Life On Stage: Beat Part 16

Even before Dylan and I started dating, I'd been to dozens of Easy Ryder concerts. They're legendary, even after only twelve years of playing together. The type of band that is so in tune, the show is never the same because someone makes a change on the fly and the band just goes with it seamlessly. Tonight is no different. The pull of the show has been intense and there's a crackle in the audience, a sort of slow burn that feels like it will turn into a wildfire when the spark hits the flint in just the right spot. That flint has been "Sins of Mine," the latest single that is climbing the chart. I know for a fact that the song was written with Dylan's voice in mind, and it's obvious the crowds have loved it so far.

Not having the play list, I a.s.sume we're about to get to that moment with "Sins of Mine," when the stage goes dark. I'm surprised when the first chord strums and it's "Just Once More," Linc's song. But tonight it's Flynn's to sing. I hold my breath until we're pulled from the darkness and a spotlight s.h.i.+nes on only him.

Jesus. Holy mother of all sinners. I seriously need to remember to breathe.

He looks like a rock G.o.d on the stage. Perfectly magnificent in the spotlight as he sits on a stool with a guitar resting on his lap. It's impossible to tear your eyes away. The crowd stands in silent wors.h.i.+p as he looks down and leisurely strums the intro. Then slowly, from the darkness behind him, the drums start to roll...at first low, then louder and louder. Until we can feel the vibration in our chest. Flynn stops playing for a moment, the spotlight dims, the arena goes dark again, and when the lights come back on, the full band starts playing. Right before he begins to sing, Flynn closes his eyes for a moment and then finally looks up and smiles to the audience. That lazy, slow-spreading, dimple-bearing, completely t.i.tillating smile. And the place goes mad.

Flint to spark.

Fire.

Even though the place is rocking, I seriously don't move for the entire performance. I'm captivated. By every note. Every lyric. Everything about the man. If I were fifteen, his poster would definitely be pinned on my wall...maybe even right over Dylan's.

After the show, I head backstage to the band's lounge. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to get through because security is flanked by women. More than one has the name Flynn Beckham on her lips. I'm so excited for him, I'm still smiling even after being pushed and shoved as I attempt to show my badge to the guard.

Unfortunately, Dylan isn't feeling the post-show happiness that I am. "What's the matter? You guys were incredible," I say.

"Mick came in three bars late in 'Solace.' Duff played the recorded version of 'To the Wall' instead of the live version, and I couldn't hear out of one of my earpieces. It was a s.h.i.+t show," he says angrily.

I may be partial to the band, but I didn't pick up on Mick's or Duff's flubs. "I didn't catch it. I'm sure no one else noticed."

"You were probably too busy dancing around in the audience." I know how Dylan can get when he's not happy with his music. He's a perfectionist. It's a large part of why Easy Ryder has been successful for so long. But usually his att.i.tude isn't directed toward me.

Security brings back a half dozen women-they're winners of a radio contest and the prize was tickets to the show and meeting the band. Dylan unenthusiastically shakes their hands. The other members of Easy Ryder at least act gracious. They stand around and chatter to the star-struck fans, making them feel at ease.

Eventually, Flynn walks in and I sit back and observe the reception he gets. Everyone is congratulating him, slapping him on the back and telling him how great he did. Everyone, that is, except Dylan. Security begins to usher the contest winners out when one brave woman yells, "Wait! We didn't get to meet the last member of the band. Flynn, I love you!"

Flynn turns and smiles. Dylan looks at Flynn on one side of the room, then back at security. "They're done. He's not part of the band."

The thing about lead singers is, they're the face of the band. So while that often leads to overinflated egos, it also leads to singers bearing the weight of the band on their shoulders. Sometimes it's difficult to tell which of the two is causing the front man to act a certain way.

"Remember when we were his age and hit our first tour?" Duff lifts his chin toward the bar area where Flynn has just walked into the after-party at a club on the strip in South Beach.

"Nope." Dylan knocks back the remainder of his gla.s.s. He's usually a beer drinker, but tonight he's drinking vodka on the rocks and the effect is noticeable. He's relaxed a little, his anger seemingly dissipating more with each refill. He holds his gla.s.s above his head, rattling around the ice as the waitress pa.s.ses.

"Another one, Mr. Ryder?"

"Keep 'em coming."

