by S. E. Hall
“Well, let’s see if I can manage half as good as your mom.” Cannon winks at him, adjusts his guitar, and strums the first chord. “You gonna sing with me?”
Conner’s head bobs up and down and I turn away, gathering myself. No sooner than I’ve squeezed back the looming tears and gotten myself collected, I’m lost now in my brother’s glee and Cannon’s hauntingly smooth voice and superb playing. He went and did it. He changed it up, holding me paralyzed in his gaze as he sings out the new line, “and your sister’s here.”
My gasp is embarrassingly audible, the first tear I’ve shed in front of Conner in years escaping and tracing a line down my cheek. I don’t reach up to wipe it, rather embracing the release, sticking out my tongue to lick it. The taste of being beguiled mixed with my pain is salty and bittersweet.
When he’s finished the song, Conner’s boisterous clapping breaks the silence, drawing us all back to the present. “That was really, really good, Cannon. I say yes!” Bubs praises and casts his vote.
I snicker softly, leaning over to kiss his sweet cheek. “I vote yes too. And it was beautiful.” I peer back at Cannon. “Very.”
With a brisk jerk of his head and a wink, he then turns to the boys expectantly. “Anything else?”
“I’m sold.” Jarrett slaps his shoulder and keeps striding past him to the back. “Con Man, come play Halo with me.”
I catch my balance on one hand as Conner rumbles the whole bench in his excited departure.
“Guess I’ll get us on the road then. Welcome to it.” Bruce shakes Cannon’s hand, pats my head, and walks to the front.
And then there were three.
Rhett hasn’t taken his eyes off Cannon once this entire audition, nor does he now. I’m unsure who I feel worse for, Cannon, the victim of palpable scrutiny, or Rhett, the ever-tormented soul.
“Rhett,” I pat the seat beside me and slide over, “come sit down, ask your questions.”
If push comes to shove and Rhett is truly unhappy, Cannon goes, bottom line. But sometimes I have to help Rhett figure out if his first reaction is what he really feels, or if it’s merely the product of his lifelong branding.
“Come on,” I coax him again, holding out my hand.
Grumbling, he takes it and eases down beside me. Our thighs touch under the table, his leg bouncing up and down feverishly, which I calm with my hand to his thigh. “Cannon, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” I beg him with my eyes to pacify my admiringly anal best friend with a repeat of the testimony I’d already forced out of him.
“Okay, sure.” He clears his throat, swiftly pushing back some errant coffee strands off his forehead. “My name is Cannon Blackwell. I’m from Indiana, twenty-seven, graduated from IU, Business Management.” He stalls, rubbing a hand on his thigh nervously; it’s obviously daunting to recite his autobiography on the spot. “Never been married, although I was engaged up until,” he consults his non-existent watch, “almost five hours ago. My fiancé, Ruthie, and I were driving home from visiting her parents. We got in a fight and she dumped me on the side of the road with only my guitar and bag. Well,” he laughs and waggles his head, “she actually dumped me out with nothing, then pulled over not far up the road and threw those two out, but not my phone, unfortunately. I figured out she wasn’t coming back about the same time Liz found me.”
Hiding any pity, I smile, tempted to reach across the table and pat his hand, which I manage to squash. And it doesn’t escape my attention that the Sommerlyn on his background is now narrowed down to mom or sister, because there’s never been a wife, he told me no kids, and the fiancé now has a name, Ruthie.
It dawns on me that we’ve reached an impasse of stony silence and I turn my head to Rhett. He’s doing that steeple his fingers and tap the ends together thing he’s long since mastered, his inner contemplations shining off him like a beacon. “Well, thank God,” he finally says. “Here I was worried you might be shady. Pissing off your fiancé bad enough to drop you on the side of the road and never come back? Nah, nothing shady about that.”
Rhett is scarily good at that—slicing you to the quick with not so much as an extra blink, no inflection whatsoever in his voice.
Cannon readjusts in his seat, sitting up a little straighter, letting the broad stretch of his chest and shoulders speak for themselves. “Liz. Approached. Me. Then I pissed in a cup and let her run my background with no safeguards provided by any of you in return. For all I know, you’re all cracked-out criminals, yet here I am, climbing into your sanctuary and giving life and what it throws at me a chance. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and honestly,” he grins and shrugs, “it feels pretty fucking good.”
