Lydia!
I swallow a long drought of coffee and stare through my windshield at the converted warehouse building. The band is already inside. I saw them arrive, laughing and oblivious to my stalking as I sat in my car bracing myself. Xander hung back from the others, and I could see from the set of his jaw and crease in his brow that whatever demons were bothering him yesterday hadn’t freed him during the night. I picture him perched on the edge of a bed, shirt off, hands clasped loosely in front of him as he rests his elbows on his knees. I’d walk over and hover beside him, comb my fingers through his hair and pull him into a deliberate embrace with my hips. He’d turn his head, suck in a breath when he realized what was right in front of him, maybe angle that gorgeous deep gaze up at me…
Lydia! What the hell is wrong with you?
Right. Composure. I’m supposed to be composing. I draw in some air, grab my messenger bag, and push open the car door.
“Lydia, great to see you again,” the stylist says, rushing toward me for a kiss when I enter.
Jordan Isaacson is one of the best in the business and has a close relationship with Donna’s firm. Whether it’s a simple project to style a client for an event or shoot, or something more in-depth like an entirely new look, Jordan’s built an empire on his ability to turn reptiles into royalty. Today he gets to sculpt an entire rock band, and I could hear the exhilaration in his voice when I begged him to rearrange his six-month waitlist to fit us in for an emergency.
Reminder: send Jordan Isaacson the most expensive bottle of Scotch I can find.
“Same to you, Jordan. Thanks again for fitting us in. You have no idea how much we appreciate it.”
“Oh, but I think I will when you receive my invoice,” he teases with a slight bow.
I chuckle and lead him toward the guys whose playful banter dies as we approach. “Jordan, this is Falling Back North. We have Matheus, Xander, Elliot, and Liam. Guys, this is Jordan Isaacson. It’s his job to transform you into rock gods. That means what he says goes, got it?”
They nod, their wide, nervous gazes telling me this is going to be a long day.
“Gentlemen, I’ve reviewed your portfolios, along with the notes from Lydia on her vision, and I promise, if you trust me, my team and I will have you sparkling like sexy rock gems by the end of the day. Sound good?” He claps his hands without waiting for an answer and motions to his assistants. He’s Jordan Isaacson after all. What other answer is there besides yes, my lord?
“You, you’re first. Follow me.” He points to Matheus who smirks as he steps out of the group to follow Jordan and an assistant to the hallway of individual studios. The remaining band members watch like he’s being escorted to the gallows. It’s kind of adorable—and maybe slightly terrifying for a publicist. I force myself not to look at Xander as I pass.
“You good with all of that?” Jordan asks Matheus.
Matheus grins, soaking in the attention. “Sounds great. Let’s do it.”
Jordan loves Matheus. Of course he does. Jordan likes beautiful, flashy people who want to be beautiful and flashy. I also didn’t miss how Matheus kept checking my face in the mirror to make sure I was watching as Jordan had him pull off his shirt and flex and pose to fully inspect the canvas. Summary report: Matheus is beautiful. Jordan is thrilled. I’m bored.
“Can you send Xander in?” Jordan asks his assistant. “Then take Matheus to wardrobe and start on what we discussed.”
“Good job,” I say with a tight smile to Matheus as the assistant leads him out. “You’re going to look great.”
Also typical of overzealous ego, his expression warns me that he’s read my professional encouragement completely wrong. When he winks, I tense and maintain a neutral air. It’s the exact expression I’ll need for Xander’s consultation anyway.
“Xander is the tall, broody one, right?” Jordan asks once we’re alone.
I nod. “Drummer and songwriter. I’d like to keep his look more understated than Matheus’.”
Jordan rubs his chin. “I agree. But they’re brothers, right? Some symmetry would be good. What’s your narrative?”
“Still working on that.”
“From what I saw, the older one has an intriguing air. It’s stimulating. We should enhance that.”
