Detour (An Off Track Records Novel)

by Kacey Shea

  Shows are so crazy, and life is going full speed so I still haven’t heard her sing. Maybe that’s a shit move on my part. I mean, she is our opening act, but it’s not as if we got to choose her. The label wanted a woman, and she was our compromise. But curiosity has caught this cat’s attention. I’m like a lion on the hunt. I need to hear her.

  Pushing against the metal door opens the gateway, and her voice is amplified through an otherwise empty auditorium. Strong. Sensual. Dark. Light. Ascending. It’s all the things. I need to be closer, to observe her while she belts out a song about giving up and getting out. Careful not to draw her attention, I skirt the crew backstage behind the curtains until I’m at the rows and rows of empty seats. I sink into one, in a dark corner, and shivers—full on goosebumps—attack my flesh. I’m mesmerized.

  “You took

  What wasn’t yours

  I’ll leave

  Behind a dozen doors

  Just to run

  Run, run, runaway

  You won’t see me

  No, not another day”

  The house band’s guitars wail and drums clash and Lexi drops her chin, dancing to the beat and strumming her Gibson. She’s so fucking gorgeous, but that’s not surprising. No, it’s more in how she owns every part of that stage. Right now, I’m not tempted in the slightest to watch the other musicians or check my phone. I’m captivated by the hard as nails pixie goddess front and center.

  The music drops and she lifts her chin, her lips moving close but not at all touching the mic’s corded surface as she sings again.

  “No you won’t see me

  Not today”

  The musicians stop. Lexi pops out of character and I stand from my seat clapping and screaming out my applause. “Bravo! Fucking A! Bravo!”

  Her gaze narrows as she spies me in my row and the relaxed shape of her mouth pinches with disapproval. She lifts her chin to the sound crew and taps her earpiece. “A little more guitar, please?”

  “You got it, Lex,” he shouts back. “You wanna run it once more?”

  She considers his question with a side glance at me. “No. I’m good. Unless you need me to.”

  “We’re golden. Rest up for tonight,” he replies and everyone onstage gets back to work. I jog up to the edge of the stage and climb up before she takes off.

  Lexi shuts her guitar case and stands when I reach her. “I thought you hated listening to chicks sing?” She places both hands on her hip and lifts her brow.

  “That was before.” My lips twitch at the edges as I hold back my grin, “You made a liar out of me, Lexi Marx.”

  She rolls her eyes but I can tell she wants to smile. “I’m sure you were a liar before.”

  “Not true. But seriously, that was kickass. You are a badass. Not that you didn’t already know it. I’m glad you’re on this tour.” I don’t know why but my words feel insignificant, unworthy of the performance I witnessed.

  She lifts her chin and finally grins, “You really mean that, don’t you?”

  “Hell yeah, I do.” I shove my hands into my back pockets and rock on the soles of my boots.

  “Thank you. That means a lot.” She releases a deep exhale and I’m proud of myself for not glancing at her chest.

  Instead, I knock her with my shoulder. “Aw, you like me.”

  “No.” Her mouth snaps shut.

  I let a deep boisterous laugh escape me, which only causes her to narrow her gaze. “You do! You like me.”

  She mashes her lips together and shakes her head. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Same difference.”

  “No, it’s really not.” There. She rolls her eyes again.

  “I’ll take it. We should celebrate. You hungry?”

  She looks around. Most of the roadies and staff are gone now, and she shrugs. “I could eat. Don’t you have sound check?”

  “Not until four. Come on, let’s go grub. I spotted a dive just around the corner.”

  I count it a success when she doesn’t argue and follows my lead.

  The dive is actually charming inside, with its retro fifties décor and twenty-four-seven breakfast menu. The crowd is popping for a weekday lunch, and with its location in the heart of downtown I take that as a sign the food will be good.

  A no-nonsense waitress leads us to an empty booth near the back.

  “This okay?” Her tone dares us to suggest it’s not . . . and end up with spit in our meal.

