Off Bass (UnBroken: The Series Book 1)

by KC Enders

  The man who is normally so calm, so entrenched in his zero-give-a-shit attitude that he doesn’t feel the need to finish sentences, is stuttering. I’ve only seen this speech impediment happen with me. Not with anyone else.

  I don’t know why I seem to intimidate him or make him nervous, but whatever. Right now, I don’t care, but I sure as fuck am going to use it to my advantage.

  “When were you going to tell me about the meeting this week? About the trip up to Gavin’s place? Were you planning on waiting until the last minute, hoping I didn’t get the message or couldn’t make it?”

  Rand’s silence tells me I nailed it or at least hit pretty close to the truth. Doesn’t stop him from trying to lie though.

  “No, man, I was just getting to you. I, uh, called the other boys this morning but got sidetracked before I could hit your digits.”

  Bullshit. It’s complete bullshit, but I let him talk.

  “You’re good though, right? Nothing keeping you from either one?”

  I can practically hear the nervous sweat oozing from his pores.

  “I’ll make sure I’m available. Why don’t you actually tell me when and where though? You know, just to make sure.” I roll my eyes. And even though he can’t see me, I allow myself the juvenile satisfaction of the simple act.

  “Yeah, right. Uh, let me see. Okay, so at my office on Thursday at three, and then Gavin said we could, uh, use his studio Saturday and Sunday. Get some brainstorming done for the next album, see where we are with songs, and …” Now that he’s past the nerves, the stuttering is gone, and Rand seems more like himself. Confident. A little bit cocky.

  “Yeah, good. I can make that work,” I tell him even though I’m going to have to let Alex know our Thursday session is out. I should probably beg out of Friday too. I’m enough self-aware to know that I’ll be useless to her.

  “Great, yeah. That’s, uh, great.”

  “And Vince? What’s going down that he’s on the East Coast?” I doubt he’s just in the neighborhood. Most of the execs from our label would rather pay a huge penalty than spend time outside of Los Angeles, let alone in Manhattan.

  “V-V-Vince?” Rand asks, almost like he knows nothing about him being here. Too bad for his tell.

  “Yep. Ian said he was going to Beekman Hills too.” I’m fighting for every small detail.

  “Uh … he, uh … um … h-h-he’s, uh—”

  “Rand.” I shove my hair back from my face, twisting my fingers through the strands.

  He sighs loudly, his exhale echoing across the mic of his phone. “Yeah, Nate.”

  “Quit fucking around. Something is obviously happening. You know it, and you know that I know it, so just be straight with me. Someone died? Someone leaked a sex tape? A groupie is calling for a paternity test? Someone’s walking away from the band?” As soon as the words tumble out, it hits me. “Jesus, someone really wants me out.”

  Fucking Kane.

  “Nate, I gotta go. My, uh … my ph-ph-phone is ringing, and I, uh … I’ll see you Thursday.”

  The call disconnects, leaving me utterly alone. Silence tumbling down around me.

  I am not a violent man.

  I am not a violent man.

  I am not a …

  Fuck that.

  I eye the rusty brown brick that gives my house its distinction. Repeat my mantra against violence, adding in fucking words of affirmation.

  I’m better than this.

  I am not a violent man.

  I can handle what God lays before me.

  I am not a violent man.

  But I am pissed off. I am fucking angry.

  The door rattles as I whip it open, slamming into the brick wall and then slamming shut behind me.

  Ian and Alex are in the kitchen. Ian’s leaning against the island, his fingers tapping out a beat that’s more random than intentional. If I were in a better place right now, I’d grab that beat, layer over it, and maybe make something of it. But I’m not. So, I don’t.

  Alex pulls things from my fridge that I didn’t even know I had in there. The smell wafting through the air is indescribable. Savory, delicious. Rich.

  “You talk to him?” Ian asks tightly.

  I jerk my chin and peek in the oven. Cubes of eggplant and zucchini sprinkled with spices and olive oil roast under the broiler as chunks of chicken brown in a skillet.

