Skipped a Beat

by Salsbury, JB

  “Much.” Even though Ethan is in the same room, it feels like Ryder and I are alone. I clear my throat. “You a UFL fan?”

  He nods, slowly, his gaze locked on mine. “You?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m a fan. I’ve seen a few fights.” Steven used to drag me to sports bars on fight nights. He’d explain the game to me, the different submissions, his favorite fighter’s stats.

  I can’t hold Ryder’s gaze for a second longer. The way he watches me makes my stomach tingle, and I know from experience that’s how bad choices begin. “What’s behind the door?”

  He follows my eyes to the locked door at the back of the bus. Whatever’s behind it takes up almost half of the bus’s size. I imagine it’s some plush bedroom with a king-size bed and tons of overstuffed pillows. “Studio.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” He smiles. “Just in case inspiration strikes while we’re on the road and we want to get something down.”

  “Can’t you just write it down so you don’t forget?”

  “We could, but words and notes on a page don’t sell a song. If we record it, even something as minor as the chorus or chord progressions, we can share it with our label immediately rather than waiting to get home and record.”

  “Drums too?” I study the door, wondering if it’s cramped back there with all the equipment.

  “Yeah, you want to see?”

  I do. I really do. “I guess, nothing better to do.”

  He doesn’t even bat an eye at my snarky remark, and he stands, motioning for me to follow. We’re a lot closer when we stand at the mouth of the doorway to the studio, so close I can smell his cologne. He’s wearing classic cut jeans—not too tight, not too loose—black Vans, and a black T-shirt. A regular guy but he smells like a rock star.

  “Scoot over for a sec,” he says, gently pressing the back of his hand to my upper arm to step aside. He reaches up over my head, and his shirt lifts to reveal a faded, worn, thick leather belt and a perfect strip of toned obliques covered in tan skin. He pulls a key from a lip of wood trim and smiles. “Shh, don’t tell.”

  His whispered voice in this confined space sends goose bumps down my arms, and I’m grateful for the sweatshirt so he can’t see. With a slide of the key and firm jerk of the handle, the door opens and he flips on the light.

  I feel my jaw go slack but can’t do anything to stop it.

  “Amazing, right?” He walks around the twentyish-by-twentyish-foot space, hitting buttons to make speakers hum and flipping on more lights until the room is fully illuminated. Alive. “This used to be Jesse’s bus, and he had the master bedroom turned into a studio. It’s pretty cramped, but we manage to make it work.”

  Not a single window in this room, the space is decked out floor to ceiling with equipment, guitars hanging on the walls, and a drum set in the back corner. There’s even professional microphones and a small control board. “Do you record albums in here?”

  He rubs the back of his neck, looking around. “Nah, it’s not that advanced, but we can get tracks down, record jam sessions…” He snags a pair of black drumsticks from the wall and slips behind the kit. “Pretty good memories made on tour in this room.”

  Without warning he hits the drums, both arms, both feet, each doing something different. The beats reverberate off the walls in the small space, making the teeny-tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand in awareness. He plays effortlessly, as if he could do it in his sleep, but the sound… The sound is flawless.

  “What is that?”

  “Huh?” He stops playing.

  “What are you playing?”

  “Oh, this?” He goes right back to it as if it’s as easy as putting one foot in front of the other. The sound is like nothing I’ve ever heard. How does he move his feet so fast? He stops playing. “Rush. Neil Peart, he’s so fucking technical. He does these triplets—” He goes back to playing, his foot jumping quickly on the pedal making the bass drum purr before he stops again. “It’s his thing, and it’s so hard to do, but he…” He grins and shakes his head. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about all this.” He sets the sticks down on the snare.

  “No, it’s okay. I like it.”

  This is the first time I’ve seen Ryder seem bashful. He runs a hand through his hair and peeks at me as if he’s apologizing. “Let’s talk about you. Top five favorite bands.”

