Love Songs for the Road

by Farrah Taylor

  Suddenly, Marcus had a funny idea: every time he looked at Ryan, he was going to picture the chubby, grandmotherly Mrs. Janssen. A humorless woman, her whole being seemingly shaped by Montana’s harsh, endless winters—she had been far from tempting. If she’d been a little sweeter with the kids, or a bit less grumpy when asked to work past five p.m., Mrs. Janssen would have been the ideal, i.e. non-enticing, nanny for a single dad. Marcus nearly laughed out loud, picturing her in Ryan’s stead. Yes, he could shut down his sex drive. All he had to do was use his imagination.

  …

  After Spokane, and about a dozen mind-blowing In ‘n’ Out Burgers, Miles fell asleep on Marcus’s chest.

  “You’re really good with them,” Ryan said. Those eyes of hers sparkled, but instead of fierce emeralds, he saw the dull, rheumy eyes of Mrs. Janssen. And where Ryan’s tight jeans hugged her athletic thighs, he pictured the boxy plaid dresses worn by the tough old Swede. It worked—he felt no attraction whatsoever.

  “Is that so surprising?” he asked. “That I’m a halfway decent dad?”

  “No, it’s just…” Ryan said. “Where I come from, people who hire nannies, well, they seem to forget how to deal with their kids at all.”

  “Well,” he admitted, “it’s probably easier to be an amazing dad for eight weeks a year than all the time.”

  “Sure, full-time parenting’s a whole other thing,” she said. “But I’ve seen a lot of bad parents, parents who come home after a long day of work and just don’t want to deal. After a while, they sort of forget how to do it. You don’t seem like one of those.”

  “Are you kidding? Those two are the best thing about my day. Even if I can barely keep my eyes open, I’m going to get my time in with them, believe me.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “It’s true.” He was tempted to tell her about Bianca’s threat, or about his hopes to tip the balances some day and at least get the kids half the time. But he cautioned himself against his usual over-sharing. Instead he said, “What’s hard is that, even when I do have them, I don’t get to spend as much time with them as I’d like to. My lifestyle is awesome in a lot of ways, but it’s far from normal. Things get complicated in a hurry.”

  Ryan looked around her. “Looks pretty amazing—so far, anyway. You’re with your kids and your bandmates, and your staff seem really cool and relaxed. What are the complications?” The Mrs. Janssen in front of him disappeared to reveal again the stunningly gorgeous and sympathetic Ryan. Marcus tried to re-conjure the old woman, but this time it didn’t work. Eye contact with Ryan made him feel like he was a teenager all over again.

  “You’ll see,” Marcus said, nodding toward the horizon. “You’ll see.”

  There was a noise toward the front of the bus, and Ryan craned her neck to get a look at what was going on. “I should probably check on Charlotte,” she said, getting up.

  “Sure, do your thing.” Charlotte was fine. Marcus wished Ryan would stay with him longer. It had been a long time since he’d had a conversation with another adult about something other than his career. And he liked talking about the kids to somebody else who seemed to care. Best of all, he felt in control. He wasn’t over-sharing, and he wasn’t flirting. Closing his eyes, Marcus hoped the nanny would return by the time he opened them again, so that they could keep having this warm, pleasant, but still appropriate chat.

  Chapter Four

  Enter the Rock Star

  The easy-going environment of that first day on the road turned on a dime the second Ryan caught a glimpse of the Seattle skyline. Actually, everything changed before they even hit town. Ryan had been sleeping, Miles’s head on her lap, while a few rows up, Charlotte played Go Fish with Marcus. They had just passed the exit for Rattlesnake Mountain at about nine p.m. when everyone’s (except Ryan’s) cell phones started ringing simultaneously. First, Serena’s, then Smitty’s, then even Charlotte’s (it was her mom, but still), within thirty seconds of each other. Soon enough, Serena was working two phones at once and pacing up and down the aisle like a manic flight attendant. The overwhelmed look on her face made Ryan feel sorry for her, and a little scared for herself.

  “What’s going on?” asked Miles, bleary-eyed.

