In the back seat that was the size of a small living room, Sloane and Maggie snoozed, Maggie’s snoring snout resting on Sloane’s lap, while Sloane’s arm limply cradled the dog. Erika would never have imagined herself in this situation just a few short weeks ago—RVing to music festivals with a bona fide but forgotten music sensation, a highly sought-after concert and studio drummer and an adorable chocolate Labrador retriever. This, she thought with a smile that threatened to bubble into full-throated laughter, was her family for the next four months. Hell, it was a lot more than that. It was the only family that mattered to her these days.
In Erika’s jaundiced opinion, her real family meant a genetic bond and not much more. An only child, she was united with her narrow-minded, socially and economically struggling parents only in blood and in name and in their singular desire to be accepted by society at large. Their means of achieving social acceptance was not only diametrically opposite hers, but full of friction. Erika’s escape to college had been her one-way ticket out of an existence that saw her parents wield her as their biggest weapon against their subjugation. They never saw her for who she was. Never asked her what she wanted. Never gave her an ounce of freedom to explore who she was and what she wanted, and Erika would never forgive them for that.
“You okay?” Dess said from beside her.
Erika slid a sideways glance at Dess, caught the concern in her eyes and felt, for the first time in more than a week, that Dess was sincerely trying to reach out. Things had been tepid between them since Erika’s ill-advised suggestion that they use one of Dess’s secret songs in their set. Apology aside, there’d been no real thaw between them until now.
“You looked a bit…troubled,” Dess added.
“I’m fine,” Erika snapped. “Happy to be on the road, as a matter of fact.” Moving, that was the ticket. Erika was always moving forward, because if you moved forward, you could outrun your pain, she believed. She didn’t know how Dess could stand wallowing in hers. Sitting around by herself these last few years, brooding, bitter, writing songs nobody would ever hear. It sounded like one hell of a depressing existence.
“Can I ask you something?” The question was out of Erika’s mouth before she could stop herself. She didn’t wait for permission. “Why do you write all those songs with no intention of them ever being heard?”
Dess paused before answering.
Well, now I’ve done it, Erika thought, as she waited for the outburst she was sure would follow. Outburst or not, something needed to be said if they were to warm to each other.
Dess’s voice was surprisingly gentle in reply. “Therapy, I guess. Music is the best way for me to express my deepest feelings, whether anyone hears it or not.”
Erika hadn’t thought of it that way. She was so hungry to perform, to put her talent out there in front of people. If she had Dess’s songwriting ability, she’d be singing those suckers all over the place. Or begging others to sing them all over the place.
“But if you shared them,” Erika suggested, “maybe it would help others who’ve felt the same way.”
Dess seemed to consider this. “I suppose. After all, music is about souls connecting, about shared human experiences. The songs we feel the most connection with stir something in our soul. But my songs…they’re so personal. Autobiographical. For some musicians, it’s no big deal. But for me? It’s tough to share my deepest pain, my deepest thoughts, with the world.”
“I would like it if, someday, you would share some of them with me, Dess. Just us, no audience.”
Erika knew she’d thrown down a gauntlet of sorts, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself for Dess’s answer.
“All right,” Dess whispered so quietly that Erika nearly missed it. “Someday.”
Erika smiled. It was progress, at least.
* * *
Dess, who knew next to nothing about camping, let Sloane and Erika hook up the RV to the campground’s power and water supply. They were supposed to be at the festival grounds for a sound check in an hour. Then, as probably the least known act in the lineup, they would open the show.
Dess was unreasonably nervous. This was small potatoes compared with what she was used to—sold-out football stadiums, packed Broadway theaters, intimate concerts with some of the world’s richest and most powerful people. But it was her first time on any stage in more than six years, and she wasn’t convinced, as Sloane suggested, that the years would melt away with the first note of music. She prayed she wouldn’t make mistakes or perform stiffly, but at least it would be Erika in the spotlight, doing the heavy lifting. All Dess had to do, she reminded herself, was be the anonymous guitar player, shuffling around in the shadows.
