A Lush Rhapsody: A Rhapsody Novel

by Selena Laurence

  I shrug. She thinks about all of these things, I really don’t. They’re real people to me now, so my thoughts are more along the lines of who brings the best snacks to practice. That would be Colin by the way. Mike is the most patient about how long we spend in rehearsals, but I think that’s mostly because his wife, Jenny, is out on tour with her country band. There’s no one waiting at home for him right now. Joss always makes sure everyone is comfortable—are we warm enough, cool enough, rested enough—like he’s the host of a party or something, and Walsh is the one who jokes and puts everyone in a good mood.

  “I don’t know. They seem really happy together. And with the rest of the guys she’s comfortable. They’re sort of like brothers and sister, they snipe at one another, but it’s not too serious.”

  Savannah raises an eyebrow at me. We’re both thinking the same thing—that’s not how it is with our brothers. Our battles go far beyond sniping, and it’s always serious. Especially with James. He’s the biggest jerk of the bunch, the heaviest drinker in a family of heavy drinkers, and he’s not a nice drunk I might add. Luckily I have Savannah, my best friend and my only sister. I count my blessings and try not to think about the three Neanderthals that come as part of the package.

  The door to the bar swings open and in walks a guy in a dark suit with a cap on his head like a bus driver.

  “Miss O’Roark?” he asks, looking from Savannah to me and back again.

  “You’re looking for her.” Savvy jabs a thumb my direction.

  I step out from behind the bar. “I’m Tully. You must be here to drive me to the airport.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says with a small smile.

  “Okay, let me grab my bags—”

  “Just tell me where they are, ma’am, and I’ll get those for you.”

  I stare at him for a moment, because my automatic reaction is to be prickly. I’ve spent so much time fighting for some scrap of respect from my brothers that I tend to react poorly to all kinds of situations, including people trying to help me, which often feels like people trying to control me. I want to tell this guy that I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own bags. But then I see the look on my sister’s face, and as if she’s talking to me telepathically, I remember that he’s simply doing his job. He was hired, by Lush, to do this for me, get me to the airport on time. No reason to take the guy’s head off for that.

  So, I point him in the right direction and send him off.

  “Good job,” Savvy says after he walks back out to the parking lot.

  I sigh. “It’s hard for me. And now you won’t be there to remind me to relax for the next six weeks.”

  She pulls me in for a hug. She’s five years older than me, and when my mom was too busy, Savvy was always there.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she tells me before releasing me from her crushing squeeze. “Remember that the whole world isn’t our family. Not everyone is out to force you into a mold that you don’t fit. And for God’s sake, have some fun, rock star. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s your new life, enjoy it, find sexy boys and make them worship your badass self.”

  I laugh. “Okay, okay. I’ll get a little action for you, how’s that?”

  “That,” she says with a big smile, “sounds perfect. Tell me all about it when you get here for the Portland show. Now off with you, before all the hot guys leave you behind.”

  As I walk out of my sister’s pub, and into the damp Portland air, I can’t help but feel like I’m walking into an abyss. This tour should be life-changing—but in only the best ways. It’s the symbol of what I’ve worked so hard to achieve, the culmination of five years of playing music with all sorts of bands, in all sorts of venues. Of struggling to piece together enough gigs and enough shifts at The Dublin Devil that I could feed myself and afford the little apartment upstairs from the bar. I should be jumping with joy about this tour. But instead I’m anxious, and if I’m honest, a little bit scared, because I’m worried that not only will my life never be the same after this, but neither will I.

  I arrive in San Diego at the hotel several hours later. We’ve all been given an hour to check-in to our rooms and freshen up, then Joss says we need to meet with the tour staff and all the other bands at the venue.

  The Sleep Train Amphitheatre in Chula Vista, California is the largest in the area, and will hold over twenty thousand spectators. I’ve discovered that for Lush, this isn’t anything exceptional. For me, it’s overwhelming. I think the biggest audience I’ve ever performed in front of is about two hundred, at a summer concert series in the Portland parks. That’s where Dave found me. He’s my manager and Lush’s—I guess I really have to stop thinking of us as separate. I’m Lush now, but whatever. The bottom line is, this place is huge.