  “You don’t have to do that. We can order in,” I say.

  The food smells amazing, but I’m not sure what kind of company I’m going to be tonight.

  Alex fills a pot with water and throws in a heavy hand of salt before setting it on the burner to boil. “It’s nothing special. I just couldn’t sit still anymore. I needed to do something even if it’s just dinner.”

  I don’t know where this day has gone, but when I glance at the clock, I’m surprised to see that it’s so late. “You staying?” I ask Ian.

  He shifts his weight, his hands never stilling as he looks from me to Alex. “Yeah? I don’t have to, but …”

  “Stay,” Alex says, nodding at Ian.

  Though it’s the last thing I want, I feel awkward and out of place in my own house.

  I scrub at my face, trying to push away all of the shit from today. Instead of avoiding the two people—the only two—who seem to give a shit about me right now, I snag a couple of beers from the fridge and offer them around.

  Ian reaches for one, but Alex declines with a subtle wave.

  I grab plates from the cabinet, silverware, and napkins, lining them up along the edge of the counter.

  After the pasta boils, Alex throws everything together and scoops heaping portions onto each of our plates. In the time between roasting vegetables, boiling pasta, and cooking chunks of chicken, these simple ingredients have become a mouthwatering symphony of flavors.

  A barely suppressed moan slips from my mouth as I lose myself in the simple comfort.

  Ian doesn’t bother trying to hold back—at all. “Fucking hell, marry me,” he mutters between bites.

  Alex just laughs, but even as his phone buzzes with incoming texts from whoever he’s been smashing, he proposes again and then a third time.

  “Stop, Ian. You’re starting to sound desperate. Oh my God, what would your fans do if, out of nowhere, you were off the market? You’d crush hearts across the world,” she stutters as the words tumble from her lips and then stares intently at her plate.

  Icy discomfort threatens to take over again, and maybe I’m having a damn moment, but if there’s going to be weirdness or tension swirling around, it needs to be coming from me. I’m the one whose world is threatening to implode.

  Ian swallows down the mouthful of food, and his fork clatters against the china. He clears his throat and repeats his earlier question, “Did you talk to Rand?”

  It’s obvious he’s defusing something, but I go with it.

  “Mmhmm. Yep. Bastard called me buddy, stuttered, and made sure to leave the room he was in before trying to cover his ass.” I push my plate away, no longer hungry. “Kane talk to you lately?”

  “No. Not about anything important.”

  “But he’s talked to you,” I clarify.

  Ian drums his fingers against the counter. His leg. The countertop again. “Asked me about Gavin’s. If I was ready to blow out of New York yet, that kind of thing. Kane shit, you know?”

  “Kane shit.” I get up and dump the rest of my food into the trash, my stomach turning sour. “Excuse me,” I mumble as I close the dishwasher after dropping my plate inside. I stumble into the half-bathroom under the stairs and sit my sorry ass down on the closed lid of the toilet.

  Am I having a tiny little breakdown? Yes. Yes, I am.

  Am I being the diva I have never, ever even entertained being? Yep. Hundred percent.

  And I do not give a single fuck. Not a single one.

  I have held my shit together for years. I have rolled with whatever was going down, kept calm, and stayed cool.

  I did not los
e my shit during our opening engagement on our first tour, in the fucking middle of the goddamn desert, when we had to use a stand-in guitarist because Gavin lost his shit over his girl, landed his ass in jail, and missed his fucking flight.

  I kept shit chill when he went off the fucking rails for the rest of that tour, thinking he’d lost his chance with Gracyn. And he was a miserable motherfucker through that shitshow.

  I have calmly removed myself from every stupid, fucking awkward twosome, threesome, fucking orgy that Kane has so thoughtfully thrown my way while enjoying every second of making me goddamn uncomfortable.

  I can honestly say I’ve been kind to every dude and chick I’ve escorted from my room as Kane sat back and laughed his fucking head off.