She pulled Erika aside as Sloane went to unpack their instruments from the large steel box bolted onto the back of the RV.
“How are you feeling?” Dess asked, keeping her own nervousness in check.
Erika pushed a strand of her wild hair behind her ear—a little habit Dess found perpetually endearing. “A little nervous. But excited too.”
“Can I give you some advice?”
“Please.”
“Focus on one person in the audience. Pretend you’re just singing to her. It will keep you from getting too nervous or too excited, okay?”
Erika nodded. “Thanks. And Dess?”
“Yes?” God, the way Erika looked at her sometimes. Those dark eyes full of fire never failed to spark something in Dess.
“Thanks for being here with me. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Dess smiled, rubbed Erika’s arm. “Yeah, you could. But I’m happy to be here. Well, until I have to actually get up on that stage.”
“Maybe I should be asking you if you’re nervous?”
“Nah. Like a walk in the park to me.” It wasn’t, but she didn’t need Erika to know that.
The sound check complete, they waited backstage for the signal that it was time. The announcer asked them if they had a name, like a real band, to which they’d lamely shaken their heads. Now it made Dess cringe as she heard the emcee introduce them as “Erika Alvarez and her, um, band. Give it up for them, ladies and gentlemen.”
There was a smattering of light applause. Barely a ripple of anticipation or excitement, which was disappointing. It wasn’t for herself that she cared—she actually preferred a small, disinterested crowd for her first foray back to the stage—but for Erika’s sake, it was disheartening. They looked warily at each other. Sloane shrugged—for her, this summer tour was a vacation interwoven with the occasional high-profile gig like the one she’d had in Detroit with Taylor Swift. Erika smiled gamely, but there was no joy in it.
“They’ll come,” Dess whispered. “Be patient. And remember what I said earlier.”
Erika nodded and grabbed the mic, Dess and Sloane taking their places behind her.
“Good evening, everyone!” Erika yelled into the mic. “It’s so nice to be here with y’all. Thank you for having us. Are you guys ready for a little action?”
Barely a murmur acknowledged her remarks. A few people were stretched out on the grass before the stage, the picture of disinterest. Others were coming and going, finding their seats or wandering off. It was supper time, though. A bad time slot. They’d have to grind through it and act like they were having fun, like they were singing to a thousand people on the edge of their seats, Dess told herself by way of a pep talk. They’d need to find their own energy, because they sure as hell weren’t going to get any from the crowd.
Dess put a hand to her beret one last time to make sure her dark wig remained in place. The wig, the beret and the sunglasses were, she hoped, enough of a disguise that nobody would ever recognize her. Dora Hessler would be her stage name for the summer. It would be fine as long as all the attention remained riveted on Erika, which was the whole point of this exercise.
Dess took deep breaths to still her suddenly pounding heart. It was like a piston on overdrive, leaving her light-headed. Being onstage again sure as
hell didn’t feel like riding a bike again (Sloane’s advice!). Her hands were trembling—not good for a guitarist, she reminded herself. This is not about you, she told herself over and over again. This is for Erika.
Sloane had launched into a beat on her drum kit. Dess missed her cue, and Sloane threw her a withering look as she kept the beat going. A few more beats and Dess jumped in this time with the beginning electric guitar licks of “Anyway You Want It.” It was the perfect high-energy song to launch their set. Erika’s voice rang out—so powerful, Dess decided, that everyone on the entire property would feel it in their bones whether they were actively listening or not. Erika gave the song its gritty, raunchy due, and slowly heads looked up, bodies sat up straighter, empty seats began to fill up.
