by Hazel Jacobs
All four of the band members shrug in near-unison.
“Get us ice-cream?” Dash offers.
Then they all nod as though the guitarist has said something incredibly profound and she can’t help but laugh. That prompts Tommy to start giggling, which makes Slate and Dash join in, and finally, Logan is laughing beside her, his lean body shifting and pressing against her side as he gives in to his mirth.
They’re still laughing when they reach The Getty.
Mikayla had always thought that The Getty was just a museum. It wasn’t until she began researching the venues that the band would be playing in that she realized there was live music there on Saturday nights. The stage is set up outside in the open air, on a raised platform overlooking the garden, which was strung up with unlit fairy lights that she knows will look magical when the sun sets. The band gazes eagerly out the windows as they approach and turn into the carpark behind the venue. As they drive in, she notices a line of people at the door—men and women who point excitedly when they see the band’s car. Slade and Dash wave out of the window as they pass.
The next few hours are lost in preparation.
They arrived in the early afternoon, and by the early evening the band had completed their sound check, set up the stage to their liking, and charmed Harry Shultz, the manager of The Getty, into letting some of the women who’d been lingering at the back door to join them in the green room. Mikayla found herself standing in the corner of the green room, going over her notes while the band entertains the women. As far as she can tell, they’re not groupies. At least not yet. They seem flustered and pleased to have been singled out, but the questions they ask—particularly the ones who have gravitated toward Tommy—make her think that they are genuine fans of the band.
“So what’s your inspiration?” one woman, a tall brunette with thick eyebrows and a Billy Piper smile, asks Tommy as he strums idly on his bass.
He shrugs but seems to give the question real thought. “I like to write for the people I meet, and the places I see. I guess it depends on the mood I’m in.”
The green room isn’t green, just like the last time. It’s set up in a similar way—lumpy couches and a stained coffee table in the center of the room, with suspicious stains on the walls and floor.
Slate leans over Tommy and pats a gentle rhythm on the other man’s bass, providing a beat for the bassist to play. “Tommy’s the most talented of all of us. Him and Logan over there…” he helpfully points out the older Todd brother, who’s going over set lists at the tiny table in the corner, “…Dash and I are pretty pointless.”
The women all protest, which was clearly his intention, and Tommy throws him an exasperated look.
Dash has recovered, and there’s a slight flush of excitement in his cheeks as he paces the room, not trying to talk to the women. Instead, he seems to be muttering to himself, running his fingers through his hair and psyching himself up for the show. He’d seemed so laid back the last time that Mikayla had seen him perform. But then, she remembers, she hadn’t seen him before the show. Only halfway through, when the nerves would have worn off.
“Okay,” Logan calls, breaking through the conversations and Dash’s pacing. “Everyone huddle up.”
“Sorry,” Tommy says to the woman he’d been talking to. “We’ve got to get ready. But if you want to come by after the show, I’d love to see you again.”
He gives her an awkward, sincere smile and she leaves with stars in her eyes. Mikayla finds herself wondering who the real lady-killer in the band is—the drummer or the bassist. Or maybe the singer, she thinks as she watches a couple of the women send Logan hopeful looks as they leave. She tells herself that she’s not jealous.
Logan hands around the hand-written playlists that he and Dash were supposed to be working on together. She recognizes some of the songs from the files Dash sent her. Logan has divided them up into moods—Get Hyped, Slow Down, and Dance, plus the opening set. A couple are highlighted, and he quickly explains that those are the ones they can change out for other songs if they think that the audience is getting bored with the mood. The other band members nod over the playlists.
“We should move Tell Me Something Miserable up to the start of the Get Hyped mix,” Dash says, pointing at one of the songs. “Maybe even put it in the opening set?”
Logan glances at the other two members and, when they nod their approval, looks at Mikayla. It takes her a moment to realize that he’s looking for her opinion as well.
“I don’t… I’ve never done this before,” she says.
“But if you were in the audience, what would you want to hear?” he asks.
She thinks about it, aware that all eyes are on her. Then she speaks hesitantly, “I think you should save it for the end of the opening set. End on a high note, you know?”
Dash nods along with her. “Leave ‘em wanting more!”
“That’s my motto,” Slate says. He tosses his hair and throws Mikayla a cheeky wink which, after a moment of reflection, she returns. “Mik’s right… add it to the bottom of the opening set.”
Logan makes the change and she breathes a sigh of relief that she seems to have passed the test.
“What about the lead?” he asks the band. “I’m not sure about Stray Ink. It works for the small crowds, but this is The Getty.”
“What about Yellow Brick Highway?” Tommy says. “That usually gets people on their feet.”
Logan nods slowly. He hums to himself for a moment, then he begins to sing softly, “Take a trip through the poppy fields. Carry me along with courage in the glove box. Drive slow with wheels made of rubies. Carry me along… Yeah, that’ll be a good opener.”
Mikayla has to smother a smile. She loves that song.
They debate like this for a little while longer and she has to marvel at their dynamic. That they can be at once critical and supportive, bringing in new ideas without making anyone feel as though they’re lacking. She remembers all of her group projects at college because she always left the room either feeling like an asshole or feeling like she was an inch tall. These boys worked together like a well-oiled machine.
