Back Beat

by Sloan, Ryleigh

  I take a sip of my own beer while I watch what appears to be an extremely private moment play out before me, and it makes me uncomfortable.

  A petite girl with pink and turquoise streaks in her hair comes out of the back room. “Gail, can you come back real quick? Frankie is having a freak-out over the gin order.”

  Gail gives us an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back. Jen, would you mind pouring Kade and Dean a round of shots?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Gail leaves and Jen reaches for the tequila. I guess she’s familiar with Kade too. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son.”

  “Very funny, Jen. Get over here and give me a hug.”

  We go through the same round of pleasantries. Jen pours the drinks, and she and Kade catch up. In between snippets of conversation, my mind wanders. Why did seeing the girl in the photo seem to get to Kade so much? He had the same look I seem to be living with these days—the look of a guy who fucked up in the worst way.

  So many times this week I’ve wanted to call Blair. I’d pick up my phone and just stare at it before putting it down. She asked me not to contact her, and I need to respect that. Not defending her in public or issuing a statement is its own form of torture. But if I cave in and go after the people talking shit, it’ll make things worse for her. She needs to forget about all this and move on with her career. Even if it means she thinks I’m an inconsiderate bed-hopping dick. Even if breaking all ties fucking hurts.

  “You gonna tell me what you’re stewing on?”

  I look up from where I’m staring holes in the teakwood bar and see Kade looking at me questioningly. There’s no sign of Jen. I wonder how long she’s been absent and for how long I’ve been wallowing. Again.

  “How about you go first? Who’s the girl in the photo?”

  “She’s my biggest regret.” He throws back another shot of tequila. I say “another shot” because there are already three empty glasses lined up—soldiers of regret and unspoken misery. “For what it’s worth, what you did for Blair, fighting for her to get her shot the way you did, I think it’s cool. Wanna play air hockey?” He nods to the table in the corner. The change of subject is jarring but welcome because all I can think about is if I did the right thing, why does it feel so wrong?

  “Sure.”

  “Loser buys.” And the smirk is back.

  “Didn’t we just establish you never pay for your drinks?”

  Kade flips me off and reaches for the puck.

  It’s on.

  27

  Blair

  I can’t stop blowing my breaths out in long slow puffs, but at least I’ve stopped pacing. I’m sitting with my hands tucked underneath me to stop me from chewing the skin raw, and the sympathetic looks I’m getting from people backstage have me rooted to my seat. Jeremy is up now. It’s the first show back since the break, and it’s crunch time. Jeremy’s singing for his spot in the top five; it’s quite a cut from ten to five, and I don’t know if I’m more nervous for him or for the audience’s reaction when I head out there.

  I’ve barely been back for two days, and in those two days, Kade and I have spent just about every waking moment and more together, trying to make sure I am semi-prepared for the show tonight. One good thing that’s come from it is I haven’t seen anyone except for Jeremy at the house. A small reprieve in a giant shitstorm.

  It’s hardly a mystery how the majority of the population feels about me right now. Most of them have me pegged as a slut who sleeps her way to the top, and I can’t blame them. Tonight, I just have to prove them all wrong.

  I’m singing my song in my head—it’s the one I wrote with Dean’s help in South Africa. I don’t know why I chose tonight to sing it, but there’s no going back now. It’s been a rough couple of days, but Kade has been amazing—so patient and witness to more than a few tears, which was mortifying at first, but he’s been great.

  My phone buzzes and I hit the video button on the Skype app once I retrieve it from my back pocket. Tears stream my face when I see my whole family in the frame wearing “Backing Blair” T-shirts.

  Maddie speaks from where she’s sitting on the arm of her chair. “How are the floors over there holding up?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny.” I swipe at my tears so I don’t ruin my stage makeup. “I’ve been sitting down if you must know.”

  Papaw snorts. “Sitting for two-second increments doesn’t count. How are they treating you, Bubbles?”

  I force the smile. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I don’t tell him I’ve stopped torturing myself with social media. People online are cruel at the best of times, but mob mentality can certainly bring out the deepest evil in some.

  “Damn straight,” my dad pipes up from where he’s holding my mom around her waist. “Don’t let them give you any shit, Blair, and don’t let everything that has happened to you over the last while make you doubt what you can do. You have what it takes to get to the top, and no show, votes, media frenzy, or anything else is going to get in the way of that, you hear? No matter what happens here today, you are going to make it big. With or without the show.”

  Hearing those words from my father’s mouth breaks the dam, and a sob escapes.

  When I get myself under control, I speak. “Thanks, Dad. I sure hope so.”

  “You don’t have a choice. I employed someone else to train on the reserve.”

  When I gape at my dad, my papaw leans forward. “Don’t listen to my son. You always have a job here, Bubbles. You’re just not going to need it.”

  We spend another ten minutes chatting, and by the time I’m off the phone with my family, I feel a million times better.

  I hear the sound of heels on the floors and see the nude stilettos appear in my line of vision as I fire off a thank-you text to Maddie for arranging the call. I lift my head and see Danielle’s smug smirk as she taps her foot, the sound like gunfire recoiling in my nervous system. So much for feeling better.