  “Perfect. Thanks.” Lexi slides into the seat across from me. The waitress points to where the menus are nestled between the table and a dish of creamer, sugar packs, and other condiments.

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a glass of orange juice,” Lexi says and then glances at me. “And I don’t need to see the menu. I’m ready to order. If you are?”

  “Yeah.” I’m surprised, since most people scan the menu before deciding on their meal.

  “A stack of plain pancakes. Please,” she says.

  “You want the half or the full?” our server asks without looking up from her notepad.

  “Full, please.” Lexi smiles.

  The waitress pauses to glance at Lexi and raise her brows. “Mmm’kay. And for you?” She nods my direction more than asks.

  “Same. Except coffee for me.”

  “’Kay.” She turns and leaves without a backward glance.

  “I don’t know how you do that,” I say.

  “What? I can eat a lot of food. Especially pancakes. Don’t judge me by my size.”

  I grin. “Not that. I’m talking about ordering orange juice.”

  “You don’t like OJ?” she asks as if I’m the crazy one.

  “I do. But you have no idea the pulp situation. Does it have none, or extra? How can you order a glass without knowing the level of pulp?”

  She laughs and at that moment our server comes back to set down our drinks. “Pancakes’ll be up shortly.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of pulp.” Lexi observes and takes a sip from her drink.

  I eye her from over the brim of my mug. “That obvious?”

  She laughs and sets down her glass. “You’ll be happy to know there’s a low pulp situation going on. We’re safe here.”

  “Thank God!” I bug my eyes and delight in the way her lips lift in a comfortable smile. Not forced or guarded. I like this Lexi. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since we met.”

  Her shoulders straighten just the slightest and I can’t help but kick myself for chasing away some of her ease. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want. Just call me curious.”

  “Fine.” She rolls her eyes but her lips twitch up with the trace of a smile. “Shoot.”

  “Why Marx?” The words leave my mouth and I instantly regret the question.

  Her eyes drop and her jaw hardens with her frown. She studies the patterned Formica table and traces her fingertips along the silver plated fork and spoon atop her paper napkin. Fuck. She was just starting to open up. Talk to me. Now she’s like ice. I should apologize. Or make a joke. An inappropriate one about her luscious breasts. Yes, then she’ll get angry. Angry I can do.

  “Don’t laugh,” she warns.

  My gaze snaps up to watch her still playing with the silverware. “Okay.”

  “Swear it.”

  I reach my hand across the table and set my fingers next to the napkin. “Pinky promise.” I wiggle my finger and her lips soften as though she wants to smile. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  Her pinky slides along mine, and the soft brush of her tiny finger against my much bigger one kicks up my pulse. Her hands are so delicate and skilled, and fuck if my dick isn’t already making my tight jeans irritably uncomfortable. She squeezes her finger and I barely lock mine with hers before she pulls her hands back into her lap.

  “I was a child. I can’t be held responsible.” She glances around the room before her gaze settles back to me. “But I had a major crush on Richard Marx
.”

  “The singer?” I press my lips together because I’m certain there’s a smile stretching across my face.

  Lexi’s glare confirms my suspicion. “Not a word. You promised.”

  “I won’t. It’s cute. What were you, like five?”

  “More like twelve.”

  “But you’re only twenty-three, right? Wasn’t Marx big in the late eighties, early nineties?”

  “Yeah, well, my mom loved his music so we listened to it a lot.”

  “You’re telling me your stage name is a shout out to the guy who romanced millions of women with his piano and soft rock ballads, all from a little childhood crush?”

  “Don’t judge, okay. I was a kid.” Even she can’t hold back a laugh.

  “Not judging, just finding the connection rather shallow for a woman who does everything with great meaning.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to compliment or insult me.”

  I wink. “Compliment. Go with the positive.”

  “You’re delusional.” She throws up her hands.

  “Says the Marx diehard fan!”

  “Look. It’s more than that,” she grumbles and when I tilt my head she shakes hers, her next words leaving her lips in a rush. “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this . . . When I was a young girl I had this ridiculously famous rock star dad. One who was a horrible father. One who never remembered to call or visit, and who made my mom cry herself to sleep. One who made her waste her entire youth devoted to a man who didn’t give two shits about us.

