by Vi Keeland
We’re almost through the entire store when we stop in front of a display. There’s no deliberation or discussion, we both just smile at each other and I pick the box up and head to the cash register—even though I know my sister is going to kill me.
I walk Lucky back to her apartment, not ready to leave her yet. We stroll casually, laughing the entire time. Until we reach her building. She fidgets for a minute, playing with her keys before looking up at me.
“Do you want to come up? I could wrap that for you. I have a stash of wrapping paper and I’m guessing you don’t.”
I know I shouldn’t. Because, let’s face it, I really want to. I’m just about to accept her offer when her phone goes off. The ring tone leaves no doubt who is calling. “Betrayed.” Easy Ryder’s most popular song blares from her hand. She stares at the picture flashing on her phone.
“Sorry. I can call him back later.”
“No. It’s okay. I should probably get going anyway.”
Her face falls a little, but she recovers quickly with a conciliatory smile. I lean down and kiss her cheek. It’s innocent enough, my lips don’t linger, but when I start to pull back, Lucky wraps her arms around me and hugs. Tight. I’ve never been one to put my private life on display, but the urge to kiss the hell out of her in public is almost primal.
“Thank you again for last night, Flynn. It meant a lot.”
Pulling back, our eyes meet just as the song abruptly stops midverse. Dylan Ryder may have stopped singing, but he’s standing right between us now. And damn if I don’t want to push him out of my way.
Chapter Twelve
Lucky
I thought about contacting Flynn all week, but in the end, I didn’t. On Tuesday, I went as far as typing out a text, although my finger ultimately hit Delete after hovering over Send for a long time. How did Laney like her gift? The text was innocent enough. Yet, the reality is, anything related to Flynn Beckham stopped feeling innocent about ten minutes after I met him.
I disembark from the plane to Atlanta in a daze. Dylan is picking me up at the airport. We haven’t seen each other in two weeks. I’m looking forward to it. Well, mostly I’m looking forward to it. But there’s something churning inside my belly that also makes me nervous about our reunion, although I’m not completely sure why.
Riding the escalator down to baggage claim, I’m surprised when I see Dylan at the bottom. I assumed he would be in the car and one of his security guys would be meeting me. He’s wearing a baseball hat, sunglasses and a grey hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled over the hat, masking some of his face. Couple the look with a pair of faded jeans and sneakers and he actually blends into the crowd. Easy Ryder has had seven platinum albums in ten years, five consecutive sold-out tours, and most people have at least one of their songs on their iPod—even men. Blending into the crowd is definitely not the norm for Dylan Ryder.
He’s playing with his phone but looks up just when I hit the bottom. The sunglasses he’s wearing shield his eyes, but I know from the curl at the corner of his mouth that he’s looking at me. He doesn’t step forward; instead he waits for me to come to him.
Neither of us says a word, but when I reach where he’s standing, he wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me to him, his mouth sealing possessively over mine. It’s more a welcome-home-from-the-military kiss than the greeting of a man who is attempting not to call attention to himself.
“Well, this is a surprise,” I breathe when he releases me.
“That I’m standing here or the kiss?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be. I told you I would pick you up.”
“I know, but I guess I expected you to wait outside.”
“Guess I missed my girl.” He gives me a chaste kiss. “I have more surprises for you later.” He winks.
Trying to avoid any more attention than he’s already garnered, Dylan looks down as we make our way to baggage claim and, lucky for us, my suitcase is one of the first to come out. A few women on the other side of the conveyor belt are already whispering and pointing in our direction by the time we’re heading to the car.
“Hi, Johnny,” I say to the Hulk-like man in the dark suit who steps out of the car to open the back door of the Escalade for us.
“Miss Valentine.” He nods. Dylan’s security team are their usual friendly selves, I see.
Before Johnny pulls away from the curb, Dylan’s hand is already slipping under my skirt.
“Stop,” I whisper a warning and glare at him.
“Why?” He tugs me closer and his lips find my neck.
I pull back. “Umm…because we’re not alone.”
“He’s seen a lot worse.”
I’m dating a rockstar, it’s not like I think he’s a virgin. Far from it. But the reminder of the carefree things that have happened in the presence of others still stings. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Come on, Lucky. I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I meant.”
I try to shrug it off. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, and I should be excited he’s so eager to get his hands on me. “I know. Just…not here.”
“But I have to go straight to sound check,” he pouts.
“Then it sounds like you may have to wait until tonight.”
Dylan groans. “I hate waiting.”
I lean in and whisper in his ear, “But good things come to those who wait.”
I may have spent half my life in a bar, but I’ve never been good at drinking. Perhaps it was the years of watching drunks make fools of themselves at Lucky’s that soured me against public intoxication. It’s not that I don’t drink…Lord knows Avery and I have had some nights that turned into morning-afters I’d like to forget. My drinking just tends to be limited to when I’m not at a public event. Tonight I make an exception to my normal sober policy—my nerves getting the best of me for some reason.