  “We are officially on tour, little man!” Smitty yelled from two rows up. He wasn’t driving anymore. She wondered what the man did for Marcus, exactly, if he wasn’t the driver. The two seemed to be best friends. Did Marcus give him the job of chief roadie, or what? Smitty, now hands-free and somehow wired even after so many hours behind the wheel, howled like a wolf and came back to high-five a dazed but compliant Miles.

  “Strap on your seat belt, Ryan,” Smitty told her. “That drive was the calm. We’re about to hit the storm.”

  And he wasn’t just talking in metaphors. By the time they crossed the Seattle city limits, thick pellets of rain were coming down on the bus.

  “I love the rain!” Charlotte yelled. Marcus didn’t tell her to quiet down. Everyone was excited, and apparently everything was allowed. In a regular family, the kids would have been asleep hours ago, but it was now eleven p.m., and she could tell it’d be tough to get Charlotte and Miles down after they’d experienced the collective adrenaline high of the Bus of Awesome hitting a big city.

  “You look a little tense,” Marcus teased Ryan. “What are you worried about?”

  “I’m not worried about anything,” she said, trying not to sound defensive. “I’m just tired.”

  “Well, time to wake up. We’re almost at the hotel, and I need you to get the kids inside ASAP, so none of the reporters and the fans start trying to interact with them. That’s my main concern. We need––”

  “But I like the fans,” Charlotte protested.

  “I know you do, sweetie, but we need you to get to bed, so you can be fresh for the first show tomorrow.”

  “Awww,” both kids said in unison at the mention of the word “bed.”

  Ryan knew that even mentioning the b-word was the kiss of death. If Marcus hadn’t used it, she might have whisked the kids into their room and entertained them for a few minutes before the need for sleep took its natural course. But now they’d stay up as late as they could out of pure rebellion. She put on her awake face and contemplated what it meant to be responsible for these two mini-celebrities for the next ten weeks.

  “Come on, guys,” she told the kids. “Let’s do this.”

  On her way down the aisle, Marcus had to turn sideways to let them by. But before he let her pass, he laid his hand on her arm. “Relax,” he said. “We’re not going to war. We’re just checking into a hotel.”

  “Do I look like I’m about to go to war?”

  “You look a little intense, yeah.”

  Marcus only touched her for a moment, but, pushed up against him like this, they were so close, it was hard to stay calm. She looked behind her to see if Smitty, Serena, or anyone else on the bus noticed that she and her boss were basically slow dancing in the aisle, but they were busy getting their things ready. No one even glanced in their direction.

  “Okay, I’ll see you upstairs in a few,” Ryan said, aiming for a look of relaxed confidence.

  But as soon as she was out of the bus, the chaotic scene in front of her did feel a little like war. It was still absolutely pouring, and they didn’t have any umbrellas, so she and the kids were soaked immediately. As she looked for the hotel entrance, dozens of cameras popped and flashed, and without even a jacket to use for cover, she and the kids jogged hand in hand toward the Hyatt Regency.

  As she squinted against the raindrops, a reporter stepped right in front of her, rudely blocking her path, and said, “Hey, sexy, what’s your name?”

  Ryan was stunned. “Would you please get out of my way?” she asked the obnoxious man who, in full rain gear, seemed perfectly happy to detain her, even in a downpour.

  “Sure, hon,” the reporter said. Under his slicker’s hood, he wore Harry Potter glasses that were all fogged up. How did he even know who he wa
s talking to? And why was he calling her hon? “Just tell me your name.”

  “You don’t need to know my name,” she said. “Now will you let me pass?” She turned around, looking for Marcus, hoping her employer could shoo these flies away. He noticed her and smiled in her direction for a beat. But a gaggle of reporters had formed outside the bus, and he turned his attention to them while a miserable-looking Serena held an umbrella over his head.

  “You see that, Benjamin?” asked the photographer at his side, a tall, skinny guy with a big, furry mustache. “Is there a vibe between these two or what?”

  “Totally,” Benjamin said. “Sparks were flying.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Ryan.

