by Vi Keeland
After an hour with the otolaryngologist and a forty-five minute cab ride back downtown, Nolan and I are finally heading to Pulse Records to sign the tour contracts. Opening for Easy Ryder is an ideal gig for us—their audience looks a lot like our audience, our play time is only a little shorter than theirs, and since we have the same record label, we were able to arrange studio time to work on our next album during the tour. Yet I have a nagging feeling that I’m about to make a huge mistake. With no real tangible evidence to support my gut, I keep the feeling to myself and just try to ignore it.
The Pulse offices are impressive: walls lined with platinum album covers, framed Billboard charts—a literal hall of fame that leads us to a large conference room that could easily seat fifty. The pretty woman with the short skirt and high heels who steered us into the inner sanctum is replaced by an even prettier woman with an even shorter skirt and even taller heels.
“I’m Heidi, Mr. Simon’s personal assistant. Welcome, Mr. Beckham, Mr. Blake.” She nods. “Mr. Simon apologizes. He’s running twenty minutes late. He asks that you please make yourselves at home. There is a green room down the hall to the left. Van Mars is recording if you’d like to pop in and listen. Or there is a cafeteria downstairs. If you tell them you’re a guest of Mr. Simon’s, everything will be on the house.”
“Which one will you join me at?” Nolan asks with his usual cocky swagger. I roll my eyes; Heidi licks her lips.
“I’m going to head downstairs and get some coffee. The guy I bunked with last night doesn’t even have a coffee pot,” I goad Nolan.
“I don’t drink coffee…why the fuck do I need a coffee pot?”
“For when I stay over, asswipe.”
“Go back to your own place in Jersey. I’m not buying a damn coffee pot for you. If I keep you happy, you might stay over more often.” Nolan turns his attention back to Mr. Simon’s assistant. “Now if Heidi likes coffee, I might have to stop and get a pot.”
I chuckle, shake my head, and leave Nolan to his morning conquest.
The cafeteria is crowded, even though it’s somewhere between breakfast and lunchtime. But I suppose most people visiting Pulse generally consider morning to begin around noon.
I came in looking for coffee, but the smell of bacon wafts through the air and my body follows on its own. Coffee turns into two eggs, bacon and cheese on a roll, an orange juice and a chocolate pudding. Actually, two chocolate puddings. Because people who pass by fresh chocolate pudding without grabbing one just can’t be trusted.
Finally at the front of the long register line, I realize I’ve forgotten to grab the damn coffee. I leave my tray and tell the cashier to take the next person. I seriously shouldn’t walk around at only eleven in the morning with no coffee and Stevie Ray Vaughan ripping in my ear buds.
The sinuous riffs of “Texas Flood” have me lost to the music and it takes me five minutes to prep my coffee because of the constant need to stop and accompany Stevie on air guitar. Oblivious, I make my way back to the register to collect my tray and pay, when a woman’s voice shakes me out of my musical coma.
“Cutting the line?” she says.
I pull the bud from my ear and turn. “Lucky? What are you doing here?” For a quick second, I actually think I might be dreaming.
She smiles. “Apparently, getting cut in line by a guy who is going to lose his hearing from playing his music so loud.”
“Sorry. I was on line, but I forgot my coffee.” I hold up my cup as if evidence is needed. The cashier apparently isn’t as in awe of Lucky as I am; her face tells me to pay and move along. I take a bill from my wallet and motion to my tray and Lucky’s. “For both.”
“You don’t have to buy my breakfast.”
“I want to.” I’d rather buy you dinner and make your breakfast the next morning. I look down and smile seeing the contents of her tray. Chocolate pudding and coffee.
“Breakfast of champions.” She shrugs.
I know I probably shouldn’t, but I just can’t help myself. “Eat with me.”
She looks at the time on her phone, then back to me, and bites her bottom lip. Without thinking, I reach up and tug the flesh from between her teeth. “You’re going to bruise this pretty mouth.”
She flushes but agrees to have breakfast. I direct her to a quiet corner of the room. “What are you doing here?” The minute the words leave my mouth, I realize she must be here with Dylan. Fuck. I’m an idiot. Any second, he’ll be joining our table. Great.
“I work here.”
“You work here? I thought you owned Lucky’s.”
“I did. I mean, I do. Avery and I are partners now and she runs it. My last night managing it was actually the night you first came in.”
“What do you do here?”
“I’m a vocal coach.”
“I thought you said you don’t sing?”
“I don’t…not in public anyway, anymore.”
“You used to sing?”
“A little.” She seems anxious to move the conversation from her. “What brings you here today?” Her spoon dips into the chocolate pudding and rises to her mouth and I follow it with rapt attention.
“We’re signing the contract for the Wylde Ryde tour.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. About that. Sorry about the other night. I didn’t know you were with Dylan.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Maybe not, but I wanted to.”
Her cheeks pink up again. God, I love the color of her skin. The way it doesn’t allow her to mask any of her emotions, even if she tries.
“Well. It all worked out anyway. Avery is incredible.”
“Avery?”
“I thought you were interested in her.”
“I actually said I was into the bar’s owner.”