  “Yeah, it’s a decent size,” Colin says as he sits down next to me in the first row of seats, staring up at the stage.

  Guess I said that out loud. “No,” I correct him. “It’s huge.”

  “That’s what she said,” Mike pipes up from behind us.

  I roll my eyes. I’m getting used to him, but he’s still an abrasive dick, and I tell him so at least three times a day.

  Colin pats me on the arm. “Breathe, T-squared, breathe.”

  He’s taken to calling me T-squared for ‘Tiny Tully’ because of my size. I’m not sure if I like it, but I appreciate that he’s trying to help me fit in.

  “Oh fuck me,” Mike mutters from behind us as a big group of people comes walking along next to the stage, heading toward our seats.

  “Not a chance,” I answer, even though I have no idea if he was talking to me.

  “You only wish. It’d be an experience you’d never forget,” he shoots back.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard PTSD is tough that way.”

  I hear a scuffle behind me and turn to see Walsh standing behind Mike’s seat, both hands planted on Mike’s shoulders as he scowls and squirms to lunge at me.

  “Settle the fuck down,” Joss admonishes as he arrives and sits next to Mike. “You’re acting like a bunch of preschoolers.”

  Walsh smacks Mike upside the head—lovingly of course—and sits back down behind him.

  “Oh shit,” Colin mutters. I turn to face the seats across the aisle, where he’s looking, and there, in the midst of the sea of the various other bands and crew that have been trickling in over the last few minutes is Rhapsody.

  “Oh. Wow.” I sigh. Because that is one fine-looking group of men. There’s something for everyone in that band. Lean, bulked up, dark hair, light hair, fair-skinned, dark-skinned, if it’s found on a hot guy, they’ve got it covered.

  “No way,” Joss says as he pokes me in the shoulder over the seats. “I won’t tell you who you can hang out with except for one thing—Rhapsody is off-limits.”

  What? “Why?” I ask. Not that I was planning on buddying up to them, but again, I don’t like to be told what to do.

  Mike jumps in, face red, teeth grinding. “Because we have a long-standing feud with them, and Blaze Davis is a cock-sucking mother-fucker—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Joss interjects. “Chill out.” He looks at me. “Mike and Blaze have a checkered past, so we steer clear. Their fists tend to get involved if they get too close to one another.”

  Colin chuckles.

  “So, what, I’m not allowed to talk to them?” My eyes narrow in challenge.

  “Of course not, just don’t go and try to be BFFs. And you know, refrain from inviting them to our dressing rooms or whatever,” Joss cautions.

  Did I mention I hate being told what to do? But I remind myself that Joss isn’t one of my brothers, and he’s not trying to control me, just keep the peace. “Fine,” I agree. “No Rhapsody.”

  It is a shame though, they’re exactly what Savvy would want for me.

  Our manager, Dave, has come to help out at our rehearsals. We’re getting along okay off stage, and I’m growing to feel more comfortable with my role in the group, but we’re still struggling mus
ically, and this tour probably came a few months too early. We could have used more time to gel.

  “Okay, show me what you’ve come up with for Desire,” Dave says as he sits on a stool on the side of the stage at the amphitheater. It’s hot out, and we’re in the bottom of a concrete bowl, so I’m glad the stage is shaded this time of day, otherwise, even my tank top and jeans might be too warm.

  Walsh counts us in and we play the first half of the song, when we get to the point where we’re breaking down, Joss calls a halt to it.

  “This is where I’m struggling, man,” he says to Dave. “I know you want that overlay of the background vocals, but the fact is, Tully’s got a much stronger voice than I do, and I’m feeling like we’re losing the core sound with her in here.”

  I wrestle with my conflicting feelings—pride that Joss complimented my voice and frustration that he’s still not happy with having my contributions added to the song.

