My camera finds the drummer again, like it has so many times since Falling Back North took the stage. I swear it’s not the result of a crush but professional necessity that keeps Xander’s image in the frame. The camera seems terrified it will miss another incredible shot as he attacks his instrument with power and grace. I can’t believe I called him a puppy dog when we met. A grey wolf, maybe. A lion… I try not to think about the moment he emerged from the dressing room wearing only jeans and a wicked smirk. I wanted to punch him when it became clear he was waiting for my shocked reaction before crooning, “This is the look you wanted, right?” The others snickered, and I may have shoved him as he laughed and tugged on an undershirt right before they stalked on stage. Dork.
Now, watching his tattoos glisten with sweat in the stage lights, I keep imagining his body wet with exertion from other activities.
Focus. Photos. Job. Career.
I switch to video when their current song breaks into a samba drum solo at the bridge. Matty uses the interlude to excite the crowd into a fury with his dancing, and my camera should probably be shifting to the devastating movement of his hips. Unfortunately, it only seems interested in Xander’s ridiculous mastery of the drums. There could be fifteen percussionists back there for the sound he’s able to generate from that five-piece kit. Instinctively, I know tonight’s fantasy will be brutal. I’m a junkie for quiet talent. Genius that doesn’t need the lights and hero worship to be validated. While Matty steals the spotlight, Xander completely reshapes the mold of what his instrument can do. No, it won’t be Matty’s abs and ass undulating to the rhythm in my head. I bet Xander can dance like that too. Maybe better. I have a feeling Xander does everything better because he’s always had to. Does he feel the burden of perfection too?
My heated blood can’t take any more and survival instinct forces the camera to Matty for a while.
“Be my valentine, valentine,” Matty sings, dark eyes pleading with every member of the audience. From my vantage point, it looks like he has more than a few takers. “Forget that half the time, half the time I’m wrong. Don’t read every sign, every sign that leads us. Remember how it feels when I’m gone.”
My gaze travels back to Xander, the songwriter. As brilliant and catchy as this is, I have trouble imagining him crafting such a narcissistic ode to himself. I think back to the guarded expression that settled over his face when I mentioned his family. I consider the heaviness of his positioning in the conference room after our initial consultation. He looked ready to collapse under the weight of some invisible burden, elbows propped on the table, physically supporting his head with his hands. Yeah, Xander Silva is too complicated for this song to be what it seems.
Case-in-point, who’s the man up there now? My heart hammers as I watch him, unable to tear my eyes away. The stress that typically creases his features has relaxed into transcendent release. He looks free. Young. Totally abandoned in this moment. Mesmerized, I lift my camera to capture it.
I only snap a few shots before his eyes lock on me through the lens. Caught, I lower the camera slowly. His rhythm doesn’t change, but his face hardens into the mask I’m more accustomed to seeing. It makes me sad, for him and the rest of us. He was magnificent when he let go. Selfishly, and with a hint of panic, I hope I stole one of those seconds with my camera.
Matty is speaking to the crowd, so I use the short break to scan through my last few shots. Xander’s eyes are slanted into a glare in the most recent ones. Maybe it’s concentration, not irritation, but it’s definitely not the masterpiece from a second before. I keep scrolling and… There. Thank god. My pulse pounds as I stare at the display, my chest tightening with emotion.
Glancing up, I study his rigid stare at his kit while Matty talks. He’s a statue again, and I feel guilty holding such a treasure in my hands after stealing it from his face. I now own a piece of him he doesn’t know exists. I look back at the slice of time I caught. It could be a different person. Maybe it is, and I shudder at the magnitude of what I’m holding. Am I the sole witness to what Alexandre Silva could be?
I lie awake in my bunk for most of the night. Xander and I have avoided each other since the show. It’s as if we accidently saw each other naked. I sense I’ve lost his trust even though I’m not sure I ever had it. Or maybe I’m the one acting weird, and he’s only reacting to that. He doesn’t know what I did, what I have in my possession.