  I’m still a little blown away by the room, so it takes me a minute to consider his question. I think back to my phone, what was on the top of my playlist. “I like different stuff. I run to Metallica or Blink 182 or Drake.” I leave out my love for Jesse’s music.

  His eyebrows rise as if he’s pleasantly surprised.

  “When I’m trying to relax, I’ll listen to some Motown.” My skin grows warm, and I tell myself it’s because I’m wearing a sweater and a sweatshirt rather than admit I might be a little nervous about confessing my music preferences to a music master.

  “Varied taste in music.” His blue eyes search mine. “I like that,” he says on a whisper.

  “Except country. I’m not a fan of country.”

  “No? Not even a little Garth or some old George Jones?”

  I curl my lips between my teeth and shake my head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just… white people music.”

  The good humor in his expression disappears and is replaced by confusion, maybe even disappointment. “White people music.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  He shakes his head. “I wasn’t aware music was divided by color.”

  “Oh come on, Ryder, how many people of color are singing country music?”

  “Music is the only thing that has the ability to unite all walks of life regardless of sex, socio-economic status, race. How do you explain all the soccer moms listening to Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre?”

  “Right, but—”

  “No buts.” He stands and steps close, his eyes searching mine in a thoughtful way. “Before we part ways, I’m going to get you to at least appreciate country music.”

  I exhale a little of the tension that had coiled in my chest. “Impossible.”

  He smirks. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  Tonight’s show was similar to the others. The crowd sang along with every single song, and at one point I wondered, if Jesse and the band stopped playing and walked off stage, if the crowd would finish the show on their own.

  My job as water girl really means I sit stage left and replace every water bottle that gets drunk, poured over their heads, or thrown into the crowd. It’s a joke of a job and hardly makes me feel useful, but it’s better than nothing.

  After Ryder draws out the end of their final song, the entire band ends on one final note. Jesse yells his appreciation to the crowd, and the lights fall. They come off stage soaked in sweat and high on adrenaline. And, like last night, I’m treated to Ryder’s shirtless display and towel off, which is quickly becoming my favorite part of the night.

  I wait backstage with Brent, Ty, and a bodyguard named Max while the guys shower and Oria collects their dirty, sweaty clothes into a bag.

  Ethan comes out first, his face still reflecting the afterglow of performance. “Damn, I feel good. We’re headed to Denver, but we have a day off tomorrow, and I plan to take full advantage.” He drops onto the couch next to me and accepts a beer from Ty. “You in?” he asks me.

  “I’m not sure what exactly that entails.”

  “Let’s go to a club.” He shrugs, as if it’s that simple.

  “I don’t have an ID.”

  He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to go to a club.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “No.”

  “Twenty-four?”

  “Nope.”

  “Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Whoa.” He shifts closer to me. “You’re old enough
.”

  “To drink?” I get the feeling he’s talking about something else.

  “You’re old enough for a lot of things,” he whispers near my shoulder.

  “Ethan.”

  Both our eyes snap to Ryder who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He’s in his signature baggy pants and T-shirt that he wears after shows and to sleep. He doesn’t take his eyes off his bandmate. “Let’s go. Bus is waiting.”

  Ethan can’t be dumb enough not to sense the tension in not only Ryder’s body language but in his voice. Maybe they got in an argument after the show? Whatever happened, Ryder seems angry when Ethan puts out his hand toward me and flashes his megawatt smile. “May I escort you to the bus?”

  “Um, sure. I guess.” I take his hand and allow him to pull me to my feet.

  His grip is firm, as if he would like to continue holding hands all the way to the bus, so I wiggle my fingers free of his grasp and tuck them into the pocket in the front of my borrowed sweatshirt. Only then do I notice Ryder turn his back and leave the room.

  Ryder

  Back on the bus and my phone is blowing up in my pocket with text messages I know are from Rachel. We haven’t communicated much the last few days, and I have to say, the break has been nice.