  “I thought Marcus was still dating Stephanie Zahedi. But he’s dating you now, isn’t he— What’s your name again?”

  “Whoa, nobody’s dating anybody,” Ryan said. “I’m just the nanny.”

  “For now,” Benjamin said. “For now.” Mustache Man’s flash bulb started firing rounds at her, faster than a semi-automatic. Ryan closed her eyes and saw bright red discs, then opened them again and used her hands to shield the kids from the irritatingly bright lights.

  “What did you say to me?” Ryan asked. She let go of Charlotte’s hand and was about to shove the guy, when Smitty caught her arm.

  “Whoa now, no need for that,” he said. Then, to the reporter, “How about we take it easy on Ryan here, Benny boy? It’s her first day on the crew.”

  “Ryan, huh?” the guy said. “Is she really ‘just the nanny,’ Smits?”

  Mustache Man continued to snap away, the flash-bulb assault unrelenting. Suddenly, two more photographers joined him, and all Ryan could see was white light. She had to get out of there, and fast.

  “She’s a trained child-care professional, Benjamin, and she’s doing a bang-up job.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet she is,” the guy said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Smitty spoke in the most gentlemanly tones, though he towered over the reporter and leaned toward him in a manner that suggested at least the possibility of violence. “Now, I think it’s time for you to give the lady some space so she can do her job.”

  “Fine, fine,” Benjamin said, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture and backing slowly away. “Come on guys.”

  “All rightey, everyone, let’s make a break for it,” Smitty said. Ryan could have hugged him. What a disaster if she had actually shoved the nasty little reporter, and one of the photographers had gotten it on film.

  The reporter, turning back toward the bus, said, “Marcus Troy will tap that within a week,” and the three photographers chuckled cruelly.

  “Steady now,” Smitty cautioned Ryan. Now he had the kids’ hands and was shepherding all of them calmly into the hotel. Still, it took everything Ryan had not to get back in the reporter’s face and supply an answer to his question. So this was what it was like to be a woman associated, even on a strictly professional basis, with a rock star? Was Marcus such a player that any woman within a mile of him was instantly assumed to be sleeping with him?

  “Okay, everybody doing all right?” Smitty asked, once they were inside. Apparently the lobby was a safe zone, the door to the hotel a red line the press wasn’t allowed to cross. Ryan would remember this.

  “Yeah,” the kids said, shrugging. Were they actually so accustomed to this kind of scene that it was no big deal to them anymore? Ryan felt like she had stepped into a foreign culture, with rules and regulations she couldn’t even fathom.

  “How ’bout you, Ryan? All good?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “No biggie.”

  “I could tell.” Smitty winked at her privately. “You need any help, at any time, I got your back, okay?”

  “Thanks, Smitty.” She was grateful the head roadie was such a decent guy. “I will.”

  A concierge appeared alongside Ryan, the kids, and Serena, who had just materialized, as drenched as the rest of them, and escorted them to “the suite.” Marcus must have still been outside. How long was he required, in the midst of a full-blown storm, to talk to those assholes with their cameras and tape recorders?

  In the elevator, Serena dried her hair with a towel, and then offered it to the rest of them. Ryan took it and quickly dried the kids’ hair.

  “What a nightmare, right?” Serena laughed. “Those people are crazy.”

  “Is it like this every night?”

  “I don’t know,” Serena said. “This is my first tour. I’ve only been with Marcus a few weeks.”

  Ryan tried to compose herself. She didn’t want the kids, or Serena, to see just how rattled that reporter had gotten her. “Do you like staying in hotels?” she asked Charlotte.

  “They’re okay,” Charlotte said. “They’re fun at first, but it can get old.” You think? Ryan thought. “It depends on what’s in the fridge.”

  “I’m thirsty,” Miles whined.

  “He got into the mini-bar once and drank one of those little bottles,” Charlotte said.

  “Did you, now?” Ryan asked. She wondered if Marcus knew about that particular stunt.

