A Bleu Streak Christmas

by T. I. Lowe

  Taking a deep breath, I scurry out to center stage and am struck dumb at what I find. Dillon and Mave have switched spots. Never have I seen Mave up front, which strikes me as odd. I set the stool down and turn quickly on my heels to escape.

  No such luck. A warm hand stops me. I have a bad feeling…

  “We’ve got a new member to join the Bleu Streak family, and we need to give her a proper welcome tonight.” Mave spins me around in a sort of dance before draping his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close into his sweaty body. The dark T-shirt he’s wearing is wearing him oh so nicely. It’s plastered to him in such an appealing way. “Let’s give it up for Miss Izzy Walker!”

  “Please let me go,” I say, close as I can get to his ear while the crowd shouts and claps.

  He leans down to my ear. “Grace is in the front row. Do this for her. Show her it’s not scary.”

  I can’t even look to the front row for fear of passing out. “It is scary.”

  He acts as though he didn’t hear me. What’s with these Bleu Streak guys and their selective hearing tonight? He picks me up and sets me down on the stool. I’m about to squirm back down, but he stops me.

  “Please.” Tears begin swimming in my vision.

  Mave cups my face so that I have no choice but to meet his dark eyes. “Just focus on me.”

  Even though I’m about to shatter into pieces from panic, one determined look from him brings me back together. It’s only been a little over a week since meeting this man, but the moment our eyes connected that first day on the plane, the beat of my heart wavered to a new rhythm and has yet to return to normal.

  A stagehand offers Mave a tambourine. He doesn’t look away from me for a second as he accepts it. With only the first taps of the tambourine on his hip, the song is obvious. Recognition must be evident on my face, because his breaks out in a gorgeous grin before bringing the mic to his lips. This man is going to sing “Brown Eyed Girl” and I can’t help but swoon. Oh my goodness!

  “Hey, look where we’ve gone,” he begins, changing the lyrics to make it his own. “Days when the band came, so glad you decided to follow…”

  I get lost in his smooth voice for the first time. It’s rich in a tone unique to him and it sends goose bumps all over me. This man is some kind of talented. I’ve never heard him sing lead, but he could totally own the spot.

  As the guys join in with, “Sha, la, la, la, la,” Mave takes to tapping the tambourine against my hip playfully to the rhythm of the song. The audience fades away, leaving me in a world of the music. It’s mesmerizing with Dillon going to town on the drums and Mave crooning out, “You’re mine. All mine, brown eyed doll.”

  Maybe I’m too caught up in the magical moment, but I can almost swear the guy isn’t performing this song—more like he’s declaring me his to the world. Wow, does it feel so much more than that. He keeps emphasizing my and mine with a look that gives no doubt about it.

  “And whatever happens, to us and this show. Never forget pepper man with the persistent vertigo.”

  Laughter bubbles out of me at these lyrics. No. I will never forget. The pranks, the performances, the generosity, and the friendship I’ve found in such a short time have become a permanent part of me. As he sings about how I’ve grown, I can only agree—this unexpected moment in time has been life-altering in only the best of ways.

  They conclude with, “Sha la la, la la, la la, la la, l-la te da.”

  The crowd is back to cheering uncontrollably, beckoning me back to the world beyond this stage and this man. Before I can climb down and run, Mave pulls me to him and places a kiss on my cheek. He does this all the time with Jewels and Grace, but I can’t help but feel special and set apart when he lingers longer with me. It’s an innocent kiss, but it sure does feel like the real welcome.

  Releasing me, Mave turns his attention back to the fans. “Our brown eyed doll, Izzy!” They hoot and holler me all the way off stage.

  “I’m itching to shred some drums. How ‘bout we get Will out here to help me out.”

  They go berserk! It’s evident that Will Bleu already has a substantial fan following. It’s also not slipped my notice that Mave is quick to move the spotlight off himself.

  I steal a quick glance in Max’s direction and find him grinning at me. I stick my tongue out at him before passing him. Tate is also grinning by the edge of the stage, giving away the fact that he was in on this little stunt.

