A Bleu Streak Christmas

by T. I. Lowe

  “You’ve been seated between the twins. They’re thieves.” He walks us over to the front of the room to our reserved table, and sure enough, the little place card with my name on it sits between Max and Mave. Logan helps me onto my chair before leaving me to fend for myself.

  The hushed Christmas carols playing mingle with soft conversation among the guests at my table. We are all able to be sit together, which is a relief to me. I’m finally getting more relaxed around this group and find myself getting attached to each one.

  A waiter walks up to the table to begin double-checking drink and main course orders. Jewels had the lobster ordered for me and I’m fine with iced water, making me an easy guest. The guy stops at Mave and here’s where complication seems to be waiting. His chair is scooted close to mine and the warmth of his arm across the back of my chair is very nicely warding off the chill from my exposed shoulders.

  “Sir, your order doesn’t specify which main course you would like.”

  “Because I want them both.”

  “Both?” The waiter seems confused.

  “Yeah. I’m starving.”

  “But it’s five grand a plate?” He forms it into a question. He doesn’t sound rude about it, just unsure.

  “Yep,” Mave says in response, his fingers tapping the top of the table along to the beats of the music playing. I’ve noticed those hands don’t still very often.

  The waiter glances down at the card in his hand before looking over to Max. “I guess that’s your wish as well, Mr. King?”

  “Straight up.” Max nods his head.

  “And tea for you both?”

  “Is it sweet?” Mave asks.

  “No, sir. But we have sweeteners available.”

  “Y’all brewing the tea back in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter answers slowly, still unsure.

  Mave gets up. “Come on then. Show me the way to the kitchen.”

  With that, both men beeline to the back of the building.

  A good ten minutes pass before Mave and the waiter return, both carrying two pitchers of tea. They place the pitchers on our table, and then Mave offers the waiter a fist bump.

  “Y’all made us some real tea?” Dillon asks with excitement.

  “Yes, sir. And it’s the best tea I’ve ever tasted,” the waiter answers as he pours us all a glass before scurrying away.

  “You know how to make tea?” I ask Mave.

  He takes a big swig before answering. “Yep. My momma taught me how after we moved out to L.A. for a while. They don’t know how to make tea there either.” He wrinkles his handsome nose.

  Dinner is served shortly after this, and I learn real quick-like what Logan meant earlier. One minute Max is asking me something while the cucumbers on my salad disappear. The next, Mave is telling me something while my roll vanishes. I’ve just caught Max red-handed with a forkful of my potatoes.

  I raise my fork up menacingly—well, I hope it’s menacing—and say, “You swipe one more thing from my plate and I’m gonna stab you.” He raises his hands in surrender, causing Mave to chuckle. I turn my glare towards him next. “And that goes for you as well.”

  They behave the rest of the meal.

  Lingering over coffee and dessert, I ask Mave, “So, when are y’all getting on the stage?”

  Shaking his head while polishing off his second slice of cheesecake, he says, “Not tonight. There’s a better band booked.”

  I eye him, but before I can question any further, a speaker takes the podium and addresses the guests. “Thank each and every one of you who have come out to support this grand cause tonight. Bleu Streak formed the charity Music Notes just shy of a decade ago and I’ve personally witnessed the fruit of their giving. Tonight you will also. Music Notes has distributed numerous scholarships and five young women who were recipients will show the fruits of their own labor. Your contributions tonight will ensure more children and young adults get the opportunity to see their dreams come true. On behalf of Bleu Streak, I thank you.”

  “Who’s that?” I ask Max.

  “That’s Bernard Rivers. He’s our lawyer as well as the chairman of our charity.”

  The lights dim as the small stage is illuminated. An all-girl band stands in wait and the place erupts in applause.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce the newly-signed band under Bleu Streak’s personal label, Virtue.”

  As we clap and all the guys holler like crazed fans, the girl on the electric guitar strums the opening chords of The Waitresses famous song “Christmas Wrapping” before they launch into a spunky cover of it. We all make it to our feet and close in on the stage.

