“So what do you think of Hillcrest?” he asks as we move around two guys in drag who are walking matching Chihuahuas in rhinestone collars.
“It’s pretty great,” I answer. “There aren’t that many places in the world where you can be exactly who you want to be and not get hassled for it. Did your whole band hang out here?”
“Yeah, we all spent a lot of time here that summer. It was fun as hell. Carson and Topher were never quite sure what to do when guys would hit on them, but Dez was into it, and for some reason no one ever tried with me and Garrett.”
“Wait. Is Dez…?”
Blaze purses his lips. “Dez is whatever his heart tells him to be. Most of the time that’s women, but there’s been the occasional guy over the years.”
I think of my brothers and how much that would bother them. They could never be friends with a guy who was bisexual. “But that doesn’t bother you?”
“Me? Hell no, short stack. I’m all for everyone doing whatever makes them happy. Dez is the brother I never had. He’s had my back more times than I can say, and the only thing that I care about is that he’s happy. John, Joanna, I don’t give a shit as long as they treat him right.”
That melting thing my heart’s been doing all night happens again. It’s softening to the point that I’m having trouble keeping it inside. It wants to ooze out all over the sidewalk, the people strolling past us, and most of all, Blaze himself. My heart wants to ooze all over him like a bunch of hot wax, coating him, warming him, claiming him.
“You’re a good friend,” I tell him. “There’re a lot of guys in this world, even now, who wouldn’t be able to handle that if it were their best friend.”
He stops walking and pulls me up against him, forcing the crowds to walk around us.
“Oh darling,” a guy wearing a black mesh t-shirt and guyliner says as he steps around us, “I wish he’d look at me like that.”
I giggle, embarrassed, and lean my head against his chest as I feel my face heat.
He leans down and whispers in my ear, “You haven’t been hanging around the right kind of guys then.” He kisses my shoulder, so softly it’s like his whisper in my ear. A delicate brush, then gone in a moment.
“Your chariot awaits,” he says, and I lift my head to see the limo idling at the curb. It’s late. I know we need to get back. We have to perform tomorrow. But I’d give almost anything to keep this night from ending. Blaze Davis is so much more than any of the guys in my band realize. And I don’t think for a second that he sabotaged their benefit concert. If only there were some way to convince them of that. But I’ve had enough experience with hate and prejudice in my own life to know that once bad opinions are formed, there’s not much you can do to alter them. He’s Rhapsody, I’m Lush, and the world was against us before we even started.
Twenty minutes later the limo pulls to a stop and Blaze smiles at me.
“We’re not back at the hotel, are we?” I ask.
“Come on, let’s find out,” he answers.
The driver opens the door and I hear the rushing of water and smell the briny scent of the ocean. I love the ocean.
“How did you know?”
“How did I know what?” he asks as he takes my hand and leads me toward the sandy beach.
“That I love the ocean.”
He chuckles. “Well, in all honesty I didn’t, but who comes to San Diego and doesn’t visit the beach? We’re not here long, and we’re so busy I figured you probably hadn’t even seen it since you’d been here.”
We reach the edge of the sand and I realize that if I step on it my boot heels will sink and they’ll get ruined—plus I’ll look like an idiot trying to walk with my feet buried three inches at the heel every step.
I pause, and Blaze looks down at my shoes before he drops to one knee. Oh my God, I think I might swoon right here. He takes one of my feet and lifts it, placing the ball of my foot on his knee before reaching up and slowly unzipping my tall boot. He removes the boot, setting it gently on the ground, then lowers my foot to the sand and repeats the whole ritual with my other boot.
“Should I put these back in the car for you?” he asks before standing.
I shake my head and he takes my hand and leads me down the beach parallel to the waves lapping against the shoreline.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a romantic?”
“Me?” He laughs. “No. I don’t believe anyone has ever said anything remotely like that.”
I wrap my free hand around his bicep, giving his whole arm a hug as I cuddle up to his body heat. His big, round muscles flex below my fingers and I hang on tighter, thinking about how well those muscles would hold him up as he rose over me while filling me, over and over like he did with his fingers earlier in the car.
I try to shake off the persistent lust I have whenever I’m around him. “Well, I’m just going by what I’ve seen—giving a girl her big O while holding off on your own, entertaining conversation at a table for two, a walk along the beach in the moonlight. Romantic stuff, guitar hero.”
He stops and turns to face me. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything, short stack, but when I’m around you I have this urge to be a nicer guy than I generally am.”
He plays with my fingers as he stares down at our linked hands, almost like a little boy who’s embarrassed by something.
“You’re making me wish for stuff that can’t happen, Blaze,” I tell him, my voice quiet in the darkness.
His eyes snap to mine. “I want more than this one time. Surely you’ve figured that out by now.”
My breath hitches and everything inside of me twists, setting my world to tilt a tiny bit—not enough to wrench it off its axis, but enough to show me that it’s off, things are unbalanced, and somehow I need to figure out how to set it right again.
“I need this job. I’m finally starting to fit in, and honestly—I really like the guys. I know you and Mike have had your differences, but they’ve been good to me. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.” I hate that I have to make this speech. I hate that I have to choose between the best guy I’ve met in a very long time and the best career shot I’ve been given ever.