Stimulating. Yeah. So stimulating my heart is already thumping at the sound of his approach. Jordan and I look over when he ducks inside, and suddenly the room feels full. Overflowing. He hasn’t said a word and already he owns my attention. Even Jordan stutters a bit with an unexpected reaction to his presence. I see the way the stylist’s expression changes from business to excitement. Matheus is a canvas. Xander is the whole freaking museum.
“Hi, Xander. Nice to meet you.” Jordan shakes his hand, then steps back for a better look. “Would you mind removing your shirt, please?”
Xander pauses for just a second before he grips the back of his t-shirt and yanks it over his head.
Focus, Lydia. Work. Job.
I cross my arms for extra security and ignore the pounding of my blood when he straightens, subtly showing off a body that’s benefited greatly from a gym and a tattoo needle. The genetic gods were busy on both brothers, but where Matheus is sculpted with perfect, sleek lines, Xander fills out sexy, deep ridges.
“You work out?” Jordan asks.
Duh.
Xander twists a quick smile. “As much as I can. Stress relief.”
Also duh.
Jordan nods, looping around him slowly. A problem, because once he’s out of Xander’s line of sight there’s nothing blocking those hazel eyes from settling on me. His hair, still messy from the brush of his shirt, begs to be smoothed by my fingers as he stares at me. My suddenly dry mouth wants coffee. Badly. The rest of my body refuses to move from this view.
“I love your artwork,” Jordan says. “Don’t you think, Lydia? We probably don’t want to cover it up too much.”
I force a nod. “Agreed.”
Jordan’s face lights up with a flash of brilliance. “Hang on.”
He moves to the door... And my stylist is not intending to leave me alone with this shirtless masterpiece, is he? He is. Shit.
“You okay with all of this?” I ask after Jordan’s gone. The only thing worse than being alone with Xander right now is silence to process that fact.
“It’s fine. Mind, body, and soul, right?” he says, holding out his arms with a smirk. “My body is yours.”
I try not to choke on that all-too-valid fantasy as I attempt to read more in his expression. As usual, I get nothing other than what he wants to give. Right now that seems to be “amenable client” who doesn’t know he’s torturing me.
“Jordan’s right. Your tattoos are gorgeous. We should show them off.”
“You want me to perform like this?”
Is he joking? I can’t even tell until his eyes soften slightly in amusement.
“No. Not unless you want to,” I force out. Also, yes. You should be shirtless all the time, Xander Silva. All. The. Time.
He shrugs, considering—and surprises me yet again with another dimension to the shy, puppy-dog poet I clearly misjudged.
“Not a bad idea. The stage can get pretty damn hot.”
I nod in agreement, now desperate for any liquid to soothe my tongue and throat. “It can. But I want you to be comfortable.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t be here right now.” His lazy smile takes me back to the bar. To the moment I felt like he was stripping off my dress with his eyes. Yes, the moment I would have sold my soul to let him. Blood rages straight to my core.
But he seems to regret his comment when he looks away. “Sorry. That was inappropriate. Just trying to ease the tension.”
Tension. He feels it too. My body is beyond tense as it continues to simmer. My brain adjusts the earlier image of him on the bed now that I know what he really looks like. It’s pure agony, and I ball my fingers into fists beneath my crossed arms.
Jordan breezes back into
the room not a second too soon and hands Xander a simple white tank. “Put this on,” he says.
Xander obeys, and my blood rocks from more small seizures as I watch him flex and settle into the thin fabric. Holy…
Jordan is a genius.
“Yes,” I say.
Jordan beams as he steps back to admire his art. The undershirt couldn’t be more simple, but the fabric is thin and soft enough that it barely exists over Xander’s perfect body. All it does is make you desperate to rip it off while being certain you’ll never have the chance.
“Do me a favor? Pull your jeans down maybe an inch and a half?” Jordan says to him.
Xander’s brow creases as he follows the instructions, and… did I mention Jordan is a genius?
