“No, thanks. I’m not into sharing.”
Tonight is Linc’s last night of the tour. I’m looking forward to seeing the band and watching the interactions between the guys. It will give me some hint of what to expect when I join on stage two nights from now. So far, it’s an easy fit. Mick and Duff are the most vocal of the group. They enjoy ball-busting, and since I can pretty much let shit roll off my shoulders after years of putting up with Nolan, I don’t suppose we’ll run into any issues. The three of us spent a little time jamming together on the bus this morning, and I get the feeling that I passed their unspoken test.
Dylan, on the other hand, I’m not quite sure what to make of him. He’s standoffish toward me. There’s a chip on his shoulder, but I honestly don’t blame him—the guy has had a career most people in the music industry can only dream about. Even though he’s never said or done anything specific to confirm it, I get the feeling he looks at me like a younger model. He’s only thirty-five, but something tells me he sees aging as a threat, instead of seeing the benefit of experience. It doesn’t help that the band had a dip in sales with the release of their last album. A dip to a volume most musicians would be ecstatic to achieve, but Easy Ryder’s standards aren’t those of most musicians.
Lucky and I haven’t said much to each other either. We’ve exchanged a lot of quick glances and wordless smiles acknowledging some of Mick and Duff’’s comments, but when the backstage lounge finally empties and the rest of band is gone, we eye each other and both start laughing.
“This is weird,” she says hesitantly.
“Only if we make it weird.”
She smiles. “Then let’s not make it weird. Come on. Let’s go watch the show. It will probably be the last time you go unnoticed in a crowd.” And just like that, whatever we had in New York City is back again.
Lucky talks me into watching the show from the floor, rather than the VIP area. It’s a smaller venue—smaller by Easy Ryder standards, that is—and only the higher-priced tickets have seating. The roped-off section designated for VIPs is nearly filled with guys in grey suits, executives from the corporate sponsors. Lucky took one look, smiled a devilish smile, and tugged my hand toward the other direction.
So now we’re in the middle of a crowd, among the real fans who are dancing and screaming. They’re all riveted to the stage, the entire place alive as Easy Ryder sings one of their biggest hits, “Burn.” A pyrotechnic show plays behind and between the members of the band, shooting flames up from the floor. Yet I find myself forgetting the show, distracted by the woman standing next to me. Lucky is dancing and enjoying the music, letting the vibe take her to her happy place. I watch as she closes her eyes and her body moves to the sound with a sensuality that has me mesmerized. Sensing me watching her, her eyes flutter open and she smiles sweetly when she catches me staring. I force my gaze back to the band I should be watching.
When Dylan hits the chorus, the whole arena sways in unison and sings along. Bodies push in, and the drunken woman behind Lucky stumbles, shoving her forward. I grab her before she falls and the woman apologizes with a slur. A few minutes later, the band changes things up and Linc strums the first chord of “Just Once More”—the song I’ll be singing after tonight. Knowing I’ll be up there in two days, Lucky grabs my arm and looks up at me excitedly. Unlike Dylan, who prowls the stage, working the crowd as he sings, Linc is much more subdued when he performs. It’s an incredible song, with a kick-ass falsetto that people love to sing, but Linc’s performance mellows the crowd from the near hysteria Dylan had built. It’s not a bad thing, just different. And also very different than my style. I hope the crowd likes my delivery as much as Linc’s.
Lucky can barely contain her excitement when the song finishes. “That’s going to be you up there.”
I smile. “I hope I can do it justice.”
“‘Do it justice’? I’ve heard you sing live. You’re going to kick its ass!”
The drunken woman crashes into Lucky again. I stop her from stumbling too far a second time; this time the drunk woman spills a little beer on Lucky’s shoes as she leans forward to slur another apology. Lucky is gracious and waves her off politely. Rather than waiting for a third time, I step behind Lucky and stand between her and drunk girl.
We stay that way for the next few songs, her dancing in front of me, both of us enjoying the show and the electricity of the crowd around us. The few times her ass brushes against me, I’m pretty sure it’s innocent, but my thoughts are anything but.
When one of Easy Ryder’s more mainstream pop-style songs comes on, Lucky turns to face me and we dance together. The entire crowd is moving and grooving and we both fully let go, allowing ourselves to become part of the audience, rather than part of the band. Even though we have limited room, I spin her around a few times and we both laugh. On the last twirl in, she folds into my arms and, with my arm around her waist, my hand resting at the top of her low riding jeans, I pull her against me and we begin to move. Really move. My front against her ass, my hands holding her pressed to me tightly, our hips moving in synch, grinding to the rhythm. It feels wrong, but yet oh-so-fucking-right.
When the song ends, moving to something heavier, more hardcore rock, our dancing comes to a natural stop, but she doesn’t move away from me. And I don’t loosen the grip my hands have on her waist.
An hour later, the show’s almost over and we’re backstage in the lounge. We laugh and talk and even share a beer—literally share—both of us drinking out of the same bottle. Then the band comes back. They’re pumped from the show, the electricity flowing with them as they bring the lounge to life. Dylan grabs a beer and pulls Lucky to his side. We exchange glances a few times. But she and I are back to being strangers.
I move to the other side of the room and get some much-needed time with Linc. He’s more subdued than the other guys in the band, less of a ball buster and full of passion about the music. I try to prevent my eyes from wandering in Lucky’s direction, but when Dylan’s mouth goes to her neck, our gazes lock. What the fuck am I doing?
Chapter Fourteen
Lucky
I wake to the same dull vibration I fell asleep to last night, only now the constant tremor of the bus is shaking me awake rather than lulling me to dreamland. The large picture window above the bed is masked by a blackout shade that keeps the room perpetually dark. I have no idea if it’s six in the morning or two in the afternoon.
I slip from the bed, careful not to wake Dylan, and make a stop in the bathroom. The golden glow of early morning sunshine filtering through the opaque window tells me my internal alarm clock is still ticking. My reflection catches the effect of the cool morning air under my t-shirt as my perky nipples salute a new day. I wash up, pile my unruly hair on top of my head, and brush my teeth before going in search of a coffee pot.
The bathroom is next to the band’s bunk area, and as I quietly pass through, I wonder which bed Flynn is sleeping in. And if he’s in there alone. Yesterday afternoon we danced and acted like two teenagers. Two teenagers who were very into each other. I start to blush, thinking of the way his body felt behind mine. The way his fingers dug into my hips, guiding my body to move the way he wanted it to. It made me wonder…
Lost in thought, I startle when I pass through the door to the living area of the bus. Flynn’s already there. He’s standing in front of a coffee pot, arms spread wide, gripping the counter in front of him, head hanging down, seemingly in deep thought. And. He’s shirtless. Stunningly shirtless.
I’m not sure if he hears my small gasp or senses my presence, but his head turns and our eyes meet. His blue eyes sparkle and the corner of his mouth tilts up. Lord he even looks like that in the morning.
“Good morning,” I whisper.