Dreaming of Rhapsody
Page 12
Well, cold beers for everyone else. Cold soda for me.
“All right,” Garrett says as his eyes wander to the waitress walking by with a tray full of beer bottles and peanuts. “Who’s up from last time?”
We keep a running match going. Rotating through the band in alphabetical order by first name, and next in line plays winner of the last game.
“It’s me versus Carson,” I say, even though it’s me versus Garrett. I like to play Carson to get warmed up because he’s quite possibly the worst eight-ball player on the planet.
“No it’s not,” Carson complains. “You beat me just last week. It’s got to be Dez or Garrett’s turn this time.”
“Nah,” I lie. “You’re thinking back to two weeks ago, when I beat you in that game in three and a half minutes.”
Garrett shakes his head and mutters, “Like it makes a fucking difference.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask.
“You’re going to win no matter what, dude,” he says, his voice flat. “No one’s beaten you in six straight weeks. Honestly it’s getting boring.”
I can’t help but grin. My winning streak’s actually been five weeks, but if he wants to add to it who am I to argue? “Sorry losing isn’t fun for you, man. Maybe you need to practice more—give the pussy a rest sometimes.”
Just then Dez and Topher come back with the beers and several plates of nachos. “Eats!” Carson hollers before he swipes a mound of cheesy, bean covered chips and shoves them in his mouth.
“Who’s up?” Dez asks, grabbing a beer and sliding onto a stool next to the pool table.
“Blaze says it’s him and Carson, Carson says it’s one of us.” Garrett gestures between himself and Dez.
Dez levels me with a look of such calm disapproval that I feel like a five year old who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“What?” I ask, immediately on the defensive.
Dez shakes his head. “Dude.” His voice is damning.
“Your point?” I ask, irritated now—at him, at myself, at the constant push-pull I have with my own conscience.
“It’s you and Garrett,” Dez says softly.
“That’s not what I remember.”
“See! I knew it!” Carson yells triumphantly.
“Let’s rack em up then,” Garrett says matter-or-factly as he starts gathering the balls.
I flip Dez off and he chuckles. “I’ve started writing it down,” he tells me. “I caught on about two weeks ago when I saw that you were playing Carson first for the fourth week in a row.”
I flip him off again, but then I can’t help the grin that works its way through my irritation. “Carson’s my warm-up,” I tell Dez as I face away from the rest of the guys.
“Play fair, man,” Dez counsels. “It’s just for fun.”
“Losing is never fun.”
“If it involves hot sex it can be,” Dez answers.
“Speaking of,” Garrett interjects. “Let’s get this game on so I can find me some.”
We rack up the balls, and I break. The game is over in five minutes. I make sure to win. I fucking hate losing.
* * *
“Did you see this article on Lush?” Dez asks as he saunters into rehearsal the next day.
I turn a peg on my guitar, getting it tuned. “No. I specifically avoid articles on Lush,” I mutter.
“Well, looks like they’re going to have a girl on this 666 tour with them.”
“They always have their girlfriends, wives, whatever, on tour with them. Shit, I think Walsh brings his baby too. I mean, who the hell brings a baby to a rock tour?”
He sets his guitar case on the floor and gives a chin lift to Carson who’s screwing around with something on his drum kit, dark hair in a sweep across his gray eyes as he works.
“No, man, a girl in the band. They’ve added keyboards. Some chick named Tully O’Roark.”
I stop pinging my strings and blink at Dez. “Lush added a member? Are you serious?”
“As shit.”
“And we all know shit is highly serious stuff,” Carson jokes from behind the drums.
“I don’t believe it,” I protest. “Those guys grew up together. They’re legends. Why the hell would they add a new member to the mix? It’s probably for one song, like a special arrangement.”
Dez pulls out his iPad from his guitar case and swipes it on, hunting and pecking for a minute while I go back to my tuning.
“Here. Read it for yourself,” he says, handing me the tablet. “There’s even a picture of her.”
I take it from him, scanning the headline that reads, “America’s Favorite Rockers Segue Into New Era of Diversity”. My eyes drop further down the screen and there is an artsy shot of the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen. She’s standing over a keyboard, face full of concentration, blue eyes glowing, black ringlets hanging down past her shoulders. Her skin is creamy and she’s got a smattering of freckles across her nose. She’s wearing a black corset that laces up the front with a satin ribbon, and shows off cleavage that should be fucking illegal. Below that is a tiny waist. And her hands are tiny too, to go with her tiny nose, tiny ears, and the tiny diamond stud above her lip, like a beauty mark. But her eyes are big, and luminous, and framed by long inky lashes.
“Dayum,” Carson says over my shoulder. “Guess I see why they hired her.”
“Fuck off,” I mumble as I continue to stare at the photo. I know there are words there, but I have to get some blood back up to my brain to decipher them. I take a deep breath then read the caption on the photo, Tully O’Roark, Lush keyboardist, will be adding to the band’s next album.
“So, still think I’m fucking with you?” Dez asks reaching for his iPad.
I quickly glance at the web address before I hand it back. I need to bookmark that photo.
I scratch my head. “Uh, no. Looks like it’s for real.” And in a few months she’s going to get realer. Maybe I’ll like touring with Lush more than I thought I would.
About the Author
Selena Laurence is a USA Today Bestselling author who loves Putting the Heat in Happily Ever After. In 2014 she was awarded the Reader’s Crown Award for Contemporary Romance of the Year. In 2015 her rock star romance A Lush Betrayal was a finalist in three national contests. Selena lives in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with her kids, Mr. L, “Goldendoodle” and “Demon Cat.” When she’s not writing she can be found at soccer games and tennis matches, or one of her favorite coffee shops.
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