"Well, I remember," Duff continues without being asked. "That first year. It was better than the highest high. Probably why I ended up in rehab a couple of times after that first tour. Chasing that high was like a dog chasing his tail. The kid's good. He's gonna do well."

"It's not his first tour."

"You can't count road trips in a van with truck-stop showers as a tour. Or the little gigs he played before this. This is a f.u.c.king tour. Sold-out arenas, a coach bus with gold fixtures in the bathroom. Groupies who want to do s.h.i.+t to you beyond your wildest dreams."

"I didn't mean it wasn't his big show. I meant it's our f.u.c.king tour, not his. He's filling in for Linc and then he's in the opening act in a few months."

"Why do you got a hard-on for this kid? You jealous because he's prettier than you?"

"f.u.c.k off." Dylan stands. "This waitress is taking forever. I'm going to go get my own drink."

Seeing him stand, Dylan's security walks over. "Just going to get a drink."

"The bar is pretty crowded. That's not advisable, sir. Would you like one of us to get it for you?"

"No. I'm going to get it myself," Dylan snaps before storming off to the bar.

Duff watches his friend walk away and turns back amused. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"See what?" I ask.

"The day Dylan Ryder starts to question his greatness. I'd say he's a little bit jealous of the fresh meat."

Duff motions toward the bar. As security had warned, the crammed bar has turned into mayhem. Fans mob Dylan before he even orders a drink. "That should make him feel a little better."

"What? Getting mobbed?"

"Yep. Love him like a brother, but the arrogant f.u.c.k just needed some attention. He's not used to anyone else in the spotlight. Never been good at sharing."

Two hours later, Dylan is happily s.h.i.+tfaced and I'm ready to call it a night. Flynn and I have been playing cat and mouse with our eyes all evening, but I haven't had a chance to speak to him. Until now. Dylan's in the men's room and I'm standing with security, waiting to leave. He walks over, nods at the hulking security guard to my left, and turns his back so we can talk in something approaching privacy.

"Congratulations," I say. "You were absolutely incredible on stage."

"Are you referring to this afternoon or this evening?"

My eyes nearly bulge from my head and I look around to see if anyone heard. "I meant the concert. You were...amazing."

"So I wasn't this afternoon?" He arches an eyebrow.

"Behave," I warn.

"Nope." He shakes his head slowly.

"No? You're not going to behave."

"Nope. I've decided what happened today was too good. It needs to happen again. Frequently, in fact."

"How much have you had to drink?"

He holds up his gla.s.s. "Water. All night."

My eyes widen. "But..." I stagger to find the right words. "I'm not a cheater. Really. I wasn't anyway...until today," I say softly.

Flynn looks me in the eyes. "Neither am I. Not talking about cheating."

"What...then, what are you talking-"

"Here comes your soon-to-be ex." He tips his gla.s.s in Dylan's direction as he approaches.

My heart almost stops when Dylan arrives next to us. He scowls at Flynn, then says to me, "Let's get out of here."

"Good night, Flynn."

I look back over my shoulder twice on my way to the door. Flynn is watching with a devilish smile and gleam in his eye. My mind is jumbled as I climb into the back of the SUV, but one thing is clear...I'm totally screwed.

Chapter Eighteen.

Flynn

The bus was rocking last night, but it had nothing to do with the hundreds of miles we traveled in the darkness after the final show in Miami. The roads were smooth, although not nearly as smooth as Mick Stonewood. I have no idea how he even made the logistics work, bringing two women back to his little cubbyhole of a bunk. Yet somehow he kept the wall on our side of the bus banging half the night. I finally put my Bose noise-canceling headphones on and lulled myself into pretending the steady rocking I was feeling was the road beneath the tires, rather than the drummer beneath my bunk. I suppose I should be grateful the b.a.s.t.a.r.d f.u.c.ks like he drums...with the rhythm of a master.

I stretch out my body as I wait for the coffee to finish brewing, then pour two mugs and jot down some notes for "Blur." One more set of connections and I'll have a decent first draft. Turns out, I've saved the best for last. I'm looking forward to Lucky's poetic tongue helping me with this one today.

It's not long before she rises. I hear the click of the bathroom door, and a few minutes later she's quietly closing the door to the living area behind her.

"Morning," she whispers.

"Good morning." I nod. The day just got a whole lot better.

She eyes two mugs on the table. "One of them for me?"

"Just as we like it."

She smiles and slides into the seat across from me, wrapping her hands around the mug and bringing it to her lips. "I could get used to this service."

