“No problem.” I need to get off this topic. “You guys sound great.”
“Ah, thanks. We’ve been working really hard. We have a ton of new material and we’re trying it all out this summer. Seeing what people respond to. You know how it is.”
I sip the last of my beer. It’s warm. Time to wrap this up.
Chris lightly hits me on the shoulder with his forearm. “Hey, if you need any of our leftover songs…ha ha ha…I’m kidding.”
I manage a laugh. He has no idea the nerve he’s hit. But I brush it off.
“Listen,” I say, “I’m here to get away for a while—”
“Writing?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “But I haven’t told anyone where I am. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone that you saw me.”
Chris looks at me blankly for a few seconds as the bartender hands him his beer and change. “Not even the guys?”
I shake my head no. “I’m trying to stay under the radar. You’re actually the first person to recognize me.”
He laughs. “No shit? That’s wild. I knew it was you right away. But sure, I’ll keep this between you and me.”
He holds up his beer bottle, tilting it a little. I lift mine and we clink bottles. I sip and there’s nothing but a little bit of warm foam. It really is time to go.
“I’d appreciate it. Gotta run,” I say.
“Hey, we’re playing here in a couple of weeks for the big July Fourth bash. Think you can make it?”
“I’ll try.”
He extends his hand, I take it, and he wraps his other arm around my shoulder, pulling me in for a hug. “I’ll keep the secret. Just don’t forget about us on the next tour.”
Free of his hug, I assure him I won’t. “You got it.”
I’m walking toward the door when I see the girl who threw the pick back to Keenan. She’s coming out of the bathroom. I recognize her from the other night. She’s the one who was sitting with Audrey at the rooftop bar. She holds eye contact with me, but I break it and slip out the door.
Being recognized by Chris has me a little worried I’m going to blow my cover.
During the walk home, my thoughts shift from concern about Audrey’s friend recognizing me and putting it all together, to thoughts of whether Audrey was at The Windjammer tonight.
If she was, I wish I’d seen her and I really wish I could have brought her home with me.
I get home to the empty place and get my laptop. I need to check YouTube for that video Chris mentioned. Jesus, do I even want to see it?
. . . . .
We were doing a sold-out show in Indianapolis, in front of almost fifteen thousand people. It wasn’t anything new. I’d played shows that large before, especially over the last three years as the band got more recognition and we had a string of hits.
But something wasn’t right that night. I could feel it backstage. I could feel it intensify as we got closer to show time. And by the time we were onstage, I just knew it—I was sick.
Maybe it was the flu, I thought. Or some kind of stomach bug I had picked up from eating something the night before that had been sitting backstage for two hours during our show.
I thought of it as we started our first song—it was a meat and cheese tray, and I had made a roast beef sandwich. Yes, that had to be it, I thought. Just a little food poisoning. But how was I going to make it through the show like that?
Turns out, I didn’t.
When we started the third song, the lights became a blur. The noise, usually loud and booming in my ears, became muffled. I got tunnel-vision.
The senses of sight and hearing were shutting down. My heart raced, even fluttered, skipping beats. I heard the pounding in my ears and I began to sweat like I’d been out on the stage for hours under the bright hot lights and in the humid air.
What the fuck was this? I remember thinking, just before I couldn’t think at all.
I had passed out. I woke up backstage. The band was still playing. I was disoriented and had a headache like no other I’d ever experienced. It hurt to open my eyes and even when I could, they wouldn’t focus.
I heard ringing in my ears, the only intelligible sounds registering were broken phrases: “hospital,” “ambulance is here,” “gonna be okay, dude.”
Three hours later, with the band out there in the waiting room, a doctor came back with my test results.
“It wasn’t a heart-attack,” he had said. “It wasn’t a stroke, and you don’t have food poisoning. Your potassium and electrolytes are extremely low. You’re dehydrated.”
“That’s it?”
The doctor shook his head. “No. How long has it been since you’ve had some time off?”
I had to think about that for more than a few seconds. “I don’t remember.”
The doctor slid his reading glasses up to the top of his head, crossed his arms, tucking my chart into his armpit. “You need some time off, starting when you get out of here in a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?”
He nodded. “You’re suffering from exhaustion. We’ll need to observe you for at least forty-eight hours, and then you’ll need rest.”
“We still have two shows—”
“Mr. Crawford, this is nothing to play around with. If you don’t address it you’ll be back here or some other hospital with much more serious problems. You’re twenty-nine?”
I nodded.
“You’re in otherwise good health,” he had said, “but that can change very quickly. I’ve heard your music. It’s not my usual preference, but I like it. So it was nice meeting you, but honestly, I’d rather not see you wheeled through these doors again. And if you don’t do something about it, that’s what’s going to happen, either here or some other hospital.”
The guy was friendly, but this news was pissing me off.