I pull out my phone and stare at the photo. Like a certified stalker, I sent it to my personal device as soon as I could. I needed it with me, to be able to pull it out and lose myself in it during moments like this. I zoom in on his face, staring into hazel eyes that shine with an internal luminescence I’ve never seen. His typically clenched jaw has softened to make room for a radiant smile. I trace his features on the phone before closing my eyes and imagining my fingers on his skin. He’s looking at me like this. I’m the one who frees him to reckless abandon.
But quickly, my imaginary fingers aren’t content. Gluttonous bastards. They start to move, and my blood pumps with the contagious rhythm of samba. My touch slides over the grooves in his arms, across his chest, down abs I’ve seen too many times to ignore. They slip into dark jeans, and I clench my eyes shut, shuddering from temptation.
You’re not really going to do this when he’s a few feet away. When you’re surrounded by his friends and family!
No, of course not. My heart hammers against my ribs; my real fingers tighten into a fist. Of course not. He’s a client. He’s… right there. In my head. In my reality. I turn my gaze to the curtain, my rebellious fingers already clutching the edge.
You can’t actually look.
I do. Just a fraction. Enough to see that his curtain isn’t closed firmly either. My breaths come faster at the discovery. I see flashes of messy dark hair, which triggers memories of it damp with sweat on stage or tangled in his fingers in a conference room. There were the strands I wanted to smooth at a bar and in a stylist’s studio. The ones that hang in his face while he’s writing, his hands too occupied with a guitar and laptop to bother with wayward locks. I would just reach over, so casually, and he would smile back with the ease of an exchange that’s happened so many times. It comes naturally to us, like everything else since the moment we met.
You graduated summa cum laude and now you want to be the doting girlfriend who tucks back her boyfriend’s hair while he’s working? I grunt and snap the curtain closed.
CHAPTER 7
XANDER
Yes, I’m in a mood. And it would be fantastic if everyone would stop pointing that out every five seconds. I rose early to escape the probing eyes, but eventually our paths had to cross. The collision happened in catering, and now I’m shoveling fruit on my plate, while trying to ignore Matty and the guys making faces at the table behind me.
“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Liam quips as I blatantly deposit my plate and coffee at a neighboring table.
“There is only one side,” I mutter.
Matty’s humor fades slightly as he studies me. Can he sense today’s weight is heavier than usual? Don’t come over. Don’t come over.
He’s considering it, and I’m grateful when Elliot distracts him with a cat video on his phone. My mood can’t handle the mental gymnastics of trying to convince my brother of something other than the truth. Then again, it’s likely he spent the night dreaming about our marketing director too. Difference is, he didn’t also have to balance guilt or the memory of her potent gaze raking over him. What was that anyway? The way she looked at me on stage last night. The way she avoided me like the plague afterwards. Also, I swear I heard her curtain move at an ungodly hour this morning. It jerked me from a particularly graphic fantasy that I absolutely should not have indulged and completely regretted when I heard stirrings of the real person. So yeah, I’m in a mood.
I shove the fruit around my plate, and my bagel is totally untouched. What I need is a good workout, and I decide to look into that du
ring our downtime today. It’s been four days since my last serious exertion; my mental prison block is out of control.
Lydia breezes into the room, and a hush I can only describe as reverence spreads over the guys. It almost makes me smile—almost. In a few short days she’s become our queen. Elliot and Liam are afraid of her, while Matty is more enamored than ever. I can tell by the way his gaze follows her every movement and the fact that she’s pulled a strange maturity from him. If not for the nightmare scenario of us falling for the same woman, I’d be singing from the rooftops about her effect on my brother.
“Good morning,” he calls over.
She smiles back at him, a genuine one. “Bom dia. Como você está?”
He grins, shifting in his chair to face her. “Agora que você está aqui to maravilhoso.”
Wonderful now that you’re here? Lame, dude. But my eye-roll only seems to encourage his amusement.
“You learned Portuguese?” he says to Lydia.