  Whether it’s the effect of Maverick King serenading me unexpectedly or just the atmosphere tonight, my skin has been tingling from the energy of it all night. The miles hum by as I lay in my bunk, reliving the serenade and that closing song. Wow. Just wow.

  With the lights dimmed, Dillon pulled a stool out to the center of the stage and began singing an a cappella rendition of a variety of Christmas carols. His deep, velvety voice quietly sang, “Silent Night,” as Trace walked out with his own stool and joined his voice effortlessly with Dillon’s. As they eased the song into “What Child is This,” Logan added his stool and voice to mix. Both twins had joined the stage by the time the performance moved into “Angels We Have Heard on High.” It was the most breathtaking mix of the carols I have ever been blessed to hear. I’m not so sure if angels straight from heaven could sing it any sweeter. Their voices weaved seamlessly in and out of one another’s on a melody so magnificent it sent wave after wave of goose bumps along my skin.

  I rub my hands over the ever-present rise on my skin now as I keep replaying it all. And the conclusion was such a beautiful experience. One by one, their voices slowly muted as they picked up their stools and exited the stage, leaving Dillon to finish with “Come all Ye Faithful.” These men just blow me away with their talent.

  The rustling of paper from my neighbor’s bunk grabs my attention. Mave writes at night and I’m reluctant to interrupt, but there’s no way sleep will find me while being so keyed up. Easing out of the bunk, I scoot over and knock on the side of the bunk. The papers still as that handsome man peeps out of the curtain, wearing nothing more than one gorgeous grin and dark lounge pants. It’s enough to send me back to my bunk, but he catches my hand and pulls me inside his bunk cubby before I can escape.

  “Doll, you reached out to see me. No way am I letting you run,” he whispers. “What’s up?”

  Readjusting so that I’m sitting and slightly leaning on his leg, I say, “I can’t sleep and…” I eye his tattoos, remembering Jewels asking him for a story. I wonder if we know each other enough for me to ask this of him. It seems the man has one interesting story inked, chapter per chapter, along his body.

  He understands what I want, but am too reluctant to ask. “Which one?”

  My eyes automatically go the eagle, but he folds his arm and places it behind his head, making it clear that one is still off limits. I scan the other arm, but then my eyes land on the ace of diamonds on his ribcage. It’s the only one on his torso, so it must hold a weighty significance. The words inked on the tattered banners running across it are evidence enough of that fact. The top banner states, Every Saint has a Past, and the bottom banner states, Every Sinner has a Future.

  “This one please,” I whisper, as my fingers glide over the brilliant art.

  I’m about to pull my hand away, but Mave captures it and keeps it pressed over the tattoo.

  “This is a promise I made to Dillon and God. Dillon used to sing a cover of Eddie Veddar’s “Rise” declaring it my theme song. It’s about overcoming your past. One of the lyrics talks about throwing my ace in the hole. Do you know what that means?”

  I shake my head.

  “To throw your ace in the hole means to hold something significant in reserve as a hidden advantage. My ace in the hole was my second chance God granted me. Dillon said I needed to throw it down and claim the life I’ve been blessed with. Own up to all the mistakes, but then move on from them. And just as the words state...” He pauses to run my fingertip along the letters. “My past doesn’t have to define me.”
>
  Blinking back tears that his conviction provoked, I look up and say, “You’ve most certainly thrown your ace in the hole. Maverick King, you are eat up with blessings in the form of a gigantic heart and amazing talent. Seriously, how have you not been scooped up by another label for a solo act? Your voice is magnificent.” I’m sort of kidding around about the part of a solo act, but Mave’s firm gaze says a whole lot on the subject.

  He releases my hand and begins sliding the edge of his pants down and I come close to jumping out of my skin.

  “Another tattoo I want to show you,” he reassures me.

  Thank goodness that tattoo is on his nicely defined upper hip. If those pants went down any farther, I would have fallen out on the spot. My eyes land on a masculine script of Ecclesiastes 4:9-10.

