by T. I. Lowe
She pointed without looking at Will’s beyond-tight pants that showed not only the outline of his boxers but easily the black color of them. “Those are inappropriate on so many levels. I can’t believe y’all dressed my son in such mess and let him parade around alone!” She turned to Tate. “Get him in something else or this show will have to happen with a one-armed drummer.”
Izzy latched onto Will’s arm, cheeks pink as she kept her gaze anywhere but on his pants and bare chest. “I’ll help him find something.” She passed Mave a stick of gum even though he wasn’t set to perform but one song with Will as she hurried off with the oversized teen in tow.
“You guys owe me some Eddie Vedder tonight!” Jewels pointed at each member of the band. Bleu Streak would always come in second to Pearl Jam, and the guys had no other choice but to live with that.
They grumbled, knowing there would be no getting out of doing a cover song for her with what they pulled on her baby boy that afternoon.
“The show is going to start late and now you want to change the lineup?” Ben shook his head while running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. He and Tate ran a tight ship even though the Bleu guys never made managing them a cakewalk. At least they kept life interesting.
“What Pretty Girl wants, Pretty Girl gets,” Dillon said before stealing a kiss from his reluctant wife. She continued to hold on to her frustration stubbornly. “I’ll close it out with some Eddie. Promise.”
“Two minutes to show-time,” Blake said, glancing at his watch. He tapped a button on his headset before speaking into the small attached mic. “Stand by. May need a few more minutes.”
“Just like you punks to hold up a show over silly shenanigans.” Ben shook his head and began to pace.
Just as the two minutes were up, the sounds of a drum set coming to life drew the group closer to the edge of the stage. The spotlight flashed on to illuminate Will behind the set, going to town with his opener.
“He’s wearing my change of clothes!” Dillon growled out, shaking his head. Will was sporting his dad’s blue T-shirt and dark jeans, but the gaudy pink sneakers were still on his feet. One worked the bass drum pedal as he jammed out, going through a medley of Bleu songs, weaving them in and out of one another.
“It was either that or he was stuck in those pants for the show. And those suckers had to be cut off.” Izzy said, appearing out of nowhere. When the crowd glanced over their shoulders, her face warmed. She threw her hands up with her brown eyes flaring. “Tate cut him out. Not me!”
As Will concluded his solo opener, the crowd erupted, chanting his name. He stood in true rock-star fashion and flung his sticks into the audience before pumping his fists in the air.
“Come on before his head swells too much,” Max said as he pushed past everyone and meandered onto the stage. As soon as the spotlight captured him, the crowd’s ruckus rose another notch. He fist-bumped with Will and then backtracked to his spot.
The rest of the guys emerged in the same fashion, welcoming Will and then taking up their spots. When Dillon strolled out last, blue Gibson strapped to his broad back, the cheers hit a crescendo. He waved at them as he strutted over to Will and commenced to picking the kid up like he weighed twenty pounds instead of two hundred. Still holding his son in a bear-hug hold, he walked to the front of the stage before releasing him.
“Nice kicks, kid,” Dillon said, being sure to speak into the mic before him as he looked down at the outrageously bright shoes. The crowd roared and whistled while Will shrugged with indifference.
“They’re doing their job.” Will raised a leg and wiggled his foot around. “Like my threads, too, old man?” He smirked as he did a circle around with his arms spread out to the side to show off. Red-faced girls in the audience sounded close to losing their voices already with the screams pealing out over the banter between the two guys. Will was a natural in the spotlight, carrying an ease about him just like Dillon always possessed.
Dillon let his son’s taunt go and directed his focus back to their fans. “So we decided it was time to make this kid an official member. Whataya think?” The arena erupted again, something Dillon Bleu was famous for instigating. He was enigmatic when on stage, and the fans thrived off his energy and he generously divvied it out.
“Sounds like a done deal. How ’bout we do some singing now!” Will shouted as a stagehand offered him his acoustic guitar. He quickly strapped it on and stood proudly by his dad.