She shrugs, mischievous, and I have to look away.
Does she know about his crush? She must. She’s never encouraged it, though. I see how careful she is around him. Kind and polite, but never flirtatious. Or maybe I’m just wishing she were that careful around me. Even in this current exchange with him, I noticed how her gaze slid to me when she responded in Portuguese. Whose face was in her head while she explored our language?
My mind wanders to bare shoulders and “accidental” collisions. I shouldn’t have teased her with the shirtless stunt before last night’s show, but like her sweatshirt, the intention started innocent enough. It wasn’t until her eyes blistered with heat that my own blood started pounding. When I caught that same look during the show, I knew I’d messed up big time.
Now, I study the ripples in my coffee cup to keep my eyes from committing another sin. She shows no mercy when she positions her plate across from mine.
“Good morning,” she says, taking the one seat she shouldn’t.
“Morning.” I let my gaze flicker to hers for a brief greeting. Then back to coffee and brooding.
“You okay?”
“Fine, why?” Yeah, that tone wouldn’t have sounded believable in any language.
“You seem… reserved.”
I shrug, arranging my fruit in a new pattern. It kind of looks like a demented starfish. So angry and devious, my cantaloupe nemesis.
“Not sure.” I flash a quick smile that does nothing to throw her off the scent. If anything, her brows knit into a more severe crease. “You’re learning Portuguese?” I add in another attempt at normal human interaction.
“Maybe. How’d I do?” Her smile is shy, not flirtatious, and some of my ice starts to melt.
“Not bad. You’ll be fluent in no time,” I tease.
“Teach her filho da puta!” Liam shouts over at us. Matty smacks him as I choke on my coffee.
“Filho da puta?” Lydia repeats, and I shake my head, biting down on a smile.
“Don’t say that one. Unless you’re pissed or talking to one of those idiots,” I add, nodding at my snickering bandmates. Liam looks way too proud of himself for a dude who knows one phrase in another language.
Lydia studies our reactions, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint. “Did I just swear in Portuguese?”
Her childlike glee at the prospect is too much, and I lose control of another smile. “You did. Very well, actually.” Her grin widens, forcing me to look away before I get lost. Too cute.
“See, that’s the problem with romance languages. Even the curse words sound pretty. What’s it mean?”
I smirk and finally take a bite of my evil starfish. “Um… depends how you use it. Basically, son of a bitch.”
She laughs. “Teach me something else then. Non-offensive.”
I lift my gaze to hers, chewing slowly. Her expression has changed, more dangerous than a second ago. I cast a quick glance at Matty whose shoulders have noticeably slouched.
“You should ask him. He needs the practice,” I say, pointing my fork at my brother.
“Shut up,” he mutters, then adds something suspiciously close to você é um filho da puta under his breath. He’s not wrong. I kind of am right now.
I stab at another piece of fruit. “I saw your posts on our accounts last night. People seem to be digging them.” Not exactly a smooth subject change, but more than necessary right now.
“Yeah, I’m pleased with the number of reactions so far, but we can do better. I’m most excited about the support for that samba breakdown in the bridge of ‘Valentine.’ We should build on that at the grassroots level. It’ll help get White Flame’s attention.” She’s back to professional Lydia, thank god. “We also need to focus on attracting new followers in addition to increasing engagement with your existing fans. Which reminds me.” She turns to the neighboring table. “Matty, if you have a sec today, I have some ideas on how you can work more social references into your transitions. I also have hashtag ideas to run by you.”
Bingo. Matty perks up, looking every bit the star student. “Sure. Let me know when you want to meet.”
Lydia nods to him before focusing back on me. “You should join us too if you can. I’d love your feedback.”
Crap. “Actually, I have plans today.” Sort of. Working out should count as plans. “You guys can handle it and fill me in later.”
I push my chair back and scoop up my still full plate before anyone can argue. No reason I can’t finish my breakfast on the bus. I feel Matty’s grateful stare as I cross to the door.
