by Mia Storm
And, God, it gives me shivers.
This is what I love about music, how it transcends everything and cuts to the root of a person. To their soul.
We’re halfway through the song when a knock on the window behind my head makes me jump. I turn and see Tro just stepping down from where he must have climbed up on the wheel to reach the window. He points at the door up front.
I get up and when I open the lounge door, I see the sliding door to Billie’s bunk is closed and the light’s are out up front. I tiptoe past and go to the front to open the door.
“Hey,” he says.
I look past him and see people still trickling out of the stadium.
I step back and as he moves past me and notice his hair is damp and he smells like soap. I picture him in the shower, then wish I didn’t when my insides begin to buzz.
The door closes and I realize we’re just standing here and staring at each other when he reaches up and combs a hand self-consciously through his dark curls. I’ve never seen Tro self-conscious about anything. I didn’t know he was even capable.
“Billie’s sleeping,” I whisper, shaking off the goose bumps and grabbing a few more beers from the fridge.
He nods and we head to the back, where Lilah and Bran are waiting.
“Hey,” Bran says, standing and shaking Tro’s hand before taking a beer from mine. “Great show, man.”
“Thanks.” Tro shoots a glance at me. “Think it was our best so far.”
Bran slides into his seat next to Lilah. “The girls were just putting on a show of their own.”
Tro’s eyes widen and slip to me.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I say. “We were just playing some of Lilah’s stuff—songs we used to play in the BART stations and whatever.”
“Don’t let me interrupt.” He gestures to Lilah to continue as he takes the seat next to me and cracks open his beer. “Please.”
She thinks for a second, then starts on one that was probably our best moneymaker back in the day.
When we finish, Tro stands. “Come on.”
I lift my eyebrows but not my ass. “Where?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “There’s got to be a BART station nearby, right?”
Liliah’s eyes widen as she splits a glance between us. “Seriously?”
Tro locks eyes with mine, and in his gaze, all I see is boyish mischief. The player is nowhere to be found. A warm feeling spreads through my chest at the thought of being back in my territory, where I know the deal.
“Let’s do it,” I say, standing and towing Lilah up by the arm.
She grins and packs my guitar into the case.
We’re as quiet as four people on a tour bus can be, sneaking past Billie’s bunk. I grab a jacket off mine on the way by, remembering how cold it was when I let Tro in. He pulls the hood up on his hoodie as we step out into the cool night.
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a look. “That’s inconspicuous.”
He grins at me and takes off jogging toward the security gate. Lilah’s on his heels, carrying my guitar, but Bran waits for me to lock up.
He gives me an unsure smile. “This is crazy, isn’t it?”
I bust out laughing when I think about it. “That’s Tro Gunnison,” I say pointing after them. “How good are you at crowd control?”
He scratches his head. “Armed insurgents, I’ve got covered. Not so sure about rabid fans.”
I smile and take off after Tro and Lilah. They’re waiting just outside the gate for us.
“Thought you went soft on me, Lucky,” Tro says with a wink.
I shoot him a glare. “Just shows how little you know about me.”
He looks up the street past the stadium. There are still people milling on the sidewalk outside the exits, but the constant flow of fans has slowed. “So where to?”
“This way,” Lilah says, leading us up Battery Street.
Tro and I don’t talk as we walk, but he stays close by my side. When we get to the station, we lope down the stairs and Lilah uses her pass to get us all through the turnstiles. It’s warmer down here, but I take a second to scope things out before lowering my hood.
There are a dozen or so people on the platform, and most of them are in one of two groups, huddled together chatting. Chances are at least some of these people are coming from the stadium.
I move to the bench in the middle of the platform and Lilah follows. We sit and she pulls out my guitar, laying the case open at our feet, just the way we used to when this was how we made our living.
Bran slides onto a bench just across from ours and Tro stands at my side.
“Let’s see this subway magic,” he says with a nod at Lilah.
She smiles and starts in on one of my favorites. A few heads turn our direction with the sound of the guitar, but just as fast, they go back to their conversation.
Until I open my mouth.
With my first line, more heads turn, and by the time she kicks in with the harmony on the chorus, there are a dozen pairs of curious eyes perusing our small group. I watch the whispers pass around the circle, and several of them point to Tro.
He’s grinning ear to ear as he watches us, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone here is staring at him. When we come back around to the chorus and he starts singing along, that’s the open invitation. Despite the fact that a train is just pulling into the station, the group nearest us comes over and stares at him with wide eyes and goofy grins. A couple and one of the singles get brave and join the circle. The train doors open and no one gets on. Some of the passengers on the train look out curiously, and then I hear an “Oh my God!” followed closely by a “Go, go, go!” as a stream of girls exit the car nearest us and stampede over to where we sit.
We finish the song and Lilah starts plucking out the melody to the new song Tro wrote. “Do I have it right?” she asks as he smiles.
He nods. “You picked that up fast.”
She shrugs as she plays. “I’ve always just played by ear.”
When she comes back around, he starts singing the lyrics and the gathering crowd squeals and presses closer. On the second verse, I join in with harmony.
