.

  “Do you need some ointment? Let me see—” Jewels reached to remove his hand, but Will scooted away.

  “Mom! It’s fine. We gotta get on stage soon!”

  Just then, the crowd erupted in applauses as the opening act waved and exited the stage, which effectively distracted the Bleu group. They offered the newbies fist bumps and words of encouragement as they passed.

  “Will, you need to go change,” Jewel instructed once they were alone again.

  “He’s already dressed.” Mave grinned, but wiped it away when Jewels set a scowl in his direction.