Lost Lyric (Found in Oblivion Book 4)

by Cari Quinn

  Keeping her in the best-friend box had been easy for so long. Now, it just wasn’t.

  And not just because of the orgasms. They were mind-altering, yes, but the way they connected on a whole different level decimated any hope he had of keeping her as just a friend. He’d found plenty of girls over the years who liked a little fun, but nothing like that night.

  No one who matched him so completely. It infuriated him that she’d cut him off without a backward glance. The exact thing she said she didn’t want to happen between them had come down like a goddamn anvil.

  As Denver pulled the bus into the underground parking lot and through the winding maze of trucks, he moved to the front of the bus. “Are you coming in for the show?”

  She pursed her lips and blew out a breath. “I don’t know.”

  “You love our acoustic shows.”

  “This is only your third.”

  “I see you at the back of the room, Colorado.” He leaned into her space. “Please come inside. We can’t fix this if we don’t go back to how we were.” He lied right to her damn face, but he was desperate. Some of her was better than none right now. When she didn’t answer, he huffed out a breath. “You want us to keep it strictly platonic, I get it. Then why are you the one shutting down on me?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer.

  Actually, he was afraid to see the resolute face from when she’d first started driving the bus for the band. Sure, she’d often had amusement in her eyes and offered a quippy comment now and then, but there had been almost no way to connect with her on a deeper level.

  Until the day he’d found her hiding in the shadows of their practice. She’d curled into a chair in the farthest corner of the stadium and simply watched. So alone, so closed off underneath the lighthearted banter. He’d vowed to figure out how to make her smile. A real one, not the kind she dispensed as easily as her playful snarls.

  And now she was one of the most important people in his life. The fact that she’d barely shared a dozen words with him in days felt like he was missing a damn appendage.

  He strode through the backstage to a door labeled with the band’s name. He swung it open and found a gift basket the size of a laundromat cart sitting on the lone circular table at the back of the room. Bulk candy in every style imaginable filled the front, a plethora of gear from the local radio station made up the rest.

  A piece of paper was propped in front of it with their itinerary and a sis-boom-bah, generic “you’re awesome” and the call letters as a signature. He resisted the urge to crumple it into a ball.

  He knew he was just in a mood. The radio stations had been more than kind for their release tour. Of course, it helped that they had hit a streak of buzz from a few radio spots and a taste of summer in their new single, “Goodbye”. Add in the viral secret shows and they’d found the perfect way to maximize the new album.

  They should be riding high on the awesomeness of the album doing so well. Instead they were all wound up in their own dramas and there’d been little more than a hum of excitement on the bus.

  The stage was different.

  For the first time in ages, they were becoming the band he’d dreamed they would. Anything to not have to return to the little musical repair shop of his childhood. Or to the studio-session circuit that numbed his brain.

  No, he’d do anything to make sure that didn’t happen.

  Jules, Elle, and Molly came in chattering with varying shades and scents. For the first time, all of them were excitedly poring over a song. Molly was usually pushing for everyone to rehearse until one of them threatened to lock her in a steamer trunk.

  The chattering should have been comforting, but he was feeling bitchy and knew it. Instead of killing the mood for every else, he went back out and through the hallways to the bus. The underside was open, and Mal was picking through equipment to bring inside.

  The only reason they’d been able to do this tour was because it was stripped down. No unnecessary roadies, just the instruments they could pack under the bus, and a handful of amps from their garage days.

  Back to basics.

  Normally it thrilled him to be so stripped down, but he’d been restless for far longer than the album recording. There was an itchiness under his skin he couldn’t seem to scratch. No matter how many different instruments he crammed into his steamer trunk, nothing felt right in his arms.

  No one but her.

  Fuck.

  He’d get her back if it killed him. If that meant seducing her with his music, he’d be happy to do it.

  He moved over to help Mal with his drum kit, only to get a growl for his trouble. He held his hands up. “Sorry, man.”

  He usually knew better. No one touched Mal’s shit except him and his tech.

  Since there was no tech tonight, Mal lugged in each piece himself. Not his full kit, but a stripped-down series of high hats that surrounded his mini kit.

  It didn’t matter if it was a bongo or a dozen skins, there was no doubt that Mal was a monster behind his kit. And it was one reason they all put up with his smart mouth and less than stellar interpersonal skills. He kept them tight, and brought the thunder in a way no other drummer they’d auditioned had been able to master.

  A sheet of paper skittered across the broken concrete. Ryan bent down to pick it up and Mal slapped his size-thirteen boot over it.

  “What’s this?”

  “None of your business.”

  Ryan shoved his shoulder into Mal’s belly and moved him just enough to retrieve the paper. It was a very detailed drawing of a bastardized roll bar and drum kit hybrid.

  “Hand it over, asshat.”

  Ryan held up his hand. “Did you do this?”

  Mal shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  A lot of thought had gone into the drawing. Ryan had done a year of school for engineering, and he wasn’t sure he’d seen drawings as detailed in his classes. “It’s cool as fuck.”

  A muscle ticked in Mal’s jaw, but instead of reaching for the paper again, he crossed his arms over his massive chest.