  “They’re really good!” I holler over to Dillon, who is standing beside me.

  He grins down at me, producing those dang swoon-worthy dimples. That Jewels is one lucky girl.

  The young girls, who I’m guessing are fresh into college, rock out for the next hour as we dance around the floor. They slow things down with one of their very own and Mave asks me to dance, making my night.

  “I’m liking these heels. Brings those gorgeous eyes closer,” he says as we slowly glide in a circle, with his arms securely around my waist.

  My cheeks heat, so I duck my head and rest it on his shoulder. I can’t resist inhaling several breaths of his crisp, citrusy cologne. The man smells yummy.

  “And I like this tux. Looks nice on you,” I say without looking up.

  “Hides most of my tatts. I almost look presentable.” He chuckles.

  Looking up, I say, “I like your artwork.”

  “Do you now? Well, doll, I think I like everything about you.”

  And there go my cheeks back to blazing. Mave makes it no better when he starts tracing the heat of my cheek with the back of his fingers. We abandon words and just enjoy the dance until the girls finish and the guys go to congratulate them. I stand back and take it all in. What an extraordinary way to share their own blessings—by giving others a great chance at their own desired blessings.

  Tonight, we exit the exquisite warehouse and are welcomed by snow flurries. The ambiance is so celebratory and the snow is just so fitting. Everyone takes a moment to appreciate the whirling white confetti before climbing into the limos. We reach the lake house and before I can enter with the rest of the group, Mave offers me his tuxedo jacket and his hand.

  “Come dance with me,” he whispers close to my ear as he helps me pull on the coat still clinging to his warmth.

  He leads me around the house and onto the dock, and then we begin dancing to the rhythm of the hushed water lapping underneath our feet. Snuggling close to his neck, I feel oddly at home in this rock star’s embrace. The unhurried dance continues and the enchanting snow seems to capture us in our own little bubble.

  With the delicate white flakes whirling around us in the dark, I feel something I’ve never felt before. It’s a sensation of falling and floating at the same time. It’s peculiar and a little frightening, and I think I really like it.

  •♫•♫•♫•

  It’s hard to believe we were building a snowman in Chicago just this morning before dawn at a lovely lake house and are now unloading at a posh hotel in New Orleans. The craziest part is that we are only here for the day and not even staying the night. I find that to be the wildest thing, but the band wanted everyone to have some space before having to load up on the tour buses later tonight.

  A knock sounds at my door, so I abandon my dawdling around to answer it. Opening the door, I find Mave propped on the doorframe, looking a cross between the rock star he is and a hippie—T-shirt, zip-up hoodie with a grey military-style jacket on top, torn jeans, and Converse snickers. A hat is pushed low on his head, shrouding those dark eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from closing the space to regard them under the brim.

  “Ready?” he asks, waving a list around.

  “You’re helping me shop today?”

  “The Bleu crowd is handling most of it, but there’s something
special I’d like for us to handle together.”

  Well, I really like the sound of that and can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

  “Awesome. The driver is already waiting on us.”

  I grab a jacket and shoulder bag before heading out. We emerge to the valet parking area where a black SUV sits waiting with a driver already holding the back door open for us.

  “Mr. King,” he says, nodding slightly.

  “Mr. Jones,” Mave says, offering his hand.

  “Just call me Kent,” he offers along with his hand.

  “As long as you call me Mave and this lady Izzy, we’re good.” Mave nods in my direction.

  “Yes, sir.” Kent grins widely. He’s still waiting for us to load up, but Mave makes no move to do so.

  “Say, Kent. I got a special favor.”

  The smile slips from the driver’s face. I’m sure he’s used to all kinds of weird demands from celebrities thinking they’re entitled.

  “Yes, sir?” He definitely forms it into a question.

  “I’ve been stuck on a plane all morning. It would be really tight if you’d let me drive.”