  When I listened to “Right Here Waiting,” I used to pretend that my dad wasn’t Richie Sands. That my mom had gotten it all wrong. I imagined my father was Richard Marx and he was singing that song to us—my mom and me. That he loved us.” She gave a short pause. “So as soon as I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name to Marx.”

  “Two big stacks.” Our server interrupts by setting down our plates with a clatter. “Refills?”

  “Yes, please,” Lexi answers. However, I can’t seem to move my gaze from her eyes. The green shines a little too brightly under the florescent lights while she pours way too much syrup on her pancakes. She continues with her meal as if she hadn’t just shared something completely intimate and personal.

  “Syrup?” Lexi holds the jug over my stack and I quickly grab it from her hands.

  “I’ve got it, Sugar Tits! You’ll give me diabetes if I let you pour.”

  “What? I like syrup with my pancakes!”

  “I can see that.” I grin and douse my stack with a conservative amount before cutting a few bites with the side of my fork. “So, when you’re not basking in pancake griddle heaven, what other food do you enjoy this much?”

  “Chinese, Thai, Sushi. I love them all. But there’s nothing like a stack of pancakes.” Lexi shovels in another mouthful. A groan of pleasure escapes from where her lips lock around the fork. Fork me. What I wouldn’t give to be a piece of cutlery.

  “And don’t think I didn’t notice the sugar tits comment, either. That nickname ends here.” She points the fork in my direction before taking another bite.

  My lips pull up with a big ass grin. “I don’t know . . . ’Cause that I didn’t promise.” I pop in a mouthful of pancakes.

  She shakes her head, rolls those eyes, and takes a sip of juice. “Hey, Trent.” She glances down at her plate, using her fork to push around the sopping mess she’s made of a perfectly delicious breakfast.

  “Yeah?”

  “I never said thank you.” She lifts her gaze and those eyes pierce me with their sincerity. “Thank you.”

  I lick my lips and take a big gulp of coffee. “You’re welcome. For what exactly?”

  She smiles and taps her fork against the plate. “Why did you bring me on your bus in Oklahoma?”

  That night fills me with sadness and I rub my hands through my hair. “To keep you safe.”

  “That’s it? No ulterior motives?”

  “Lexi, that night, I . . . There was no way I was letting you sleep in Big Betty. Not after what happened. What could have happened. No. I just needed to keep you safe. The best way to do that was in our bus. Simple.”

  She scoops up her drenched pancake and brings it to her lips. Oh, those damn lips. “Well, then, thank you,” she whispers before the food goes inside her mouth and she does the groan again.

  It’s all I can do to not pounce over the table, claim those lips, and join her in the sound.

  “And thanks for not trying to get in my pants.” She grins, wider now, and I feel as though she’s playing some kind of mindfuck game. She’s gotta be on to me, inside my head, knowing I’ve been thinking unprofessional thoughts throughout this entire breakfast.

  “Who says I’m not trying to do that?” I go with humor, always my best defense, and it works when she laughs aloud.

  “You’re such a manwhore.”

  “You got me.” I join in her laugher and pray my little obsession with her mouth dissipates the further into this tour we go. Lexi is a cool chick, more down to earth than I ever imagined, and she deserves the best. More than I could ever give, that much is true.

  We finish our food in companionable silence and I hand the server cash before she can set down the check.

  “I’ll leave the tip,” Lexi offers.

  I take one last drink of coffee and stand up from the booth. “No, I already got it. You ready?”

  “Don’t you need to wait for your change?” She slides out of the booth.

  “Nah.”

  Her eyes widen and she blinks twice. “But you handed her a hundred,” she whispers as if someone might overhear.

  I laugh and sling my arm around her shoulder to steer her through the tables and toward the exit. “Like I said, there’s plenty for the tip.” I don’t do it all the time, but when I have a good meal, and a server who does their job efficiently, I enjoy passing on an unexpected tip to a stranger—hopefully making their day brighter.