She looks confused, and then her mouth forms an O. Right before her cheeks flush again.
“Don’t worry…Dylan just assumed I meant your friend.” An awkward silence falls. “So how long have you two been together?”
“A little less than a year.”
I nod. “You eat chocolate pudding and coffee for breakfast often?”
She giggles. “I have every day since I started here. I just can’t seem to pass the damn display.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I better watch myself. I have no self-control around chocolate, and between not running around the bar all night and having a cafeteria with good food in the building, my ass is going to bear the brunt.”
“I’ll watch your ass for you. Make sure it stays in top form.” I wink.
“How chivalrous of you.”
“I’m good like that.”
She shakes her head. “So are you excited to go on tour?”
“I’m excited to play in front of an audience again.”
“You took a break?”
I nod. “Not by choice. Nodule on my throat.”
“Sorry. Strained from too much singing?”
“That’s what the doctor said.”
“Well, there’re a lot of things you can do to keep it from flaring up. Have you been to a voice coach?”
“No.”
“I’ll give you my number. Call me if your voice starts to show signs of strain. I might be able to help.”
I nod, lift my phone, and snap a picture.
“Hey. I’m eating. Why did you take a picture?”
“To go with your number in my phone.”
“And you needed it to identify me because you know a lot of Luckys?”
She has a point. “What’s your number?” I ask.
“Let me see the picture or I’m not giving it to you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’re going to injure my voice and most likely ruin my career because of one bad picture of you with chocolate pudding on your lip?”
Her eyes flash. “I have chocolate pudding on my lip in the picture?”
“Maybe.” I smile.
Lucky grabs for my ph
one, but I pull my hand back just as quickly.
“Let me see the picture!”
“Okay. But only if you give me your phone number first.”
“Is there really even chocolate on my face in the picture?” She licks her lips.
My eyes fall to watch her tongue. There’s a drop at the corner of her mouth. I lean forward and swipe it with my finger. Her lips part. Then I lift my finger to show her the tiniest of smudges…right before I bring it to my mouth and lick off the pudding. “Delicious.” Chocolate pudding and Lucky. My new favorite flavor.
“I shouldn’t even give you my phone number now.”
“Why, because I gave you a compliment?”
“What was the compliment?”
“I said you were delicious.”
“I thought you were talking about the pudding.”
A wicked grin on my face, I slowly shake my head back and forth.
“You’re dangerous.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Think you need to work on the difference between compliments and insults.”
Time flies, both our trays are long empty, and I’ve been gone for close to an hour, even though Heidi told us Simon would be only twenty minutes late. But I just can’t bring myself to walk away from her. She tells me a little about Lucky’s and her new job, and I’m actually enjoying the conversation—maybe even as much as I enjoy looking at her. There’s an odd familiar feeling that I get when we talk. It was there the first time we spoke, even more so today. It feels like I can finish her sentences, yet I don’t want to interrupt her because the sound of her voice slides over me in a way that I can’t describe. I just know that I like it. A lot. I like her. I like the way I feel when I’m around her.
“Shoot. I didn’t realize how much time has gone by. My next session is probably waiting.” She stands, but it looks like she doesn’t really feel like leaving yet either. “Umm…let me give you my phone number. In case you have any problems with your voice.”
“That would be great.”
I hand her my phone and she punches in her number. “That’s an awful picture of me.” She hands back my phone.
“There’s no such thing.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
My brain has every intention of giving her my hand. But it doesn’t catch up to my body before I have one hand cupped behind her head and my mouth is closing in on her cheek. I suppose I should be grateful my body compromised and went for the cheek, rather than the mouth. Feeling the softness of her skin under my lips makes me want to run my lips along other places on her body. Every place on her body. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about something you said the first night we met.”
“Oh yeah. What’s that?”
“You said if you strip a woman down to her underwear, you can learn a lot about her. Since you have a boyfriend and I can’t do that, I think it’s only fair you tell me what kind you wear.”
The pink on her cheeks is definitely my new favorite color. She shakes her head and I think she isn’t going to give me an answer. But then she surprises me by leaning in and whispering, “Lacy boy shorts…unless I’m wearing leather pants.”
“What if you’re wearing leather pants?”
She smirks. “Commando.” Then leaves me standing there with my mouth open, staring at her ass as she walks away.
Chapter Five
Lucky—
Twelve years earlier,
age thirteen
The green neon script sign behind the bar makes me feel like what Dad keeps telling me is true—Lucky’s is ours.
“Get used to it, princess. Your name is going to be in lights much bigger than just our little sign.” Dad pulls me close to him and kisses the top of my head.
“Don’t you think someone whose name is important enough to be lit behind the bar should be able to watch the show tonight, Daddy?”
“She is pretty important, you know,” my friend Avery chimes in.
My father groans. “Girls. You’re going to get us shut down before we even get through opening night.”
“Please, Daddy!”
“Please, Daddy!” Avery follows my lead, her hands steepled like a communion girl’s. “We’ll stay off to the side of the stage near the hallway to the back. And if the man walks in, we’ll run into the back room before he sees us. I promise.”
“The man?” Dad asks.
