by Ally Blake
That’s even if she had any intention of still going on stage. It had been his determination that she sing for her supper, not Callie’s. For all he knew, Lori could have hired the band of pretty boys to play for her. She was sneaky that way. And smart.
So damn smart he found himself actually smiling at the thought that she might yet have pulled a swift one at the last.
Speaking of smart, Dash surreptitiously searched for the cameras Lori had admitted would be filming the whole shebang in some effort at helping her sell shoes.
He couldn’t see any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
“Hey now,” Jake said, foot nudging the case leaning against Dash’s chair leg. “Is this what I think it is? Don’t tell me the big surprise is that you’re getting up there tonight.”
“No,” Dash laughed. “Not.”
“What’s it for then?”
“You, in fact. It’s my wedding gift.”
Jake blinked. “Well, then let’s have a peek.”
Without ado, the big guy hauled the case onto the table and opened it. His expression unchanged Jake took in the light sheen shining off the body of the guitar and the darker knottier glow of the redwood, his forehead twitching as he lifted her free, held the weight in his hands. And hell if the thing didn’t look perfect. Bold, and glossy, and pretty damn magnificent.
“It’s a little fresh,” Dash said, sitting forward to admire his own handiwork. “Needs some time to settle. A few more adjustments. But I can look after that for you between now and then.”
Jake found the maker’s mark—a carving of a small leaf inlaid with abalone. The leaf of a coastal redwood, like those surrounding Dash’s haven. At least it had been until the real world had come knocking on his door in the form of a blond bombshell in killer heels.
“Mate?” Jake asked. “Is this—”
“Yep. You, my friend, are the proud owner of a Dash Mills original.”
Dash had never seen Jake Mitchell so shocked. Not when he’d turned up at Jake’s mother’s garage to audition for their first band. And not when he’d walked away.
“This is what you’ve been doing out there? I knew about the cabinet-making. Don’t ask how, I know stuff, remember. Figured Pete would have been right proud. But this?” Jake twanged the G-string. Not subtle, Jake. “She’s a peach, man. Honestly.”
Jake settled the guitar on his lap. Closed his eyes. Strummed. A single sound and angels wept.
Jake knew it, too. By the time he opened his eyes he was shaking his head and grinning. “What’s her name?”
“What makes you think she has a name?” Dash said, picking a speck of dirt from under a fingernail.
“I’ve known you longer than I’ve known anybody not related to me by blood. You’ve named every guitar you’ve ever owned after whatever poor girl you had the hots for that week. What’s her name?”
Dash could have lied. He could have come up with anything and Jake probably would have believed him. But this day was about healing old wounds.
“I named her Lorelei.”
After a short pause, Jake’s brow cleared, and he seemed to forget how to blink. It was to be a night of shocks for Jake. And then Jake laughed. Loud enough to turn heads. Heads who realized it was Jake Mitchell over there, and the whispers began.
“Jeez, mate,” said Jake. “You’re a braver man than me.” Then he placed the guitar on Dash’s lap. “She’s gorgeous, but I think she’s yours. Play her for me, some time. That’s the best gift you could ever give me.”
Dash wrapped his fingers around the neck, settled the seat in his lap. He’d named her Lorelei weeks ago. Before he’d let her flesh and blood namesake put her mark on the thing. And fuck if it hadn’t felt like coming home.
“I know, brother, believe me,” Jake laughed, squeezing his shoulder. “Like a smack to the back of the head. One that never stops ringing. Next guitar is mine, though. Something dark and lean and sweet. Deal?”
“Deal.”
They shook hands. Old friends. Wounds healed. Brothers.
And then the house lights dimmed.
…
Lori stood in the wings of the tiny stage where the opening band—a high school group Callie had found at the same high school Dash and Jake had gone to—played the last song in their set. They wouldn’t be backing her up for The Song, though; Lori had put her foot down, insisting that they go pro.