  “Did you show this to your tech?”

  Mal shrugged again.

  Ryan pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the drawing before handing it back over. “We’ll send it to the stage designers.”

  Mal snatched the drawing and crinkled it into a ball. He pinged it off Ryan’s forehead. “I won’t be here long enough.”

  When Mal strode off, Ryan bent to pick up the crumpled paper. Whenever there was even an inkling of permanence in the conversation, Mal went into asshole mode.

  Well, even more asshole. It was pretty much a default personality trait for him. Personally, Ryan thought maybe it was a doth-protest-too-much kinda deal at this point.

  Ryan grabbed the roll cart and shifted his steamer trunk from the depths of the under storage to the flatbed. He jumped in and found his other bag, then wound the strap of his soft-side bag over his head and across his back. He climbed out and released the lock on the wheels just as Michael stepped off the bus.

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  Michael stretched his arms over his head. “I swear I’m on the same sleep schedule as Hope.”

  “Considering you live on FaceTime with Chloe, that’s not surprising.”

  Michael’s cheeks went ruddy. “I hate that she’s home taking care of everything.”

  “You know Chloe is Wonder Mom.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just wish she didn’t have to be. I should be there with her.”

  “And you will be in ten days.”

  “Yeah.” Michael scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I’m being a pussy, I know.”

  Ryan grinned. “Maybe a little.”

  Michael punched him in the shoulder. “Fuck off.” He said it playfully, and normally the punch wouldn’t have even registered, but good goddamn that hurt.

  Ryan had landed on the same shoulder three times the other night, and then he’d overdone it with Denver. Yeah, his body was one
big bruise. And the rest of him one big mind-fuck. He needed to get his head on straight if he wanted to make sure tonight went well.

  Michael frowned. “You good?”

  “Yeah, just a rough week.”

  “Truth.” Michael ducked under the bus for his two guitar cases. “Hold up and I’ll help you in.”

  They pushed in the cart full of their instruments and both of them paused at the sound of Molly’s voice soaring.

  “I heard about this venue, but damn.”

  Ryan nodded. “Only reason I pushed for Albany. This place is supposed to have some of the best acoustics ever. Toad the Wet Sprocket actually came out here just to play at this venue.”

  Michael laughed. “You and your weird band trivia. Fucking Toad. Haven’t heard that name in forever.”

  Ryan grinned. “Hello, know your California bands, man.” He shrugged. “My little brother is a huge fan. I don’t know how, it was the wrong decade for him. For fuck’s sake, their huge single is older than he is.”

  “Music is evergreen when it’s good, my friend.”

  “Hell yeah.” Speaking of good music, Ryan itched to dip into his trunk and find a few of his lesser-used instruments. Seemed like the perfect night for it.

  Soundcheck lasted a little longer than normal, but it wasn’t a bad thing. They all picked over the setlist and adjusted for the venue. They played “Every Rose” a half dozen times before they were pleased with their version of it. Molly even added a few songs they hadn’t played since the studio.

  Jules and Elle played it up on Twitter and Instagram, teasing a few rarities to get people talking about the show. The tickets were sold at the radio station and no one would find out where the venue was until an hour before the show.

  It was pretty genius, as far as Ryan was concerned.

  He kept stealing glances at the back corner where Denver usually hid out at concerts, but she was absent. He had to put that out of his head or he’d be a freaking psycho by the end of the night.

  The show was what mattered right now. Even if he ached to show off for the woman who owned him.

  Already.

  He took his turn in the little makeshift booth the radio station had set up. It was a local station instead of satellite radio, and for once, the DJs seemed to actually know the music scene. It was a damn miracle. Everything was computers and programming these days. A lot of DJs had been watered down to basically doing voice-over work minus the passion.

  “We’ve got Ryan Waters in the booth with us. I looked you up. Seems like you’re called Ryan, Master of All Trades. How’d you earn that status?”

  Ryan had been asked this question about nineteen times in the last twenty days, but for once, he dug in and looked for a different answer. A personal one. “My folks run an instrument repair shop. I used to mess around with everything that came through the door.” He laughed. “I was the only kid to get excited to see a tuba, a violin, a harpsichord, and a saxophone in one week.”

  The DJs eyebrows shot up. “And you learned them all?”

  “Not at first, of course. But after being around all sorts of instruments from the age of three, it all kind of seeped into my head. I helped my parents as I got older and wanted to know how everything worked. I was a bit of a high-strung kid—shocking, I know.”

  “Watching you and West onstage, I’d say I’m shocked, except not at all.”

  Ryan grinned. “My mom was psyched that I’d sit down for five minutes, let alone five hours to help her repair a few dozen violins. Strings and brass were our specialty, but my dad could figure out anything a client brought in. And I wanted to be like my dad.”

  For a long time, he’d wanted that. Then he’d run from it like his ass was on fire. After a while, the walls of their little shop had begun to close in on him. And he hadn’t wanted to be behind a Plexiglas display full of misfit instruments that had been discarded as children grew out of their band phase.

  “So, you can play anything?”

  Ryan snapped back into the conversation. “Just about.”

  “We had a bunch of students from Albany High bring over their instruments. Care to pick out a few to play tonight?”

