Bo & Ember

by Andrea Randall

  “It sure is in a fancy little package, isn’t it?” Tyler arched an eyebrow.

  “Hey,” I sat forward, “you’re supposed to be gay!”

  Bo and Tyler laughed in unison, and for a split second I saw two high school seniors laughing in the back of the football bus.

  Tyler put his hand on my shoulder. “That I am, my darling, but I sure as hell ain’t blind.”

  “You think Yardley is pretty? She doesn’t strike me as your female type,” I challenged.

  “Of course she’s pretty. She’s a ripe Georgian peach ready for the picking.” Bo shook his head and looked down with a grin as Tyler continued. “But that’s not what I mean. She’s just so … so stereotypically put together. I’ve never seen her with a hair or an eyelash out of place. Her lips move perfectly when she speaks and her head is nestled on her neck like a pageant queen herself put it there.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “That’s … observant.”

  The truth was, I’d noticed all of those things about Yardley myself. It was interesting to get a male perspective though, even if it was a gay one.

  Tyler shrugged and stood. “I just kind of want to be around when her perfect little head pops off.”

  “What are you talking about?” I stood and brought my plate to the sink.

  Tyler took a deep breath and his eyes flickered to Bo for a split second, though I could have imagined that. “No one that perfect can keep it up for long. I only know that because there is no such thing as perfect. Most of us just crawl along doing the best we can and try to hurt as few people in the process.”

  He looked down for a moment then seemed to force a smile as he looked back up. “Well, Ember, talk over those floor choices with Bo, and shoot me an email when you can. I’ll keep you guys informed next week with texts and pictures, and all that good stuff. Go, be rock stars. I’ll maintain the fabulous here in Concord while you bring it to the city.”

  “Thank you, Tyler.” In an unguarded moment as far as Tyler and I were concerned, I gave him a tight hug. I knew I was hugging him for more than I had information on, but I think we both needed that hug.

  “No problem. Bo,” he mock-saluted Bo, who rose and stuck out his hand to shake Tyler’s, “see you at the end of next week.”

  Tyler left and Bo and I cleaned up lunch and prepared for our final Concord recording session with Beckett and Yardley.

  “You know,” Bo said as he stuffed the last of the baby carrots in his mouth, “working with Beckett hasn’t been so bad.”

  I snorted. “Are you disappointed that none of your horror stories came true?”

  “What stories?”

  I looked to Bo out of the corner of my eye. “Oh, I don’t know, that he and I would suddenly wake up seventeen and in bed together again?”

  Bo bit his bottom lip and playfully smacked my butt. “You’re such a smartass, you know that?”

  “You’ve got a board meeting tomorrow, right?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Bo leaned against the counter and rubbed his hand over his face as he yawned. “Yes. This is the quarterly one. I won’t have to leave as early as I did this morning, but I’ll be gone through the middle of the day, easily.”

  “I think I’m gonna take a drive down to Barnstable and hang out with Monica. I know we’ll only be in the city for a week, but I still haven’t seen that much of her.”

  “That sounds good. You know you don’t need to, like, ask my permission for that. Even if I was going to be here all day you could have gone.” He pushed off the counter and walked to the basement door, holding it open for me as he loosened his tie.

  “Are you recording in your suit?” I asked, hopefully.

  “I hadn’t really thought about what I was wearing.” He looked down, seeming surprised that he was still in his business clothes.

  “Keep it on. It’s hot.” I kissed the side of his cheek, right by his ear, and let my lips linger there for a minute.”

  Bo sighed as I felt his cheeks heat. “Don’t start, Mrs. Cavanaugh. It’d be embarrassing to finish while Beckett and Yardley are here."

  I giggled and walked through the door. As I descended the stairs, I continued my train of thought. “I know, but we haven’t really spent much quality time together outside of the bedroom in the last couple of weeks. I just want to make sure we’re checking in with each other. You’ve been pretty busy with DROP.”