The father/son duo began strumming the upbeat chords to Matthew West’s “Day One” as the other band members clapped to encourage the fans to join in. Dillon noodled his chords over Will’s lead, both heads bobbing in rhythm as they brought the praise song to vibrant life. The upbeat melody had the crowd dancing instantly. The two Bleu men crooned lyrics, declaring it was time to move forward and wanted to march to the beat of their own drum with the future finally beginning. Such an appropriate opening song to show the band’s excitement for the launch of a new legacy—Will entering adulthood and taking a permanent spot in the band his dad formed in a shed back in a Georgia trailer park with secondhand instruments and a determined prayer.
The night rocked on with Will and Mave playing one of their epic drum highlights. This time Mave played the left-handed beats and Will hit the right-handed ones as they shared the drums—the two guys syncing so seamlessly that it sounded as if only one drummer was owning the drums.
The energy was so vivacious, Bleu Streak allowed the chanting fans to talk them into two encores. When they erupted in demands for a third as the band departed to the back, Dillon pulled Jewels onto the stage with him.
After he placed her on one of the two stools he requested, Dillon addressed the audience. “I got some making up to do with my Pretty Girl. Y’all don’t mind do ya?” This was another tradition the tattooed rock legend started way back when, and the fans always loved when they got to witness him serenade his wife.
Whistles and shouts rang out as he strummed his long fingers over the strings of his electric-blue Gibson, giving them time to settle back down.
“You see… Me and the guys pulled a few initiation pranks on Will today, and Jewels wasn’t fly with it, so I’ve promised her a song from her favorite singer.” He paused to wink at her. “Can y’all believe it ain’t me?” Dillon shook his head in disbelief as he pushed his damp locks off of his forehead. He settled onto the stool and angled toward his wife as he strummed the strings of the guitar resting in his lap.
“You mess with my kid like that again and you’ll not be my favorite anything,” Jewels sassed, eliciting a round of laughter from the audience and causing Dillon to stop playing.
“Yes ma’am.” Dillon grinned as he picked up her hand and touched her index finger to one of the strings. “Hold your pretty finger there for me.”
Jewels nodded without question, knowing he wanted to her to participate in the song. As Dillon leaned closer to make his wife his only focus, his nimble fingers began to form the achingly sweet melody to “Just Breathe” by Pearl Jam, pressing her finger down on the string at the designated time.
The deep rasp of his voice captured the profound beauty of the lyrics as he gave them over to his best friend as a gift. Simple words that wisely held the understanding of how life is but a breath and one needed to realize the gift of people loving them. To just breathe it all in and not take it for granted.
“Always stay with me. You’re all I can ever see,” Dillon crooned, changing the lyrics as he felt lead. He held his gaze tenderly to her eyes with reverent possession. She was all he could see, no doubt about it. There may have been thousands witnessing this song, but it was clearly meant for none of them.
“I promise to hold you until the day I die. And I promise I will on the other side…” He eased the song to a close before lightly placing his lips to Jewels—soft, slow, and beyond sweet.
As the audience came back to life in whistles and applause, the bubble Dillon formed around him and his wife evaporated.
“We only get one shot at this life. Make the most of it. Love with all of your heart. Chase your dreams with all of your might. And most importantly, honor God in all of it. Good night.” He stood, entwined his hand with wife’s hand and led her off the stage.
Late into that night, the keyed-up group rehashed the entire concert and jammed out with a few more songs on the first floor of the beach house. The guys wrestled around and cracked jokes past three in the morning, enjoying the wave of adrenaline coursing through their veins.
Max watched on from a corner of the long sectional coach with a content smile carefully held in place, hoping to hide the conflict twisting inside him.
“Dude, we killed it.” Will was still bouncing off the walls. He tugged the edge of the beanie further down and caused it to sit cockeyed on his head, not wanting to expose the tatt to his mom just yet.
“You sure are cute, Beib,” Mave teased while eyeing the odd getup Will had changed into after his shower. Teal plaid pajamas bottoms and those neon shoes rounded out his attire.