I swallow down my laugh and resist high-fiving him, happily shocked. Rhett just got served. Is it okay to still say “got served?” Who cares—that shit happened—and it’s making me feel…hmm…please stand by while I put words to it.
“You write lyrics?” Rhett asks him.
He shakes his head. “Nah.”
“You should.”
Chapter 5
Cannon, we’ve all discovered, is a perfectionist. Refusing to let us adapt our set list, he was bound and determined to learn our music before the wheels on this bus hit Vegas, and he succeeded—seven songs in less than forty hours. By the time we need to head over to the venue, we’ve all had mere patches of sleep here and there, everyone’s fingertips are numb, and my voice is crackly. But everyone hung in there, and Cannon’s far more ready at this early stage than I could have possibly hoped. And it turns out he can hang on bass quite well…I knew he was downplaying his musical capabilities the minute I asked.
There’s no official backstage area at Elite, a favorite stop of ours here in Vegas, but we’ve played it several times and not only are the owners awesome, but it’s small and the crowd is usually regulars, so I’m comfortable with Uncle Bruce and Conner at the table front row center in the audience. One less thing to worry about, since Cannon’s new and hell-bent on playing every song, still making me somewhat antsy despite his stellar determination and progress. He’s definitely a natural, though, with an amazing ear and memory, so if anybody can pull it off, my money’s on him.
“Helllloooooo, Vegas!” I grip the mic and get their attention. “It’s good to be back in Sin City with ya’ll! You miss us?” The crowd whistles and hollers, several familiar faces out there. “Didn’t I tell you when we left, I’d—” I cup my ear, asking them to finish.
“See You Next Tuesday!” the room yells in unison.
“That’s right,” I chuckle in the microphone. “And here we are! Surely it’s Tuesday somewhere! Now, has anybody seen my boys? Rhett, Jarrett, get your asses out here!”
Lords of the ladies, they both strut out all casual like, every ovary in the room their captive. Thank God Conner’s in the front row, his back to the pair of imposter D’s bared in offering behind him. She isn’t a regular. I would’ve remembered her blatant self. Jarrett eats it up, flirting right back, his shirt “accidentally” riding up as he straps on his bass. Rhett, as usual, gives a quick wave above his head and scurries behind the seclusion of the drum kit.
“Wait,” I look around, then back to the crowd. “Where’s my guitarist? Hmm.” I point to my chin and tap. “I know I had him around here somewhere. Cannon, oh Cannon, come say hi to this kickass crowd!”
Out he walks, six feet of unmistakable chiseled perfection, poured into tight, dark jeans, a plain gray t-shirt, black cap turned backwards, and boots. The roar of the females is deafening, but I barely notice over the rushing in my own ears. He truly is eye catching, the kind of guy you notice even if he’s merely checking the mail in his sweatpants. Your heart speeds up and your mouth goes dry. Your eyes wander all the way down him by themselves and you can’t stop your mind from wondering what he’s packin’ under those clothes.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this, Siren,” he grumbles in my ear as he passes.
“All right, all
right,” I push down my hands to settle the crowd as much as my own libido. “So now you’ve met the Cannon. I gotta tell ya, it’s damn insufferable being trapped on a bus with these three. I’ve got some aggravation to get out. Ya’ll ready for that?” I glance down at Bruce, pointing and motioning to ask if Conner’s earplugs are in. At his thumbs up, I lift my foot and stomp my black combat boot down hard on the stage, signaling Rhett to count it off.
We open with one of our own, “Cloaked.” Rhett wrote it amid his senior year of high school, “dark” lyrics softened only by the natural rasp in my voice and emotion I can’t hide as I sing it. It’s a song about all of us, hidden, “cloaked” under the guise of loving, well put together families. At the second chorus, the words that bled from Rhett’s heart onto the page, “the real me you never choose to see hates the real you,” evoke all they’re meant to in me. I shove both hands in my hair and tug my way through the lyrics.
