by Vi Keeland
For some reason, I keep away from Beautiful Man after that. There’s plenty to do as closing time draws near, so it isn’t difficult. I make Avery switch with me, taking a second turn behind the bar, so I can work the floor instead. She probably thinks I’m trying to give her a break on my last night; the floor is never easy around closing time. Too many drunks, and cutting them off almost always results in boisterous rants.
As he does every night at the same time, the DJ comes over the loudspeaker to announce last call for drinks at the bar, but then he adds, “Tonight Lucky’s is excited to have a celebrity in the house. For those of you not yet familiar with Flynn Beckham, you will be soon. Rumor has it he’ll be joining a big sold-out tour. Let’s give it up for a rocker who’s going to show us his softer side tonight up on our stage.”
The whole place erupts in applause, except me. I’m rooted in place watching Beautiful Man stride to the stage. He takes the microphone from the stand and scans the room with an easy smile. Eyes falling on me, his voice rasps over the speakers, the words sliding over me. “This isn’t usually my style. But it’s almost closing time, so I thought maybe I could help inspire those of you who are hoping to get lucky tonight. Like me.” He winks at me and nods to the DJ to start the song. I recognize the song in the first four notes. It’s one of my all-time favorites. A true classic, although people my age usually don’t appreciate the gritty, heartfelt sound of Rod Stewart anymore. The music of “Tonight’s the Night” plays quietly in the background until Beautiful Man’s sinful voice joins in.
I was glued to the stage watching Pearls belt out her song, but for a totally different reason than I am now. His voice is seduction in the form of sound, and it flows from him with the ease of a pro. The entire bar sways back and forth. Every woman moves closer to the stage. Even Pearls.
For a long moment I watch the way his foot taps in perfect time to the beat. A man with good rhythm has always been my weakness. Musicians have always been my kryptonite. Then my eyes slowly travel up, taking in the parts of the man I’d only glimpsed from the other side of the bar. Jeans hang low on his narrow hips, a simple dark thermal hugs his broad shoulders. Ink peeks out from the pushed-up sleeves on both forearms. When my eyes finally reach his face, I find he’s been watching me watch him. He arches an eyebrow and sings the next verse into my eyes.
You’d be a fool to stop this tide
Spread your wings, and let me come inside
I blink myself out of my daze. Flynn Beckham has a way of gliding his eyes over every woman in the room, yet making you feel like you’re the only one he’s actually looking at. As though he just found the one in a crowd of women, and not just the one he’s going to take home tonight…the one he’s been looking for since the first day he got on stage.
“Jesus. He sings another song and I’m straddling the speaker,” Avery says, leaning her forearms on the bar. “Bet I can orgasm just from the vibration of his voice between my legs.” She’s speaking to me, yet she never tears her eyes away from Beautiful Man. Together we gaze at the stage with the adulation of teenyboppers watching Justin Bieber. “That man wants you. Pretty sure you wouldn’t have to straddle the speaker. He’d bury his head and sing right into your vajayjay if you wanted. I totally vote you upgrade in the rockstar boyfriend category. Where is Sleazy Ryder tonight anyway?”
My best friend doesn’t care for my boyfriend. Dylan Ryder is the lead singer of Easy Ryder, but she has a dozen alternative names for him and his band. “He got stuck in Philadelphia…missed his connection back. Called to say he wouldn’t make it here tonight.”
“That’s too bad.” She smiles slyly. “One man’s loss is another man’s luck.”
“It’s ‘One man’s loss is another man’s gain.’”
“That too.”
Chapter Two
Flynn
The sun blares in through the small gap of the drawn curtains and lands directly on my face. I shield my eyes and try to fall back asleep, until I feel tiny hands trace the ink on my forearm. When her little finger follows the path of ink up to my shoulder, I surprise Laney by grabbing her and lifting her over my head. She squeals at the initial shock, but it quickly turns to a giggle. The sound warms me, even though my head is already beginning to throb.
“Uncle Sinn, you scared me!”
I growl, in my best monster voice, “Well, you shouldn’t wake a sleeping lion.”
“You’re not a lion, Uncle Sinn. Lions are scary!”
“And you don’t think I’m scary?” I lower my four-year-old niece from above my head and bring her forehead to my lips for a kiss.
“You can’t be scary, you have funny pictures all over your arms and back.” From the mouths of babes. Tell that to a tatted-up biker dude.
“Will you seep in my room with me tonight?”
“Maybe. If Mom says it’s okay.”
“Will you sing me that song when we go to bed again?”
“Sure.” I don’t have to ask which song. She made me sing it four hundred times the last time I visited.
“How come only one tattoo is colored, Uncle Sinn?” She pokes the red tattoo on my forearm—it’s the only ink that isn’t black or a shade of grey.
I jump up from the bed unexpectedly with her in my arms. She squeals again. “You’re chock-full of questions this morning, aren’t you?”
She nods fast, bursting with excitement, as if shooting off an arsenal of questions early in the morning was a good thing.
“Come on, let’s go find your mother.” I lift her over my head and onto my shoulders. Her tiny hands wrap around my chin.