Dylan was supposed to take me back to the hotel after the sound check this afternoon. Instead, equipment problems and an issue with the acoustics in the arena kept us here straight through to tonight’s show. Apparently, the amphitheater had recently undergone some construction that was supposed to be completed, but defective materials caused a delay. The contractor tried to put a Band-Aid on a bullet wound, temporarily sealing up the ceiling with wood, but it isn’t absorbing the sound correctly, instead sending unbalanced reverberations scattering all over the room.
“Sorry, babe.” Dylan comes up from behind me in the lounge backstage. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
“It’s fine. Jack kept me company.” I turn and wrap my arms around his neck. My speech might be slightly impaired.
“Who’s Jack?” There’s an edge to his voice.
I squint at him. It might also help me focus in my intoxicated state. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy from the man who has panties thrown at him every night?”
“You know I don’t share, Lucky.”
“Relax. Jack isn’t a man, silly. But if he was, you’d certainly have some competition. He makes me feel warm all over.”
“How much did you drink?”
I hold up my pointer finger and thumb to demonstrate a small amount. “Just a smidgen.”
“A smidgen, huh? I think you and Mr. Daniels may have gotten a bit more intimate than a quickie. Fuck,” he groans. “I might be jealous of a bottle of Jack.”
I giggle, even though I tend to not be the giggly type. It’s the alcohol making everything seem funnier than it is.
Dylan pushes my hair behind my ear. “I have to drop by the after-party tonight. The label has some of our bigger sponsors going. But we don’t have to stay long. Then I’m all yours for twenty-four hours.”
“Not quite twenty-four. My flight is at four tomorrow.” Since I just started a new job, it’s a very short visit. I can’t miss work on Monday.
“We’ll see about that,” Dylan says cryptically as he leans in, his mouth finding my neck. We already argued on the phone about my
leaving on Sunday afternoon. He wanted me to stay until the band pulled out of Atlanta on Monday night, but my new job is important to me. I’ve got a happy buzz going and have no desire to ruin it by rekindling the fight we already had, so I save it for tomorrow. Plus, Dylan’s mouth at my neck is leaving me with little resolve.
Dylan and I watch the opening act from the side of the stage. Resin is a British band that has gained popularity since the beginning of this tour. They’re huge in Europe already, and the US radio stations are starting to give them more and more play time. It’s no surprise they’re choosing to leave when the Wylde Ryde tour begins six months of additional show dates. At least this time when Flynn pops into my head, there’s a reason he should. In Like Flynn is taking over for Resin in less than two months. My eyes fly up toward Dylan at the thought…as if he could see me thinking that I’m looking forward to those show dates.
Dylan Ryder puts on a pretty amazing show. Normally, I can’t help but watch in awe. When he sings on stage, a little piece of me still feels like the fourteen-year-old girl who idolized him from afar. The girl who lay in bed at night, staring at his poster. But tonight I only last two songs. The music is piped in all throughout the backstage, so I don’t miss that—but I opt not to watch him sing.
I fix myself another Jack and Coke and take a seat on the couch in the band’s lounge. All the band members except Dylan share one big room backstage. Dylan, of course, has his own.
A handful of groupies mill around, waiting for the guys to finish. It makes me wonder whose job it is to pick the women who are allowed backstage. Does a security guard wander through the audience with a list of requirements? 36D, check. Short skirt, check. How’s your gag reflex, honey? Check.
I swallow the thought along with half the contents of my glass. I’m definitely feeling no pain. My mind again wanders to Flynn. The alcohol clouds my judgment and I shoot off a text before I can think better of it.
How did Laney like her gift? At least my text doesn’t come out slurred.
He responds within a minute. She loved it. My sister…not so much.
You can’t make all the girls happy.
Now that’s a shame. Bet I know one girl I can make smile?
He doesn’t know I’ve been smiling since his first response. Long distance smile promises. You must be pretty confident, Mr. Beckham.
Oh. I am. You ready?
A huge smile hasn’t left my face. Can’t wait.
My phone is quiet for a minute. I’m growing anxious he might not respond again. Finally, my phone pings. But it’s not a text, it’s a video. I press play. The camera focuses on a little girl holding a microphone. She’s wearing a princess tiara, plastic high-heel shoes and a skirt made of purple tulle. A half dozen strands of beads hang from around her neck all the way down to her tummy.
Flynn’s voice prompts her from behind the camera. “Who are you dedicating the song I taught you today to, Laney?”
“This song is dedicated to…” She scrunches up her face and takes a step toward the camera, whispering loudly. “I forgot her name, Uncle Sinn.”
Flynn chuckles off-camera. “Lucky,” he whispers.
Excited, Laney steps back in place and holds up the microphone. “This song is dedicated to Lucky.” Then she lowers the microphone and says, “That’s a funny name, Uncle Sinn.”
Flynn laughs. “It’s no funnier than Laney.”
“Yes. But my real name is Helaine. What’s Lucky’s real name?”
Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s smiling. “I don’t know, Laney. I’ll have to ask her. Can I get back to you on that?”
She nods with exuberance.
“You ready now?”
She nods again.