Cannon’s short solo is up and I look at Jarrett, his face etched with the concern he’s trying to temper. We’d practiced it no short of twenty times, but…my head swivels high-speed, face alight and foot stomping out the beat on its own. He nailed it.
Cannon’s quite humble, ducking his head, not a clue how good he is. Beyond relieved, amped up and feeling alive, I watch him, waiting for him to look up from his fret. And when he does, high on emotion and before I know what I’m doing, I wink at him.
My face must wear the disbelief that suddenly hits me because his chuckle blends in with the closing chords. The roar of applause gives me a reprieve long enough to shake off that whole out of body experience and square my chin.
“For our next song, we’re gonna switch it up a little. I’m betting you’ve never seen this before.” I pause while Jarrett and Cannon cross the stage and trade instruments. I don’t care who you are, but especially if you’re a musician, it’s fucking hot. “Secret’s out—my boys are multi-talented.” I fan my face to toy with the crowd. Uh huh. When they’re ready and the cat calls have quieted, I turn and look at Rhett. “Let’s give ‘em their ‘Walking Papers.’”
Never breaking eye contact with me, he taps it out, then bangs his drumheads like he wants to shred them. We wrote this song together, on the roof right outside my bedroom window. It took us eight nights to get it perfect, seven if you discount the thunderstorm delay. It’s actually an upbeat song, written about the good kind of walking papers…when you’re finally free to go your own way. But tonight, Rhett’s not feeling the same vibe that went in to writing it, nor the playful tempo. No, his face and rueful eyes hold a storm.
That’s exactly how things are, always have been, with Rhett. Periods of smooth sailing, just long enough to fall into a welcomed sense of ease, and next thing you know, he’s back to sullen anger, always brimming right below the surface. Even when he’s in a good place, you’re always but a thunderstorm delay away from meltdown. I stay focused on him, my back to our audience, trying to convey love and comfort through my voice, my gaze, and the sway of my body as I sing to him. When the song ends and he’s still stewing, I spin around to rejoin the show and energy of the audience. One song of Rhett’s intense, cutting glare is plenty, and the non-verbal solace I’m sending isn’t getting through. He’s somewhere wicked and it will take more than a smile across stage to bring him back.
I don’t turn around again for the rest of the show, refusing to be dragged down into something I can’t fix right now. The next four songs sound great. Jarrett’s energy is always high and contagious; Cannon’s nailing every single note. He even “got jiggy with it” for one of our faster numbers and sang into my mic during “Sideswiped,” our signature ballad. I’m giddy with how well it’s gone, giggling as I again address the audience. “As always, we wanna thank Elite and all of you,” I throw an air kiss on both hands out to them, “for having us. To say goodnight, I’m gonna sing one more. A phenomenal songwriter said it all for me and I’m hoping he doesn’t mind if I borrow it, ‘cause I do so a lot.”
Bruce nudges Conner’s shoulder, his head popping up from his drawing as he yanks out the earplugs. “My song, Bethy?” he screams.
“Your song, Bubs, love you.”
Lights dimmed, I close the show the way I always do when he’s there, with only my voice and Jarrett’s acoustic accompaniment, but for the first time, and what I’m sure will be every time from now on, I switch and use Cannon’s new “sister” line when I sing “Beautiful Boy” to my brother.
***
While the guys had gotten ready to go out on the town, in the city of sin after all, I’d laid down and watched a movie with Conner. He’d fallen asleep before Optimus Prime even started stomping flowers, and I’m hoping there’s some hot water left for me to finally get a shower. I creep out of the bedroom and down the hall quietly, more than a little surprised to see Cannon sitting at the table, wet hair, jeans only.
Guys may be oblivious to, well, almost everything, but you can’t tell me they don’t know what the shirtless, barefoot thing does to a woman.
They know. Sneaky bastards.
Bare-chested Cannon won’t soon be forgotten, my brain working overtime to take in, preserve, and memorize each chiseled nuance of his magnificent torso. Not overly muscular, but more than toned and defined, he should never hide behind pesky shirts. There’s a very light dusting of dark hair between clearly outlined pecs, leading a line down to… Oh, happy, happy trail.
Anyway, I should probably speak out loud now.
“Didn’t feel like going out?” They better have invited him.
