Skipped a Beat

by Salsbury, JB

  Ryder must realize he’s standing really close to me because he quickly steps aside. “That’s Asshole Harmon, bass player from Tempest Blade. He’s only been on tour with us for the last three weeks, Jes.” He scowls at the man’s back as if he’s hoping to burn out his internal organs from behind.

  “His name is Asshole?” Jesse says in such an honest way that I feel my lips curve. “What kind of people name their kid Asshole?”

  “His brothers are Anus and Pucker,” Ryder mumbles.

  The laughter hits me out of nowhere and right in the chest. The sound that comes from my mouth is half hyena, but I can’t control it.

  When I notice Jesse and Ryder staring at me, I sober. Not immediately, it takes a while to shake off the remnants of my enjoyment, but I have to accept what I’ve done.

  Ryder has the look. Like he’d taken a hundred volts of electricity straight to the chest. Jesse, on the other hand, looks more curious than dazed, more entertained than awed.

  The silence is stifling, so I point to my left cheek to address the obvious. “Dimples. I know they’re kind of disorienting.”

  Ryder blinks slowly as if trying to translate my words.

  I want to groan, sigh, scream. I’ve been told my whole life I should smile more, that when I’m not smiling I look murderous, and when I do smile I light up a room. Those people aren’t wrong. When I don’t smile, I’m able to keep them at a distance, but God forbid something make me laugh—

  “Who is this?” The man with the polo shirt steps beside Jesse and looks at me as if I’m a piece of furniture. He’s short, has dark hair and graying sideburns, and his cheeks sag like a bulldog’s. “Who let her in? I didn’t approve any fans backstage. How’d she get a lanyard?” He snaps his fingers at one of the big guys in black. “Escort her out. Ban her from the building.”

  “Easy, Brent, she’s with us.”

  I do a double take at Ryder’s defense of me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Brent says, his words dripping in sarcasm. He crosses his arms above his round belly and fixes his muddy-brown eyes on Ryder. “Did I miss the request for your girlfriend to be backstage?”

  I’m shocked Ryder doesn’t back down, as the man clearly has some kind of authority over him. He stands a little taller, and his eyebrows pinch together. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  I feel their presence at my back before I see Ethan and Chris over my shoulder. Jesse seems pleasantly entertained by it all as he stands there and watches Brent’s lips curve into an evil grin.

  “Not your girlfriend?” Brent eyes me, and even though I’m intimidated by the man, I meet his stare head on. “Well, well, well… not such a golden boy after all.”

  “She’s a friend of ours,” Chris says.

  A heavy, muscular arm is thrown over my shoulders, and Ethan tugs me to his side. “Don’t blow a gasket, Brent. She won’t cause any problems.” He squeezes me. “Will you, buddy?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No problems.”

  Brent laughs, and the sound has my pulse hammering again. “I’m sorry, but no. I’ll let tonight slide, but she’s gone after the show.”

  “No can do, Brent,” Jesse says and waves his phone. “Arenfield hired her. She’s our water girl.”

  The stuffy polo-wearer is no longer smiling. “That’s not an actual job title on tour. Besides, they would’ve told me—”

  “Check your email. With your head shoved up my ass all day, you must’ve missed it.” Jesse shrugs, then jerks his head toward the food table. “If you guys are done eating this poison, let’s go.”

  Ethan uses his arm on me to usher me away following Jesse, who leads us out the double doors. None of us speak as we walk down a corridor to a door being guarded by a security guard in black. He sees us coming and pushes the door open, letting us into a decent-size living space.

  The door shuts, and Ryder is the first one to growl. “I fucking hate that guy.”

  Ethan releases me and takes a seat on the large blue couch that sits in the middle of the room. He props his ankles on the coffee table. “He’s not that bad.”

  Chris shrugs. “He’s just doing his job.”

  Jesse plops on a chair in front of a lighted mirror, but he doesn’t look at himself. He turns to give his back to the mirror. “No, Ryder’s right. The guy is a huge piece of shit.”