  When the concierge opened the door to Marcus’s suite, Ryan, much to her own embarrassment, gasped. She had only stayed in a hotel once, when she was thirteen and her parents took her to Disney World and stayed in a Days Inn about forty-five minutes away from the park. Her dad had complained about what the trip was costing him the entire time, and they’d never stayed in a hotel again. A “vacation” to the Evanses meant visiting family in Bozeman or Coeur D’Alene, not traipsing around the globe staying at five-star hotels, so even a regular room in the Hyatt would have impressed her. But this was no regular room. It was a two-thousand-square-foot suite with two enormous bedrooms, a full kitchen and bar, and a fireplace that was currently roaring away.

  “Oh my God,” Ryan said, mouth agog, to Serena.

  “Crazy, right?” Serena said, laughing.

  “This room is as big as my entire house.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s three times the size of my place in LA.” Serena led Ryan around on a tour of the suite. “Marcus showed me the layout already. Are you guys all good? I need to set up the command center.”

  Ryan nodded. “Sure. Do your thing.” Serena had seemed so stressed on the bus, and outside in the rain. Ryan was glad to see she was capable of loosening up.

  Though he’d been out of Ryan’s eyesight for approximately fifteen seconds, Miles had already started jumping up and down on the puffy blue-velvet couch, and he hadn’t taken off his very wet shoes. The concierge was pretending not to melt down.

  “Miles, get down from there, right now,” Ryan said, meaning business without being mean. To her surprise, Miles obeyed her immediately.

  “Not bad,” said the concierge with an admiring smile.

  “Okay, kids, let’s get you settled,” said Ryan, just as a porter brought in their suitcases.

  Her heart was still racing, and she was short of breath. It would be no small task to get herself settled.She looked around her—at the gorgeous couch that probably cost about as much as her dad’s truck, at the enormous bed strewn with a dozen exotic-looking throw pillows—and barely resisted the urge to pull out her phone and start taking pictures. As good as her salary was, the suite probably cost as much per night as she would earn in two weeks.

  She thought she’d felt a vibe with Marcus, his eyes lingering on hers for just a beat too long. But if it hadn’t been obvious before, the suite made it that much clearer—she and her boss came from worlds that couldn’t have been more different. She would be visiting suites like this throughout the summer, she reasoned, but as a nanny, not a guest.

  Enjoy it, she told herself. But don’t get too comfortable.

  …

  Once the impromptu press conference had died down, Marcus got a drink in the hotel bar with James and Amanda, two Seattle-based writers he’d known for more than a decade. These two were a class above
the TMZ punks who’d accosted the crew outside—terrific writers who’d supported him for years. He figured he’d knock back a single Budweiser with them, and still be up in the suite early enough to tuck the kids into bed.

  This was Marcus’s job. He wasn’t much different from a traveling salesman. Like a guy who sold vacuum cleaners or cleaning products door to door, he was on the road all the time. The only difference was that the product he was selling wasn’t Hoover or Lysol. It was Marcus Troy.

  Marcus nursed a single beer, but before he knew it, it was 12:15, so he’d definitely failed at getting up to the room by bedtime. Damn it. Screwed up already. He said his good-byes, gave James and Amanda each a sibling-y hug, and floated over to the elevator. What floor had Serena told him the suite was on?

  Oh, right, someone had slipped him a key. He pulled it out: 2101. He punched the “21” button and thought sleepily, I stuck to one drink. I was a good boy. First night of a tour. Up late, but it’s part of the job. Marcus Troy, traveling salesman…

  Marcus was thankful for the invention of the electronic key as he unlocked the door soundlessly and slipped inside. The living room was dark, but there was light coming from the kids’ bedroom. He pulled off his shoes, set them by the door, and walked toward it.

  He wasn’t surprised that Ryan was still there; it was the sensible thing to do, to put the kids to sleep, then stay in the room with them until he arrived, so they wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night alone. He was surprised, however, at what it felt like to watch her sleeping peacefully, with Miles’s arms and legs entangled in hers, while Charlotte dozed soundly in the second bed. It was nice to be watching the three of them, and to be alone while he did it. He didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t absolutely stunning; he didn’t have to pretend to be serious, or super-professional, or whatever other qualities he was supposed to put on display as her boss.