The men of Black Lilith finalized their set lists, then handed them off to a waiting roadie to tape to the stage floor. Mikayla had learned that this was standard practice—how else would the band remember every song that they were meant to perform? She notices the roadie slip a small, zip-lock bag of white powder into Slate’s hand as he passes, and she deliberately looks away, praying that he has the good sense not to take anything while he’s performing.
But she needn’t have worried. Logan gives the bag a stern look as Slate slips it into his jeans. “Not ‘til after?” he asks, though it sounds more like a warning.
Slate throws him a lopsided grin and a reassuring wink. “Naturally,” he replies.
Mikayla relaxes.
“Okay then,” Logan says, running his hands through his dark hair, frisking it and making it stand on end. His tattoos look vibrant and bright in the fluorescent lights of the green room. “Let’s do this.”
Mikayla’s blood is still singing when the band piles back into the car to be carried to their hotel.
“We should have a segment of Beyoncé covers,” Tommy says, his wide grin taking up most of his face as he flops against the seat and rests his skull against the headrest. “You killed it on Run the World, Logan!”
“Beyoncé is a goddess,” Logan replies. His husky voice is raw from singing all night, and the sound of it so close to her ear makes Mikayla squirm a little in her seat. “I am a mere trashcan, rolling in the wake of her brilliance.”
She had been standing backstage when the band had begun their impromptu Run the World cover. She and every woman in the room had sung along with Logan as he’d belted out Beyoncé’s lyrics. Mikayla isn’t much of a singer, but in the dark and with the sound of Black Lilith’s music pounding through her body, she didn’t need to be.
The boys begin singing Diva, and then Tommy swi
tches over to some early Taylor Swift songs that the rest of the band sing along without hesitation. Dash wows them all with a surprisingly accurate rendition of Nicki Minaj’s Anaconda, and by the time they reach the hotel the whole car—including Mikayla and the reluctant driver—are singing Britney Spears’s Oops I Did it Again at the top of their lungs. They must have made quite a sight, but she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed. Not when Logan is sitting pressed up against her, flashing her brilliant smiles whenever she misses a note, his forearm brushing hers so that she can feel the warmth of his arm and see the colors of his tattoos.
They arrive at the hotel to find the women that the band had singled out before the show waiting for them. Mikayla pretends not to notice when Slate takes the zip-lock out of his pocket and waves it in front of one girl, a cheeky grin on his face.
“Care to join me, beautiful?” he asks.
She nods eagerly, and the two leave arm-in-arm before the rest of the band has even gotten their luggage out of the car.
“Do you think he remembers that we’re supposed to be sharing a room?” Tommy asks, watching Slate go with a mixture of amusement and exasperation on his face.
“You can bunk with us,” Logan says. Then he notices the way that the woman with the Billy Piper smile is eyeing Tommy. “Or I can see about getting you your own?”
Tommy follows Logan’s gaze and a soft smile plays over his lips. “Yeah… that sounds good.”
Logan gets Tommy a room. Mikayla wonders if that should be her job, considering she’s the personal assistant, but she still hasn’t been given access to any of the band’s accounts. Tommy gives Billy Piper a shy smile and asks, with the air of someone who’s happy to be rejected rather than offend, if she would like to join him. The woman grabs him by the hand and practically drags him to the elevator, but not before Dash slips a condom into the bass player’s back pocket as he passes.
“Well, that just leaves us,” Dash says, looking between Logan and Mikayla. He gives some of the remaining girls a wistful look and says, “I don’t suppose—”
“I’ll check if they have another room,” Logan says.
Dash flashes his older brother a brilliant smile and turns to go, but not before Mikayla reaches out and grabs his hand. He turns to look at her questioningly.
“Don’t overdo it, okay?” she requests. “Don’t want a repeat of this morning.”
He nods reassuringly and walks over to the women, all boisterous confidence and faux-swagger. There are three of them left. Two with skirts so short they could have been belts and one with a shirt that looks like it was painted on. Dash seems to gravitate to the skirts.
“And then there were two,” Logan says, returning from the cashier with three separate keys. He hands one to Mikayla and whistles at Dash. Once he has the younger man’s attention, he tosses him the second key, which Dash catches handily.
“If you play your cards right,” she says, nodding to the final woman in the tight top.
Dash is already guiding the other two toward the elevators, leaving one lonely groupie behind. She’s smiling at Logan with a look of promise, tipping her hips just right to show off her breasts. Mikayla pulls at her blouse self-consciously and thinks that she could never, in her life, be comfortable enough to wear an outfit like that in public.
Logan gives the other woman a look, but he shakes his head. “Two,” he confirms, pointing at the air between himself and Mikayla. “Not two…” he points to the woman waiting, “…I’m not in the mood tonight.”
He heads over to the waiting woman and speaks to her in a low whisper. She looks crestfallen but seems to shrug it off, accepting the twenty-dollar bill that he presses into her hand and heading for the hotel exit, swinging her backside as she goes through to show him what he’s missing. He watches her go dispassionately before returning to Mikayla.