“I don’t even think we need to change his jeans,” Jordan says, tapping his chin. “Hair, maybe a trim, but I like the length and color. You good with this, Lydia?”
I swallow. Still haven’t moved. Not even sure I’ve taken a breath. “I’m fine with it,” I squeak out.
“Great. Then, I think we’re done for now. Xander, can you send Liam in next, please?”
“Sure,” Xander says, clearly relieved. His gaze brushes mine as he turns, and I think I do an admirable job of remaining stoic. Pretty sure no one can tell my insides are exploding, that my fantasy game for later has just been rocketed to a whole new dimension.
Jordan grunts once we’re alone. “Damn, girl. You need to get that boy on a cover yesterday. You hit the jackpot with these two.”
“So do we get to keep all this shit?” Matheus asks, dropping his lunch plate next to me at the table. Xander’s gaze skims us from his place at the other end, but he quickly focuses back on his phone.
“Yes, sir. In fact, the whole point is that you take this wardrobe on the road and utilize it for all shows and public appearances,” I say.
“Utilize, heh. She’s so smart,” Matheus tells the others. Elliot and Liam snicker, while I roll my eyes.
“Do we get instructions or something to remember all this crap?” Liam asks. “The hair and the…” He holds up his wrist that now has several leather bands on it.
“And the eye-shit,” Elliot huffs. “No way I can put that stuff on myself. And how come Xander didn’t have to do anything?”
“I did, you idiot,” he mutters without looking up. True. His hair is about a half inch shorter and now has a controlled texture that makes it impossible not to imagine running your fingers through it.
“For real. How are we supposed to keep track of everything? You gave us so many rules,” Liam whines.
“Will you guys chill out?” Matheus snaps. “She’s helping us.”
I send him a grateful smile and settle a look on the others. “He’s right. Remember, I’m on your team here. You all look great, and most importantly, like a cohesive, successful band. We’ll be taking lots of photos and video at the first few shows, so we can get those images into the public eye as soon as possible. Also, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be there to guide you each step of the way. Including with the eyeliner, Elliot.”
The bass player air high-fives me from across the table.
“I think it’s great you’ll be with us,” Matheus says.
Liam smirks. “Yeah, but are you really gonna be living on the bus?”
I swear Xander flinches, and his fist tightens around his phone. He still doesn’t look up, but I can tell he’s listening intently. Matheus pivots in his chair to face me.
“That’s the plan. You okay with that?” I say.
“What, living with a hot girl? Hell yeah,” Elliot says with a snort.
“Will there be rules about nudity and stuff?” Liam adds, and the two of them exchange encouraging hand gestures.
Xander shoves his chair back, glaring at his cousins. “Show some respect,” he says. “She’s a professional and our guest, and we will treat her that way.” He smacks the backs of their heads on the way to the trash can. The other two snicker to themselves as Xander leaves the room.
“Xander’s right,” Matheus says, pointing at them. “You say one more thing like that, and it’s back to Jersey for you losers.”
“Ooh, little Matty’s gettin’ tough,” Liam teases, and Matheus cracks a smile.
“But seriously, dude,” he says.
“Okay, okay, geez,” Liam says, lifting his hands. “Sorry, Ms. Carmichael.”
“Please accept our humblest apologies,” Elliot adds, also with a weird bow that now has me trying not laugh.
“Apology accepted,” I say, rising from the table. “Tell you what, as long as you guys keep your dicks hidden, we’ll be good.”
The guys roar a laugh, and I smile to myself on the way out.
CHAPTER 5
XANDER
“Yo, we should bring that bottle of cachaça Aunt Mary gave you,” I call out from the kitchen of our apartment. “We can use it to celebrate after the opener on Saturday.” When Matty doesn’t respond, I set the liquor bottle on the counter and duck around the partition to get a visual. We need to leave in an hour, and as far as I know, my brother hasn’t even started packing.