  “Is there really an email?” I ask Jesse.

  “No, but he has too much pride to call Arenfield and ask about it. They’ll just blame him for being negligent. And besides, he doesn’t really care about you being here. He’s just a controlling dick.”

  “Are you okay?” This comes from Ryder.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Does he really think an asshole like Brent could upset me? He has no idea the kind of prideful bullheadedness I’ve already had to deal with in my twenty-seven years of life.

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because in the span of thirty minutes you got hit on by a drag queen and then almost kicked out by a dwarfy asshole.”

  I appreciate Ryder’s attempt at making me smile, but I make sure to keep a straight face. “Men like him don’t scare me.” I’ve learned from the worst of them.

  With a thunk, Ryder drops into a nearby chair.

  “You’ll be fine,” Jesse says with a wink. “Just stick close to us when Brent’s around. Hey, what’s your last name anyway?”

  Ryder’s gaze darts to mine and I hesitate. My name is no secret, there’s no dirt that could be dug up on the internet, and yet giving away my name feels like letting people in.

  “DeLeon,” I answer with more confidence than I feel.

  They all respond as if I just told them the sky is blue. All except Ryder whose glare seems to tighten a little.

  Ethan leans over, grabs a guitar, and strums a soft, melodic tune. Chris is texting, and Jesse nods his head to what Ethan’s playing. Soon Jesse picks up a guitar and strums along with Ethan and I’m grateful the focus has been taken off me. I get the feeling they’re not playing any particular song but are just warming up, having fun. Chris eventually grabs a guitar too.

  Huh, I would’ve sworn Ethan was a drummer—crazy, a little out of control.

  Ryder crosses the room to a slim bag and pulls out a set of black drumsticks. No way, I did not see that coming. He sits back down and starts thrumming the tips of the sticks on the coffee table. Right away, I pick up a pattern. It’s as if he’s running drills. Right, left, right, left, right, left, left, left. Then reversed. Left, right, left, right, left, right, right, right.

  I’m mesmerized.

  I disappear into the background as the four men play like they’re all an extension of the same musical brain. When one changes the tempo or chord, the others immediately follow in a perfect synchronization.

  Suddenly I’m plunged into a holy-fuck moment when I realize I’m sitting in the same room as, being defended by, and friends with Jesse Lee and his band.

  Since when did this become my life?

  Ryder

  The general public has a misconception about what happens on tours backstage. I’ll admit, I used to imagine band members throwing back tequila shots before shows, while topless women in G-strings and heels perch on their laps. I’m not saying these things don’t happen. I’m sure some touring crews are more relaxed with the rules than Brent, but our backstage is vastly different thanks to Jesse’s need to remain sober.

  No distractions.

  Which is why I knew Brent would send Jade packing the second he saw her. I even wanted her to go. Until he threatened to ban her from backstage and I jumped to her defense because I couldn’t bear the thought of no longer seeing her. Feeling her scowl my way. Engaging in verbal spars. I concluded that as insulting as the woman can be, she makes my blood pump harder than anyone ever has.

  There is something seriously wrong with me.

  Chris is on the phone with his wife, Jesse with Bethany too, so I pull out my phone. Ethan’s watching Sportscenter for the latest PGA tour number
s while I scroll through photos Rachel sent me. Various poses of her in front of the mirror wearing a form-fitting purple dress that hits just below her ass and high-heeled shoes that wrap up her ankles. Her hair is down falling almost to her waist, long blonde hair that takes hours to get done in the salon. Her eyes are big and blue and made up to seem even bigger and bluer, her lips twice the size as they were when we first started dating. I know her nose is covered in freckles, but I haven’t seen them in months since she insists on covering them up. They made her look more human than doll, which is exactly what she looks like in these photos. I scroll to the next one. Her arm is wrapped around to get a shot of her backside in the mirror, and she’s the picture of perfection. Perfectly shaped. Perfectly common. Perfectly predictable. There’s a photo of her and her friend Heather toasting with champagne. They look identical.

  “She’s pretty.”