“It’s okay,” he says, giving me a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I get it. You want this career as much as I do. If anyone gets that it’s me.”
We walk in silence for a few more minutes before he turns us around and we head back to the limo. When we get to the parking lot he bends down and snags my boots before scooping me up, tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me across the asphalt to the car.
I’m giggling when he puts me in the backseat and tells the driver to take us back to the hotel.
But in spite of the horsing around he’s quiet on the way back, watching the lights blur past the windows as the stereo pumps out a mix of old style southern rock and indie standards. When we get to the hotel I realize that the music was coming from Blaze’s iPod, and the mix makes me even more interested in him. It was eclectic, and I can’t help but wonder what it all means to him.
The car has brought us to the back entrance of the hotel, and Blaze helps me out then leads me around the corner where the building is dark and deserted.
My heart pounds because I’ve realized over the last few hours that while I was ready to take him to bed before we went out tonight, there is no way I can go any further with this man now. A few hours, a peek into his world, and I’m already fascinated by him, charmed—I’m crushing, and it can’t go beyond that. If sex with Blaze is anything like our tryst in the car, I’d be a goner. He’s sexy and romantic, he’s passionate and dirty, he’s smart and funny. He’s exactly the kind of guy I’d fall head over heels with, and that cannot happen. So, I prepare to turn him down, but he surprises me before I have the chance.
“I had a great time with you, short stack,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Me too.” I can hardly see his face in the darkness, but the strong jaw and bright blue eye
s are there, tempting me and making me wish for the millionth time tonight that things were different.
“I’ll watch you perform tomorrow. You’ll do great.”
“Thanks. I have to admit I’m a little nervous.”
“Psshh.” He flaps his hand in the air like he’s brushing something away. “You’re going to be amazing. Don’t doubt it for a minute.”
He pauses for a moment, and I can sense a tension, like he’s going to say something else, then he gives his head a little shake and puts out his hand to shake mine. Wow. So not what I was expecting.
“You go in first, I’ll wait a few minutes so no one sees us together. Sleep well, short stack.”
I blink and stare at his hand, floating in space in front of me. I should be happy. He isn’t asking to sleep with me. I don’t have to turn him down. So why do I feel like someone just took away my favorite stuffed animal?
Finally I give his hand a shake and murmur something like, “Okay, see you around,” before I turn and walk briskly to the doors. Once inside the elevator I lean back against the wall and let out the breath I’ve been holding. I’m not sure what just happened, but I think I might have screwed up the best thing that’s ever swaggered into my life.
Blaze
Dez and I are on our pre-performance run, a tradition we’ve had since the early days. Even when I was using heavily I always pulled it together for our runs. Now I look back and have to thank the cocaine gods that I didn’t have a fucking coronary putting all that stress on my heart.
“Dude, where were you last night?” he asks as we round an outcropping of rocks at the beach we’re on.
I debate how much to tell him, but this is Dez, and I don’t keep things from him. I also know that as an addict it’s not in anyone’s best interests for me to hide shit. Sometime lies are a necessary evil, but I’m striving to keep mine to a minimum. I don’t have to announce everything to the world, but at least one person on the planet needs to know what I’m doing and with whom. Dez is my guy.
“It has to stay between us,” I tell him, taking a couple of small steps to stay at pace with him.
“Dude—really?” He gives me a disgusted look.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” As if Dez would be anything but completely trustworthy. “I had a date of sorts.”
“No shit. Who with? You met someone after rehearsals yesterday? Just tell me it wasn’t a groupie.”
Both Dez and I have had plenty of groupie-filled nights, but we sort of committed to forego any more of that action on this tour. Groupies are a hazard to your career. They do shit like poke holes in condoms, try to slip you drugs, and post pictures of you when you’re in bed asleep—just ask Julian Edelman. We decided that neither one of us needed to get laid badly enough to take the risk. We need Rhapsody to have a solid reputation for the Super Bowl committee to take us seriously, plus, I’m really not in the mood for any little Blazes right now.
“No way. We agreed, I haven’t changed my mind. It was someone from the tour, but it was just a one-shot thing.”
“Didn’t hit it off? Or you just wanted a one and done?” Dez lands with one foot on a broken shell and swears. “Fuck!”
I look down to see if he’s trailing blood. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Should have worn shoes.”
“But then your chi would be off all damn day,” I tease him.
He flips me off and sprints for a few yards before coming to a stop and flopping down on the sand to inspect the sole of his foot. I stop running when I reach him and stand, hands on hips as I think back to last night and what it felt like to have Tully in my arms, watching her gorgeous face as she came all over my hand, her cheeks flushed, nipples hard as diamonds, breath spilling out of her in pants.
“It was Tully O’Roark,” I tell him.
He looks up at me, his eyes sharp. “Huh. Should have seen that one coming.”
I sit next to him, watching the water spill onto the beach in front of us. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, maybe it was the little counseling session you gave her after we overheard her phone call the other day. Or the fact that she gave you so much shit. You’ve never been interested in women who are too easy.”