Flynn leans forward and pushes play on the Disney Frozen karaoke machine. The machine he carried for more than a mile on the walk from FAO Schwarz to my apartment. Warmth spreads through me when I hear the first note. I’m smiling ear to ear while Laney sings “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
All. Five. Verses.
I think of the little princess sitting on her tatted rockstar uncle’s lap while he teaches her the song. My ovaries might just explode.
The video ends. I really want to watch it again, but I can’t wait to respond to his last text.
My smile is HUGE.
I might have cheated. She’s sort of irresistible.
She takes after her uncle.
I’ll have to take you over to meet her when I get back into town.
My stomach does a little drop. He’s leaving? For how long? I didn’t have any plans to see him, yet knowing he won’t be in the same city disappoints me for some reason. Going away?
Hitting the road. Gone for a month.
A month? Why does that bother me? We exchange a few more texts and then Easy Ryder has finished their show, and the entire lounge swirls with excitement.
Dylan finds me. “You disappeared halfway through the set.”
“I was feeling sort of queasy,” I lie.
“You spent too much time with Jack and didn’t eat. Come on, there’s food in my dressing room. Let me feed you before we have to go to the after-party.”
It’s two in the morning before we finally head back to the hotel. I left for the airport at six a.m. yesterday, so I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. The lack of sleep and drinking catches up to me and I fall asleep with my head on Dylan’s shoulder on the car ride back. He wakes me when we reach the Gideon Hotel, but my energy level is drained…I’m flashing on empty.
“I need to take a quick shower. You want to join me?” Dylan asks hopefully when we get into his suite.
“I’m too tired.” I plop down on the inviting king-size bed.
“I’ll be fast.” He kisses me, and strips as he heads into the bathroom.
I’m not quite asleep when he crawls into bed and I feel his naked hard body against my back. “I hate those sponsor events. Bunch of suits more interested in checking out my woman than talking business.” He sweeps my hair to the side and kisses my neck while his erection pushes into me.
“You’re crazy. No one even notices me when I walk into a room with you.”
He reaches around and cups my breasts. “Maybe if you would cover these up a little, some of the men in the room would be able to focus more.”
I turn over to face him. “Are you serious? I had barely any cleavage even showing tonight.”
Dylan pushes my shirt up and the cup of my bra down. His head drops to my exposed breast. “I’d prefer to keep what’s mine less on display.”
“Coming from the man who sang half his set bare chested tonight?”
“That’s different. I’m selling an act.” His tongue flicks over the tip of one nipple.
“What if I was the one on stage? Wearing skimpy clothes as part of my act?”
He swirls his tongue around until my nipple is a taut peak, and speaks before moving to the other breast. “I don’t even want to think about it. I’m just glad you’re happy behind the scenes.”
Dylan is still sleeping when I wake the next morning. Actually, it’s more like afternoon. It’s a rarity for me to sleep so late; then again, I don’t usually drink so much. And I have a four o’clock flight to catch. I wasted the little time we had together yesterday with drinking copious amounts of liquor I knew I couldn’t handle, and then half the next day sleeping it off. I slink out of bed, trying hard not to wake the naked man lying diagonally across the mattress, and head to the bathroom to shower.
I let the water run over me, hoping it will quell the growing throb in my head, but no such luck. I think it might actually make me feel even worse. The pulsating showerhead should feel like a tiny massage but more closely resembles little mallets hitting my skull. Not good. I finish quickly and stumble out of the shower, feeling worse than when I walked into the bathroom.
I need coffee.
And aspirin.
And more coffee to wash down the aspirin.
Luckily, I
keep a mini–first aid kit in my travel case. Underneath the useless packages of gauze and suture-removal sheers—really who needs to remove their own stitches?—I find the small packet of Tylenol that I’ve seen there the few times I’ve opened the case.
Great, they expired three months ago.
I swallow them anyway, using only a handful of water from the bathroom sink. Very ladylike.
I do my best at fixing myself, pulling my hair into a ponytail, applying moisturizer, a quick coat of mascara and a few pumps of perfume. The smells make me nauseous.
Dylan’s voice startles me when I tiptoe back into the bedroom.
“You took a shower without me.” He’s lying on his stomach, face-down still, his tight ass enticingly bare. “And you’re dressed already. When I heard the water go off, I was hoping I’d used all the big towels last night and you’d have to use one of those small ones. I was looking forward to seeing you wet in a tiny towel.”
I smile. His head isn’t even lifted off the pillow, yet he’s got a clear visual of what he was hoping to see. I walk to the bed and sit next to where he’s lying. “Sorry to disappoint you, but my flight is in a few hours and I need to get going soon.”
“No, you don’t.”
I’m not sure if he means I don’t need to leave so early or he wants to have another argument about my returning tonight. “Yes, I do.” I hedge. “I’m not sure about Sunday traffic, but the airport is at least half an hour away and my flight is in three hours.”
“You don’t need to be on this afternoon’s flight.” Guess I hedged wrong on what we were arguing about.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
I sigh. “I told you, Dylan. I just started my job and I don’t want to ask for time off so soon.”