Yes, Dess thought as she flashed an acknowledging grin at Erika. It’ll come, baby, just keep going; it’ll come. A tickling sensation bloomed in Dess’s stomach as she watched Erika relax into the song and her confidence take hold. Her tentative steps around the stage began to resemble a strut. Then, as they launched into Mary J. Blige’s “I Am,” Erika’s sex appeal exploded like a bomb. She stomped around the stage in her leather boots, offering up a spirited leg kick on the occasional downbeat, stood still to caress the mic like a lover as her voice dripped into it, all sultry and soulful, then she pointed challengingly to faces in the growing crowd. Dess, like she imagined others in the audience did in that moment, truly believed Erika when she sang the words “Ain’t nobody gonna love you better than I am.”
Oh yeah, Dess thought with satisfaction, she’s got it. She was a natural—something Dess herself had to struggle much harder to accomplish in the early days of her career. Erika had charisma and presence by the truckload—two things that would take her further and faster than most aspiring musicians.
By the time they finished their six-song set (they’d been promised more but were cut at the last minute) with their bluesy piano-guitar rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone,” the crowd was fully involved and hanging on their every note. Most were on their feet, and most were cheering and yelling for more.
The three women high-fived their victory backstage, then shook the hand of the sheepish stage manager, who didn’t waste any time telling them he’d move them into the eight o’clock slot tomorrow night. And that they could perform two extra songs.
Sloane sidled up to Dess as Erika made small talk with a musician who was tuning his guitar. “Isn’t this a blast? Being in on the ground floor like this? Things are really gonna take off for Erika one of these days.” Sloane bumped Dess’s shoulder. “And we can say we knew her when.”
Dess studied Erika from afar as she thought about that. She remembered her own meteoric ride to the top. How one day it was roadside motels and smelly buses, then almost overnight, private jets and penthouse suites at five-star hotels. It was like rocketing to another time zone or perhaps to another planet altogether. It was nothing and everything like she’d imagined. And now, watching Erika idly run her fingers through her thick hair, oblivious to Dess’s scrutiny, she had the unmistakable urge to wrap her arms around Erika in a protective hold, keeping her here, where things were still simple, forever.
* * *
Erika peeked around the stage curtain one last time. It wasn’t at all like the meager start to last night’s concert, thank goodness. This time, throngs of people sat patiently waiting for them, their necks craning, their eyes darting about in anticipation. Word about Erika, Dess and Sloane must have spread, because this time, the shouts and squeals drowned out the emcee’s introduction. Dess was giving her a thumbs up, Sloane was grinning like a kid. Erika smoothed her hands down her leather vest one last time—it was warm enough tonight not to wear anything beneath it—and checked that she was showing enough cleavage to be tantalizing, but not so much as to be obscene or cheap. She’d been around the block enough times to know that sex helps sell the music.
One last deep breath and she was running onto the stage, her guitar slung over her shoulder. The crowd cheered and wolf whistled as she greeted them, and she had to yell into the mic to be heard. The audience collectively laughed when she teasingly asked them where they’d been last night when she needed them, then Sloane and Dess launched into the high-energy “Anyway You Want It.”
Dressing the part—the tight leather vest, the form-fitting jeans, the leather ankle boots—helped Erika act the part of sexy rocker-blues chick. It also made her feel the part in those moments when she swaggered across the stage like she owned it, like she owned the audience too. The stage wanted to be possessed, shown who’s boss, and so did the audience, she firmly believed. But she didn’t want to think about it more deeply than that, about where it came from inside her, because too much self-examination might be self-defeating, she feared. What she was doing seemed to be working for her. In spades.
Heeding Dess’s advice from last night, Erika focused her attention on a young woman dancing on the grass below the stage. They locked eyes as Erika sang only to her, swayed and shimmied and strutted only for her. She was so immersed in singing and feeling the music, she couldn’t even remember what the woman looked like once the set was over.
Later, as Sloane and Dess packed up their instruments in the backstage area and Erika lingered over a bottle of water, the dancing stranger approached her.
“You were awesome, Erika,” she gushed, introducing herself as Hailey. “I swear, it was like you were singing just to me! Oh my God, will you pose for a picture with me so I can post it on Facebook?”