  “You’ve got stones, I’ll give you that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Showing your face here like this. Acting like you belong when your space was paid for. You must be exceptionally good at what you do to have Dean fork out three million for you.”

  The skin at the back of my neck prickles, and a suffocating sense of foreboding engulfs me. I stand so Danielle doesn’t think she can intimidate me. “Dean had to pay a fine for the breach of contract. That had nothing to do with me.” I haven’t had contact with Dean, but this is what we were all told.

  “Do you really expect me to stand here and buy your little act of innocence? My lawyer told me everything that happened at the meeting. Dean’s lawyer cited they had no grounds to fine him, but he offered to pay the money on condition they give you your spot back.” She folds her arms across her chest and pulls her lip up in a sneer.

  My legs want to give way, but I refuse to give Danielle the satisfaction. In what can only be described as a blessing from above, they call me for my turn. I walk onstage with my guitar and sit on the stool placed in front of the mic. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next five minutes. I’m sick to my stomach and air-locked, but I strum my guitar and start singing. My family back home is watching, and I will not let them down.

  There is no band, no effects. It’s just me and my guitar on the massive stage. This is an entirely different experience from having a full band in the background. Kade felt like it should just be me, nothing else, so people can truly see me. Behind me, there’s a screen of random images. Some are photos of me as a child on the reserve, and others are of me singing. Every image captures the essence of who I am and what I’m about, and not one of them is about the girl who slept with her coach. Because that doesn’t define me. These images of me with my family or the animals or standing in front of the mic are who I am. It’s vulnerable having every aspect of who you are splashed out for everyone to see. Most of the images are me makeup-free and goofing aroun
d. They aren’t staged, they aren’t photoshopped. They are me, and they are real. I try to tether myself to that thought as what Danielle told me spins in my head and my stomach and makes me dizzy and sick.

  I try not to look at Dean’s empty chair, but every now and then my eyes are drawn to it, and I have to force my voice not to crack. I keep singing my song. It’s about being true to who I am. About taking a step back for a beat and owning every part of myself, the good and the bad. It’s about following my dreams regardless of the consequences and for crawling out of my comfort zone.

  Being an artist is about being vulnerable, of giving a piece of yourself with every word and note you put on paper. It’s about breaking yourself up and never quite getting every part of you back. But it’s also about gaining new pieces, pieces forged by granite instead of glitter.

  I use the emotions to allow the song to rip free. I don’t sing the song; the song is me. I don’t think about the notes or the cadence or the backbeat. I don’t think about my voice clarity or my breathing. I let the music and everything I feel guide me. Somewhere in the second verse, I realize that where I am right now, in front of an audience Dean paid to have me performing in front of, is the exact opposite of every word I’ve just sung, and the pain slicing through me is so intense it’s a wonder I have any breath to sing with.

  Because everything I believed in is fake. I believed in Dean and stupidly thought that coming to South Africa with me was all about me, when it was just about him getting into my pants. I realize that my space on this stage was bought, not earned. I realize that in this business what they call “integrity” can be bought and paid for.

  The song ends and I stare at the teardrop that landed on my leather pants in a perfect little orb, refusing to break or scatter, and I know with absolute clarity that if I stay another moment onstage, I will break and I will shatter. The room erupts with applause. People are standing on their chairs, cheering and whistling, and some are even chanting my name. I can’t be here right now. I feel like a fraud, and I stand up from the stool, running from the stage. I’m about to reach the backstage door when Kade wraps his hand around my arm.

  “Blair, what’s wrong? They loved you out there. You fucking wrecked me and everyone else in that room. You killed it!”

  Amanda and Chantelle come up behind Kade with concerned expressions etched on their faces.

  I gulp in breaths through my sobs. “I can’t. I just can’t do it.”

  Chantelle wraps her arms around me. “Can’t what, sweetie? What you just did out there was the bravest thing anyone I know has ever done. Hell, I’d never be able to do it in a million years.”

  I see Amanda nod through the haze of my tears and Kade worry his lip ring.

  “Everything I said out there was lies. Dean paid for me to be here. I shouldn’t be here. It’s not for me, and even if it were, I don’t belong here.”

  “Blair, a hundred thousand people cheering for you right now would disagree,” Amanda says.

  “No, she’s right.” Kade’s words sting, and even though I know he’s right, I don’t want to hear it from him right now. “You’re more than this show, Blair. Dean knew it and said it every time he came out of a rehearsal with you, and I’ve seen it. You have so much more than this formulaic show has to offer you.” His words soothe me like a cooling balm, but I still need to get out of here.

  “Go, girl. We’ll say you have a tummy bug.”

  Amanda gives Chantelle an incredulous look. “Great, so she goes from the girl who sleeps her way to the top to the girl who has the shits?”

  Chantelle shrugs. “Well?”

  I hug them all and look at Kade. “I’m sorry to ask this, and it’s all right if it makes you uncomfortable, but you wouldn’t mind giving me Dean’s address, would you?”

  “Not at all. Fucker owes me for the stunt he pulled last season.” I don’t ask him what he means, and Kade shoots me a text with Dean’s number. I thank everyone again and head to the exit.

