Rhythm of the Road

by Autumn Jones Lake

  A few guys I recognize as her band members, as well as a few I don’t recognize, push past me. They carefully set up their gear and play a few experimental notes.

  “Y’all wanna do ‘Big Lies?’” Shelby waves her hand out toward the rows and rows of currently empty seats and the rolling lawns outside the pavilion.

  Instead of answering, the guy on the drums taps the cymbals a few times. They start up with a melody I recognize. For the last few months it’s been playing roughly every ninety minutes on the satellite country music station I listen to for the sole purpose of catching one of Shelby’s songs or the rare after-concert interview.

  It’s an upbeat song. Heidi calls this one a boot-stomper—and yeah, she’s caught me tapping my toes along to it more times than I care to admit.

  My heart burns,

  From the lies you tell me

  Your tongue twists,

  Empty words you feed me

  The speakers let out an ear-splitting screech. Shelby stops singing and waves her arms in the air.

  “Try it again, Shelby!” someone calls out from the upper-level balcony of the pavilion.

  The band starts but Shelby waits, listening for a few seconds before jumping into the song.

  Big lies

  Small truths

  Fake promises

  Her mouth twists in frustration as she stops to send another round of hand signals to the other guy working the soundboard in the middle of the venue.

  Crying empty tears,

  From the lies you tell me

  Your lips move,

  Empty words you feed me

  “Again!” the guy in the balcony claps his hands.

  Big lies

  Small truths

  Fake promises

  Shelby’s mouth twists with frustration. I search the area for Greg. Shouldn’t he do something to fix whatever’s wrong?

  Finally, she makes it through the chorus without stopping and flashes a thumbs-up. As the song winds down, people from the lawn cheer and wave. With a big grin stretched across her face, Shelby waves back. “How y’all doing?” she says into the microphone.

  They scream declarations of love but can’t get past the locked gate or grouchy security guards.

  Shelby’s pretty face is a mask of tension as she walks off the stage toward me. “How’d that sound?” she asks.

  “Fantastic. I’m not an expert, but it sounds much better than it did at the Tipsy Saddle.”

  She gives me a thin smile in return. “Trent said it’s a little tinny. But I don’t know if we can do much to fix it.” Her nervous gaze darts to the side. “And we’re out of time, anyway.”

  “I didn’t notice.” I cock my head. “Your fans seemed to love it.”

  A more genuine expression of happiness flashes over her flushed cheeks. “Do you know where Greg ran off to?”

  I tap the pass around my neck. “He gave me this and told me where to stand but I haven’t seen him since.”

  “I need to find my dressing room.” She waves me along, and I fall into step beside her.

  We’re not walking down the wide, straight hallway long before we find a white door with a poster of her face and her name tacked on it.

  Greg flies up to her and opens the door. “You’re in here.” He flicks his gaze my way. “Dawson wants to come by to talk to you in a bit. And Cindy got tied up, but she’ll be down to do your hair later.”

  I guess that’s his way of saying “don’t fuck in here” or something.

  “Your stuff’s already unloaded,” Greg says, following us inside.

  It’s a small room. Clean and neat. A large mirror and long white counter take up most of one wall. A nubby green couch sits across from the door—I’m already starting to feel about as useful as a cactus in a rainforest, so I’m planning to park my ass on the couch to stay out of her way.

  “Wear your flowered dress to the meet and greet,” Greg says. “Keep it simple.”

  Who knew he acted as Shelby’s wardrobe adviser too?

  “Save the peacock dress for the show.” He presses his palms against her cheeks. “Okay?”

  The vibe of the gesture is more fatherly than flirtatious, so I don’t fantasize about beating him to death—not too much, anyway.

  “Did my trunk make it?” she asks, searching the room. By the frantic look in her eyes, it must be important. Again, I’m struck with the urge to do something to help her out. But what?

  Before Greg has a chance to answer, her gaze lands on a huge black and brass trunk resting on the floor at the foot of the couch. She rushes over and squats down. With two crisp snaps, she flips open the locks. “Perfect!”