“You’re up early.” My sister, Becca, is at the kitchen table. I walk to the coffee pot and pour before greeting her. Laney hasn’t said a word; she’s waiting for me to play the “where’s Laney?” game.
“I thought I heard Laney. Have you seen her?” I pivot left, then right, scanning the room.
My sister’s eyes rise to the passenger on my shoulders and she smiles. I picture Laney’s crooked-toothed smile gleaming back at her from above my head. “Nope. Haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s hiding under the bed.”
“That’s too bad. I was going to take her out for waffles and ice cream for breakfast. With whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream.” I grin, knowing my niece’s weakness.
“Uncle Sinn! I’m right here!” Laney screeches and tugs my chin up to look at her.
“Oh. There you are.”
My sister chuckles at the routine. “You know, I’m tempted to tell the speech therapist not to work on her Fs…because her name for you is just too perfect.”
I heave Laney from my shoulders and steady her on her feet. “Why don’t you go get ready for breakfast?”
“I wanna wear my Frozen pajamas to breakfast!” She jumps up and down.
I say okay, just as my sister tells her no. I love my sister dearly, but we’ve always been opposites.
“She can’t go to breakfast in her pajamas,” Becca scolds.
I shrug. “Why not? She’s four, not forty.”
“Because people don’t go out in their pajamas.”
“Your people don’t go out in their pajamas. Mine are perfectly fine with it.”
“Your people are nuts.”
“My people are fun.”
“Because they wear pajamas to breakfast?”
“No. Because they don’t care about what other people think of them wearing pajamas to breakfast. Lighten up, Bec. You sound like Mom.”
Her eyes widen to saucers. She huffs, but I already know she’s gonna cave. “Fine. You can wear your Frozen pajamas. But no slippers. Put on shoes and socks.”
“So how long are you in town for?”
“If everything goes as planned, seven weeks. Then I’m on the road for six months.”
“Six months? That’s a really long time, Flynn. Is the whole thing by bus?”
“Most of it. But Easy Ryder has some dates in Europe. I’m not sure if we’re playing those or the current opening a
ct, Resin, is. That’s one of the things my agent is still working out before we finalize the deal to join the tour.” The original Wylde Ryde tour was supposed to last six months. But the band’s sales have dipped a bit, so they added almost six more months to try to regain momentum before the release of their next album. And the current opening act couldn’t join the extended dates.
“Agent.” She smiles. “Listen to you, big shot. You’re not going to get too famous for us, are you?”
“Never. I’ll always come back for my girl.” I lean over in my seat and kiss Laney on her very full check. She has a dollop of whipped cream on her nose and ice cream dripping down her chin. But she’s smiling from ear to ear. I’m guessing my sister’s idea of a fun breakfast is adding a banana to whole grain oatmeal.
The attentive waitress swings by our table again. “Can I get you anything else?” Her smile is directed at me. I’m not full of myself—well, maybe I am a bit—but I can tell she’s interested in something more than breakfast. She’s cute, although a little on the young side.
“We’re good. But thanks,” Becca responds just as I open my mouth to speak. I know my sister—her over-the-top smile oozes a bit too much sweetness to be real. She barely waits until the waitress is out of earshot. “Jesus, Flynn. Is that the norm for you these days? That waitress was practically drooling.”
“Can’t blame her. I am one of America’s most eligible bachelors, you know.” I sigh loudly, clasp my hands behind my head, and tip my chair back.
Six months ago I was on a reality TV program, where I was the bachelor. I fell hard for Kate, one of the contestants, but my feelings weren’t returned. Last I spoke to her, she had just found out she was having a baby girl with her new husband, Cooper.
A few weeks after the show ended, a magazine came out with their annual list of America’s most eligible bachelors, and my name was somehow on it. I thought it was pretty comical that anyone would describe me as an eligible bachelor, seeing as I was unemployed at the time. But that doesn’t stop me from gloating about it to my sister and my buddies.
My sister rolls her eyes. “You were an honorable mention on the last page of the article. The writer probably just felt bad for you because you did that stupid show and didn’t get the girl in the end.”
“You just can’t see the hotness of your own brother,” I tease. “Laney, who is the handsomest man in the world?”
She immediately points to me, her sticky lips smiling brightly, barely containing her mouth full of food.
“See.”
“Is that what you do, you shovel their mouths full of sweets to get them to fall in love with you?”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Gross, Flynn. Just gross.”
The lead singer of Easy Ryder is a bit of a douche. He made me wait at a bar for hours the other night before canceling, then today he’s more than an hour late. I get it, shit happens. But walk in the room and at least pretend you give a crap by expressing an insincere apology. Instead, the minute he sits down at the conference table with me, Nolan and nine suits from Pulse Records, Dylan Ryder starts bitching.
“I asked for Throat Coat tea. That’s not what this is,” Dylan berates the assistant who just delivered his drink without ever looking up at her.
“It is Throat Coat tea, I made it myself,” she says in a timid voice.
“Then your water tastes like shit. Use Voss.”
“I don’t think we have Voss.”
“Well, then go to a store,” he barks and lifts the cup over his head for her to take it away.