  I pull my phone out and see twelve new text messages, four of them photos, all from Rachel. It’s nearly midnight in Las Vegas, so there’s a chance she’s buzzed and lonely. Shit. I scroll through the messages, pretending I don’t hear Jade and Ethan laughing on the couch across from me as they down beers and play movie trivia.

  She doesn’t give him half the shit she gives me. I thought we had a great time today in the studio, yet she never laughs easily with me like she does Ethan. Matter of fact, she seems to hold back and be purposefully grumpy and impossible to please when we’re together. But not Ethan. She’s all fucking amiable with that asshole.

  I know it’s late, but I want to hear your voice.

  Rachel’s text accompanies a photo of her pouting. Even just a month ago, a message like this would’ve had my dick hardening, but now it only irritates me.

  I text back.

  I’m on the bus.

  So? I’m your girlfriend.

  I sneak a glance at Jade, who is laughing hard at something Ethan said, so hard she’s leaning into him. And then it hits me.

  They’re going to end up fucking.

  And why shouldn’t they? They’re both single. No attachments. They clearly enjoy each other’s company, and Jade is fucking gorgeous. Ethan would be stupid not to want her, but not for just an amazing night of fucking, and there is no doubt in my mind that one night with Jade would never be enough. No, she’s the type of woman who you’d end up addicted to. And I’m not just referring to her looks. She’d push you to the brink of complete insanity then soothe you with her body. And right when you started to feel safe and comfortable again, she’d kick you out of bed only to come crawl over you and fuck you senseless—fuck! I’m so turned on I can’t see straight.

  I’ve gone too long without sex. That’s all this is. I’m hyped-up on adrenaline, and it’s been a month since I’ve been with Rachel. I’m gathering more fuel without an outlet to blow.

  I palm my phone and head to the bathroom. Chris is in his bunk, probably doing with Dina the same thing I’m about to do with Rachel.

  I push away the ridiculous feeling of guilt at leaving Jade to call Rachel. My head is so fucked. I close the toilet seat and drop on top, then hit Rachel’s contact. She answers on the second ring, and I already have the elastic of my pants pulled down and my cock in my fist.

  “Hey, Ry,” she says in a rough, sultry voice.

  “Rach.” I bite my lip and squeeze. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing really, just hanging out watching television.” I imagine she’s in something sexy—lace, silk, fully nude even.

  My hard-on deflates a little. What the fuck? “I wish you were here.” Yeah, that’s my problem. My hand just isn’t doing the job like it used to. If she were here, she’d be warm and wet and eager to get me off.

  “Tell me why.”

  My eyes dart open, and I stare across the bathroom. “What?”

  “I want you to tell me why you want me there when you have all those skanky fans throwing dirty pussy at your feet.”

  “Dirty pussy.” I look down and watch my dick shrink back a tad.

  “I mean, I wish I was there too, but like, you haven’t—”

  “You feel like getting each other off?” I have to ask. I’m desperate, and I don’t want to talk about her fucking job or why it’s all my fault we aren’t together.

  She sighs. “I guess.”

  “Wow, your enthusiasm is making me hard, babe.”

  “Ew, don’t call me that.”

  Aaand game over. My dick droops in my hand. I shove it back into my pants, and the ache in my balls throbs up into my lower belly.

  I knock on the wall. “Damn, sorry, Rach. I gotta go. Chris needs to use the bathroom.”

  “What? Right now?”

  “Yeah, talk to you later.”

  “Whatever, Ryder. When you have time, I guess.”

  If I wasn’t so anxious to get off the phone, I’d ask her about the attitude, but honestly, I don’t fucking care.

  “Later.” I hang up and power off my phone.

  When I walk out into the bus, Jade and Ethan have the lights in the living room dim, and they’ve got some movie playing on the big screen while sitting no more than a foot apart.

  So that’s it then.

  They’re going to hook up, and once they do, she’ll be off limits to me permanently.

  Not that I had any intention of going for her.

  But I did enjoy the possibility.