The band went on to Louisville, Kentucky, for the next show while I stayed in the hospital in Indianapolis. They were understanding, told me not to fuck around with my health, and that things would be fine—this is one of the reasons we travel with a few studio musicians. In my case, it was a backup guitarist who would fill in for me.
So as I lay there in the hospital bed that next morning and thought of all of that, I had to factor in the threat to my health as well.
And it hit me. I was about to turn thirty. I’d made it past age twenty-seven, but Jimi Hendrix didn’t, and neither did Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain, and more than a dozen other musicians. They’re known as the “27 Club.” I’d known about it for a long time, but it didn’t hit home until the doctor gave me that stern warning.
I Googled it from my hospital bed. There was no increased risk of death for musicians at age twenty-seven—the number was just a coincidence—but any sample of musicians shows an increased risk of death at an early age, late twenties and early thirties.
While I would never be a member of the 27 Club, the point was that I was running myself into the ground. I wasn’t taking care of myself physically or mentally. Life on the road with the band was taking its toll, and it wasn’t worth it anymore. I needed a change.
Chapter Nine
Audrey
After my run, I get ready for work and make it to Adam’s bungalow at nine.
I feel an equal sense of excitement and dread each time I think about going to see him. The excitement part is self-explanatory; the dread part stems from fear of losing my job. It could easily happen. I know I’m being ridiculously irresponsible and taking a crazy risk, but the dread just can’t seem to outweigh the excitement.
Case in point: I knock on the door and he answers wearing blue cotton workout shorts and nothing else. His hair is wet.
He steps aside and I walk through the door.
I turn around and ask, “Swimming this morning?”
“Shower. You just missed it. I went for a run.”
“You run?”
“A few times a week.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised to
hear this. He’s in amazing shape, so surely he does something in the way of a workout. Maybe I’m just thinking…
“I run, too,” I say. “Maybe we can run together one day.”
He steps toward me, his hand rising, and then it’s on the side of my face. His palm feels smooth and warm against my cheek. He dips his head and brushes his lips across mine. I smell and taste peppermint. My eyes close instinctively. My lips part as I feel the tip of his tongue drag across my lips, and just barely between them.
He stops. His voice is a deep, low whisper as he says, “You really should have been here for that shower.”
I really should have. “Maybe later.”
“Definitely later.”
At the risk of ruining the moment, I have to make something clear to him. He doesn’t need to know the details about Wyatt, and I don’t feel like talking about it anyway. But with Wyatt’s call to the house and all the issues related to our breakup, I’m feeling an especially urgent need to make this known. “I’m not looking for anything serious. I just can’t.”
He looks at me for a short moment. His face isn’t that far from mine. He searches it, his gaze landing on my eyes. “I know.”
“You do?”
He nods. “You work here. It’s risky.”
Oh, that. Yes, it’s important, but it’s not the primary reason for what I just said. Because I don’t want to get into the Wyatt issue, I just agree with him by nodding. And then I add, “Plus, it’s not like you’re going to be around for long. Just the summer, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s barely enough time to get to know someone anyway.”
“Right.”
His responses are short, clipped, and quick. He’s either thought of this already and we’re on the same page, or it just doesn’t matter all that much to him. Either way, I’ve said what I needed to say.
And it’s weird…he’s agreeing with me on all of this, the discussion went exactly as I had hoped it would before I brought it up, but there’s a little pang of regret in me over it. Almost like I wish it could be more, all the while knowing it can’t.
Adam pulls away from me and walks toward the kitchen.
I follow, watching the perfect muscled lines of his back and the way those cotton shorts cling to him.
“I was just making a smoothie,” he says. “Want some?”
“No, I’m kind of in a hurry. I stopped by here first today.”
He walks past me to the door that leads out to the deck. “Come outside for a few minutes. It’s nice out.”
I follow him and we sit in lounge chairs facing the ocean. He’s right—it’s a nice morning, low humidity, a nice breeze coming in off the water, and the beach is quiet this time of day.
“Tell me something about you,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Anything. When did you know you wanted to be a graphic designer?”
I cross my legs and put my hands on my lap. “As long as I can remember. I used to draw all the time. I mean, I sucked at it but I loved doing it. Then I got better—maybe when I was about twelve and my mom signed me up for a summer drawing class—and I started spending most of my time with my face six inches away from a sketch pad. I would draw everything. Things I was looking at, but also things I just thought of; I didn’t need to be looking at something to draw it. Then I started using computers and learning about design elements and how things are rarely hand-drawn anymore… Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No, not at all. This is interesting.”
“Really?” I say, looking over at him.
He’s looking back at me, then moves his eyes back to the water. “Yeah. Go on.”
“My mom started enrolling me in all kinds of classes—”
He cuts me off to ask, “Was your dad as supportive?”
I take a deep breath. “My dad’s been gone since I was eleven.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine that he left. I’m just over it.” I wasn’t really over it, and probably never would be fully over it. I rarely talk about my father but somehow telling Adam is easy. I get back on topic. “So I take all the classes, love everything about it, and then I take up photography and love that, too.”