  Dave nods and walks over to me where I stand at my keyboard. “I’m thinking it might be the combination of the keyboard and the vocals,” he says. “Try this—” He hums a little riff from the song to me. “Then do the vocals only on the final line.”

  “Okay,” Joss says, “from the top then.” Walsh counts us in once again, and we do three takes using Dave’s suggestions. After the third try we play the final notes and Mike hollers, “Yes! That’s rock and roll, baby!”

  We all grin at each other, and Dave nods in satisfaction.

  “I knew you had it in you,” he says. “And can I say it’s about damn time you four—” he looks pointedly at the guys, “had a new challenge? You can’t get too comfortable, it’ll kill your career.”

  I see the look on Joss’s face as he gives Dave a wry smile. We’re all figuring out why Dave insisted on this—me joining Lush. He saw the future, and he knew that if they stayed on the path they were on, they couldn’t maintain the momentum they’ve had the last few years. They needed to be shaken up, and he used me to do the shaking. But I’m okay with it. I’m starting to think that maybe Lush is okay with it too. I might even feel like I belong eventually. That’s something I’ve never felt, and I think I’d like it.

  By four o’clock we’re finally done for the day. We’ve heard presentations on the ticket sales—all the venues are sold out—we’ve been given a tour of the state-of-the-art sound system and backstage area of the amphitheatre, we’ve met the chief executives of all the companies sponsoring the tour, and autographed all sorts of swag for radio stations to give away. I’m exhausted and ready to get back to the hotel. A couple of back-up singers for one of the other bands asked me to go out with them tonight, so I have a few hours to take a nap and get ready to go clubbing.

  I pack up my stuff and give it to the crew who’s handling our equipment. Then I head to the dressing room and gather the rest of my stuff before I head to the car waiting in the back parking lot. Amphitheatres don’t typically have a lot of room backstage, and this one is limited to a long hall with doors on both sides. I’m dodging an open door on the left when a door to the right of me flies open and smacks the wall a few inches from my head. “Goddamit,” a deep voice rumbles as a hand reaches around the door to grab it and pull it closed.

  “Watch the hell out,” I yelp as the door moves toward my head yet again.

  A face appears, and then a whole body—a big, utterly delicious body. As my gaze travels up past the rock hard abs, and defined pecs that show through his plain white t-shirt, then over the curved, bulging biceps, I come to a square jaw with the exact right amount of blonde stubble. Finally I meet up with the sharp blue eyes of Rhapsody’s lead guitarist, Blaze Davis. Otherwise known as my Viking fantasy come to life.

  I gape, my mouth and throat suddenly so parched I can hardly swallow.

  “Sorry,” he says, a sexy smile parting his perfect lips.

  “Uh huh,” I breathe out. Shit, pull it together O’Roark. I give myself a mental shake. “Yeah, well, you need to be more careful, you almost nailed me in the head.”

  He shifts, dropping his hand from the edge of the door where he held it, and crossing his arms in front of his chest. My eyes drop to the biceps—and his chest—then snap back to his face. He’s smirking at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. Dick.

  “Well, like I said,” he continues, “I’m sorry about that. The door doesn’t have a spring on it, so it flies open every time you turn the knob.”

  While a part of me wants to continue being pissy at him, he’s sort of taken the wind out of my sails. He’s apologized, and told me that the door has a flaw that caused the issue. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? “Ok,” I finally say like a twelve year old. “I guess I’d better…” I gesture down the hall indicating I need to move along.

  “You’re the new Lush girl, right?” he asks, leaning back against the door now, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.

  I give him my best dismissive look, because even though he’s hot, he’s also a member of the enemy—Lush’s enemy.

  “I’m the new keyboardist for Lush, yeah. And, a woman—not a girl.”

  He chuckles, giving me the once over again, his eyes hot. I feel my cheeks flush and other parts tingle. Damn Viking.

  “I agree, you’re definitely all woman.”

  I roll my eyes, even though that deep voice is like warm caramel syrup sliding over my skin.