  “Each of us in the band has the same tatt in the same spot. Even Jewels has it to remind her we can’t do it without her by our side. Do you know the verse?”

  “Probably, but I can’t recall it.”

  “Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.”

  That’s all he has to say and I’d get it. There will never be a time for any of them to go on their own.

  “We’re a package deal. They are my brothers and we’ve sworn to never leave one another’s side. There was a time the guys could have been done with me and I wouldn’t have blamed them, but they wouldn’t. Dillon promised to never leave me, if I promised to get better.”

  “Were you sick?”

  “In a sense. Got caught up with drugs. Stupid part of my past, and for tonight, I’d rather leave it there.”

  His voice holds all kinds of regret, and I hate that I dragged that up. I ease over and place a kiss on his cheek to help push it away. The warmth of his stubbly skin is a place I’ve grown attached to visiting and I have to forcefully leave it.

  “Thank you for tonight.” I smile and look into his hooded eyes, and they are just the dreamiest pair of eyes…

  “Doll, you’ve got the sweetest of kisses.” He returns the favor to my cheek, sending my entire body back up in flames while at the same time shivers evoke from me. This must encourage him, because those lips go to exploring my jaw and onto my neck. I can barely breathe by the time he reaches my earlobe.

  “If this is how good we are together by mere kisses to the cheek, baby, can you imagine how delicious it’s going to be when you allow me a taste of those lips?” His voice is raspy with a challenging edge to it.

  I don’t know if I’m ready to go anywhere near taste-testing those provocative lips. It’s downright scary in the most alluring way. He knows this too and abandons his hold on me—leaving an instant longing in his place.

  “Good night,” I whisper, sitting up and sliding out of his bunk.

  “Yes, it is.”

  I don’t look back at him; if I do, I may cave. Maverick King definitely leaves me wanting more. I’m just not sure how much either one of us is willing to give just yet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mave

  “Wake up, suckers!” Trace and his morning-person-perk rubs me wrong. He should keep quiet until at least noon.

  The bus isn’t moving, so I know we’ve closed the short distance up north to Nashville. Rubbing my forehead, I go over the itinerary and the next stop clarifies to me. West Virginia for Christmas. This trip is going by way too fast. Once we’re home, it’s back in the studio for a new album and Dillon wants my songs to carry it. It’s a heavy decision weighing on me. I know it’s already made, because there’s no way he’s going to let me chicken out. Besides that, I owe it to him and the band.

  All it takes is the sounds of Izzy’s curtain sliding open to get me moving mine open, too. I smile over at her as she sits on the edge of her bed, finger-combing all that fair hair. Never have an oversized T-shirt and pink night pants looked so attractive. Her pouty lips smile back as she squints those sleepy peeps.

  “Morning, doll.”

  “Good morning.”

  The need to touch her is too strong, so I hunch in a sitting position on the bunk and offer her my hand. She accepts it and starts running her velvety soft fingertips over my rough ones. My sticks are close to being permanent extensions of my body and the years of owning them have worn a path in skin. My other hand starts its daily tune, by tapping a beat on the edge of the bed with my free hand as I enjoy the feel of her exploring the long map of music on my palm.

  “Music is always playing through you, isn’t it?” she whispers.

  As the beat slows, I nod and smile my answer. This woman really notices and seems to really get me. More than that, she seems pretty accepting—even with what I’ve shared with her. I wouldn’t blame her for running the other way.

  “Izzy, I wouldn’t touch that hand if I was you. No telling where it’s been,” Trace says as he rushes back on the bus. He thinks he’s funny.

  I guess Izzy does, too, since she giggles and releases my hand.

  My foot reaches out and trips the sucker as he passes me, causing him to face-plant in the aisle none too quietly. Serves him right for ruining the moment.

  “Dude! Can y’all cause any more racket?” Tate grumbles from above me.

  “I’ll make breakfast if you guys let me shower first.” She smiles hopefully. All the babe has to say is “I’m cooking” and she could have anything she wants.

  “The shower is yours,” Tate mumbles again.