  “Trent Donavan! Is that you?” A woman’s voice calls from behind and while I know I have to turn around, I don’t want to. It’s been so nice having a reprieve from the fame, the special attention, the fake smiles and inflated compliments. Having a real conversation with a real woman. Something I didn’t know I even needed or wanted.

  I turn, a casual expression plastered on my face, and brace myself for a line of autograph seeking fans. Only it’s not a fan, and I’m overcome with surprise at seeing a familiar face. “Cora!”

  “Trent!” Her big screen smile strides over from a corner of the diner. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing!” I capture her in a hug that lifts her off the ground. She pulls back enough to seek my eyes, her grin pulling wider.

  Cora’s one of the rare model-turned-actresses who would probably be successful and stay grounded in any career she pursued. We met years ago in LA at a house party, but no matter how much time or how much fame comes between us, she always stays the same.

  “I’m here for the next two months. Filming.”

  “Oh, you resort to porn after all?”

  She laughs with a big snort. “No, dork. Lead for the next CoHo book turned movie. You have a show tonight?” Her eyes light up and I can guess why. There’s one other thing Cora and I do really well together.

  It’s then I remember who’s standing right behind me. Shit. I step back so Lexi’s by my side. “Yeah, you should come. Cora, this is Lexi Marx. She’s opening for us this tour and sings like a frickin’. . . I don’t even know. She just sounds good.” I’m not sure exactly how she’ll take the compliment and I can’t quite meet her eyes. Raking my fingers through my hair from where it falls forward in my face, I watch as Cora reaches out to shake Lexi’s hand.

  “And I thought he hated chick singers.” She winks at Lexi. “Nice to meet you. A friend of Trent’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Who said we’re friends?” Lexi says in a tone that makes Cora laugh, but I’m
not all sure she’s joking. At least not one hundred percent.

  “We need to get back, but it was really great running into you,” I say.

  “Oh! You, too.” Cora wraps me in a hug. “Maybe I’ll come by the show tonight.”

  “Sounds good,” I say and pull out of her embrace. Only it doesn’t sound good, and I’m riddled with confusion the rest of the way back to the arena. I don’t get it. Cora and I have always hooked up. It’s always good, then we go our separate ways. Perfect. Only she’s not the one I want in my bed tonight. No, that award goes to the feisty blonde next to me. The one I can’t seem to stop dreaming about. The one who up until two hours ago seemingly wanted nothing to do with my dumb ass. If Cora comes to the show tonight, expecting the usual treatment . . . Fuck, I don’t know that Mr. Trent can get it up for her. And that’s, well, it’s goddamn pathetic. No matter what happens, one thing is perfectly clear.

  I’m fucked.

  Going out with Trent today was . . . unexpectedly pleasant. Conversation with him when no one else was around was easy. I don’t know why I felt comfortable enough to open up to him about something personal. But I did, and I trust my gut.

  He’s inviting to talk to, and I guess I didn’t realize how much I miss that. I’m a loner. An introvert. It doesn’t really bother me being on my own for long periods of time. I don’t need others, but sometimes it’s nice to want them. Not that I want Trent. Sure, he’s more than the sum of his good looks and talent and that ridiculously lengthy tongue that makes my thighs squeeze together—but I made a vow, and I’ll never go there with a rock star. Attractiveness coupled with a sincere personality doesn’t change that.

  Besides, our little run-in with his friend on the way out of the restaurant further proves no matter his redeeming qualities, he’s still a player. Something for me to remember when lustful thoughts intrude on reason.

  But it’s nice to have a friend on the road. I think we can be that for each other.

  The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. I sneak away during their sound check to hit the mall and grab a few things. Before I know it, it’s time to warm up, get dressed, and head onstage for my show—a routine that’s beginning to feel familiar, but one that still doesn’t quite feel real. Play my set. Meet fans. Sign autographs. Take photographs. Like I’m something important. Special. All for me. Because of my music, not my father.