After a two mile run and criminal number of pushups, I’m starting to feel the stress melt into the blessed burn of exertion. Finding a secluded space in the underbelly of our latest venue has helped as well. I haven’t seen a single soul since locking myself into this forgotten storage room. By the time I finish with the pushups and switch to crunches, I’ve already decided to sprint back to the bus for supplies and spend the rest of the day in hiding.
My phone has buzzed frequently over the last hour, a few in sequential intervals indicating phone calls, but I’ve been ignoring it like a champ. A man’s workout time is sacred; Heaven knows no other second of my day is. It’s the small accomplishments that keep you going, and the fact that I’ve managed a decent sweat in this cold room has me swiping my water and phone off the floor with an extra flourish when I finish. I wipe my forehead with the hem of my shirt and twist the cap off the water. Guzzling it down, I savor the way the cold liquid soothes the burn of my lungs and muscles. It’s not until my gaze accidentally flickers over my phone screen that the chill of the room returns.
A missed call from Kate, Lydia, Marlon, Matty, and Sam? I can’t even see the notifications for the texts that have been shoved to the bottom of the list and off the display. I blame panic for the fact that I return Lydia’s call first.
“Xander, thank god. Where are you?” she blurts out in lieu of hello.
“Just working out in the basement of the venue. What’s going on?”
“Which room? Are you alone?”
“To the left of the stairs by the back lot where we’re parked. And yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“Okay. Don’t move. I’m coming to find you. And don’t talk to anyone else or look at your phone until I do.”
“Lydia, what’s going on?” I check the screen to see if we’re still connected when she doesn’t respond. “Lydia?”
“Just… I’m coming. Don’t move.”
I stare at my phone when the call goes dead, my heartrate climbing again from a different kind of workout. Of course, the first thing I do is the one thing she told me not to. I only have to skim the first few texts for my chest to tighten and my brain to start short-circuiting in violent sparks.
Stacy Rogers. Interviews. Photos. Video. Total shitstorm. Damage control.
And from Matty: Dad is a dick, but I fucking hate Mom.
That’s when I don’t have a choice anymore. I open the search app on my phone, type in our names, and c
ollapse against a stack of chairs behind me.
Seated on the floor, I’m shaking from heaven knows what when Lydia bursts into my nightmare. Cold? Terror? Fury? My eyes burn from whatever poison is causing my limbs to tremble, and I shove my hands into my hair, resting my elbows on my knees. I can’t look at her as she pulls open the door, and wish I’d never told her where I was. Maybe I could have hidden in this room forever, pressed up against a tower of chairs that look like they haven’t been touched since before I was born. My birth—there’s an event the universe is clearly questioning right now.
Lydia stalls in the doorway, her urgency dissolving into something else when she finds me on the floor.
“I told you not to look,” she says gently, closing the door.
I nod, unable to look at her.
“Xander…”
I close my eyes, forcing stale air into my lungs. “Guess you have some talking points for our Narrative now. Happy?”
She flinches, and maybe I regret lashing out, but I don’t have the strength to take it back.
“I’m so sorry, Xander. We’re going to fix this. I already have a conference call set up with Sam, Marlon, and Donna for later today.”
“Yeah? You’re gonna fix my unstable leech of a mother? Fuck!”
I let out a breath and lean back, staring up at the ceiling. After a long pause, I pull in another draught of air. “You know we haven’t heard from her in years? For years she hasn’t tried to contact us—and it’s been heaven. We’ve not only done everything to get here on our own, we did it in spite of her best efforts to drag us down into her hellhole.”
“It’s pretty clear she’s just looking for her fifteen minutes of fame.”
I huff a bitter laugh at Lydia’s attempt to silver-line this shit. “She posted a video of us wasted and acting like assholes as teenagers. What kind of mother records her kids fucking up their lives and then broadcasts it to the world for attention when they finally find their way? I don’t even know which is worse, but that’s my mom, folks.”
Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2) Page 6