“Actually, I kind of dig easy chicks,” I joke.
He snorts. “Whole other kind of easy, my friend.” We sit in silence for a couple of minutes. That’s something about Dez, he doesn’t feel the need to talk all the time. He never says or does anything without thinking about it carefully, and if you hang with him you learn to respect that because when he does say something it’s worth twice as much as whatever someone else said in half the time.
“But you didn’t hit it off?” he finally asks.
“If only,” I mutter.
“So it’s the Lush-Rhapsody thing then.” He doesn’t make that a question.
“They’ve told her not to hang out with us—me in particular. She’s new, she needs this gig. It’s life changing, you know? I get it.”
He looks over at me for a brief moment, bringing his knees up and locking his arms around them. “But you wish things were different.” Again, not a question. He knows me too well.
I sigh. “She’s pretty amazing.”
He nods. “Haven’t heard you say that about anyone…well, ever.”
I stand and brush the sand off my shorts. “And you won’t again any time soon. But it is what it is.”
He stands as well and slings an arm around my neck.
“Get your sweat the fuck off of me,” I growl, struggling against his headlock.
“Aw, sweet thing,” he says before he digs his knuckles into my head and releases me. “Race you back!” he shouts before he takes off, his long legs eating up the sand as he sprints away from me.
“Fucking dick,” I groan as I push off to catch up. By the time we reach the parking lot I’m two yards ahead of him though, because I don’t lose. Ever.
The energy backstage at a concert can be intense. Everyone’s got their thing that they do to prepare. Some people are reflective, sort of mentally preparing themselves for it all. Others are on an energy high and can’t sit still. In the days before I started using, I was always the guy who followed a ritual. It’s a habit I carried over from football. Athletes are superstitious, and rituals help you feel like you’ve got control over the unknown—the outcome of that game.
Performing isn’t a contest, but it’s got that same feeling of the unknown outcome. Will you kill it or will the audience sit and stare at you like you’re speaking to them in tongues? If you develop a ritual that came from successful performances, you can convince yourself that it’ll ensure success every time.
But since I got out of rehab I’ve avoided rituals. Cocaine was a ritual for me, and I relished that aspect of using. The way the powder looked when I poured it out in front of me. The scrape of the razor blade against the tiny grains. The sting when it flew into my nasal passages, and the numbness as it worked its way down my throat. Then the bitter flavor and the rush of energy that followed. That feeling like everything was brighter, lighter, more intense. Cocaine became a way to regulate my days. As strange as it may sound, it grounded me, gave me plot points in the story of my days and nights. My life became a series of intervals in between the ritual consumption of cocaine.
With the exception of a run with Dez, which is mostly just an excuse for us to touch base, I don’t do rituals anymore. Now, before a performance I do whatever the fuck occurs to me. If I’m thirsty I drink water. If I’m hungry I eat pizza. If I’m tired I nap, if I’m wired I play some Call of Duty with Carson.
Tonight I’m reading an article in Guitar Monthly on Mike Owens. Well, Mike is the excuse, since it is a guitar magazine, but the real story is about Lush’s new addition. So basically I’m thumbing through a magazine to see the photos of Tully. Yeah, I’m a dumbass.
“Watcha’ reading?” Garrett asks in a singsongy voice as he throws himself down on the sofa next to me in the dressing room. He
’s wearing a ripped up t-shirt that he’ll tear off completely before the end of the performance, which will of course, send every woman in the place into a frenzy. I’m not much of a judge of dudes, but it’s hardly a secret that whatever it is chicks love, Garrett’s got it.
“Just some bullshit about Lush,” I answer, tossing the magazine down on the coffee table so Garrett won’t think it’s anything important. The last thing I need are his loose lips telling the whole tour that I’m fixating on photos of Tully.
“We still at war with them?” he asks.
I look at him in disgust. “How can you not know the answer to that?”
He shrugs and kicks his feet up on top of the magazine. I twitch because I don’t want him to tear that picture of Tully. I’m fucking keeping it—as soon as no one’s looking, of course.
“I was just hoping maybe you’d brokered a truce. Their new girl is hot. I wouldn’t mind a little of that action.”
I’m halfway out of my seat and reaching for his throat before I remember that I can’t let on about my interest in Tully. So I jump up from the sofa and turn my back to him. Pacing around the room instead, trying to cover my near disastrous slip. Luckily for me, Garrett is all things narcissistic, and I don’t think he even notices.
“Well, we are still at war, so hands off of her, you got it?”
He salutes me with a cocky grin on his face, and just like that my anger melts away. He’s an idiot. A child. Completely irresponsible, selfish to a fault, plowing through women like he’s clearcutting the whole forest, but he’s also incredibly charismatic, endearing when he chooses to be, and one of the most distinctive voices in rock and roll. I can write hits and play a wicked guitar until the earth spins off its axis, but Garrett’s voice is what fans will recognize every time they hear a Rhapsody song. And while he’s a good friend of mine, that alone might not overcome his flaws. But what does is that power—his voice—it’s part of our signature sound, and in the end it means we have to put up with his irresponsibility no matter what.
A Lush Rhapsody: A Rhapsody Novel Page 10