by Kacey Shea
16
Leighton
“Leighton. A minute?”
We’ve just wrapped up sound checks for tonight’s show, and I’d like to grab a bite with the guys before an afternoon of interviews. Apparently my uncle has other ideas.
“Sure thing.” I feign nonchalance as I set my sticks down and hop off the seat, careful not to bang any of the cymbals.
“We’ll airdrop the address.” Sean catches me for a half-hug handshake. “Like what you did with Hunger. Let’s rock that tonight.”
“Cool. Thanks.” A genuine smile stretches across my lips at his compliment. I didn’t mean to get creative, but I couldn’t help myself. The beat on Hunger is more tedious than a 90’s punk hit. I’m not here to make waves or step on toes, but with each show I feel drawn to make the music mine with little changes, ones most people won’t even notice. Sean’s blessing to go ahead to do just that makes me feel more a part of the band and less a temporary stand-in.
Sean glances to where Bedo taps his foot. “If that one gives you any trouble, let us know.” A cloud of impatience surrounds my uncle like the plague.
“It’s all good,” I reassure Sean and then cross the stage, hopping off to meet Bedo by the floor chairs. I don’t need to draw suspicion to these little chats so I keep my body language relaxed even though I’m more than annoyed. “You rang?”
My uncle’s jaw ticks and his gaze flits to the farthest edge of the stage where the guys exit. He waits until they clear his view before speaking. “Look, I’ve been tolerant of our little arrangement, but you need to give me something.”
Something. He’s digging for info on Opal. I have enough to get him off my back for a while, but there’s something about her I can’t quite name and I can’t bring myself to turn her over. Not yet. But I have to say something. I won’t give this all up, not when I’m just getting started. I can’t imagine going home.
“She’s closed off. Private. Keeps away from all of us unless she’s working with Trent.”
“Fuck.” He swears and stomps his foot before resuming the incessant tapping.
“But there is one thing . . .” I’m shit. I’m a selfish fucking prick but I can’t see any other way around this.
His brows rise and I know I have his full attention, even if he acts otherwise. “Out with it.”
“She’s . . .” My brain speeds through all the conversations I’ve overheard and our interactions. “She talks about her sister sometimes. I think the band knows her.”
“Okay . . .” My uncle shoves his phone in his pocket, an almost non-existent sight and levels me with his glare. “Who’s the sister?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.” He looks bored and returns back to his cell.
“It’s true.”
“I need names, Leighton. Enough bullshit.” He shakes his head and taps on his screen. “I’ll book your flight back to LA for the morning.”
“Sean’s going to marry Jess.” The words spew from my lips like the garbage they are.
But it does the trick. My uncle’s eyes are wide with his undivided attention. “Jessica Moore.”
I nod even though he wasn’t asking a question. Okay, so, it’s an exaggeration of truths built in the form of a lie, but I’m no saint. Besides, Sean calls Jess daily and by the way his friends tease it’s not entirely unlikely.
Bedo holds my gaze and I swear I almost have him. There’s no way in hell I’m getting kicked off this tour. Not yet. He just needs a little push.
“She’s living at the house with Deb. Did you know that? After this tour, Sean says they’re planning to elope.” I’m so full of conviction I almost believe it myself. Fuck, what is wrong with me?
“No fucking way!” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe it and maybe I’ve sold my lie too hard. But then my uncle lets loose a chuckle, his face transforming with his smile. “Well done. Well done.” It takes all my willpower not to grimace when he clasps me on the back. Bedo’s family, but I’ve just betrayed a brotherhood.
“Keep that shit up and you’ll play with 3UG for a long fucking time.” He points a finger and levels his gaze. “I need deets on the PA next. Don’t let me down.”
“I’m always listening.” I force my lips into a smile I don’t really feel.
“Damn right.” He chuckles, his laughter almost joyful, but my stomach churns at the sound.
I turn to go, completely over this conversation, but my uncle calls out before I make it more than three steps.