  “I’ll be back to check on you later,” Greg promises, throwing me another dirty scowl.

  “Yup,” Shelby mutters, barely acknowledging Greg’s departure as she tosses clothes out of the trunk and onto the couch.

  Awkward isn’t something I’m used to experiencing or ever allow to dictate my actions. But now that we’re alone again, a distance between us that I’m not sure how to close creeps into the room.

  “Do you want me to go, Shelby?” I offer, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. “I don’t want to be in your way. Or make you nervous.”

  She stops her frantic searching and peers up at me. “Not at all.” The corner of her mouth twists downward. “Are you bored, though? Do you want to hang—”

  “No. I’m just happy being around you. Do your thing. I’ll keep my big ass out of the way.”

  “You don’t have a big ass.” A bit of tension melts from her expression. She lifts her chin. “Is that a bathroom behind you?”

  I reach over and tug the door open. “Looks like it.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Is it clean?”

  “Mostly.”

  She growls this cute little annoyed noise as she hurries past me with an armful of clothes.

  “You know I’ve seen you naked, right?” I call after her.

  She pauses outside the bathroom. “Trust me, I remember.” She nods to the door leading to the concert venue. “But I never know who’s going to pop in to check up on me.”

  “I can always stand guard.”

  “Nah.” She leaves the bathroom door open, and naturally, I can’t help watching her strip her sweatshirt off and shimmy out of her jeans. “I hope Heidi doesn’t mind me keeping this for later,” she says, tossing the sweatshirt my way.

  “Doubt it.” I catch the sweatshirt in my outstretched hand and can’t resist a quick, furtive sniff of Shelby’s scent. Fuck, this woman’s reduced me to a damn foxhound.

  I glance at the clock above the door. “Do you need me to grab you something to eat or drink?”

  She returns, dressed in tight little yoga shorts and a tank top. “I can’t eat before a show. Or after.”

  “You need to eat sometime.”

  “I ate breakfast.” Her lashes flutter as she peers up at me. “I’m really happy you’re here. Sorry if I’m all over the place.”

  “Shelby.” I curl my hand over her hip—almost forgot how perfectly she fits in my grip. “I get how important all of this is. Told you, I don’t want to be in your way or make you lose focus.”

  “You’re not. I usually hang out by myself for as long as I can. I’ll meditate. Do some stretches. A few vocal exercises. Hair and makeup. When there’s a meet and greet set up, I do that. Right before I go onstage, I slip into my dress of the night and huddle with the band.”

  Her lips quirk as she casts a look over her shoulder at the trunk. “I’m not big enough for costume changes yet. So, I try to make the one dress count.”

  Laughing, I push a stray piece of hair off her face. “You don’t need costume changes. You’re already stunning.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “‘Big Lies’ sounded good.”

  Both eyebrows crawl up her forehead. “You recognized it?”

  “Hell yeah. I told you, they’ve been playing it on the radio constantly. And ev
ery time I’ve been to Southwest Steakhouse lately it’s been on.”

  She narrows her eyes. “How often do you go there?”

  I shrug, not getting the change in her demeanor. “We’ve been using it as a meeting point between the two clubs. Told you we had Heidi’s graduation party there too.”

  “So, you’re not stopping by to pick up pretty waitresses?” Soft laughter follows her question, but the tense lines around her mouth remain.

  That’s what she’s worried about? How adorable. The club has plenty of girls prowling around on a nightly basis. No need to troll for waitresses if I want female company.

  Saying that out loud probably won’t take this conversation in a pleasant direction. And I don’t want to do anything to upset her before she goes onstage tonight. “No waitresses, Shelby.”

  She flicks a bit of hair out of her eyes. “I’m just messing with you.”

  Sure she is. Her spark of jealousy sends an inexplicable thrill singing in my veins and eases the awkwardness between us.