  I slam the face of my phone into my thigh, then wonder why the fuck I responded like I’d been caught looking at porn. Jade comes around from behind me with a bottle of water in her hand and sits near me on the couch. Casually, I flip the phone back over and peer down at it. “Yeah.” I close out the text thread.

  She hands me a bottle of water, and I thank her for it.

  “I assume that’s your girlfriend?”

  What kind of an asshole does she think I am? “Of course.”

  She cracks the lid on her water and takes a long swig. “You must miss her.”

  I stare blankly ahead. I do. Don’t I? I miss having someone around who knew me before I became part of the Jesse Lee phenomena. I miss having a partner, someone like Bethany is to Jesse, and Chris’s wife Dina is to him. Do I miss Rachel though? Her constant nagging about me always being gone, her impossibly high expectations and blatant disinterest in my music. There is very little room for anyone in Rachel’s life outside of Rachel herself. Things weren’t always so tense between us. When did she change? Or was she always like that and I was too blinded by her attention to notice? “Sure?”

  Jade’s lower lip is fuller than her upper lip, so when she’s resting, her mouth is set in a permanent pout. When her eyes narrow, her expression reminds me of a holy rage, an ethereal anger so beautiful and yet equally terrifying. She’s aiming that look at me now, and I try not to recoil. “Sure?”

  The once complacent energy between us strings tight with tension again. I find it impossible to have a civil conversation with this woman. Inevitably one of us says something to piss the other off. It’s infuriating. I want to tell her it’s none of her fucking business. I want to roar that she has no right to judge me when she’s the one who’s fucking homeless. I also want to pull her hips to have her straddle my lap and kiss her until she smiles again.

  My God, that smile. I’d never seen anything so striking in my life. Those pouty lips tip up, and her entire face follows suit. Even her eyes smile and sparkle. But those dimples? They turn her cold, hard expression into something innocent, hopeful, and, it may be a stretch but… magical.

  “None of my business, I get it.” She speaks as though she’s angry at me, like I’ve brushed her off, but really she’s absolutely right. I don’t owe her an explanation about my relationship.

  Truth be told, I can’t tell her because I haven’t figured it out for myself yet.

  “What about you?” I tilt my head and gauge her reaction. “Boyfriend?” Lucky son of a bitch. I gulp.

  Her spine stiffens, and her jaw gets hard. “I left someone behind.”

  That doesn’t come as a surprise, and yet it still grates at my nerves. “He the one who put the bruise on your cheek?” And there I go again. It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize when she answers.

  “No. He didn’t.” She looks forward at nothing and shakes her head. “This was given to me by a truck driver who felt I owed him for the lift he gave me.”

  My spine stiffens, my pulse kicking hard behind my ribs. “Jesus, Jade. Did you call the cops?”

  “Nope.” Her gaze swings to mine. “I ran and took the first opportunity to get away.”

  She doesn’t have to say it. I can see the mix of vulnerability and apology in her eyes. “Our bus.”

  “Your bus.” She studies the stitching on the couch cushions, and I’m grateful she’s not looking at me as a billion feelings tangle in my chest—shame, regret, and a little anger.

  “Can I ask what’s waiting for you out west?”

  She seems to consider my question and then nods. “My mom.”

  Ethan pushes up from the couch and grabs himself a Gatorade, fluffing Jade’s hair when he walks by her. She flashes him a tiny smile.

  My pulse pounds harder.

  “You don’t strike me as a drummer.” She’s frowning, and I get the sense she’s looking to pick a fight.

  “No? Why not? I don’t fit the drummer stereotype?”

  If she picks up on the aggressiveness in my voice, she doesn’t let on, but come on. For a woman who doesn’t want to be judged for the way she looks or for her circumstances, she sure does an awful lot of judging.

  She shrugs. “You seem too, I don’t know, buttoned-up for that.”

  “Too buttoned-up.” I laugh humorlessly.

  “You know, square.”

  “I know what you mean,” I hiss, and the rise she gets out of me makes her eyes flash with excitement, or maybe that’s hatred?