“Sure,” Erika said lightly and let Hailey lead her a short distance away. She put her arm around Erika, pointed her phone at them and snapped a photo.
Hailey prattled on about the warm, beautiful night, about what the music—and specifically Erika’s voice—had done to her. Her voice was low and breathy as she tactlessly whispered how turned on she was, how wet Erika had made her. Her perfume was the scent of mango on warm skin, her touch against Erika’s arm promising that she was a sure thing. Jesus, Erika thought, could this woman be any more obvious?
Hailey leaned closer and dropped any pretense of decorum. “Please. I want you so much. Outside. Under the stars, up against a tree. Just like that, baby, I want you to do me.”
Yep, apparently she could be more obvious. From the corner of her eye, Erika thought she caught a disdainful glance from Dess. Of course Hailey and her pawing proposition was crass and crude and so predictable. But as ridiculous and unprincipled as the idea of fucking this stranger was, there was a forbidden, alluring quality to it too. Erika was still keyed up from the performance, and what performer didn’t like to hear nice things about her music, especially from an effusive, sexy young fan? And who didn’t want to feel desired? The truth of it was, she was a bit turned on too—not just from the energy of the performance and Hailey’s detailed proposition, but from the last couple of weeks of being near Dess. Dess and her frustrating push-pull behavior. Dess, the queen of hard to get. The sexual tension inside her needed an outlet and soon.
“Let’s go for a little walk,” Hailey whispered, and Erika found herself being tugged along a stone path that led away from the backstage area.
Just off the path, in the shadows, Hailey unceremoniously pushed her up against a tree and stuck her tongue down her throat. The idea of getting off as quickly as possible, so she could get rid of Hailey, held particular appeal. Although being groped by a young woman against a tree wasn’t her proudest moment.
“Whoa,” Erika murmured. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Hell no. I like it hard and fast.”
Hailey’s lips locked onto hers again, their mouths joining unromantically like two locomotives hitching together. Hailey came hard at her like a train too, her hands all over Erika’s thighs, her waist, her breasts. So hard, so fast, that Erika figured the train was going to jump the tracks any minute. And strangely, she began to welcome the idea of a derailment, because the appeal of a quick fuck was fast losing steam.
She could do better than this. Deserved better than a five-second orgasm with a young stranger in the shadow of a tree.
An intake of breath, sharp as steel, caught Erika’s attention. She cast her eyes toward the noise, saw that it was Dess who’d halted in her tracks a couple of yards away. Her eyes were wide and so was her mouth before it snapped shut like a gate. Aw, shit, Erika thought, not really sure why she should feel guilty, except she did.
She jerked away from Hailey as Dess turned on her heel and stalked off. Sloane slid into view, her hands in her front pockets. “We were just going to tell you we’re heading back to the trailer. Dess…I mean Dora, wants to let Maggie out.” Her wink was her way of giving Erika permission to have her few minutes of fun. “But since you’re busy, don’t feel you have to join us.”
“No, wait, I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
Sloane melted into the dark, and Erika created more distance between herself and Hailey, whose mango perfume now smelled more like sickly sweet bubblegum.
“How old are you, anyway?” Erika blurted out.
“Twenty. Why?”
Hailey looked up at her like a shiny new penny, her eyes eager and her smooth skin almost translucent.
“Forget it,” Erika said, shaking her head dismissively. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go, okay?”
Hailey pinned her with an unforgiving death stare. “You’re into that older chick, aren’t you? You like cougars or something? That it?”
“Maybe I do.” Erika turned and picked her way back to where Sloane and Dess had emerged from, refusing to give any more thought to Hailey or her cougar comment.
Chapter Nine
“Want to tell me what’s going on between you and Erika?”
Sloane sat across from Dess at their trailer’s cramped dining table, the remnants of breakfast omelettes pushed to the side. Erika had set out on a long walk with Maggie.
The Song in My Heart Page 8