“Oh, and Leighton? Stop by wardrobe before you head out for the radio interviews.”
“Anything you desire.” I can tell he wants to berate my smartass tendencies, but I turn away before he can, or worse, before I say something I truly do regret. I don’t like our arrangement, but it’s the bed I’ve made and I’m stuck with it.
I stop at the open wardrobe door, knocking as I peek my head inside. “Hey, Bedo said you wanted to . . .” My thoughts jumble in my head and I can’t even remember what I meant to say because holy wow. Opal’s dressed like a fucking wet dream. “Whoa.”
I’ve yet to see her in anything other than sundresses or cutoff jeans, which still look fantastic, but this? Fuck me. She’s absolutely gorgeous. “No one’s gonna have eyes for the band with you around.”
“Oh? This old thing?” she jokes, but then lowers her voice for only me. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“It’s perfect.” You’re perfect.
Whoa, where did that come from? I try to shake the thought from my head.
She shrugs and takes a step forward. “I better head out. Trent said there’s a car waiting.”
I don’t move to let her pass. Hot damn. I can’t believe how beautiful she looks. The outfit. The hair. Makeup, too. She doesn’t need it. God knows I’ve caught myself staring at her natural beauty all week, but this transformation is almost unbelievable. Someone’s not in Kansas anymore. “You heading to the interviews?”
“Yeah.” She parts her lips in a soft smile.
Bingo. There’s no way I’m passing up this opportunity for one-on-one time. “Can I catch a ride?”
She glances at the watch on her wrist and bites at her plump lower lip. “Sure.”
“One second.” I turn to Kellie and Stu who are unusually quiet. “Bedo said to check in.”
“Yeah.” Kellie walks over to her makeup station and picks up a pair of glasses. “When you’re not on stage, wear these.” She tosses them to me.
Thankfully I catch them before they drop to the ground. Staring at the thick black rims, I’m totally confused as to why my uncle would think I need eyewear. I’ve had perfect twenty-twenty vision my entire life. “But I don’t—”
“We decided. It’s for your signature look. Nerds are in.” Kellie rolls her eyes and I’d put money on the fact she’s not attracted to nerds.
“Embrace the sexy nerd,” Stu says dramatically.
“Thanks?” I slide them on, not sure if he’s making fun or offering serious advice.
“Don’t mention it.” He throws me a wink before I turn and follow Opal out the door.
We walk toward the back exit and it takes all of my willpower to not reach out and press my hand into the small of her back. The click of her heeled boots on the cement walkway is almost as distracting as the boots themselves. Seriously, her legs go on forever. How have I not noticed this before?
“I think Stu likes you.” Opal’s lips pull up with her grin.
“I think you might be right.” I push the door open and wait for her to pass first.
The car is waiting and our driver steps out to open the door. “Miss Evans?”
“That’s me,” she says and slides into the seat, scooting across to make room for me to follow. She glances over, her lips pulling into an amused grin.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nice glasses.” She lets loose a giggle.
I groan and slide them off my nose. “I look stupid, don’t
I?”
“No!” She shakes her head. “They look good. Different.”
“I guess I should be grateful they care so much about my image.” My face twists with the idea I’ve traded one dog and pony show for another. I came here to be free, not to be told what to wear and how to act, and yet that’s exactly what’s happening.
“Hey, they’re just glasses.” She reaches out, her long fingers settling atop mine. The gesture is unexpected and kind.
I feel like an even bigger fool throwing a fit about a pair of stupid glasses. I should keep my mouth shut. I shouldn’t divulge any parts of my life from before this tour, but I need to explain why it bothers me so much. “Growing up, my parents dictated a lot of what I could and couldn’t do. What to wear. What kind of music was acceptable to listen to or play. What to do with my life.” I twirl the frames in my hand. “It’s suffocating pretending to be someone I’m not.”
I lift my gaze to gauge her reaction. Her lips are full and pouty, her eyes intense, but I can’t tell whether it’s only the added makeup.