  “Are you any good?”

  “Good enough to get hired to play in Jesse’s band. Not too good that there isn’t room for improvement. Why do you care?”

  “Curious, that’s all.”

  We stare forward, maintaining a view of the other in our peripheral vision. I get the feeling she enjoys pissing me off.

  Minutes tick by, and neither of us get up to move. I assume it’s because she wants me to leave first, and that’s the reason I’m staying right where I am. I want her to be the first to show weakness.

  No clue how long we sit there, no idea what time it is, not even a hint of where we’re at in the lineup before we go on stage when the door swings open, and Brent appears. He holds up his hand and makes the five-minute announcement.

  “It’s show time, bitches!” Ethan pops a faded Bears hat on his unruly hair, then holds a hand out to Jade. “Come on, Princess, I’ll show you to your seat for the night.”

  I stand when she does but turn my back so I don’t get caught watching her move out of the room. I have nothing to grab. Everything is set up and waiting for me at my drum kit, but I fumble with some things anyway just to put some space between me and Jade. Jesse slaps me on my back. Leaning in, he says, “You feel fucking amazing, right?”

  I’m momentarily caught off guard, unsure of what he’s asking.

  He rolls his eyes, clearly irritated I’m slow to catch his meaning. “Jade.” We head toward the door together, and he mumbles, “The constant fighting, her blowing you off, you wanting to strangle her… Makes you want to fuck her, doesn’t it?”

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He laughs and slaps me between the shoulder blades. “I suspect with all the sexual tension you’re carrying around, this will be one of the best shows you’ve ever played.” Jesse jogs ahead to catch up to Ethan and Jade.

  Chris sidles up next to me. “He’s right. There’s something between you and Jade. It might feel like hatred, but you know what they say.” He shrugs. “Thin line and all.”

  “You both are nuts. I don’t even know her, and I have a—”

  “Girlfriend. Yeah, we know. You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” The roar of the crowd becomes louder as we get closer to the stage. “Do you really think anyone forgot? Or are you worried you might?”

  Before I can respond, the lights dim and a crew member with a flashlight directs me to the drum platform. The second my ass hits the throne, the entire world outside of the arena disappears until all that’s left is me, the music, and twenty thousand screaming fans. I run my sticks through my hands, settle my
feet on the pedals, and roll my head on my neck.

  With his bass guitar strap draped over his shoulder, Ethan nods at me, letting me know he’s ready. Chris turns toward me and does the same. I hold up my sticks, and in perfect unison that comes from thousands of hours of practice, we hit the first note to our opening song. The lights burst to full capacity, and the entire space erupts.

  This is my heaven. The one thing I live for.

  As my sticks fly across the toms, crash against the cymbals, and my feet direct the perfect double-bass, I transcend to a different level of consciousness that takes little effort. I turn myself over to the music and allow myself to simply fall.

  7

  Jade

  I’ve discovered it’s possible to be turned on by someone I don’t necessarily even like. If I’m being honest with myself, sure, Ryder is attractive. Not a single person on earth would deny that. But Ethan is attractive too, and after watching him play the bass, I have nothing but admiration for him.

  After watching Ryder play?

  I want to strip off my clothes and straddle his lap.

  That can’t possibly be normal.

  I convince myself it’s got to be his body. I knew the guy was muscular, but when he took off his shirt, I gaped at his defined biceps, the ripples of his abdominals, the striations of his latissimus dorsi… Good God in heaven, Ryder’s body is flawless.

  The heat that built in my chest while watching him play radiated to my lower belly and then between my thighs. I tell myself it’s normal to feel a little physical attraction when in the presence of all that talent and beauty. Even if the guy manages to infuriate me whenever he opens his mouth.

  I used to think drummers were just time keepers, meant to be stuffed away in the back, the only visible part of them their instrument and the tops of their heads.

  Not Ryder.

  His drumming brought the beat forward, drowning the bass and guitar out at times. The beat became the driving force, often seeming like the second voice in a duet.

  Not often am I floored by anyone.