  Now Kent looks completely skeptical. I’m feeling the same way with the idea of Mr. Accident-prone at the wheel. Plus, what’s the point in hiring a private driver if you don’t let him drive?

  “My assistant already okayed it with your boss.”

  “Umm…” The poor guy is looking around for an answer that’s not coming to him.

  “Go ahead and call. In the meantime, load up with Izzy, so we can hit it.”

  Mave doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he eases around to the driver’s door and climbs in—leaving me and Kent staring after him in bafflement. I shrug my shoulder over to the confused guy and climb on in.

  Once we’re loaded, our surprise chauffeur merges into traffic and drives on as though he’s lived in New Orleans all of his life. Maybe he has some. Who knows?

  Kent mumbles a hushed conversation into his phone with his boss. From the sounds of it, Mave gets his way for the day.

  In no time flat, he pulls up to a mall and we strike out with our list. As the day moves on, Mave goes undetected and we are able to knock out our list. Bags are mostly filled with an assortment of high-tech electronics and clothes. Mave specially orders a remote control helicopter and the gasp escaped me before I could stop it at the money he handed over for it. Nothing has been in the thousands on my lists so far.

  He shrugged his shoulder at my reaction and mumbled, “It’s just money.”

  And I guess for a world-renowned rock star that’s all it is… Just money…

  Hand in hand, we are approaching the exit within an hour of arriving. I’m relieved to be done so soon, until a high-pitched squeal sounds from behind us. I know before knowing.

  “Mave King!” a girl screams out, almost sounding to be in pain. More shrieks join in with her. We are surrounded by a mass of teenage girls in an instant.

  On instinct, or maybe self-preservation, I snatch his shopping bags and make a run for it—leaving him to fend for himself.

  Kent is standing by the SUV when I emerge from the mall. Pointing impatiently behind me, I screech, “Mave! They’re attacking him!”

  Kent somehow understands my frantic gibberish and takes off running into the mall. I fling myself into the back and try regaining some composure. That was terrifying!

  My patience is coming close to running out. They’re taking too long. Should I call for help? Should I go back in there? No. Not doing that. There is no appeal in that option. Before I can reach a decision, the door yanks open. A scream slips out as a tattered mess of Mave dives in. Gone are his hat, coat, and hoodie. Them crazies almost claimed his shirt as well. Only shreds of it remain.

  Outside, there’s the wild mass of girls tapping on the window, crying and screaming. Thank goodness, Kent mans the wheel and gets us the heck out of here.

  “These New Orleans chicks don’t play around. Very direct…” I mutter, trying to slow my heartrate.

  “You should try some of that on for size,” he says.

  I’m not clear if he’s teasing. “It won’t fit,” I say, thinking about those stick figures we just abandoned.

  “Yeah. You’re right. Those personalities would be a bit too big for your little self, but it wouldn’t hurt to maybe fit some confidence in all that sweetness of yours.” Thankfully, he redirects his attention to the driver as my cheeks blare my response.

  “Kent, my man, I don’t know about you, but that just worked up a mean appetite.”

  Kent chuckles. “Yes, sir. Anything specific?”

  “Where’s the best place to get authentic creole cooking?” Mave asks.

  Kent’s wide grin reflects in the rearview mirror. “I know just the place, and you won’t have to worry about being attacked.”

  “Perfect.” Mave chuckles as he tries taming his locks back down some. His hair should be the least of his worries.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Just a little worse for the wear.”

  His shirt is so stretched out at the collar that it hangs off his right shoulder. There are actual chunks missing out of the fabric. How on earth does a shirt tear like that?

  I summon some courage and speak up, “Kent, can you make a pit stop at a clothing store? I need to pick our tattered drummer up something to wear.”

  Both guys laugh.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kent answers as he switches lanes.

  If I thought the day was already enough of an adventure, well, I was wrong. Over lunch at Kent’s family’s restaurant—where he tucks us in a private dining room and Mave insists he join us—Mave gets Kent to talking about his son Jence. It’s obvious he’s a proud daddy. Then they get on the subject of Mave’s tattoos over spicy gumbo, and Kent admits he has always wanted one.