  I lost my shit once—one fucking time—and I had to set my broken nose with a fractured hand and then finish out the encore set.

  I have earned the right to sit and sulk in my bathroom for a hot minute and feel sorry for myself.

  But only for a minute.

  Voices filter through the door, low and indistinct, followed by the click of the front door. I wait a beat before stepping out into the entryway. The kitchen is cleaned up, the living room tidied and everything back in its place.

  And it’s quiet. I obviously flaked out for longer than a minute.

  I push out as much of the tension sitting on my chest as I can and then jump—just about shitting my pants—when Alex pads silently down the stairs.

  She’s back in her shirt from last night, her bag slung over her shoulder. Hair hanging down her chest, twisted into a loose braid.

  “I’m going to go,” she says softly. She shoves her feet into her shoes, leaning down to slip the straps over her heels.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Much as I want to be alone right now, she doesn’t deserve this side of me.

  A smile pulls at her lips as she nods slightly. “I do. I need to take care of some things at my apartment, and I think maybe you need some space. Leftovers are in the fridge if you’re hungry later.” She glances at her phone, nods again, and then leans in and slips her arms around me. “I’m not walking away, you know that, right?”

  I relish the feeling of being wrapped up in her embrace and bury my face in her neck. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe her in. I hate the slight tremor in my voice when I say, “I do.”

  Gently, she steps away from me, putting unwanted space between us. “Good. I don’t want you to think badly of me again.”

  And now, I feel like a dick. So much for earning that mini breakdown in the bathroom.

  18

  MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

  ALEXIS

  The week goes by in a blur. Hard work. Extra time spent practicing, perfecting. Building my endurance because God knows I’m going to need it as I transition toward dancing with the company again. I don’t know how I’m going to make it.

  It doesn’t help that Nate is distracted. I don’t blame him in the least, but his distraction is compounding and feeding mine. It’s a vicious cycle and one that I need to break.

  We need to break it. This isn’t just about me. And there’s no way I’m going to be selfish again and walk.

  I knew from Ian that my regular studio time with Nate wouldn’t be happening today. That doesn’t mean I get the day off though. I can’t slack. Not now.

  So, as I step into the studio, I queue up music on my phone and then plug it into the sound system. A light, airy piece fills the room, a stark contrast from the bass-centric music I’ve gotten accustomed to in the past weeks with Nate.

  I stretch and warm up, moving far more aggressively than I should, but frustration is a beast that needs to be conquered today.

  Before long, I’m lost in the music, the movements that test and push my muscles before they’re really ready. I know better—I do—but I have to exorcise the demons that have taken up residence in my mind, body, and heart.

  Determined to make the most of my day, I throw myself into the next combination. Balancé, balancé, piqué, soutenu, passé to fourth, prép, pirouette—

  I land in fifth position and crumble to the floor.

  “Are you okay, pet?” Charlie rushes through the door and drops to one knee next to me.

  I assess myself, testing and taking note of each movement. Hip, knee, ankle, arch, and toes.

  Frustrated tears well in my eyes.

  “I think I am,” I say, unable to keep the defeat from my tone.

  As realization that I’m unscathed hits, relief washes through me, and I swipe the moisture from my eyes before it has a chance to spill onto my cheeks.

  “Do you want to sit still for a bit, or would you like a hand up?”

  “I’m going to sit for a minute, if that’s okay.”

  Charlie rises and quickly walks to where my phone is, lowering the volume to a more conversational level. He drags a barstool from the corner and perches on it. Legs crossed, hands folded over each other.

  He cocks his head to the side and asks, “What are you doing here alone, doll? I thought things were going well with you and Mr. Calloway.”

  I shift to a more comfortable position and lean back on my hands. Stretching and flexing my foot. “He had a meeting today with his manager and band and … everyone, I guess.”

  “Did he? What I would not give to be a fly on the wall of those offices,” he says drolly, plucking an invisible piece of lint from the knee of his pants. “And how is his hand doing? Healing well, I assume?”