  I open the door and call an Uber. Giving the driver Dean’s address, I rest my head back on the seat and try not to let the humiliation and betrayal stifle me. It’s not working.

  28

  Dean

  I turn off the TV and scrub a hand over my face. Seeing Blair cry during her performance was like being hit by a ton of shrapnel. Of course that fucker Rupert zoomed in and captured her emotional breakdown. Everything hurts and the guilt that has been eating away at me for the last week settles around me like a straightjacket. I’m trapped in it with no sign of escape, and I’m not sure I ever should.

  I head for the shower. It dawned on me right before the show that I was pretty rank, but I didn’t want to miss Blair’s performance. I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m. writing music. One thing I’ll say about stewing in my own guilt is it leaves me with a shit-ton of stuff to write about. I hit the mixer, allowing the spray to soothe my sore muscles. I’d been restless the night before, and being curled over my guitar all day didn’t do much for my aching body. The hot water is like heaven beating against my back.

  I go through the motions of soaping up and rinsing. When I shampoo my hair, I immediately think of Blair’s strawberry-scented hair even though this shampoo smells different and I quickly rinse off. I need to learn how to forget about her, but her imprint on my life is so deep I know it’s going to take me a long time—if I ever do—and I steel myself for a lifetime of regret and missing Blair.

  I step out the shower and dry my body. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I rub another over my hair. The intercom sounds, and I wonder who it could be. I know it can’t be Kary; she hit me up just before I went to South Africa, and I told her we couldn’t see each other again. Thankfully, she was cool about it. I should’ve known then how deep I was in it with Blair.

  “Hey, Clarence. How’s it going?”

  “Mr. Carter, I have a lovely young lady down at the front desk for you.”

  Fuck!

  “Clarence, I hate to do this to you, but I’m not in the mood for company right now.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, it doesn’t seem like she’s having the best night, and after she ran off the stage the way she did, I thought she might need someone to talk to, but I can send her away.”

  Blair? “Is Blair McKenzie standing at your front desk, Clarence?”

  “She is indeed, sir.”

  “Send her right up.”

  I grab a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from my closet and throw them on. I just make it back to the living room when the door chimes.

  It feels like the doorknob is a live wire with the way my body is zinging with nerves right now. I take a steadying breath and open the door. She’s wearing exactly what she had on in the show, a loose-fitting black chiffon top over leather pants that showcase her legs perfectly. I know when she turns around, they will be hugging her perfect ass just as well, but I try not to think about that right now. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect.

  “Hi, Dean.”

  Her voice is soft and hesitant, and there’s something there that makes me think she’s holding on to her control like a grenade.

  “Hi, Blair. Would you like to come in?” She hesitates and I don’t blame her because I sound like a cold asshole. “Please come in, Blair.”

  I step aside and motion for her to enter. She does after a few beats and looks around the room. I wonder what she’s thinking as she sees my home for the first time. What goes through her mind when her eyes fall on the hockey sticks mounted against the wall and the tokens from the countries my mother took me to as a child while she was a practicing anthropologist. Her eyes land on the sheet music on the floor.

  “You’ve been doing some writing.”

  “Yeah.”

  She sets her purse down on the counter and walking over to the living room, picks up a piece of paper off the floor. “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  I can’t swallow as she sees the words scrawled under the notes
on the sheet music. Words of regret and remorse are scattered across the page in noxious scrawls, and I feel torn open and exposed. Anger sears across her face, and she drops the sheet music to the floor. Stepping over to the counter, Blair runs her hand along the granite, and I want to call out for her to stop because it feels tainted somehow. It’s where I went down on Kary, and even though it’s been cleaned a thousand times since then, I hate the idea I’ve had sex with someone else in a room Blair is standing in.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  She spins to face me. “Is it true?”

  She looks so pissed right now. And hurt. “Is what true?”

  “Did you pay for my slot in the show?”

  “Blair—”

  “It’s a yes-or-no question, Dean. Am I on the show because you made a deal with the producers?”

  Fuuuckkk! I don’t know why I didn’t think of this or how it would come across. I was just trying to fix what I broke, but instead I took a hammer to it. “I didn’t pay the money so you could stay, Blair. They wanted that money for everything I did, and I paid them. My only condition was that you get a second chance because you didn’t deserve what I did to you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You shouldn’t have been punished.”

  Now she looks crushed. Like what I just said broke her. “According to Danielle, you didn’t have to pay. You volunteered so I could stay on the show. Is that true?”

  “Danielle is fucking venomous. Why are you listening to her?” I’m lashing out and getting defensive when I should be on my knees apologizing.

  “Because she might be poison, but she didn’t lie to me.” She scrubs a hand through her hair. “Every single moment of it was a lie. Including the time with you. I’m out, Dean. I might have lost a little of myself along the way, but I refuse to sell the rest of me anymore. I’m done.”

  Her bottom lip trembles, and tears glisten in her eyes. It’s a full ten beats before they spill down her lids, and in that time I think I die a little because I realize I just made everything worse for her.