  “They’re happy to have me back on Eastern soil, that’s for sure. But, since we’ll be on tour this summer … or whatever … there’s lots of work that needs to be done for the upcoming spring and summer programs. I like to have my hands on that whenever possible. The last thing I want to be is a director-at-large. It’s my organization, and I want to run it.” Bo’s voice was filled with a mix of passion and determination.

  “I know, love. I just want to make sure you’re not going to burn yourself out. We’ve had a lot of change in the last month, and—”

  Bo stopped me with a hard kiss on the lips. “I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he said when he finally pulled away.

  Standing in the middle of the studio, it was hard not to believe him. Everything about him became more vibrant when surrounded by sheets of music and guitar strings. Bo and I took a few moments to tune our voices and instruments before Yardley and Beckett arrived to round out this week’s recording session.

  “He didn’t really seem different to me the last time we were there, but he hardly says anything as it is.” Monica grabbed two popsicles from the freezer as she brewed ginger tea. Her nausea, it seemed, was far from subsiding.

  I plucked the green popsicle from her hand. “I know I probably read too much into it, and projected my own anxieties, and all of that, but I’m glad he seems better now.”

  “Eh,” Monica waved her hand, “it’s married life, right? Ups and downs. Drama, good and bad, is like the pulse of life. Without it, how would we distinguish between the two?”

  I nodded in agreement as I sucked on the frozen treat.

  Monica poured her tea and met me at the table. “Have you gotten to the bottom about Tyler and Bo’s history yet?”

  “No.” I sat forward, placing my elbows on the table. “Honestly, I don’t know if I even want to. It’s kind of tagged as a “let sleeping dogs lie” thing in my brain right now.”

  "You want some ginger tea?”

  “No, I hate ginger.” I scrunched my nose and stuck out my tongue.

  “The only hippie in the United States that hates ginger…” Monica gestured to me as if we were in a crowd of people.

  I stood and walked to her cabinet, pulling down some peppermint rose tea.

  Monica’s eyes focused on the tiny box. “And where the hell did that come from?”

  I laughed. “I brought it here the last time I came. I knew you’d never drink it, so I stuck it in the back.”

  “Are you offended by my tea?” Monica teased.

  I steeped the silk bag and walked back to the table. “So, I’m impatient. When are we going to start looking pregnant?”

  She rested her cheek on her closed fist. “I feel like I’m a thousand pounds. It’s like having three periods worth of bloat at once. Seriously. I don’t know, though. I hope soon so I can just move into leggings. Jeans are my enemy at the moment.”

  “When do you get to find out what you’re having?”

  The tight sarcasm in Monica’s lips shifted into the softest smile I’d ever seen on her. “January sometime.”

  My eyes filled with tears again. “We’re in February, I think. God, I’m so happy for you guys.”

  Monica shed a rare tear as she sipped her tea. “I’m happy for us. How ridiculous is this? Oh! You had an appointment yesterday, right?”

  “Yes!” I jumped to my feet and retrieved the pictures from my bag. “They look just like yours, but … you know.”

  “Did you hear the heartbeat?” Monica asked as she smiled at my pictures.

  I nodded, feeling that comforting
warmth circle through my bones. I took a long sip of my tea and smiled.

  “Motherhood looks good on you, Ember. I gotta say, you’re like a whole new person since you got knocked up.”

  I snorted, causing me to sputter on my delicious—and expensive—tea. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “It’s true.” Her eyes bugged out. “You’re all extra calm and graceful. You know what? You’re all Raven-like these days.”

  I tilted my head and smiled. “Bo said the same thing.”

  “Do they know yet?” Monica asked of my parents.

  I shook my head. “Soon.”

  She knew of our plans with Grounded Sound and when we wanted to tell everyone.

  “Just make sure you tell them before they hear it on the news.”

  “No shit. All right, I gotta go.” I stood and brought my teacup to the sink and tossed my popsicle stick in the trash.

  “Rock New York, super star.” Monica saluted me with her empty popsicle stick.

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. “You’re sick.”

  “I probably will be in a few minutes,” she joked as I shut the door.

