Then an unrecognizable New York number flashed onscreen.
“F-bomb?”
“Elvis?”
“Hi,” he said.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so happy to hear from you. I got your present. Thank you so much. Did Paul give it to you for free?”
“I’m glad,” was all he said. But he was smiling. She heard it in the subtle lilt of his velvety voice.
“How’d you get my number? How are you? Where are you?”
“Scotland.”
“Oh.” It was so quiet on the other end she could hear her own heartbeat. “Are you there?”
“I need you.” He cleared his throat. “I need a violinist. For our songs. Are you available?” He sounded weird. Impersonal.
“Is someone there?” she asked.
“Yes. I mean no. In the other room. The band.” He paused. “Can you make it?”
“Make what?”
“The trip. Can you play with us?”
She flopped back on her bed and tried not to cry. “I’m sorry. I can’t afford to—”
“I’ll take care of everything,” he said. “And I’ll pay you, of course.”
A logical person would have asked how that was possible when he didn’t have a job. A logical person would have asked for more details. A logical person would have at least asked for his last name.
“Okay,” she said.
“Thank God,” he mumbled.
She counted to ten—a trick her counselor taught her to curb her cravings. What did this mean for her career? Was it a good idea to take a trip with a complete stranger?
“Actually, can I think about it?”
Dead air clogged the line.
“Elvis?”
“Yeah, I’m here. That’s fine.” He sounded disappointed. “You want to call me tomorrow?”
Outside her window, a ray of sun lit up the only blossom left on the cherry tree. Another sign. What did she have to lose? Nothing. “Never mind. I’ll do it.”
“You will?”
“Sure, why not? Scotland sounds way more fun than Brooklyn.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“I don’t know. There’s the passport and—”
“My manager will take care of all that. Text me your email.”
Manager? He probably meant Annie.
He rattled off a few details in a flat business-like tone, and during that time, she picked a cuticle until it bled. Something was off about the conversation. From what it sounded like, he wanted a violinist, not her. Which begged the question, why was he calling her, when surely there were other violinists in Scotland? “Hey, Elvis?”
“Yeah.”
“I missed you.”
He didn’t hesitate for a second. “I missed you, too.”
And the axis righted itself again. Instead of droning on about boring business stuff, he talked about his tour so far—it hadn’t been great—and she recounted what she’d been doing—mostly watching the grass grow in Central Park—and though the conversation was more friendly than romantic, she felt certain things would change the moment she landed in Scotland.
Another long stretch of silence passed. “Hello?”
“I have to run,” he said. “My manager will be in touch.” And then he hung up and the axis wobbled again.
She needed some advice. But from whom? She crossed her sister and Skip off the list. They’d just tell her she was crazy.
Just then, a card from the Music Shack fluttered off the gift box from Elias. Maybe Esmeralda really was magic?
Half an hour later, she met up with Paul.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
He pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Shoot.”
“If someone you just met asked you to go on vacation for the summer, would you go?”
“You talking about Elias?”
“No, I’m asking for a friend.”
His cheek twitched. “Uh-huh. So what are you”—he coughed into his fist—“what is your friend hoping to get out of this vacation?”
“She’s not sure.”
“If you don’t have any expectations, then go.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but it was what she wanted to hear, so she high-fived him and said, “I’ll have my friend send you a postcard from Europe.”
“Tell Elias I said hi.”
Fast forward to now.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Callie cried. “You’ve met some loser in a band?”
“He’s not a loser.”
“You said he was unemployed.”
“No, I said he doesn’t have a job.”
She groaned. “Check the thesaurus, little sister, because in my book that’s the exact same thing. What’s the name of this loser’s band so I can look them up?”
She tapped her teeth. “Urban, I think. I can’t remember.”
“What the fuck? Urban? Jesus, you are high, aren’t you?”
“Stop asking me that. I’m not high.”
The enormous man next to her was staring. Earlier he’d taken off his shoes and propped his fungus-filled feet up on his suitcase. She picked up her luggage and moved out of earshot.
“What’s his name?” Callie asked.
The boarding announcement blared over the loudspeaker. “Elias.”
“Elias.” Callie repeated. “Elias from Urban asked you to play in his band and you love him.”
“I’m not sure about the love part, yet.”
“Hey, Walker,” her sister shouted. “Get a load of this. My sister’s at the airport, boarding a flight for . . . Where the hell are you going, anyway?”
“Scotland.”
Callie snorted. “She’s boarding a flight for Scotland to play on tour with Urban, because she thinks she’s in love with the lead singer—”
“El Love?” Walker asked.
“Elias Lovaro,” she clarified. “Not . . . whatever he said.”
“Riiiight.” Callie snorted again. “When did you meet him? And where?”
“At the ad show.”
“What ad show?”
“Tell her to have fun,” Walker said.