The assistant’s face flushes. “Okay.”
“So.” He turns his attention to me and dives right in. “I wanna be clear about one thing before we bring your band on board.”
“All right.”
“This is my show. The name on the tour is Easy Ryder, not Flynn fucking Beckham or In Like Flynn, or whatever it is you call yourselves. I like your sound or you wouldn’t be here. But my tour is my tour. We aren’t coheadlining, you aren’t playing encores and cutting into my show, and you certainly aren’t selling your crap in my arenas.” He stops and glares at me. “You good with that?”
Total douchebag. “Got it.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it. Pussy is going to love your pretty face. Will make you feel like you’re more important than you are. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Like you? “No problem.”
Again, he glares at me. My short, stoic answers leave him questioning if I’m mocking him or responding with the respect a petty soldier shows a commanding officer. Eventually, he nods and turns to his manager. “Sign ‘em. You leave in less than two months.”
And just like that, In Like Flynn is going on tour.
Chapter Three
Lucky
My father swears I was tapping a rhythmic beat in my mother’s belly before I even took my first breath. Honestly, I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. It’s always revolved around music. My father was a drummer in two different bands for more than twenty years. My mother—well, singing is still her first love. Music. It’s in the blood that pumps through my veins, keeps me alive as much as my own heartbeat.
Not being able to get up on stage and do what I love is a curse, but in a weird way, it was also a blessing for a time. Staying behind the scenes has taught me so much about music. There’s certainly something to be said about the old truism Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.
“Thank you, Lucky. I swear, I’ve learned more in the last week than I have in the last five years.”
“You’re sweet, Chelsea. But you’re the one doing all the work. I’m only here to guide you to be the best you can.”
“Same days next week?” she asks.
“I look forward to it. Try to rest your voice over the weekend. You worked hard this week.”
I pack up after my last session of the day and look around at the sound studio. When Dylan first mentioned his record label was looking for a full-time voice coach, I was leery for so many reasons. Since going back to school and getting my degree, I’d trained only a select few people on a very part-time basis. Lucky’s was my home, my comfort zone, but I hated the damn place almost as much as I loved it. Not to mention that the thought of having to demonstrate vocal techniques for more than one or two people was enough to make my palms break out into a sweat. Yet I knew it was time for a change. I’d been standing in place long enough—so I took the job. Step three, Dad. You see that? I’m making progress. If the first week has been any indication of things to come, I’m going to be very happy here.
With my last coaching of the week done, where else would I go to celebrate, but Lucky’s?
The bar is crowded, even for a Friday night. It feels odd to stand on the patron side of the bar when I walk in.
Avery spots me immediately. “Hey, stranger! What the heck are you doing on that side of the bar? Come help me out. I’m drowning back here.”
I smile. Oddly, I’m glad she needs me. I throw on an apron and start taking orders and mixing drinks. Avery and I catch up as we work.
“What happened to the new girl you hired?”
“Fired.”
“What? Already?”
“Her customer service skills were a little too friendly.”
“She was giving away too many buybacks?”
“Caught her giving a blow job in the bathroom while she was supposed to be waiting tables.”
“Maybe he ordered a Screaming Orgasm.” I grin, remembering Beautiful Man.
Together we clear the bar orders in less than half an hour, and I tell her about my first week at Pulse Records.
“That reminds me,” she says. “The hot guy who was lusting after you last week came back in.”
“He did?” My interest perks up. I’ve found my thoughts wandering to Flynn on more than one occasion. There was just something about him, aside from the obvious—that he was ridiculously good-looking.
“Yep. Twice.”
&nbs
p; “Did he come in to sing?”
Avery shakes her head and smiles. “Came in looking for you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him the first time that you weren’t here. The second time, I told him to try back tonight. That maybe you would stop in.”
My eyes bulge. “What? Why did you do that? You know I’m meeting Dylan here.”
“So?” She shrugs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Might do Sleazy Ryder some good to see other men interested in you.”
“You just like to screw with him.”
“That’s just a bonus.”
“Be nice.” I slide two wine glasses out of the rack above my head. “Or I’ll tell Dylan that you had his poster on your bedroom wall when we were teens, too.”
Avery stops. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh I would. I might even embellish the truth a little and tell him you still have a big ole crush on him. You’re really just jealous I was the one working the second time he visited Lucky’s a year ago. And that’s why you give him an attitude.”
My best friend flips me the bird with a smile and returns to the business of waiting on customers.
Easy Ryder is on a short tour break. They’ve been on the road for four months already, and still have almost eight more months ahead of them now that they’ve extended their tour. Dating a rockstar is counted in dog years—Dylan and I have been together for nearly a year, but that only equates to a few months in the real world.
Word spread quickly that Dylan and his entourage were at Lucky’s tonight. Avery had to lock the door fifteen minutes after their arrival, and now the line waiting to get in extends around the corner.
“You’ve been behind the bar all night,” Dylan says. “Come sit with me.”
“I can’t. Look at this place.” I take a quick glimpse around. The last hour that I’ve been pouring drinks hasn’t made a dent in the three rows of people waiting to be served.