  Ember

  “That drive was easy,” Bo remarked as we made our way to Grounded Sound’s studio in the heart of New York City.

  “I’m glad you drove. I hate city driving.” We ascended the stone steps that led into the well-maintained brownstone.

  It was a gorgeous building. From what Bo and I could surmise from our Internet snooping, the Honeywell family had invested in Yankee real estate since the Civil War when they moved money there to protect their assets. Further digging showed before and after pictures of the Honeywell plantation after it was burned to the ground and they rebuilt in Savannah, where the family home still stands.

  After the rebuild, it seems, the family had their hands in everything—arts, entertainment, business … a broad investment plan designed, no doubt, to continue protecting their assets. Over the past thirty years, they’d found a way to combine the three, and Grounded Sound Entertainment was born.

  I had a new respect for Yardley, and the kind of stock she came from, but it didn’t do anything to quell the curiosity of what might lie beneath her facade.

  We were buzzed in and greeted by a friendly receptionist who looked like she was cut from the same cloth as Yardley. Brunette, but with a perfectly polished bob and a set of white pearls to match her pageant-like teeth.

  “You can head right down to Studio A on your right.” The young woman with an ID badge that read “Brielle” handed us our own visitor passes that doubled as card access for the studios. Ours didn’t say visitor, though. I grinned as I read the word “Talent” in bold letters.

  “Thank you,” Bo and I said in unison.

  Brielle smiled at both of us, but her eyes twinkled just a bit more when she nodded to Bo.

  From GS’s website, we knew this was a four-story building with two studios in the basement, one on the main floor, offices on the second floor, and what we could only guess was an apartment on the top floor for when Yardley or her family came into town. This was as professional an operation as I’d ever seen, and it intrigued me that it all took place behind the facade of a row of brownstones.

  “Have you talked to Regan?” Bo asked as we moved down the short, narrow hallway.

  I held my ID badge over the swipe pad next to Studio A’s door. “No. I called him the other day when we found out about this trip, but he didn’t—”

  The door clicked as it unlocked, and my sentence was cut short as I opened the door and found Regan talking with two people I didn’t know as they stood casually around a set of microphones.

  “Regan!” I squealed as I rushed over to him and gave him a hug. It had only been a few weeks since we’d seen each other, but with all the time we’d spent together the past year, it felt like an eternity.

  Regan’s arms tightened around me and he lifted me a few inches off the ground. “Hey you!”

  Once he set me down, he and Bo engaged that manly handshake-hug thing they always did.

  Regan took a step back and gestured to who I assumed were the other members of the band. “Bo and Ember, I’d like you to meet the other two massively talented members of Celtic Summer. This is Chris. He’s lead vocals and occasional percussion.”

  A roughly five-foot-eleven, broad-shouldered Chris shook my hand. His brown hair was shorn into a tight buzz cut, and below the hem of his grey short sleeves, I saw the makings of an insanely intricate tattoo. His eyes were clear blue and he had a small gap between his front two teeth.

  “Nice to meet you.” He spoke with a tinny rasp that I knew had to drive the women crazy.

  “And,” Regan continued, “this is Shaughn. She’s vocals and guitar.”

  Shaughn was a very petite five-foot-two, or so, with a fire-red pixie cut. She didn’t look frail in any way, though, and her strong handshake cast away any lingering doubts.

  She spoke in a syrupy-thick Irish accent. “Nice to meet you both. Regan talks a lot about you.”

  “Great accent!” I cheered excitedly. I was riding high on adrenaline and happiness.

  “Thanks,” she said in a purely American accent as she sighed heavily.

  “Wait,” Bo cut in. “What happened to the accent? Which is the accent?”

  Shaughn smiled. “Both. I was born in Athlone and lived there till I was in high school. My parents divorced and I moved with my mom to Chicago. I went back to Athlone every summer, though, and still go every chance I get. So my accent is usually muted, but, for Celtic Summer, it’s dialed way back to my middle school days.”