“Shut it,” Will sassed back.
“You and Mave are like drum trapeze artists, ya know.” Trace tried demonstrating by twirling a set of drumsticks in the air, but fumbled in catching them. Of course, one happened to track Mave down and smack him in the back of the head.
“Dude!” Mave rubbed the offending spot as he shot Trace a sharp look. “I think you meant jugglers, Space Cadet.”
Trace continued on, looking mesmerized, “Y’all are more epic than mere jugglers. It blew my mind tonight how you never missed a beat and didn’t drop a stick once.”
“Our drum show was epic.” Will offered Mave an exuberant slap on the back as he passed him to pick up one of Max’s many guitars scattered around the room.
“Nah. You gotta hand it to your folks, man.” Mave tilted his head toward the beach where Dillon and Jewels could be seen slow dancing under the dim moonlight. “Now those two are epic on a level unreachable. Dillon knows how to bring the house down.”
“Truth,” Logan said slowly, his head swaying to the quiet melody of the guitar.
Max’s eyes wandered in the couple’s direction along with the rest of the group. For the first time all night, the smile was genuine. No way could anyone not respect the epic love story out there on that beach. They loved each other wholeheartedly and didn’t care who witnessed it. Dillon and Jewels made every minute count, knowing from a lesson learned the hard way to never take it for granted. The sudden stinging of his eyes caused Max to look away, knowing how badly he had failed. The smile slipped along with a rebellious tear as he snuck off to his room, hurrying away to hide his embarrassment over things he had no clue how to change.
THREE
“Steady As She Goes”
-The Raconteurs
The anticipated Music Festival Awards had everyone buzzing around in nervous energy. The women were fussing over what to wear and how to fix their hair. Of course, the guys were fussing over what the women chose for them to wear and how they wanted the guys’ hair styled. All the while, the children ran around the house like it was one big jungle gym.
“Ludwig, take that out of your mouth,” a sweet voice chimed over the ocean waves from the open windows.
Brooke and Logan had the harsh reality of not being able to have children confirmed the first year of their marriage, so they took to spoiling the ones around them. Brooke’s mom Gayla had joined in and had designated herself as the band’s nanny. She had become a Godsend when a pile of new babies showed up all at once. Grace grew quite attached to the spunky lady beings that she had no grandparents, so the preteen happily helped Nana Gayla with the little ones.
Even though Dillon’s mom Cora was still living, she never tried mending a rip she inflicted in their relationship. After Dillon and Jewels tried and failed to make amends with her, they knew the only option was to knock the dust off their shoes and move on. God had richly blessed them with enough love and family to make up for it. In their world, there was no such thing as blood being thicker than water. The different ethnicities and backgrounds of the dynamic Bleu family was living proof of that.
Max sat on the back deck, avoiding the craziness inside the beach house as well as inside him. He strummed a tune on his vintage Martin acoustic to accompany the melody of the waves brushing against the shore. A few paparazzi cameras captured his quiet performance earlier, but had finally wandered away when he made no effort of doing anything in true Max fashion, like moon them or approach them and share a few stupid jokes. He kept his back toward them and offered no sign of acknowledging their presence.
“Alright, Molasses, you’re about to get left.” Mave strutted out, brown hair perfectly styled in disarray. He groaned in annoyance when he reached his twin who was dressed completely opposite of his sophisticated attire. “You ain’t even dressed,” he grouched out, motioning to Max’s T-shirt and jeans.
“I’m a grown man. I can wear whatever I please.” He lifted his shoulder slightly, a deflected habit that was starting to wear on his brother. “You can let the girls play dress-up with you all you want. I don’t have to.” He eyed the tailored button-down in a dark shade with the sleeves rolled up to show off the vivid canvas of ink displayed on Mave’s arms. Brand new Vans peeped from under the hem of his perfectly pressed black slacks. The only rebellious touch was the studded belt with a chain dangling from it to the back pocket.
“Whatever. Let’s hit it.” Mave tilted his head toward the glass doors as he shoved his hands into his front pockets, drawing Max’s attention.