“You’re an artist.”
I shrug. “Honestly, I never really put a label on it. And this might seem strange but I find it weird thinking of myself as an artist. It sounds…I don’t know, it just sounds kind of pretentious.” I look over at him again.
He has a grin on his face and he’s cocked his head to the right a little. “Why is it pretentious to call yourself an artist?”
“Just is. Can’t explain it. Plus, it’s kind of vague. I’m not a musical artist or a sculptor, I’m not a painter, I don’t do graffiti. I don’t write poetry or novels. I like saying what I am specifically, a graphic designer and photographer.”
He’s laughing.
“Why are you laughing at me?”
He stops. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m just amused. You’ve really thought this out. I find it interesting. I find you interesting. Everything I know about you so far is interesting.”
I wait a beat before saying, “Anyway, design just became my thing. Everyone has something like that. What about you?”
“Guitar.”
“Really?”
He nods and sips from the blender. It makes me want a sip so I reach for it. He hands it to me without hesitation. I lift it to my mouth and give it a little taste. “This is really good. When did you start playing guitar?”
As he tells me about how he got started at age ten, I listen to every word he says, a little amazed that he even told me this much.
It’s the first time he’s opened up about anything personal. I’ve avoided pressing him on what he does for a living, and even though I’m still curious about it, this is more interesting.
As he talks about his guitar playing, there’s an intensity in his expression and there’s a point where it turns to regret.
“It’s been a while since I played,” he says.
“How long?”
“Too long.” He lifts the blender and sips, handing it to me when he’s done.
After I take a drink I say, “I’m going to have to start making these at home.”
“Told you they’re good.”
We sit in silence for a moment or two.
The tide is coming in, and birds are scooting around the waterline as it changes with each wave coming in and going out. A few boats from the shrimping fleet pass by, heading back to the docks with their morning catch.
“Do you have your guitar here?” I ask.
“No. Maybe I should, though.”
“Then you could play something for me.”
He laughs lightly as I look over at him. It’s an odd reaction, followed by, “Yeah, maybe so.” I can tell it’s something he loves, but it’s also obvious that there’s something else there he isn’t telling me.
I decide to respect his private thoughts and not ask. If he wants me to know, he’ll tell me. After all, there’s plenty I’m not telling him too.
He shifts in his chair, sitting up, feet on the deck. “I’d like to see some of your designs and pictures.”
I have no problem sharing them with him but I answer: “I’ll bring them when you play something on the guitar for me.”
“I told you, it’s not here.”
“So get one.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Tough negotiator. But you have a deal.”
My phone chirps in my pocket. When I grab it, I notice the time and how it’s gotten away from me. “Damn, I have to get my day started.”
I stand and head toward the steps that lead down to the beach.
He calls out, “You forgot something.”
I stop and turn around. He’s holding an envelope.
“Today’s list,” he says, as I walk back to get it. He stands and I take the list. “What time will you be back?”
> “One, maybe two o’clock?” I say, unsure of what else I have to do before then.
“What time do you have to be home?”
“Seven at the latest.”
He raises a hand and I think he’s about to touch my face and kiss me. I don’t want to do that out on this deck, with the potential to be seen. But that’s not what he’s doing.
“You have something here.” His thumb makes contact with my chin. “Smoothie.” He wipes it off my chin, and it makes me think of the other day when I was on my knees before him. “Why don’t you come back when you’re done with work?”
He wants more time with me. I’m feeling flush. I want him to kiss me but we can’t. “You say I’m a tough negotiator, but that sounds perfect to me. You have a deal.”
Chapter Ten
Evan
I was on the verge of telling her my real name. I wasn’t going to go so far as to come entirely clean and tell her my full name or what I do for a living, but I wanted her to know my real first name at least.
But then she brought up the fact that this is all temporary. She didn’t use the word “fling” but she might as well have. It was then that I realized I was looking at her differently.
Not only differently than I’d looked at other girls over the years, but differently than she was looking at me. And I thought to myself as we stood in the hallway: She’s keeping her distance, I’m not. Correct it, Evan. Fast. I dismissed all thoughts of telling her my real name. And no way was I going to tell her I was feeling more than a simple urge to fuck her all day long.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been tempted to let that guard down and get close to a woman in more than a physical way. I thought things might be headed in that direction with Audrey, but once she made her intentions clear, I realized I was wrong.
. . . . .
I spend most of the day on the beach reading. I listen to a little music. And I wait for Audrey to get here after work.
She shows up a little after five o’clock. She holding a large bag that contains take-out from a restaurant. The bag contains dinner for two, just as I’d put on the list.
“Sneaky,” she says as she puts the bag down on the counter. “You could have just asked me, you know.”
The Rider List: An Erotic Romance Page 7