Sydney had sent a good luck message filled with hugs and hearts and cheerful emoticons and Lita had surprised them with a team of stylists from LA to make the pair look fabulous. But even with all that support behind her, Lori’s hands were so slippery it was a wonder Barbarella didn’t slide from her grip.
“Hey,” Callie said, sidling up beside her, adrenaline making her shake. Lita came through as always and Callie looked exactly as she should in her cream sheath, her hair a silken fall down her back, natural make-up bringing out the pink of her cheeks and the sheen in her eyes. Of course her shoes were the piece de resistance—wicked, sparkling, silver- mesh, Calliope heels. Jake would split a seam.
With the insistence that one of them had to be a rock goddess, Lori’s hair had been teased and crimped to the point it was more of a mane than actual hair, though she’d been assured that under the stage lights it would look hot. She wore a sparkly black sleeveless top with an asymmetric neck line and enough glitter poured over her décolletage that if it was fairy dust she’d be able to fly.
The black cigarette pants were as per the suggestion of Callie’s singing teacher—you don’t vant ze menz in ze front row conzentrating harder on your hoo-ha zan your talent. Lori wasn’t so sure.
“He’s out there!” Callie squealed into Lori’s ear.
“I sure as hell hope so,” Lori said, her voice shaking so much she was mighty glad she didn’t have to sing, “or we’re about to make idiots of ourselves for nothing.”
“I mean Dash, you monkey. I put Jake in charge of making sure he came tonight, and voila! He’s awfully dapper and deadly serious. Look!”
But Lori couldn’t look. She was terrified to the point of petrifaction. The man was such a class act, even after their big fight he’d still have come for Jake alone. But the slight chance he was there for her was enough to make her want to levitate. Or vomit.
“You ready to do this?” Callie entwined her arm through Lori’s, and when Lori held her hand it was the older sister who found herself squeezing the tightest.
The kids came off the stage, looking happy and wired. The lead singer, with his windswept hair and bright blue eyes, gave Lori’s tight pants a once over, an adorable smile and a, “How you doing?”
“She’s taken,” Callie laughed, pointing the way away.
The young band ran into the lead band—the cool cats who’d played with Dash at The Dive—who gave the kids high fives before they flowed out onto the stage. Convincing them to play with her had been far easier than convincing Dash of anything, even if it meant three long rehearsals at secret locations in order to get the song as good as it deserved to be.
The bass guitarist tipped his hat, giving the sisters the signal that they were good to go. The house lights dimmed and the crowd oohed and aahed.
“Now or never,” said Callie before she skipped out into the semi-darkness.
“Now or never,” Lori whispered, her right thumb twitching so fast against Barbarella’s strings it was starting to sting.
When she’d first pictured Callie on stage, it had been from the other side of a computer screen, watching it go beautifully viral via the likes of Perez Hilton and HuffPost.
But watching Callie rock from foot to foot as she gripped the microphone, chatting with the members of the band who laughed with her and calmed her, Lori knew this was better.
This was how Callie had really envisaged it. In a small club she’d chosen because Dash and Jake had played there when they’d first started out. The teenaged opening act a reminder of how far they’d come. No cameras. No media tips. Just C
allie singing a love song to her man.
And if Lori planned to hitch a ride on her coattails, she’d better get a move on.
When the house lights flickered, Lori slipped out onto the stage, stepping over black cables, avoiding piercing anything important with a stiletto heel, and took her seat, her blood pumping so hard and fast she could hear it behind her ears.
Sensing something big was coming, the crowd had begun to chant. The scents of electrical tape, beer, and sweat mingled on the air. And with the stage still in near darkness, Lori could see faces beyond; smiling, drinking, glowing faces.
Tracey and some of the other girls from Calliope Shoes had snagged a table. Mack was there with his wife and daughters who kept glancing around at the cool crowd and back at their dad like he was the second coming.
There was no mistaking Reg with his black bandana and frizzy red beard, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the baker from Templeton who’d given them free croissants was right alongside him.