He bounces his shoulders and barely shakes his head, rolling a beer bottle on the table between his hands. “Not really my thing. I’m more of a homebody. Conner asleep?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, he didn’t last long. I’d have sacked out with him but I’m long overdue for a shower.”
He stands and casually strides toward me and for a moment I can’t breathe, every muscle in my body tightening and my skin tingling like I’m being poked with tiny needles. He reaches around me to throw away his empty bottle, excusing himself, yet I don’t budge an inch.
“Hold still,” he croons, reaching up to my face and gathering….and eyelash. “Thumb or forefinger?”
“Huh?”
Pinching the two digits together, he explains. “Pick if your eyelash if gonna to be stuck to my thumb or forefinger. If you’re right, you close your eyes, make a wish and blow it away,” he smiles tenderly, having just introduced me to the most enthralling game I’ve ever played.
“Thumb,” I scarcely get out.
He opens his squeeze and sure enough, there’s my runaway eyelash attached to the pad of his thumb. He leans in, warm, fresh breath fanning my face. “Close your eyes and make a wish, then blow. But don’t tell me your wish.”
I do as he’s instructed, the spell broken and my eyes popping open when he chuckles. “Only one wish Lizzie. That was like a whole list.”
“Oh,” I mumble apologetically and dip my head.
“Hey now, no biggie. In fact, you seem tense,” he says in a low, docile voice, dangerously close to my ear. “I bet you’re exhausted, always doing for everybody else. You go take that nice, long, hot shower.”
If Jarrett could see me right now, he’d be laughing his ass off and I’d never hear the end of it. My tongue’s swollen in my mouth, unable to form words, and I fear greatly that when I finally move, my trembling knees will buckle.
I’m starting to remember why I’ve never dated. Bossy, bitchy, motherly, or invisible, I have all those down pat. Whatever the hell this is, not so much. If I do open my mouth, I can pretty much guarantee that whatever I’ll say will come out stuttered and he’ll add bumbling idiot to his list of Liz-isms.
“Go on.” He smiles, giving me a small nudge at my back. “And I hope your wish comes true,” he winks. “You hungry? I could fix ya something while you’re in there.”
Like my head’s too big for my body, I awkwardly bobble it no and stumble to the row of drawers i
n the wall, digging for something to wear to bed. Deciding on a t-shirt and shorts, I attempt to nimbly slip into the bathroom and shut the door. If nimble is now defined as gawky, clumsy, and with the grace of a blind, three-legged elephant…I may have pulled it off. Alone at last, no one’s scrutiny or questions upon me, I slide the door closed, collapsing into a puddle on the floor.
What have I done? I’ve knowingly invited a walking, talking panty shredder onto my bus! How am I supposed to run a band, a family, take care of Conner, all while trying not to spontaneously combust?
I’d ask a girlfriend for advice, except I don’t have any of those. I have the boys. Okay, what would they do? I run every conversation we’d ever had on such matters through my memory bank and come up with one thing. Jarrett would “knock one out.”
Ingenious—I’ll relieve my frustration and festering attraction any time I take a shower. Then I’ll be able to act somewhat normal in his presence and eliminate that bitchy voice in my head constantly screaming, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Yes, excellent idea. I’m well versed in hand-to-self combat; I got this. With a plan, I climb in the shower and get to work. My white blonde hair washed, all 5’3” of my body takes another three minutes, and then I’m ready to let my fingers do the walking.
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall forward, bracing one hand on the wall. With the warm water easing its way down my back, I relax more with each deep breath and begin to picture Cannon Blackwell in my mind. Tall, lean and sophisticatedly handsome, country club to my punk, male to my female. Teasingly, my hand slowly creeps its way down my quivering stomach, one finger hinting at what it wants. I bite down on my lip, keeping my gasps and moans as quiet as possible, that single digit now two, rubbing a circle with the perfect speed and pressure.
Is this how a man does it? Gently, knowing exactly what you like and need? Or do stronger, larger hands, with delicious callouses on their musical fingertips make it feel even better? Not a man, that man, the perfectionist, plays me like a melody dying to escape into sound, consuming my mind’s eye as I diddle my way to orgasm.