  The next thing I know, Mave chauffeurs us over to his buddy’s tattoo parlor and treats Kent to his first tattoo. He gets a Chinese symbol signifying health on his left shoulder.

  The day tries to get away from us, so I have to remind Mave about the preconcert radio interview to get us back on track. I’m on copilot duty up front with Mave as we head back to the hotel. I keep stealing peeks at Kent in the back. His smile is infectious and won’t even relent as he munches on fresh beignets.

  Smiling myself, I dig Mave another fried treat out of the greasy bag and hand it over to him. Needless to say, we are both dusted with powder sugar. A few stoplights back, Mave watched me with such rapt attention as I ate one of the beignets, he totally ignored the greenlight. When I asked him what was wrong, he muttered something sounding a lot like that was the sexiest thing he ever witnessed. My ears could have heard him wrong, but my cheeks flashed hot knowing I didn’t.

  The hotel comes into sight just as the bag empties. Mave pulls up to the curb and says, “Kent, my man, this has been one tight day.” We both turn to look at the chauffeur in the back.

  Staring into his greasy bag, Kent clears his throat. “Been one of the best days I’ve had in a really long while, sir. Thank you.” Sounds of his sniffles follow him as he quickly exits the back.

  After we gather our bags and say our goodbyes, we head into the hotel.

  “Chauffeuring the chauffeur,” I say as we walk through the lobby.

  Mave shrugs his shoulders. “Everyone deserves a day off. Plus, I was really in the mood to drive.”

  “You most certainly march to the beat of your own drum.” There’s plenty of irony in this statement.

  “I don’t just march to it, doll. I compose the beats first.” He raises an eyebrow as the elevator doors whirl open. Saying nothing more—really, does he need to?—Mave ushers me inside and sends the elevator way up.

  The ride to our floor is silent as a few things click into place for me. Once we arrive to my door, I ask, “Kent wasn’t a coincidence, was he?”

  He tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels. “Tate may have done some homework.” A happy glint s
hines in his dark eyes.

  I hold up the shopping bags. “The Christmas Ninjas are visiting him and his family tonight, aren’t they?”

  “Well done, Watson.” He bows slightly, causing a brown lock to graze his forehead. This time I don’t resist the urge. I reach up and tuck it back into the tousled style he totally owns.

  “There’s something more to the story, though.”

  All of the joy erases from his handsome features as he nods his head. “Kent’s son is very sick. Been battling a rare disease for the last few years. They’re struggling financially on top of that.” He nods his head before turning away.

  I replay the day through my mind with Mave intentionally treating this deserving man to a day off when he could have chosen to chill in his hotel room.

  Emotions overwhelm me as I watch him head down the hall.

  “Maverick.”

  He turns back, so I drop the bags and act on those emotions. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I press a kiss to his cheek. This bad boy drummer just touched my heart in the sweetest way—much sweeter than those beignets.

  The smile teasing the corners of his lips has me backtracking with not just cheeks blazing, but my neck, too. Before I can flee through my door, he stops me by grabbing my hand.

  “That was the sweetest kiss, doll. I bet lip to lip, it could get a whole lot sweeter.” He winks before releasing my hand and sauntering away.

  I’m thinking more on the lines of it getting sinful, but I hold my tongue and hide in my room until it’s time for the concert.

  Chapter Nine

  Mave

  Idling in a private back lot of the arena, our tour buses sit twinkling blue from crazy-cool running lights—Blake did good on those bad boys. Something about the sound of the two diesel beasts rumbling always causes my skin to tingle with anticipation.

  Blake and Tate took care of Ninja duties tonight since we had Kent and his family in the front row at the concert. Dillon even pulled his son on stage at one point and sung the littles dude’s favorite Christmas song on the fly. “Jingle Bells” was knocked out with all of us manning tambourines that Izzy hustled to gather from our stock at the last minute. That chick is always on it. Nothing slack about her.