“Go sit in the back,” Callie told him. “This is crazy, Effie. This isn’t real, right?”
The airline called out her row. “I have to go.”
“Stop. Don’t do this, Effie. Don’t go. It’s bad for your recovery. Think of all the drugs—”
“He doesn’t do drugs. I have to go.”
“Wait!” Her sister sighed again. “If I hadn’t met the man of my dreams aboard a giant silver dildo . . .” Another sigh. “Please, please be careful. I’m not talking about the drugs. Well, I am, but what I mean is, take care of your heart. It’s precious. And vulnerable. Don’t give it away to the first person who asks for it.”
Too late. “I’ll call you when I land.” She hung up on her sister’s fake sobs and found her seat, which unfortunately was right next to Fungus Feet.
She smiled at him though, because he was the last poo in her toilet, so-to-speak. After that flight, she was flushing her shitty life down the drain.
18
Staccato
Edinburgh, Scotland
“Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? ‘I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud.”
Soundtrack “Hoochie Coochie,” Band of Skulls
The hackney cab circled the parking lot and stopped in front of a giant soccer stadium. “I don’t think this is it,” Effie said to the driver. “This doesn’t look like a club.”
“You said Murrayfield, right?”
“But that’s a stadium,” she said. His band wouldn’t play there.
“Murrayfield is a stadium.”
She was too exhausted to argue. It felt like she’d been flying for days. For two hours she’d sat on the JFK tarmac. In London, customs flagged her bow for containing ivory. Then she spent two hours filling out forms and missed her connection to Scotland. And now this guy was tryi
ng to con her into getting out here.
The driver pointed to the marquee. “See, right there, it says Urban.”
This is what she knew about Elias’s band: nothing.
For the past week, she’d been running around preparing for the trip. She was a classical musician. She didn’t know jack about indie rock.
They’d written acoustic songs so she figured they’d be playing in coffeehouses, not stadiums.
Her sister’s voice echoed through her head. You don’t think. You just do.
“Better hurry,” the driver said. “They started at half past.”
She clutched her violin case like a weapon. Twenty dollars—not Euros, dollars—was all she had left to her name. There was no turning around, no going back.
At the door, a bald man with a long white Hulk Hogan Fu Manchu blocked the entrance.
“Name?” he said.
She pulled out her passport. The music was so loud she had to shout. “Effie Murphy. I think I’m on the list?”
“Ah, Miss Murphy! You’re late. I’m Hal, head of security. They only have two songs left. Let me take your case.”
She gripped it like a vise. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
He eyed her suspiciously then darted down a dark tunnel. She ran after him. The music above vibrated the ceiling. He passed her a pair of earplugs then gestured to the stage.
She ducked behind a mountain of amplifiers and saw nothing but a towering arc of blue spotlights shooting beams into the dark-cherry sky.
Sonic booms blasted her bones. She moved behind the drummer’s platform, where a shirtless sweaty man with back tattoos and neck-length sopping-wet hair banged on the drums so hard his muscles rippled to the beat.
On the keyboards in front of him, a woman with mousy brown hair sang background vocals.
Beside her, a lanky man with chocolate milk skin and big green eyes plucked his bass.
She snuck to the other side of the stage. A huge screen displayed a four-story high image of Elias to the screaming audience.
Her heart sped up to 180 BPM. God, he was gorgeous.
His voice flowed out like hot liquid. Like audio lava. Like a melted wax melody. He made love to his fans. And she wanted to back her ass up against him so he could play her just like he played that guitar.
They transitioned to the next song, and all at once she couldn’t breathe. He was singing the song from the wedding that night—the sad Grace song.
Then he started dancing. Dancing. “I don’t dance,” he’d said. Bits of their conversation flurried around her like black crows. I don’t have a job. My place is a dump.
The music faded out and all she heard was her pulse skyrocketing. Mr. Love-At-First-Sight would be singing their songs to sold-out crowds all over Europe.
You don’t think. You just do.
She dropped her violin case.
The sound caught his attention, and he looked over his shoulder. When he saw her, he grinned like an idiot.
In return, she struck him down with a lightning glare and burned that smile right off his face.
19
Falsetto
Soundtrack “Apocrypha,” Arcade Fire
That brief glimpse of Effie had sent fire surging through his blood. He almost walked off the stage right then, but the fans demanded an encore. “Where is she?” he shouted to Hal.
Hal shrugged and pointed out the back door. “Went that way, I think.”
A bunch of brats milled around in the hallway. The minute they spotted him, they were on him like hounds on a fox. Cell phone cameras flashed. Random people slapped him on the back. A labyrinth of limbs reached for him and screamed for his autograph. Women flashed boobs, begging him to sign their tits. Someone grabbed his crotch.
His skin was literally crawling with parasites. He couldn’t move or do anything except plaster on a fake smile and pretend to enjoy the attention.