  “Was that your choice or the labels?” I questioned.

  “It was Yardley’s idea. She heard me talking when I was drunk one night and told me to keep talking like that.” Shaughn grinned mischievously, and suddenly I had the urge to drag her to a pub and hear every story that sat behind her dark green eyes.

  Several minutes later, Yardley entered the studio, followed by what looked to be her parents, from pictures we’d seen on the Internet. They were the most fascinating pair of socialites I’d ever seen. Their crisp dark clothing was a nod to their Manhattan interests, but Mrs. Ginger Honeywell’s expertly pinned French twist and flawless pearls gave away her southern address.

  Studio A at Grounded Sound was special in that it had the standard recording room and control room, but there was another room as a part of the floor plan that housed a viewing/listening area. A soundproof glass window allowed the musicians and the audience to see one another, but kept unnecessary noise out of the recording room. The listening room was equipped with one-way speakers, and looked like it could seat ten to fifteen people comfortably.

  For the morning, Bo and I, and Celtic Summer, were to take turns recording, while the other group had the opportunity to sit in the listening room. It was important, Yardley reminded us, to get familiar with each other's styles. Since we’d be on tour together and giving interviews and talking with fans, it was imperative that we could be supportive of one another by talking up one another's strengths, and to be able to discuss similarities and differences in our sounds. Yardley had discussed that at least three groups would be on tour this coming summer, but neither Celtic Summer, nor Bo and I had any idea what her plans were there.

  While Celtic Summer worked through their first song, Bo and I watched from the leather chairs of the listening room.

  “It’s weird to be watching Regan, isn’t it?” I whispered, despite the knowledge of the soundproof glass.

  Bo shot me a sardonic grin. “You forget, I’ve seen both of you on stage together before … back when you hated me.”

  I gasped and slapped his shoulder. “I have never hated you!”

  “Use your words,” Bo teased as he took the hand that slapped him and offered a soft kiss.

  While Bo and I didn’t hold any resentment over our time apart, it was rarely something we discussed or even joked about. I was glad to see Bo slip into some sarcasm and wit. He was alw
ays so serious, and had been especially over the past few weeks.

  “They are damn good, though,” Bo continued. “That guitar looks big enough to swallow Shaughn whole, but she owns it.”

  I nodded in agreement. “And Chris is crazy good. Who knew you could bring a sultry sound into this kind of music?”

  “Yardley did,” Bo replied. “She’s good. Real good. I think we’re luckier than we realize to have a contract here.”

  “Guess that means you’ve got to be a lot nicer to Beckett, huh?” I teased as I elbowed him.

  Bo feigned pain as he held his arm. “God, you’re abusive today.”

  For the next hour, we had the pleasure of watching a seemingly perfectly melded Celtic Summer work through several songs. Even when they had to stop to work on something, it was a quick fix and they were back up and running. While it was definitely disappointing to not be playing with Regan anymore, it was good to see that he’d bonded so well with the others in his group.

  As their session ended and Bo and I warmed up, I was getting a little nervous about the summer tour, and our little secret that was going to require a big change of plans. Still, Bo and I reminded ourselves a thousand times on the drive down to stick to our guns until the album was done. And, Yardley didn’t have a third band lined up for the tour yet, so the dates weren’t set in stone.

  Bo and I warmed up with a song we’d written near the end of our tour with The Six. We’d titled it "Crimson Minute." It was a soulful ballad that carried enough energy to keep it from drowning. Regan had heard us rehearsing it, but never had the chance to hear the final product before we moved back to New Hampshire. When we finished the piece, Regan lurched toward the glass that separated us and knocked wildly, flashing the thumbs up and mouthing “hell yes!”

  After we played two more songs, Yardley left the control room, where she’d been the whole morning, and entered the recording room. She had a professional, but satisfied smile on her face.

  “Y’all make my job so easy,” she cooed as Celtic Summer entered the recording room and situated around us.

  Bo smiled his friendly boardroom smile. “You’re the one that had the ear for us, Ms. Honeywell.”