Though they blurred into nothing, as her glance landed on a table at the front, Jake—a total hedonist—sat on the edge of his chair, puffed up, and grinning in anticipation.
And to his side sat Dash; leaning back, suit jacket hanging over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, cool as a cucumber in comparison. And handsome, so very handsome, with his hair raked off his face and his freshly shaved jaw.
Jake said something to him and he laughed, all crinkling eyes and easy grace. The man was so gorgeous her heart squeezed.
Lori put Barbarella into place, feeling the dent worn in by Dash’s big hand. And as she breathed in, the knot inside of her slid open. As she breathed out she knew that she loved him.
How could she not? Ever since she’d seen him standing in his doorway all sleepy and rugged. She’d wanted that. Wanted him to teach her how to be like that. Wanted him, period.
The right man. Her man. The one who’d proven to her that men were not all the same.
A skitter of drums snapped her out of her reverie as the percussionist began to play. The sound blasting out from the still dark stage revved up the band and the crowd whistled and squealed.
With Barbarella in her arms, Lori shuffled on the stool, equal amounts of fear and hope warring inside of her. Because this was her chance to prove to Dash that she was the right woman for him. And she could think of no better way to do it than in his favorite language.
The drummer stopped and the stage lights sprang on. The crowd surged and cheered. The noise was wild, staggering in fact. But it became nothing but a blur at the edge of her subconscious as through the blinding haloes of light she saw Dash’s eyes on her.
She lifted her hand in a little wave, and a small smile kicked at the corner of his mouth. The double bass strummed right behind her and, nerves wound so tight, Lori jumped. Dash’s mouth curved into a smile that made her knees melt.
The piano player lit up the opening chords, and Dash’s levity melted away. He sat forward in his chair. He gave her a short nod. You can do this.
Her love for this man started in the tips of her mile-high hair and spilled through her till it landed with a glorious buzz in her sparkly black toenails. And she knew that she’d do whatever it took to show him how she felt. Slay dragons. Look like Stevie Nicks had stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Put her banged-up heart on the line.
Before she even knew she was about to do it, she lifted her hand to her heart, and she mouthed, I’m sorry.
She saw the words hit, felt it like he’d felt it himself. And when his hand lifted to clutch the shirt over his own heart she could have blubbed all over that stage.
But first she had a job to do.
Her cue came and she looked down at her hands, focusing as best she could to strum her simple chords. What with the brilliant, soulful artists tying it all together, the tune—like something written by the love child of John Legend and Jon Bon Jovi—quieted the crowd with its haunting dreamy quality till the entire room was a vessel for the sweet tripping notes.
Then Callie began to sing. And Lori joined her, the words simple, sweet and true.
Halfway through the band took over, giving Lori and Callie a chance to recoup for the big finale, Lori glanced at her sister to find her laughing with utter abandon. Eyes on Jake, who did a great impression of a stunned mullet.
Feeling more full, more completely in the present than she’d felt in her entire life, Lori’s gaze swung to Dash. Dash, whose eyes, she knew, had never left her.
Of all the men in all the world, she thought, I pick you, not caring who saw the love written all over her face, or who noticed the guitarist with the big hair and tight pants mooning over some guy in the crowd. She laughed, too, as she realized this was close to becoming just the kind of love-sick, public declaration she’d never understood.
Up until the moment she had.
…
“Well, now that was a hell of a thing.”
Dash came to from the strangest sense of having just drowned—happily, like a fisherman dashed against a rock—in Lori’s blazing green eyes, to find Jake’s voice echoing in his ear.
“Our girls,” Jake went on, chest puffed out, beaming, tears wobbling unashamedly in the corners of his eyes. “Man, they are something else.”
Yes they are, Dash thought. Our girls.
My girl. He’d felt it like the greatest truth of his life the moment she’d vamped onto that stage in her rockin’ get-up, the way she’d cradled Barbarella as if she was something precious, the moment she’d said she was sorry. But most of all he was left with the emotion in her eyes as they’d found his, and how the world around him had simply stood still.