"There're plenty of other services I'd be happy to provide." I c.o.c.k one eyebrow.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"You did." I sip my coffee, watching her over the brim of my mug.

"How did you sleep?" she asks.

"Not so good. A lot of banging kept me up." It's the truth, wrapped up in politeness.

"You felt that too?"

How could I not, my bunk was literally rocking. "Yep."

"I thought we might be getting a flat tire at one point."

I was hoping that d.a.m.n thing would deflate. "Seems like the ride is smooth this morning. You ready to finish off 'Blur'?"

"I was hoping you'd want to do that this morning."

"I think it needs one more verse. Another sonnet for the last set of connections."

"I'm ready. What line are we writing about crossing today?"

"Friends and lovers." Our eyes lock and my mouth spreads a slow grin.

Fourteen lines, ten syllables each. It may not look like much on paper, but there's nothing quick about writing a sonnet that's a song. Especially with Lucky. Even though I clearly had less-than-virtuous reasons for suggesting friends and lovers as the topic of the last verse, she still gives no less to our writing. We're sitting here for three hours discussing and debating words and feelings that s.h.i.+ft from friends to lovers, yet I still have to bait her to take the conversation out of the realm of professional.

"No, if we use the word certain when crossing the line, that would mean crossing the line is inevitable," she says.

I shrug. "Sometimes it is."

"Nothing is inevitable except death."

"That's where you're wrong. Some things are just fate. And you can't fight fate."

"But-"

I interrupt her. "You keep telling yourself you can fight fate. But I promise you, you're wrong. Some things are just meant to happen."

She stares at me, I can see the wheels in motion-she's inwardly fighting the truth. At the sound of the door behind me, my head turns. Mick stumbles in with one of his two half-dressed brunettes in tow. I collect my stuff from the table and decide it's time for a shower. But not before I lean down and quietly leave Lucky with one last thought. "I can't wait till the day I get to wake up next to you and kiss the h.e.l.l out of you in public."

Both the shower and the bathroom are occupied, so I try to get in a little exercise. I haven't been to the gym in almost a week, and I'm going to have to figure out a routine that works on a bus or I'll look like an aging forty-year-old father of triplets before we make it to LA.

In the hallway between the front lounge area and back bedroom, there's a storage area with a pull-up bar installed. Duff gave me the quick tour the other day-there are free weights in the bottom of the lower cabinet and even a collapsible bench for pressing. I hit the floor for fifty pushups, do some lunges to stretch out and let my muscles relax, then grab the pull-up bar. My muscles burn, but it's a feeling I relish. I'm on number eighteen when the door to the front lounge area opens and Lucky walks in.

Muscles tensed and straining, my eyes are glued to her as she stands there while I slowly finish the last two pull-ups. Even though my muscles were starting to falter only a minute ago, I suddenly have perfect form and control over my body while I fluidly rise up and down. Thank you, testosterone.

I watch as she swallows, taking in my s.h.i.+rtless torso flexing while I lift and slowly come back down. The look in her eyes conveys what she hasn't accepted yet. I jump to my feet after I finish the set of twenty I'd set out to do. It's a narrow hallway and she can't get by without my moving, so I step aside to give her room to pa.s.s. Well, to give her some room to pa.s.s. I could definitely back up so there's enough room for two without touching. But what fun would that be?

"I thought you were going to shower," she says to my naked chest, with a huskiness in her voice that makes me harden instantly.

"Occupied," I say as I catch my breath.

She nods. Then moves to pa.s.s me, turning her back to sidle through the little room I've left. But in the tight confinement of the hallway, her a.s.s brushes up against me and my self-control slips. I put my hand out to stop her from pa.s.sing, fingers gripping her hip tightly. My s.h.i.+rtless, sweaty front to her back, Lucky's breath hitches and I exhale a jagged breath. I want to run my lips across that neck and push her up against the wall she's standing in front of. Show her what being near her does to me as I press myself up against her a.s.s. She doesn't try to move.

I exhale again, my warm breath landing on her neck.

She inhales sharply.

I hear the shower water turn off in the distance, but I'm stuck in this bubble, interpreting what she feels by only the sound of her breathing and the reaction of her body. Normally, I like music when I have a woman beneath me. A rhythm we can both let flow through our bodies and move to. But I want the first time I'm inside of her to be quiet. So I can listen to her breathing and let her breaths tell me what she needs from me.