  She moves to her trunk and pulls out a small tube from a shiny purple bag. Flipping it away from her, she unrolls a small, thin mat and gracefully kneels down. She slides an elastic off her wrist and gathers her hair into a ponytail. “I won’t have a chance to do this later.”

  With that, she kneels down, and sits on her heels for a second before inching her knees apart. Slowly, she folds her body forward, extending her arms in front of her, palms down, resting her forehead on the mat.

  Is she trying to drive me insane?

  It’s way too easy to visualize myself directly behind her, gripping her by the hips, sliding her back a few inches…

  She shifts her body up and forward, until she’s on hands and knees.

  The fuck, Shelby?

  Slowly, she arches her back, pushing her tits up and out before rounding her back, pulling her stomach up and hanging her head.

  It’s taking all my control not to mount her like a wild grizzly bear.

  But I’m a grown-ass man. I can watch a woman…stretch her arms in front of her and raise her ass high in the air while keeping her palms on the mat…and not whip out my dick.

  Pretty sure each of these poses can double as a sex position. Her routine is excruciating to watch and I’m panting by the time she returns to the first position with her forehead on the mat.

  Damn, she’s making it difficult to honor my promise to keep my hands to myself.

  Chapter Six

  Shelby

  The weight of Rooster’s gaze settles over me as I attempt to center and ground myself. I work through a few of the yoga poses and stretches I do every night before a show. The other rituals, I’ll probably skip. It feels too pretentious to sit and meditate in front of Rooster. Besides, the negative energy from my anxiety could make things worse.

  That’s not superstition. It’s caution. Caring for the energy around me that I’ll take onto the stage later. Every night is a new chance to impress a new audience. I can’t afford an “off” performance on this tour. There are no second chances.

  I can’t find words to explain any of that to Rooster. Instead, I remain in extended child’s pose—butt resting on my heels, arms stretched in front of me, and forehead to the mat, rolling my head from side to side, hoping to stimulate my third eye for a creative energy boost.

  Rooster clears his throat. “I promised myself I would keep my hands off you until after your show, but you’re making that…difficult.”

  I turn and peer at him under my arm. “No one said you couldn’t touch me.”

  “I want to do a hell of a lot more than touch, Shelby,” he rasps, so low the words move right through me.

  I shift onto all fours and go through a few other movements without answering, keenly aware he’s still watching. After I’ve finished, I carefully roll my mat and tuck it into its slim, satin bag.

  “Come here.” He curls his finger and pats his leg.

  As I move closer, my leg brushes against his knee. He sits forward and grips my thigh, pulling me closer until I lose my balance and fall into his lap.

  “Hey!” My protest is swallowed up and negated by my laughter.

  He shifts me to the side and pulls my legs up, draping them over him while keeping a firm hold on my outer thigh.

  “That’s better.” He leans in and brushes a kiss over my cheek, his beard lightly tickling my skin.

  “This is nice,” I murmur, resting my head on his shoulder.

  He curls his other arm around my body, hugging me to him. It’s a sweet, quiet moment that does more to settle my nervous heart and mind than any of my pre-show rituals.

  “I could get used to this,” I mutter.

  “Yeah?” he rumbles.

  Dang, I need to glue my mouth shut. He’s going to think I’m begging him to come out on the road with me.

  Someone knocks on the door, and I shoot straight up. There’s no time to scoot out of Rooster’s lap, though. Cindy enters and holds up her makeup case. “Ready for me, Shelby?”

  Her steps falter as her gaze lands on Rooster.

  I scramble to sit upright, bracing my hand on Rooster’s incredibly firm chest.

  “I’ll give you a minute, hon.” She backs out the door. “I forgot my curling iron.”

  I open my mouth to stop her but she’s gone.

  “Fun’s about to start.” I turn to face Rooster. His neutral expression gives nothing away. “How do you want me to introduce you to people? Do you want me to use your road name with non-bikers? Should I?”

  He tilts his head and reaches up to tug on the end of my ponytail. “Logan’s fine.”

  “I should’ve asked you that sooner, huh?” I rub my palm over his bristly cheek.