“Yeah, you know. Five-oh. The fuzz. Flatfoot. Smokey. Doughnut disciples, the po-po,” Avery offers.
Dad shakes his head, but smiles. “I know I’m going to regret this, but fine. You girls can watch. But only the first show. You are not staying in the bar all night.”
I still can’t believe my mom scored us one of the hottest bands around. The lead singer is gorgeous. His poster hangs on my wall, perfectly positioned so I fall asleep every night with his sky blue eyes staring at me.
And now he’s about to be ten feet away. I really hope I don’t pass out. The lights dim and my dad hops up onto the small stage and delivers a quick introduction, not that any introduction is needed. Then the room, which is filled to capacity—a line of hopefuls running all the way around the block—erupts in screaming, and the guy who makes my knees weak appears from the parting crowd.
A black tee shirt, worn jeans, black boots—both his arms already covered in tattoos at age twenty-three. Simple, yet simply perfection. He stands on the stage like he owns the place, looking like the rockstar that he is. Then he smiles and every woman in the place goes wild.
The shirtless drummer pounds his sticks on the drums a few times to start the song. He’s good-looking, but not in the same league as the lead singer. And then I hear that voice. It’s beautiful—filled with an intensity so hot, I fear I’ll melt standing this close. Is it possible to fall in love with a man who doesn’t even know I exist? In that moment, I’d swear it is. Because I’m head over heels in love with Dylan Ryder.
Chapter Six
Lucky
My phone buzzes on the nightstand while I tear off yet another rejected outfit and toss it onto the bed. The pile of discarded clothes is growing into a mound—I’m usually not so indecisive. Standing in my bra and panties, I reach for my phone and swipe my finger to read the incoming text.
Something came up and I’m running late. Sorry, babe. I’ll meet you at the party.
Not having to rush for Dylan’s arrival, I spend another thirty minutes deciding on just the right thing to wear. I settle on super-skintight black leather pants, a simple black body-hugging blouse that shows off my well-endowed anatomy and dangerously high leather boots with an open peep-toe. A silver cuff bracelet on one upper arm, a few dozen bangles on the other, and I finally like what I see. It’s understated, rockstar chic. If only it were the truth.
I make it to the party fashionably late. Dylan makes a big production over my arrival, whistling a catcall and taking me in his arms for a passionate kiss that wouldn’t be considered appropriate in most crowds. Although this group doesn’t look twice. Not when half-naked groupies backstage are the norm. The first time I went to see Dylan play, a woman was giving the drummer a blowjob on the couch in the back lounge area, while the rest of the band was arguing over the set list only ten feet away. No one batted an eye.
Dylan orders me a drink and the waitress delivers it with a look of annoyance for me and a groupie-quality smile for Dylan. I take a few sips, unsure what the contents of the glass consist of, although I’m positive it is not the Cosmo I ordered.
I stand dutifully by Dylan’s side as he holds court, entertaining his ever-expanding circle with stories about all the gigs they’ve played in different cities. My gaze wanders around the room, taking in famous faces, leaders in the music industry and a bevy of beautiful women. Then it falls on a set of startling blue eyes that are already trained on me.
Flynn cocks his head to the side and raises his glass from across the room. His grin i
s absolutely…adorable is the only way I can describe it. I can’t imagine men appreciate being called adorable, but there’s just no other way to explain it. It’s the dimpled grin of an eight-year-old boy standing in front of his first crush with a bouquet of dandelions proudly clutched behind his back. Only this grin is attached to the chiseled face and body of a mouthwateringly sexy man. He’s wearing just a pair of dark jeans, black boots, a skin hugging henley and a well-worn black leather jacket. His right ear has one earring, his left three or four. Tonight his shoulder length hair is pulled back, only accentuating his incredible blue eyes and dark lashes. Damn.
I nod and tilt my glass back at him, but he doesn’t turn away. Even when the blonde I hadn’t noticed standing next to him wraps her arm around his waist possessively.
The next two hours go pretty much the same way—Dylan soaks up the limelight, the waitress serves me dirty looks and the wrong drinks, and my eyes wander, always seeming to land on Flynn. Each time, I’m met with his blues already fixated on me.
“I’m going to find the ladies’ room and get some air for a few minutes,” I say to Dylan, who’s busy entertaining the crowd that surrounds him. It’s his night, and he knows how to hold court like a pro.
I spend a few minutes in the bathroom and then go in search of some fresh air. We’re on the third floor, but I noticed a breeze coming through a heavily draped set of doors as, every once in a while, people disappeared behind the curtain. Finding an empty balcony, I slip outside into the clear night. From inside, the muffled sound of Christina Aguilera’s “I’m Okay” plays, and I close my eyes and quietly sing along.
Enjoying the solace, I don’t hear the door open behind me. “Your voice is beautiful.” I know that soulful sound before I even turn to take in the man it belongs to.
“Thank you.” Both of Flynn’s hands are full. His left holds a beer bottle, his right extends a martini glass in my direction.
“This one is made right.”
I furrow my brow.
“The drink,” he clarifies.
“How did you know the others weren’t made right?”