  “It is.” I turn to face him more fully, taking the time to rotate my ankle, poking it and prodding it to make sure that there’s no swelling. “Do you know what the deal is? I mean, I can’t imagine any of the guys—well, most of them—doing anything spiteful. Nothing to get rid of him. But Ian mentioned these meetings the other night, and Nate hadn’t heard anything about it.” I slide across the floor, stretching my fingertips to roll my water bottle closer.

  “Getting quite cozy with the gents, then?”

  I flip open the top of my water bottle and drink deeply.

  “Charlie, what made you think that Nate and I would work well together?” I never asked him, never even thought to when all of this started, but maybe today is the day for me to lay out all my damn questions.

  “I am sure it was a burst of intuition—a feeling, if you will. Not that I take stock in such things, but perhaps it was serendipity.” His graceful hands tug at his cuffs, first on the right and then the left. “Why do you ask?” His movements still when I don’t answer right away.

  I always assumed Charlie had known that Nate and I had a connection. That Nate was the lost love I’d hinted at from time to time. And conceited though it is, I guess I assumed that Nate had spoken to Charlie about me, but maybe I’m wrong. Obviously, I’m wrong because why would Charlie know any of that?

  “Alexis, why do you ask?”

  I push all the air from my lungs and answer, “I know him, them—all of the guys in the band. I grew up with them and went to school with them and—”

  “And Nathaniel is the boy whose heart you broke when you made your way to the Big Apple.”

  There’s not an untrue thing in that statement, but it still hurts.

  “Yes,” I say simply, watching for the features on his face to morph from light surprise to deep contemplation to understanding. But it doesn’t happen.

  “And I—inadvertently—thrust you back together to try to heal, to rediscover your individual passions for the things that have tripped you up.”

  I nod.

  “I can assure you, Alexis, that I knew nothing of your history when the idea of pairing you came to me. I’ve known you both individually for quite some time. And something … something always hinted at the idea that you belong together. That you complement each other in a way that defies reason.”

  He waits patiently as I assess him, looking for a break, a hint at falsehood in what he said.

  “I told Nathaniel the same when he grilled me after
your first meeting. It was a feeling about two people I respect and adore. I knew each of your stories but didn’t for an instant think there was that connection.

  “I won’t apologize. You’re both stunning, talented artists in your own rights. But together, you’re a thing of beauty.”

  We sit in silence as time skitters away. Both of us thinking, neither of us putting any of those thoughts to voice.

  “Well, are we expecting Nathaniel to come here after meeting with his …” He waves his hand through the air dismissively but doesn’t bother finishing the question.

  I pull my feet underneath me and test my weight as I push up to standing.

  Charlie jumps from his seat, his hand catching me under my elbow.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course,” he says, supporting me until he’s sure I’m set.

  I rotate my foot. Plant it and push up en pointe. When everything feels good, I pirouette a handful of times just to make sure I’m solid.

  I drop down to the flat of my feet and start untying the pale pink ribbons from my ankles. “I don’t think he is.” I knit my brows but avoid showing Charlie just how much it bothers me that I really don’t know when I’ll see Nate again.

  After the meeting today and more meetings up in the rural part of New York this weekend, my best guess is that Nate will take off and try to work through whatever is going on with the band.

  And next week, my life will cease being my own.

  With as hard as I’ve been working and as focused as this recovery mission has been, I don’t doubt that my assessment on Monday by the powers that be at the ballet company will go well. That will not only bring me back into the fold with regular classes and rehearsals and choreography sessions, but additional practices as well to boost my chances at getting my spot back.

  Lead.

  Principal dancer.

  “And what could possibly keep him from coming back to you straightaway?”

  I don’t know if he means coming back here to the arts center or back to me. As much as I want both of those options, it just feels like there’s too much stacked against us at the moment.

  “I assume the meeting will go on for a while. He’s busy, Charlie. Plus …” I sag a little, my mind spinning wildly around what my heart is yearning for. It’s exhausting.