Where was she? He scanned the crowd. “Hal, get me out of here.”
The bodyguard linebackered his way through the throngs and created an escape route. Near the dressing rooms, he found her.
She gripped her violin case with both hands and stared at the wall like she was in a trance.
He flew to her side and dragged her into the dressing room, locking the door behind him.
Either she was jet-lagged or shell-shocked. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem happy to see him. She set her luggage on the floor and devoured the nails off her right hand. Nope, she definitely wasn’t happy to see him.
Adrenaline still pounding through his veins, he twitched and paced the tiny room, trying to calm down enough to speak coherently. “How was your flight?” he asked.
“You lied.” She still wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“I did?”
“You didn’t tell me you were some big rock star.” She waved her arms in a circle.
“I hate that word.”
She huffed and jammed her hands on her hips.
“I told you I was a musician.”
“I thought you were in a garage band!”
“Look, that night . . . I just,”—he fisted the back of his hair— “I just wanted to be me, not El Love.”
“When you asked if you could play our songs, you didn’t tell me it was for a stadium full of people.”
“But surely you looked us up when I asked you to tour with us?”
She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“You didn’t Google us?”
“I didn’t have time.”
Thank God. That meant she hadn’t read the trash on him either. “My manager sent you the contract. Didn’t you read it?”
“She told me to have my lawyer look at it. I don’t have money for a lawyer, Elias.”
He lowered his brows. “So you haven’t even read it?”
She ground her fists into her eye sockets. “I’m so stupid.”
He stroked her cheek. “You are anything but stupid, amor. Why don’t you take a little nap on the sofa while we load up? You must be exhausted.”
Someone pounded on the door. “Love, we need you out here.” It was Cato. “You in there with that hot blonde?” He pounded on the door. “Oh, God, fuck me, El Love, fuck me harder.” He knocked again. “Seriously, El, we need you.”
“Give me five,” he shouted back.
“Come on, man, you know you can’t last that long.”
He ground his jaw. “My bass player thinks he’s funny.”
A fragile smile replaced her frown. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . overwhelmed.” A whoosh of air came out with the last word. She jumped and clapped. “You were so great, tonight. Your voice is amazing.”
“It is?”
She rolled her eyes. “First you tell me you’re a poor deadbeat, now you pretend to be Mr. Humble Shy Guy?”
He took three deep breaths before the next confession. “I am shy. Or I guess the new buzzword is introverted.”
She let out a loud cackle and slapped his chest. “I didn’t know you were a comedian, too.”
“No, really. I don’t enjoy performing live. It takes a lot out of me.”
“Could have fooled me. Looks like you were born for the stage.”
“It’s not real,” he said. “None of this is. It’s just theater.”
“My sister’s an introvert. Crowds make her uncomfortable, too. Well, actually, humans make her uncomfortable.”
For him, uncomfortable was putting it mildly. Crowds were torture. But he didn’t tell her that.
Instead, he kissed her—lightly at first, just to test the waters.
The waters were smoking hot apparently, because she jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist, then mauled his mouth, giving him an instant boner.
“I missed you so much,” she said between kisses.
“Me too,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
They made out like long lost lovers until Cato hammered on the door again.
“Andá a cagar, puto!” Elias yelled. “I sa
id I’d be out in a minute.”
He set her down and tipped up her chin. “Before I go, I have to tell you something.”
“Tell me later.” She climbed up his body.
“No, Effie, amor, this is important. Since you didn’t read the contract, you need to know about The Rules.”
“The Rules?”
“You and me?” He pointed back and forth. “We can’t be like this outside of this room.”
“No, PDA, check.” She kissed his hand.
“Not just in public. The band can’t know either. We don’t allow girlfriends on tour. And band members aren’t allowed to hook up. We have to keep this a secret.”
“I’m your girlfriend?”
His chest tightened. That was the most loaded question ever, and one he wasn’t ready to answer.
“Who made up that stupid rule?”
“I did.”
“Take it back, then.”
“I can’t.”
She scratched her head. “This feels sketchy.”
“I’ve got to load up.” He bolted towards the door, eager to escape that conversational minefield. “We’ll talk later.”
If she stuck around after that.
20
Vibrato
“I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is who in the world am I?”
Soundtrack “Strange Vacation,” Quest for Fire
An upper, a jolt, a little numbness, some extreme bliss—that’s what Effie needed. And it was there, in that stadium, somewhere. And probably out in the open. She waited by the bathroom and watched for grinding jaws. Waited and watched.
Roadies rushed around loading equipment into the truck. Interviews, autographs, parties, schmoozing—it went on for hours. Such was the life of the rich and famous. Such was the life of the guy she’d known for forty-eight hours.
Head-Tripped: A Sexy Rock Star Romance (Ad Agency Series Book 2) Page 9