“You probably think I’m overreacting.”
“No. I understand. I grew up in a very strict household.” She rubs her hands together in her lap. “I wasn’t allowed to make my own choices. I can’t imagine going back to that.”
“So, you get what I’m saying then? I don’t mean to come off as some spoiled rich kid, but I can’t help where I came from.”
“You come from money?” Her eyebrows rise as if I’ve surprised her, but then she tilts her head and studies my face. “Actually, I can see that.”
“Ouch.” I press my hand into my chest and chuckle. “Why does that hurt a little?”
“Just saying. The way you talk and act . . .” She shrugs and gives in to a slight smile. “It makes sense.”
I furrow my brow with the notion that I’m not reinventing myself as well as I hoped. That the new me walks and talks like the old me but in tighter jeans. I walked out of my parents’ house to leave the shadows of that life behind, not drag it along with. “I’m not my past.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it as an insult.” Opal’s brows pull together with her frown. “I’m sure it’s no surprise to anyone I come from middle of nowhere, USA, but I don’t take offense. I refuse to let it define me. At least, I’m trying.”
“You don’t look country right now.” I grant myself permission to sweep her body with an unhurried gaze. She’s sexy, rock ’n roll, and could hold her own on any runway in LA if she wanted. When my stare meets hers, she’s smiling. Fucking radiant.
“Well, aren’t we quite the pair. Rich boy and penniless country girl making their way in the music biz.”
“Former rich boy,” I quickly amend, somehow needing to tell her that I don’t have a dime to my name other than what I earn for playing with the band. “I gave up my inheritance the day I chose Three Ugly Guys.”
Maybe it’s my own hope, but something in her gaze flickers with respect at my admission.
The car stops and it’s only then I realize we’re already at the radio station. She’s so easy to talk to and I’ve given her way too much personal information. I don’t have to pretend to be anyone other than myself around her. She looks innocent but that alone is dangerous. I can’t let my guard down completely, not even with someone as sweet as Opal. No one can ever find out how exactly I claimed my place in the band or my connection to Bedo. Either would guarantee a one-way ticket back to LA. I can’t go back.
The driver gets out to walk around the car and open the door.
Opal touches my arm before I can slide out. “Glasses.” She points to where they’re still in my hand.
“Right.” I nod and slide on the extra piece to the rock star costume I have to accept. I step out of the car and reach out my hand until she’s steady on her heels. A few photographers mill around outside. Paparazzi. Their gazes light with interest, but it falls just as quickly. They have no clue who we are. A few camera shutters click but no one calls out or approaches. They’re probably waiting on Three Ugly Guys. A light chuckle leaves my lips. If they knew we were here with the band, we’d have a much different welcome. Their loss.
Opal holds her head high, adopting the attitude and confidence of her new outfit like a second skin and it’s sexy as hell. Like a moth to a light, I’m drawn to her. I’m not the only guy, either. I can feel their eyes on her. I see their double takes and hungry stares. I can’t help but reach out and rest my hand at the small of her back. A silent “fuck off, she’s mine” to all the douchebags who stare. She’s not mine, either. But maybe she could be? Inside the lobby I try to shake off the thought. No, I’m not here for a girlfriend. Any time I spend with Opal is for the sole purpose of keeping my uncle off my back. This isn’t personal. I can’t get attached. It’s not in the plan.
The plan is to screw her over in exchange for my own place in the band.
I’m an asshole. My gut churns with guilt and I draw my hand back, refusing to allow myself the pleasure. My attraction to her jumbles in my mind until it morphs to irritation. Why am I even thinking about all of this? Opal’s not into me. I’ve watched her with Austin. I’ve seen with my two eyes how they laugh and flirt and share a closeness that pricks at my nerves. He’s an asshole, but isn’t that who girls fall for? The tatted bad boy rock star. Not little drummer boy with fake glasses.