  “You have enough to worry about.” His eyes close and he leans into my touch. “I’m fine either way.”

  A rush of emotion floods through me, and I wrap my arms around him tight for one last squeeze before scooting off his lap.

  He hooks his fingers around mine, loosely tugging. “You okay?”

  “I think so. Sure you won’t be bored watching me get all dolled up?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m back!” Cindy thrusts her curling iron in the air with a triumphant smile as she pushes into the room.

  “Oh, Cindy, this is my friend Logan.” I squeeze Rooster’s hand quickly before letting go and moving to the makeup chair. “Logan, this is Cindy. She’s a magical artist.”

  Cindy scoffs. “You don’t even need makeup. Nice to meet you, Logan.”

  I can’t remember anyone besides my mother, Greg, Trent, or someone from the band watching me get ready before. Certainly not a boyfriend.

  Not that Rooster’s my boyfriend, of course.

  I cast a furtive glance his way, expecting to find him on his phone. But no, his gaze is strictly fixed on me. My cheeks heat and I face straight ahead, staring into the mirror.

  “What are we doing tonight?” Cindy asks as she loosens my ponytail. “Up or down?”

  “Down, maybe? I’m wearing the strapless blue dress. I think I’ll feel too naked with my hair up. Or like it’s prom.”

  Cindy chuckles and leans over to plug in the curling iron. She pauses at my tank top. “Do you want to change into a button-up?”

  “Nah, I’ll be careful.”

  She clips a short cape around my shoulders and starts dotting primer over my face.

  “The hospitality room’s all set up next door, Logan,” Cindy says, “if you’re bored.”

  “I’m fine.” He sits forward, coming into view in the mirror. “You need water or something, Shelby?”

  My cheeks heat again. This request will make me sound like such a precious little princess. “They should have room temperature water. And tea. Decaf and a slice of lemon. If there’s a packet of honey, can you grab that too? Just don’t put it in the tea.”

  He stands. “Room temp water. Decaf tea, lemon slice, honey packet. Got it.” He gently squeezes my shoulder as he passes. “Cind
y?”

  “I’m good. Thank you.”

  In the mirror, I catch her eyes following him. As soon as the door closes, she blinks rapidly and grasps my shoulders. “Quick! Tell me all about him. Is he your boyfriend? This the guy you’ve been texting?”

  The corners of my mouth twitch up and I drop my gaze to my hands in my lap. “That’s him.”

  “Good lord, he’s hot, Shelby.”

  “I know.”

  Her gaze slides to the door again. “So polite for a biker too.”

  Something about the comment rubs me wrong. Sure, they look rough around the edges, but Rooster’s biker brothers have always been kind to me. “Bikers are nice. One of his brothers gave me the shirt off his back when I almost drowned.”

  While she bends and preps the set of false eyelashes she’s about to apply, I tell her the story of how Rooster and I met.

  “So romantic. Oh my God!” she yelps. “‘White Knight!’ That’s about him?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, kinda.”

  The door clicks open, cutting off our conversation. Rooster pushes into the room, casting a smile our way. Resourceful as I remember, he seems to have fashioned a tray out of a cardboard box. Carefully, he sets my drinks on the counter in front of me. “Brought you water too, Cindy.” He sets the extra bottle next to everything else.

  “Thank you.”

  “Greg insisted I bring a sandwich back. Are you sure you won’t eat something?” he asks.

  “I can’t.” I rub my fingers over my throat. “Besides being too nervous. It’s not good for my vocal cords.”

  “You won’t mind if I do?” He lifts the box in one hand.

  “Nope.” Honestly, I’m happy he has a distraction. Something about having him watch me get made up—false lashes and all—feels awfully intimate.

  “What color is your dress tonight?” Cindy asks.

  “The royal blue one with the teal and blue ruffles.”

  She stares at her eyeshadow palette. “Gold. Let’s go with a smoky gold. Maybe a little teal liner on your lower lashes for some pop.”