“Shall we?” he asks.
She almost believes that he’s asking her up to his room. That he turned down the groupie because she is the one he wants to spend the night with. He’s giving her a neutral smile, but some of the playfulness from when they were singing in the car together remains at the edges. She clutches her room key—her single room key, identical to the one in his hand, because they’re in separate rooms and not sharing—and nods. She hopes that her face is neutral.
“What was the money for?” she asks as they head toward the elevators together.
“A cab,” he replies. “Can’t leave girls like that stranded with no way to get home.”
“Girls like that?”
He gives her an unimpressed look as he punches the elevator button and the doors spring open. “Don’t be that way, you know what I mean. She’s been drinking, and she’s vulnerable. She’s safer at home than wandering around on the streets of LA.”
Mikayla purses her lips and nods slowly. He gestures for her to precede him into the elevator and she goes, carefully walking so that her hips don’t sway. She doesn’t want to seem like she’s coming on to him. Not here, not when they’re heading up to their rooms, using the same elevator that the rest of the band had used to guide their female company up for the night.
“Do the others get cab fare?” she asks.
Logan reaches across her, and she deliberately doesn’t look down at his tattooed forearm as he pushes the button for the tenth floor. “And room service. I’ll settle the bill when we leave.”
Mikayla nods. Black Lilith would be playing at a few other venues across LA over the next week, but always with at least a day between each performance. Mikayla still doesn’t understand how they managed to convince Bass Note to let them take such a laid-back approach to their schedule. She finds herself grinning as she imagines Slate leaning over a conference table, charming a female executive into letting the band take it easy on tour.
She glances up at the reflective elevator door to find Logan watching her thoughtfully. “What’s funny?” he asks.
Mikayla drops her gaze. “Just thinking about who Slate must have had to charm to get you guys such awesome tour dates.”
She looks up in time to see a frown flicker across Logan’s lips. But a second later she thinks that she may have imagined it because he grins at her like they’re sharing a joke.
“What makes you think it was Slate?” he asks. “You should see Tommy bat his baby blues at the execs. We’d be riding in private jets and eating caviar if he didn’t insist on only using his powers for good.”
She grins wider. “I’m starting to notice how disturbingly charming Black Lilith is.”
“You think we’re charming?” he asks. There’s something almost flirtatious in his tone, his soft brown eyes crinkling at the edges as he speaks, and Mikayla hesitates.
She’s saved from answering when the elevator doors open. As she wheels her small suitcase through and waits for Logan to join her with his own, much larger suitcase, she tries to come up with a response which isn’t too damning. Something which matches his tone, but doesn’t go beyond it because she vividly remembers him telling her that he’d been out of line to hit on her. If he’s flirting now, he must be doing it with the knowledge that she won’t take him seriously. She has to remind herself not to take him seriously. Men like Logan—men who can have any woman they want, who have so many offers that they turn women away as a matter of course—probably use flirting as a second language.
But she doesn’t want to shut him down or push him away. Not now that they’re finally getting along.
“Some more charming than others,” she says, and she’s pleased with that response. It’s not incriminating.
He winks at her. Whatever he read into that statement, it was obviously complimentary, but she can’t control what he interprets. Plausible deniability, she tells herself as they amble down the hallway.
“Is Slate his real name?” she asks suddenly.
“That’s a closely guarded secret,” Logan replies seriously. “You’ll have to sign an NDA. Go through the trials. Sign over your first born.”
“Would he take the third born?” she asks. “I’ve got a couple of creditors who’ve already called dibs on the first two.”
He throws his head back and laughs. She feels that laugh vibrate through her marrow, like music for her bones. “What did you get out of that deal?” he asks.
“College,” she replies. They arrive at her door, but she’s in no hurry to go in. She fiddles with her key and leans her suitcase against the wall. “Cost an arm, a leg, and my first born. Twice.”
Logan nods sympathetically, leaning against her door and matching her stance. “College will do that,” he says. “It’s why I never went.”
“You became a rockstar instead,” Mikayla replies wryly. “Wish I’d thought of that.”
“There’s still time,” he says, winking at her again.
She rolls her eyes. “You heard me singing in the car.”
“You don’t have to sing. I, for one, think you’d have a promising career on the triangle.”
That surprises a laugh out of her. It feels good to laugh with him. She wonders what it would have been like if she hadn’t been his PA if she’d turned the job down and found herself in the green room on that first night. She’d thought about that a lot since she’d met him. What could have happened if she’d been open to his advances? She’s never been into casual sex, but for Logan Todd she would have made an exception.
But then she wouldn’t be leaning against the wall outside of her hotel room, laughing with him. Would one night have been worth this? No, she decides. But that one night would still have been something… nice.
She pulls her thoughts back to the present before her fantasies can begin to show on her face.
“So what would you have done if you hadn’t been a musician?” she asks.
He wrinkles his nose. “Gone crazy, probably,” he says. “Maybe wound up homeless? There was never anything but music for me. Dash… now, Dash could’ve been something else. He was pretty smart in school. But I couldn’t afford to send him to college.”