Opal gestures toward the bank of elevators. “The email from Off Track said fifth floor.”
I nod and follow her lead, stopping to wait for the elevator. My fingers tap at the side of my jeans.
“Nervous?”
I feel a dose of embarrassment that she’s caught on to my nervous tic. I shove my hands into my pockets. I am nervous. Ridiculously so, but not for the reason she thinks.
“It’s okay. I am, too.” Her gaze is warm and understanding. For the second time today she reaches out to touch me. Her fingers are soft as they skim over the skin of my forearm. Her smile just as sweet. “They’re going to love you.”
I don’t deserve her company or kindness. But I want them all the same.
17
Opal
Over the course of the afternoon we travel from one station to the next, hitting up five different interviews. At first I feel completely useless, along for no purpose other than to give the guys some sort of entourage. But mid-afternoon that changes when I get bored and pull out my phone to snap photos. With my top-of-the-line cell phone, I’m equipped with all the best filters and technology, and even I have to admit the photos almost appear professional.
Between interviews I show Trent.
“Wow.” His eyes widen as he flips through the photo album. “Wait. Can you post these on my social media accounts?”
“Of course.” His praise is the best kind of compliment. “Oh, and the executives from that distillery emailed again. They want to set up a conference call to discuss your involvement as a spokesperson.”
“Cool. Set it up for next week. Just make sure it’s when we’re scheduled to be on the road. Off Track has us booked solid almost every stop this tour.”
“You got it, boss.” I like this. My work actually means something. Sure, I’m setting appointments and organizing his calendar. But it’s important and purposeful. I tap on one of the icons, and schedule a reminder to contact the distillery. “Oh, one more question. I saw tomorrow we’re scheduled for a full stop, but there’s no show that night. What does that mean?”
“They build those days into the tour, usually along longer routes. Our driver stops to sleep for the day and we get to play hookie.” He meets my stare and when I don’t say anything he chuckles and raises his brows. “It’s a day off.” He bumps my elbow with his, just as the radio host for our next interview steps into the room.
“Oh, cool,” I mumble before he struts over to greet the DJ. A day to myself. Cool. But at the same time not. I don’t know what exactly a day off feels like. Or what I should do. Hopefully I can hang on the bus, but if not I’ll find some way to pass the
time out of everyone’s way. A diner? Coffee shop maybe?
Out of the blue, a pang of homesickness hits me. Not for Destin, but for the way things were. What I wouldn’t give to be able to go home and visit Grams, sit down with her for a glass of sweet tea, or pick up the phone to give her a call. I’ve been doing a good job of not thinking too much, or longing for what can never be, but moments like these stop me right in my tracks. The sadness is as deep and aching as it was that first week she passed.
“Opal?”
I lift my chin to find Leighton holding the door open and everyone else gone from the room. Crap. I can’t get lost in my head right now. I need to focus on my job today, and be sad tomorrow. I force a smile and slide the strap of my bag onto my shoulder.
I expect him to smile back. To say something or make a joke, but he doesn’t quite meet my gaze. I pass through the doorway and his stare drops to the floor, wordlessly leading the way to one of the recording studios a few yards away.
Leighton’s been off since we arrived at the first interview. His carefree manner is wound tight and I don’t think it’s from the new glasses. Not that anyone else notices. They’re too caught up in playing their parts. Trent the charmer takes the lead in each interview like a seasoned pro. Austin has his dirty jokes. He’s shameless, and each time he opens his mouth I have to look away. Even without a mirror I know for certain my skin blotches with a deep blush. Sean the stoic man of muscle surprises reporters with his heartfelt answers. And Leighton, he’s the center of interest.
Maybe that’s what’s bothering him? I would hate to be badgered with personal questions about how he earned his place. Everyone is fascinated by the newest member of Three Ugly Guys. I don’t blame them. My own interest piques with each question and answer.
Where did you grow up? Who taught you to play? Musical inspiration. In each interview I learn a little something more about this talented man.