And fuck, I’ve got the shivers again.
Tro slides onto the bench next to me and his strong arm hooks around my waist as he sways us to the rhythm. I expect him to remove it when we finish the song. He doesn’t, and I shiver again.
It’s cold down here. That’s what I tell myself anyway. But it’s really Tro. I don’t want to feel anything at his touch except disgust. But I have that same sense of longing, a deep aching need, that I had while we were onstage, and I don’t want him to take his arm away.
Lilah plays her way through all our old material, and when Tro catches onto a chorus, he sings along. I haven’t felt so light since The Voice started. This is my home, where I belong, and despite the press of listeners, I lose myself in the sensation.
But my phone buzzing in my pocket brings me back to reality.
I pull it out and find two things. It’s six o’clock in the morning, which means we’ve been down here for nearly five hours, and Billie is freaking out.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say, texting her back.
The gathered group, many of whom are the originals, protest, but Tro stands. “Yeah. My flight’s in a couple of hours.”
Some of the girls ask Tro to sign their boobs and he obliges with a shrug at me. And right then, it strikes me how out of character that reaction is. In the last seven weeks, I’ve seen him sign plenty of body parts, and never has he been so reserved.
Lilah puts my guitar away and wraps me in a hug. “I was wrong,” she says, her eyes watching Tro with the girls. “He’s not just into you. He loves you, Lo.”
My heart skips and I feel my eyes widen. “Tro Gunnison doesn’t love anyone but himself.”
She scowls at me. “How can you miss the way he looks at you? Especially onstage tonight when he was playing the song he wrote for you. He would have m
elted right into you if he could have.”
I shake my head. “You don’t know him. He’s not like that. There’s not a genuine bone in his body.” I gesture to where he’s signing an enormous boob that is fully out of the shirt and bra. “He’s all sex and show.”
Her eyebrows go up and her gaze turns skeptical. “Maybe it’s you that doesn’t know him.”
“I know him,” I say, but when he backs away instead of putting the boob back into the clothes, which is the way it usually goes, I wonder.
Lilah has me in her arms again. “This has been so amazing, Lo. God, I miss you.”
“Me too,” I say, and am surprised to find myself suddenly near tears. “Sometimes I really don’t know what I’m doing, you know? This is the only place I’ve ever really felt like I belonged.”
Her eyes widen as she shakes her head. “Oh my God, Lo. You are amazing out there, on the stage. That is where you belong.”
I give her a weak smile as Tro finishes with his girls and comes up behind me. “Thanks.”
A train pulls into the station and I give Lilah one last hug before she and Bran load on. As Tro and I head toward the exit, I can’t believe how hard it is to climb the stairs. The last time I walked out of here, I was getting ready to go to L.A. for The Voice. I didn’t really think about what that meant, other than I had a chance to live my dream. But now the hollow place in my chest aches, knowing this part of my life is gone forever. I never thought I’m miss my old life, but I do.
Tro leans into me and wraps an arm around my shoulders when we reach the street. “Your friends are pretty cool. This was the best road night I’ve had in a while.”
I know about the parties in their hotel suites and the girls, so I’m having a hard time believing him, but I don’t argue it.
“Lilah’s the best. I don’t know Bran very well, but he makes her happy, so I know he must be a good guy.”
He watches the sidewalk unfold in front of us as we walk and gives slow nod. “You and Lilah went to school together?”
“Yeah. She’s been my best friend forever.”
“So…she’s your age?” he asks, and I see his mind cranking out the math. Bran is an ex-Marine, which makes him a lot older than her.
“A few months older, but…yeah.”
He nods again and looks like he wants to say something else, but then he gives his head a small shake. And I really wish I could read his mind, because I have a feeling there’s way more going on in there than anyone gives him credit for.
Chapter 15
Tro
“So, really,” Lucky asks, watching her feet on the sidewalk, “what’s the deal with your family?”
My feet stall and I pull a smoke from my pack, lighting up. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
She gives her head a solemn shake.
“Why do you care so much?”
“I guess I just want to understand why you turned out to be so…” She trails off and waves her hand in a circle at me.
I size her up for a long second, deciding how much I can trust her with, then start walking again. “Let’s start with you. There’s more to your whole story than just showing up and auditioning for The Voice.”
She frowns at my deflection, but answers anyway. “Like I said, my life is all over the internet. No secrets.”
“So, give me the Cliff Notes.”
“My crackhead mother left me in a McDonalds bathroom when I was a few days old. They say it’s a miracle I’m alive. That’s why someone thought it was clever to put the last name Luck instead of Doe on all my paperwork. I was in foster homes for a while, but it’s hard to adopt out a crack baby, I guess, because everyone’s pretty sure you’re going to turn out moron or something. When I started high school, they moved me into a group home in the city.” She shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket and shrugs. “Technically, that’s where I still live.”
“So, how does that work now that you’re a rockstar? Like, who signed your contract and where does all the money go?”