“Dude, did you hear me?” I ask, entering the family room. “Cachaça?”
Matty swipes an arm across his eyes and straightens on the couch.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh? Nothing.” He flips his phone around to block my view.
“Matty…”
His expression hardens when I lower myself beside him.
“Come on, bro. What happened?”
He blinks at the coffee table for a second, and finally shoves the phone at me. I look down to see a text from our father.
“Desculpe, eu esqueci do seu aniversário. Fiz um depósito na tua conta. Me avisa se recebeu?”
Oh my god.
“Filho da puta,” I mutter, anger shooting through me.
“‘Sorry for forgetting your birthday… Let me know if you got the money?’ Is he for real?” Matty kicks the table away with his foot.
“I’m sorry, man. O pai é um filho da puta. We know he’s a dick.”
Tears fill his eyes again and he swats at them with another curse. “My birthday was a fucking month ago.” There’s a waver in his voice, and he clears his throat. I can tell it’s killing him that our pai still has the ability to rip through his walls and turn him into a forgotten child again. “Whatever. I don’t even care anymore,” he lies.
God, my heart is a vice in my chest. All I want to do is fly down to Brazil to show my father what I think of his gift.
“You know the best part? He didn’t even send the money to the right e-mail address. That’s not the one I use for my account. At least it was easy to refuse the transfer.”
He pushes up from the couch, jaw clenched.
“He’s an egocentric asshole, Matty.”
“Yeah. I guess it’s hard to remember the kids you abandoned.”
“Matty…”
His gaze flashes with fire, but after absorbing it for most of my life, I only see the pain that fuels it.
“Hey,” I say, gripping his shoulders. He won’t look at me, glaring at the floor instead. “Matty, listen to me. He’s an asshole. This is a reflection on him, not you.”
He nods, more tears welling in his eyes, and fuck if my heart doesn’t completely shatter. I’ve never hated João Silva so much in my life. Matty resists when I first pull him into my arms, but soon twenty-two years of being ignored cements him there. I hold on as he cries, hatred as much as grief clouding my vision as well. Neither of them wanted us. Now that we’re free, why can’t they just leave us the hell alone?
“I know we don’t have time for this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Matty’s muffled voice against my shirt might as well be a punch in the gut.
“You don’t need to be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for them, okay?”
I feel his nod scrape against my shoulder, and hold on until his tears start to subside. After a minute o
r so, he finally pulls back and offers a weak smile. “Maybe I should have kept the money. We could’ve bought a couple more bottles of cachaça from that market in Hoboken.”
“You mean, with the money he sent to the wrong account?”
Matty snorts a laugh as he wipes the remaining liquid from his eyes. His face is still splotchy from crying, but at least the snarky smile is back. The swagger is too when he straightens and sets his shoulders to Songset Magazine Top 14 levels. My broken baby brother has been tucked away in favor of a self-assured man again, and I can finally breathe. Best part, I don’t even have to find an empty cell in my mental prison for this latest crisis; João already occupies several. Hell, our mother has her own fucking facility down the street.
But for now, we pack.
“Do we both need to bring shampoo or can we share a bottle?” Matty asks as I sling my arm around his shoulders on the way down the hall.
“Bring your own. Last time you blew through mine in a week.”
Showing up late to bus call doesn’t only mean you get a nasty look from the tour manager. You also get last pick of the bunks. I toss my stuff on the only one left, a lower level bed in the back right section.
“Shit. You take this one,” Zach, our front-of-house guy says from his top bunk across the aisle.
I toss him a smile and continue unloading my stuff. “No worries, man. I’m good.” Truth is, the motion and whir of the wheel will be good for sleep—and distraction. The further from Matheus and his open pursuit of Lydia, the better. Lydia… I’ve decided avoidance is the only option there. She already owns my head, so my only chance is to keep her out of my reality as much as possible.
Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2) Page 4