His girl.
He pushed back his chair as if he needed the space to let the feeling boom wider.
Lori Hanover was his girl. Despite her stubbornness, or hell, probably because of it, he loved her. It was irrepressible, crazy, huge. But he’d take it. Right then, in that moment, Dash knew that if she let him, he’d take it, take her, with all his heart and soul. And if his stubborn girl balked, then he’d spend the rest of his days convincing her otherwise.
He made to stand, to go to her, immediately, but Jake pressed him back into the chair.
“That was you,” Jake said. “I just… You wrote that didn’t you?”
“It was Callie, mate. She wrote the words. I added a little tune, but it was all Callie.”
Dash made to rise, was pressed back again.
“Thanks, mate,” said Jake, his voice a little strung out, as if he was choking, then he dragged Dash into a bear hug. “Really. I can’t even begin to… Thank you. But how? How did I not know?”
Dash gave Jake the quickest possible recap, laughing as his friend looked more and more shocked, mostly at the realization he, Jake Mitchell, didn’t know everything after all.
Then a few girls screamed from behind the VIP barricade, and Jake, the born rock star, waved.
While Dash took his chance to get the hell out of the chair, collected his things, then slapped Jake on the shoulder and pushed away. “I’ll be right back.”
The band had played at The Tremont back in the day, a good decade ago, though while the front of house had gone through a renovation or two since, backstage was the exact same dark dingy hall complete with ancient smoke stains and carpet that had seen better centuries.
He found a skinny kid all dressed in black coming the other way. “I’m looking for Lori Hanover. She was playing just now.”
“Sorry, Bud. You can’t come back here. Talent only.”
Which is when Dash realized he’d become a groupie for the first time in his life. The kind who wasn’t about to be turned back. Even if it meant taking a big step back over the line he’d thought he’d decimated four years ago.
He put a hand on the kid’s shoulder and gave him his best smoldering smile. “And to think I was talent, once upon a time.”
The kid frowned, before suddenly realizing who he was talking to. His eyes opened so w
ide they were in danger of popping free. “You’re… OMG.”
Dash grabbed the kid’s cold shaking hand and shook, using the leverage to swap places before backing down the hall. Dropping his voice so that it sounded overworked, he said, “Lori Hanover?”
“Room three, blue door,” said the kid, gawking after him. Before real life kicked back in, a phone appeared from nowhere to take a quick snap. Then the kid’s thumbs were swishing over the screen faster than Dash could keep up.
It reminded him… And even while deep down he knew the answer, he called out, “Was anyone filming that song just now?”
Kid looked confused. Then sheepish. “Nope. Well, not officially.” Then he held up his phone with a grin.
So Lori had kyboshed the PR stunt after all. Miss Ambition had let her sister have her moment with Jake. What a woman, Dash thought as he wound his way through the rabbit warren in search of a blue door. His woman. He just had to do whatever it took to make sure she knew it.
It would get out, of course. The song, the singers, the writer, the audience. The fact that he and Jake were dating sisters. These things always did. He let that seep in and settle. And realized a little notoriety was a small price to pay for what he hoped he was about to receive.
Dash reached room three, a light blue door with a hole punched into the center, above it a faded gold star peeling off the chipboard. With a deep breath he opened the door and entered.
The room was half full; his old friends from The Dive mixing with the wide-eyed teenagers who’d opened, as well as a bunch of hangers on laughing and shouting, creating the familiar adrenaline swarm that kicked in at the end of a great gig.
Then through the crowd, Dash spotted Lori and everything else faded away.
She sat on the make-up bench in her skin tight black and sparkles. She’d kicked off her shoes so that her bare feet swung beneath the bench. Her face was shiny with excitement and relief as she chatted to the drummer, laughing, her hand movements big, her energy electric. And Dash wondered what he’d have done in a previous life to have deserved such a woman.