  “On the spot there, buddy.”

  The DJ laughed. “My favorite kind of interview.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Lay it on me.”

  A girl with a big smile came through the side door with a cart. A dozen black cases were stacked on two shelves. Ryan stood and smoothed his hand over the hardback cases with their shiny silver buckles. Memories of carts lined up in his old man’s warehouse filled his head. The excitement to see what was inside, what needed love, and ultimately, what would have to be given back always brought out a mixture of emotions.

  He clicked open the long case and laughed when he saw a clarinet. He didn’t know how he could use it, but he put it aside. Next, he found a trombone and a French horn, then finally stashed bells and an alto saxophone in his pile.

  “All those?”

  Ryan grinned at the girl. “I can play everything on this cart.”

  “Really?”

  “If I had more time, I would’ve come to your band practice.”

  The girl blushed. “That would have been awesome.”

  “Next time.” Ryan turned back to the DJ. “Make sure you tag me if you put them on YouTube. I’ll share it with my peeps.”

  “Excellent. We’re looking forward to tonight.”

  Ryan did his usual end-of-interview spiel and did the call letters spot for them for the radio station. Ten minutes later, he was backstage pacing again.

  A local band was onstage to warm up the crowd. Three thousand people had packed the medium-size room in the venue. It was intimate and dark. He could barely see past the third row.

  No way to know if she was here or not. He had a terrible feeling she wasn’t. Even as the band was amping up, he was missing something.

  Missing her.

  West slapped him on the back. “Come on. You ready?”

  “Yeah.” He rolled his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m dying to get out there.”

  West frowned. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” He pushed down the unease and cracked his knuckles. “Did you see what they brought me to play?”

  “I thought I saw a French horn.”

  “You did.”

  “You’re a crazy motherfucker.”

  “Nah, that’s you, buddy.” Ryan glanced down at West’s Reading Rainbow shirt. “I’m just the eccentric one.”

  “If that’s the word you wanna use for weird, you go on with your bad self.”

  Ryan laughed and shook off the last of the doldrums. He followed West and Michael out to the main stage. Old chairs had been set up over carpets.

  Ryan took the high-backed purple velour one before West could get to it. It looked like he was in an episode of Masterpiece Theater, for fuck’s sake. Ryan bounced once. “I feel like I need a pipe or something.”

  A voice from the back yelled, “Water bongs are better.”

  Ryan snorted. “I’m partying with you later, bud.”

  The crowd whistled and laughed.

  Molly came out in a tiny T-shirt that skimmed her ribs and a rainbow skirt that teased her ankles. She was barefoot. This time she didn’t even bother with the pretense of her little flats. The outfit gave her a relaxed vibe that belied the woman behind the facade.

  She knew how to play the game.

  Tonight, she was playing sorceress. Her long hair was down in a tumble of waves with little braids and charms sparkling everywhere. Even her makeup was bits of smoke and glitter. Effortlessly sexy, she absorbed the emotions in the room and gave them back just what they were looking for.

  It was eerie as fuck.

  Her usual microphone was replaced with an old-school box one tucked into a stand that could be used for sitting or standing. She waved and smiled before sitting in a big red chair center stage. She pulled her feet under her skirt and settled into the corner. “Hi, guys.” She glanced
over to the rest of the band. “We ready to do this?”

  Just like a fucking princess.

  The crowd lapped it up like a starving kitten on a saucer of milk.

  Jules and Elle glanced at one another and a secret smile passed between them. They never tried to steal the limelight. They didn’t need to, since their instruments did it for them most of the time.

  Having a band that was almost equal in testosterone and estrogen had taken some getting used to. It made for some interesting crowds, to say the least. And tonight was no different. Ryan could see some dudes out in the audience along with the usual complement of ladies.

  They blasted into the set with a stripped-down version of “Exile” and moved into their hit song from the first EP, “Lick,” where Molly brought it down into the gutter with her sultry, lazy voice.

  He and West swapped seats halfway through the set and he scampered backstage to find the cart. He grabbed the trombone and the French horn and came out with them in each hand like guns. He aimed them at Mal, and he thundered into his kit with a beat that shook the stage.

  Michael and Elle amped up their acoustics to create an almost electric feel. Then it slowed and Ryan curled his fingers around the French horn and pushed into the recesses of his mind for the notes he hadn’t played in years.

  The crowd was quiet and murmured with confusion.

  The band understood this song might be a stretch, but it had been so damn cool when they’d heard the Foo Fighters cover it, they’d been strumming through their own version of it on the bus for a week. Seemed like the perfect time to play it live.

  Michael and Elle extended the guitars to let Molly introduce the song.

  “You might not know this one, but one of our favorite bands covered it. Dig it up, it’s worth a listen. We hope ours is too.” She closed her eyes and whispered through the opening lyrics of “Baker Street”.

  The melody built and soared as West pounded on a side set of drums with Mal. Ryan ran off the stage and found the sax and hit the brass section of the song with every bit of the passion this song inspired in him. In all of them.

  And yeah, maybe one particular woman was doing some inspiring of her own. Whether or not, she was there.