“Thanks to Billie, the State’s not stealing all my money, if that’s what you’re asking. She got a lawyer and we got everything set up in a trust. The State is the custodian, but the lawyer worked it out so that they can’t access the accounts without me knowing.”
I nod. “Glad someone’s looking out for you.”
“Billie’s been great. She’s got my back.” She gives me an inquisitive lift of her eyebrows. “Now your turn.”
I take a deep drag and blow a stream of white smoke into the cool early morning air. “I took off from home when I was a kid. It was a bad situation. I ended up in Shreveport because that’s as far from Mobile as the money I had would take me, and it was far enough that I didn’t think anyone would find me.”
A deep crease forms between her eyebrows. “So you were running from your family?”
I nod.
“When you say bad situation…?”
“I got beat up a lot. Nearly ended up in the hospital the night I left.”
“Who would…?”
She leaves the noose dangling, so I jump into it. “My old man.”
Her eyes widen when she puts the pieces together. My cover story is I never knew him. “Did you…I don’t know, ever fight back or whatever?”
I shake my head. “Make love, not war. I fucked his girlfriend instead.”
Her face freezes in a mask of shock, and I regret opening my mouth. I don’t even know what compelled me to say any of this to her. But now I feel like she has to know the rest of the story.
I lower my gaze and take another drag, watching my feet. “She was patching me up the night after my old man beat the living shit out of me, cleaning the blood off my face with a washrag. I grabbed her and stuck my tongue down her throat. I don’t really know why, except at the time I felt so fucking helpless and I guess it felt like revenge. But when she kissed me back instead of pushing me away…” I trail off with a shrug, wondering why the fuck it was this story, of all of them, that decided it needed to be told.
“Did your dad know…what happened?” she asks, some of the shock on her face dissolving into sympathy I don’t deserve.
We reach the security gate into the lot where her bus is parked and I lean against the post. “I didn’t wait around to find out. I took off before dawn.”
“As in…forever? You just left home?”
I nod. “I’ve never been back to Mobile. Not even on tour.”
“So, have you talked to your dad since?”
This is deeper into my history than I’ve ever gone—more information than even Grim has. If I don’t stop the bleeding, I’m going to hemorrhage every bloody detail of my sordid past out all over Lucky. Despite my gut telling me I can trust her, I’m not willing to take that risk.
Her phone buzzing in her pocket saves me from having to. She pulls it out and sends a quick text. “I’ve gotta go,” she says when she looks up at me, and there’s something a little mournful in the words.
“See you in L.A.,” I say, backing up the sidewalk.
She swings around the pole to the other side of the chain link fence and looks back at me. “Barring a bus crash, I’ll be there.”
A smile I can’t stop curves my mouth. “Can’t kill an angel.”
Lucky grabs the fence and doubles over laughing. “Did you really just say that?”
I rub the back of my neck and feel the cringe on my face. “Yeah…that was pretty lame, wasn’t it?”
“Um…yeah.”
“I’ll have to do better next time,” I say, scratching my head as I back away a step. “See you tonight.”
“Have a good flight,” she says, lifting her hand in a sort of wave. Or maybe it’s the signal to stop, because something in her eyes is giving that definite vibe.
“No such thing,” I say, still trying to read her. Because, fuck. If she’s feeling what I am…I’ve never wanted to kiss someone as much as I want to kiss Lucky right this second.
W
e both just stand here, three feet apart, staring at each other for a long moment before I finally lift my hood and turn to the main road to look for a cab. Because if I stand here another second, staring at that face, I won’t be able to stop myself.
As I walk, our conversation replays in my mind. What is it about that girl that makes me want to spill my fucking guts?
I shake my head at myself as I wave a passing taxi down. Whatever it is, I need to tame it before I let her in too deep.
#
Me and the guys are stretched out in a corner of the airport at a gate where there’s no flight scheduled when my phone rings. I pick it up when I see the number.
“Hey, Freddie. Long time.”
“Got your text,” he says. “So you’re telling me Shiloh Luck is thinking about jumping labels? Because I’d fuck my grandmother to get her over here.”
“She’s having some creative differences at Universal,” I tell him. “But I’m telling you, Fred, I just heard some shit last night that would make you come in your pants. You know her lead single, ‘More Than Nothing?’”
“The one she sang on The Voice,” he confirms.
“I just sat a BART station last night with her and the girl who wrote that, and these two are pretty fucking amazing. This kid, Lilah, can write the shit out of anything. Lucky wants to do her songs, but her producers are forcing her down the pop lane. She’s not feeling it and I’m pretty sure she’d consider going anywhere that would let her do what she wants to do.”
There’s a pause. “You know I’d need to hear it before I could make any kind of commitment in that direction.”
“I totally get it, man. I do. But I can’t fucking believe Universal vetoed this shit. It’s smart and original and kicks fucking ass. She’d be unstoppable with these tracks.”
“When can she talk?”
“I haven’t said anything to her ’cause I wanted to be sure you were on board first. Let me talk to her and I’ll get back to you.”
“All right,” he says. “Give her my direct line and tell her to call when she has a chance.”
“Her manager is Billie Sinclair. You might be hearing from her instead.”