  9

  Ryder

  We arrived in Denver sometime in the early morning. I woke to Charles asleep on the couch and was grateful to see him rather than Ethan and Jade tangled beneath a blanket. After I went to bed last night, I tried to sleep, but the sound of Jade’s laughter had me visualizing a million different scenarios that kept sleep at bay. I ended up putting on my noise-cancelling headphones and falling asleep to As I Lay Dying’s “Forsaken.”

  This morning, Jade’s curtain to her bunk was closed. I peeked in on Ethan and took a long exhale at seeing him alone. Whatever happened between them last night couldn’t have been as torrid as my imagination painted it to be.

  I’m quietly mixing a protein shake when Charles stirs.

  “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s all right.” He checks his watch. “Rather get a car over here and get to the hotel anyway. It’s almost nine o’clock.” He peers out the blinds. “Crew’s already busy.”

  I drop onto a swivel chair and check my phone. A new message, this one not from Rachel but from my Dad.

  Checking in. Give your old man a call.

  I hit his contact info, then press the phone to my ear.

  “Son, it’s about time.” His deep, gravelly, take-no-shit voice would scare the pants off most people who know him as Cameron Kyle, one of the best MMA fighters in the world, but to me he’s just Dad.

  “What can I say, this rock star shit keeps me busy.”

  “No excuse for going ten days without calling.”

  I grin at that. My dad, the big bad worrier. “That’s true. I got people now. I’ll make sure they keep in touch.”

  “You have one of your people call me, I’ll release photos of you when you were six and dressed up like your mother for Halloween.”

  My grin falls. “I was Thor, Dad.”

  “You have on a wig, a skirt, and you’re holding a kitchen whisk.”

  “I was a Norse god. That’s what they looked like! And Mom wouldn’t let me carry a hammer!”

  His deep grumbled laughter has me shaking my head.

  “God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Denver. We have tonight off. Show’s tomorrow. Next stop V
egas.” I take a gulp from my shake.

  “Hope you’re prepared. There’ll be a fucking horde at your Vegas show.”

  “Oh, I’m ready.” Since the tour started, I’ve been counting down the days to Vegas, to rock my hometown and show all the people who’ve supported me over the years that their faith in me was justified. “You bringing the whole crew?” My dad’s Universal Fighting League family is like family to us.

  “Yep.”

  “Mom, Eve—”

  “You kiddin’ me? An army couldn’t stop your mother and stepmom from seeing you play.”

  “You bringing the kids?”

  “Yep. Dex won’t stop talking about it, and Hannah’s head over heels for that Jesse kid.” He growls. “Can’t say I’m too fuckin’ pleased about that.”

  “She’s five, dad. She’ll outgrow it.”

  He grunts. “We’ll take videos for Rosie.”

  My lungs squeeze painfully behind my ribs. “Thanks.”

  I’m met with a few beats of silence before my dad clears his throat. “Right, don’t let this rock star shit go to your head. You do, I’ll let Kill teach you a lesson on humility in the octagon.”

  I roll my eyes and see movement from the back bunks. Jade crawls out wearing my UFL sweatshirt and her jeans she must’ve slept in. “Please, I’d threaten to burn his comic books, and Killian would run away crying.” I watch her disappear into the bathroom.

  My dad chuckles. Killian “Killer” McCreary is one of the UFL’s toughest, most technical fighters, but he’s my best friend, and I know his weaknesses. My dad took Kill under his wing, treated him like the prodigy he always wanted me to be. It didn’t bother me. It gave my dad someone to groom and gave Kill the dad he never had.

  “Be safe,” he says. His way of saying I love you.

  “I will.” My way of saying I know you do and I love you too.

  I hang up and palm my phone as Jade exits the bathroom and heads toward me with her head hanging.

  “’Mornin’.”

  She drops onto the couch across from me, her hair pulled up in a knot on the top of her head, her eyes puffy. She doesn’t greet me back. I wonder why. Guilt, maybe?