“Where’s your cast?” Max asked, already knowing the answer.
“It had to go. Couldn’t let it cramp my style tonight.” Mave pranced in a circle, hoping to get a smile to crack from his melancholy brother.
Max narrowed his eyes instead. “You’ve got another few weeks before that cast was supposed to come off.”
“All’s good. Are we picking up Mona?”
“I’m going to get her myself. We’ll meet you there.” He studied the strings underneath his fingertips before plucking a few chords from them, dismissing his brother.
“You sure?” Mave asked hesitantly.
“Yeah. Ben’s lined it up.”
“Okay… Meet you there, I guess.” Concern whispered through his words, but Mave left it at that when Tate started hollering that it was time to go, followed by a horn honking from the front driveway. He glanced one last time over his shoulder as he reached the door. Max kept his face inclined to the guitar looking lost, and the guy didn’t wear it well at all.
“I’ll see ya there, dude,” Max mumbled, apparently reading his twin’s warring thoughts.
Mave cleared his throat and nodded before disappearing back inside.
After the house quietened, Max slowly gathered the guitar with enough courage to make it through the night and headed inside. Once he secured the old guitar into its original case—the second guitar he had ever owned—him and the guitar headed out to meet the waiting limo outside.
“Yo, Joe. What’s up?” Max said as he slid onto the buttery soft leather seat, placing the guitar and a black fedora he had swiped on the way out of the door on the bench seat in front of him.
The driver glanced at him from the rearview mirror. “Hey, hey. Nothing’s up except hauling your spoiled behind around tonight,” he teased as he pulled the limo out of the gated drive.
“That’s me, man. Totally spoiled. Thanks for putting up with me.” Max managed a cocky smile as he pressed his damp palms into the cool leather seat. Unfortunately, it offered him no comfort.
“It’s my pleasure, kid.” Joe smiled as he focused on driving through the thick traffic. No matter how old Max and the others grew, Joe seemed to still view them as the naïve punks that hired him after signing up for their first tour, still teenagers at the time.
Max knew Joe had to be getting close to wanting to retire and that only added to the pinch in his chest. He rubbed at it, begging for relief until
they pulled up to the front entrance of the hotel. It was a posh establishment with lots of palm trees and thick foliage to shield it well from the outside world.
“Joe, you mind sitting tight a few.” Max reached for the door handle. “I’m gonna—” Before he managed getting the door open or to finish his sentence, a stunning brunette angel began strolling toward the limo. The white goddess gown and gold stiletto sandals added to her ethereal appearance and completely stunned the guitarist.
“Stop drooling and go get your girl,” Joe encouraged, chuckling at the awestruck man.
Max stumbled out and met Mona on the sidewalk. Her eyes clear and colorful as aqua sea glass met him openly, but Max noticed that the subtle lines around her large eyes were carefully holding an edge of pain. The delicate heels on her feet brought Mona to eyelevel with his six foot stature. Not able to stop himself, his nervous hand reached out to delicately brush the long silky curl off her bare shoulder. For the first time in months, he felt he could breathe, yet equally like he was drowning.
“I missed you,” he whispered while taking more than he deserved, wrapping Mona in his arms. Inhaling the familiar coconut notes of her perfume, Max felt a protective surge to just grab her up and run away from life altogether. But when her hushed sniffle reminded him she deserved better, Max reluctantly let go and helped her inside the back of the limo. He climbed in the same side after she scooted over as far as the seat would allow.
“Good evening, Miss Mona,” Joe said, giving her a big smile before putting the limo in drive.
She cleared her throat timidly. “Hi, Joe.”
Her northern accent was so formal compared to the Bleu gang, but it had always been one of the unique parts of her Max found so appealing. He loved that he had rebelled against the group’s preference to blonde southern belles with petite frames and had landed himself a Yankee brunette bombshell strong enough to kick his butt if need be.
Joe delivered Max a subtle nod of encouragement before he sent the privacy partition up between them, giving Max and Mona the moment they needed.