  She hops up and leaves me, so I lie back down and doze with images of those gorgeous eyes twinkling at me…

  Today’s one of those days with way too much downtime. We’re imprisoned behind the gate at the arena until the concert. I should have snuck out with Izzy and Blake whether Ben agreed or not. I scan the gate and find a sea of cameras trained on the bus, where the paparazzi have set up camp. Of course, this has garnered an early showing of the fans, also. Translation—the band is on lockdown.

  I’ve already tapped on my crowd’s last nerve, so while I hit the bathroom, the jerks hid my sticks.

  “Seriously, I thought you were swearing off chicks for a while,” Max says around a mouthful of ice cream.

  I steal a bite with my spoon, glad he’s sharing the gallon with us. Yeah, so now for kicks, the guys have taken to grilling me about Izzy. FUN!

  “I’ve not dated in the last year. That last one ‘bout broke me altogether for wanting to date. Psycho.” I shudder at the memory. That’s the thing about those plastic chicks—all nice to begin with, then moves to clingy, then on to her wanting me to buy her a flipping car and a house and all kinds of crap.

  “True that,” Max says. He should know. Dude had to call the cops on said Psycho one night when she showed up and refused to leave.

  “Besides, I said I was done with chick drama. Izzy doesn’t speak enough to stir drama. Anyhow, she’s cool.”

  “I feel ya bro,” Logan comments while texting. He’s found his girl. Brooke is a cool one, too. They’re making it official after we wrap up recording this spring.

  The gallon finally gets passed back to me, so I let them say what they want while I dig several bites out of the fudge ripple. People would probably laugh if they knew we pass an ice cream tub around instead of a liquor bottle.

  “Izzy’s great. Just don’t screw it up.” Dillon points his spoon at me in warning.

  He tends to act like my old man. He’s been filling those shoes since we were kids, so I guess he’s earned the right to point.

  “There’s nothing to screw up.” That felt like a flat-out lie. Having my fill of ice cream, I pass the tub on to Trace. “I just met the chick.”

  “It sure doesn’t look like nothing to me. The both of you been dancing around each other with stars in your lovesick eyes.” Trace dorks out by making kissing sounds.

  “Enough about that.” It’s time for a new subject—fast. “How do y’all propose we slink around
Nashville tonight with the paparazzi hot on our trails?”

  “Ben’s already saying to let Blake and Tate handle it,” Dillon answers begrudgingly. We all grumble in return.

  “That sucks. We’re supposed to be handling that.” Max glares out the window, towards the jerks responsible for putting a kink in our plans.

  His glare moves to curiosity and then settles into a pondering look. I already know what he’s thinking.

  “How can we pull off a prank stuck in here?” I ask him.

  “I’m trying to figure it out.” He starts chewing his nails, indicating just how deep he’s digging in his hat for an idea.

  “You guys better outthink him or you’ll be in trouble,” Jen grumbles from her bed.

  We all look down the hall, and I can’t get over how she looks like a stick with a beach ball attached midway. She’s pregnant-miserable and seems to need to lay up a lot. Rubbing my flat gut, I’m mighty glad that mess only happens to females. It looks painful.

  I wait for Max to mouth off at her, but he doesn’t. Wow. The idiot is being wise for a change. That’s another thing about being this far pregnant, everybody is scared of her. She’ll bark at you one minute and be crying the next, and I want no part in either option.

  “Let’s order them some super-spicy treats,” Logan offers with a chuckle.

  “Not funny,” Max mutters, still focused on the scene outside the window.

  Something is going down on our watch, so I sit back and get to thinking. I’m sure folks think grown men goofing around the way we do is cheesy and immature. The way we look at it, life is way too serious not to be able to rebel and laugh at it. So who cares what people think? Laughing sure feels good.

  We all grow silent for a spell, but before we come to a prank conclusion, Ben bustles in.

  “No.” He says this rather sternly as he runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair that is leaning heavy on the salt these days. Dude is only a few years older than us, but I’m sure we are personally responsible for each of those gray hairs. I know I’ve added a chunk all on my own.