  “Does bullshit like that ever work for you?” I ask in my snarkiest tone.

  “Frequently,” he answers. “The bitchy thing work for you?”

  Now we’re in territory I understand. I’ve been the bitch to my brothers’ assholery since I was old enough to fight back.

  “Frequently,” I shoot back at him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait a minute there, short stack,” he says, his voice warm as he puts a hand on my arm and blasts me with a megawatt smile.

  I glare at him and lift his hand off of my arm, dropping it quickly as though I can’t stand to touch him. Truth be told, even that slight contact sent tingles of anticipation all over my body and I would have loved to weave my fingers through his and see what that felt like.

  “I didn’t mean to imply you’re a bitch, that was uncalled for,” he says more gently.

  “Really? Because I absolutely meant to say your pick-up lines are bullshit.” I smile sweetly and cock my head at him.

  He chuckles. “I’m Blaze,” he says holding out his hand. “And I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot.”

  I stare at his hand for a moment, my fingers itching to grasp his.

  “Go on,” he whispers with a grin. “Shake it. I promise I washed after I took a piss the last time.”

  “Oh. My. God.” My gaze snaps up to his.

  “Come on,” he chides again. “Shake my hand, tell me your name, then we can go our separate ways knowing we were polite and the tour won’t be hexed.”

  I finally give in and shake his hand. “I’m Tully.”

  He holds on to my hand longer than he should. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Tully.”

  I yank my hand back. “Wish I could say the same.” I shrug. “But, whatever. See you around.”

  As I walk away down the hall toward the exit door I hear him chuckle before he mutters, “You can count on it.”

  Blaze

  It’s nine a.m. and the phone is ringing next to my head. I pry one eye open and grunt as I reach for it, reading, Shannon, on the screen. I’m not often thankful for my sobriety—I know it’s necessary, but it’s hard to be grateful for something that makes you feel like crap most days—but right now, I am. If this were me at nine a.m. six months ago, I’d be in a hell of a lot more pain than I am now.

  “Yeah?” I answer, my throat scratchy.

  “You’re still asleep?” Shannon asks immediately.

  “It’s nowhere near noon, I’m a rock star, what the hell did you expect?”

  She laughs. “Point taken. But wake up now, because we’ve got to talk business.”<
br />
  Like I said, I have a mind for business. I’m not sure if it’s nature, or nurture, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way it comes from my old man, who runs one of the biggest insurance companies in the world. He was a crappy father, and a reprehensible human being, but he knows business, and I got that from him—along with the addictive biochemistry. He’s a real peach my old man.

  “Okay.” I sit up in bed, untwisting my legs from the sheet and letting it settle around my hips. My cock is at half-mast because I was having a really great dream about Tully O’Roark, but I set that thought aside and focus on Shannon. “Shoot,” I tell her.

  “I’ve been fielding calls all morning from the NFL,” she says.

  If I wasn’t a moment ago, I’m wide awake now, and I grab my iPad from the nightstand and open up the notes app, ready to get the info down.

  “They’re beginning the planning for the halftime show at next year’s Super Bowl, and they’re looking at you guys for the headline slot.”

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe out. “Like Coldplay, Madonna, Rolling Stones headline slot? That slot?”

  “The very one,” she answers, pride oozing from her voice.

  “When will we know for sure?”

  “Well, here’s the thing…”

  Shit. Another catch. There’s always a catch with these deals.

  “They’re looking at you, but also another band. They’ve got about eight weeks until they need to decide, so they’re taking a closer look, putting out feelers, seeing what kind of terms you’d want, and then they’ll decide.”

  I rub a hand over the scruff on my jaw and remind myself to breathe. It’s like I can feel my blood pressure skyrocket, heart beating against my rib cage, and for a split second I find myself about to reach for the nightstand where in years past I would have had some cocaine to get my day started.

  “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but what other band?” I ask her.

  She sighs. Yep, going to wish I hadn’t asked. “It’s Lush,” she tells me quietly.