“It’s not bad. The singing can be fucking torture though. You ready to start practicing soon?”
“Looking forward to it. Doc’s had my voice on strict bed rest the last two months to bring down the swelling on the nodule I flared from the forty-shows-in-forty-days gig I did for that reality TV show.”
“But you’re good now?”
“Voice has never been stronger. Last follow-up scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. Because I don’t want your voice breaking and sounding like shit when you’re warming up my fans.”
“Wouldn’t sign on unless I was good to go.”
“Here comes my girl. Maybe she can hook you up with her friend.”
I prefer to arrange my own hookups, but I nod and smile nonetheless. Dylan raises his hand and yells over a crowd of people, “Babe, come here. I want you to meet someone.”
Following the lead of his voice, I turn to check out the woman walking toward us and my heart wrenches in my chest. You have got to be kidding me. There are eight million people in New York City. Her?
I blink a few times. The dimly lit bar is mobbed. Maybe it’s not her. Or maybe he’s calling to someone else. She takes a few steps closer. Fuck. There’s no mistaking it’s her now. That auburn hair, pale skin and green eyes—I’ve been seeing her face in my head for a week. She looks even better than I remember too. Green sleeveless blouse that dips to show a hint of cleavage, dozens of bracelets sparkling their way up her flawless skin. Tight jeans and leather boots that run halfway up her legs.
I’m staring, mesmerized by her every step as she makes her way through the crowd and over to us. My pulse quickens and there’s a primal urge inside me to reach out and grab her as she comes within my grasp. Wrap her into my arms so no one else can touch her. Certainly not Dylan douchebag Ryder.
But then, before I start breathing again, he’s reaching for her arm and pulling her close to him.
“Lucky, this is Flynn. He’s the new opening act for the Wylde Ryde tour.”
Seeing me for the first time, Lucky’s eyes flare. A lump forms in my throat, and I’m forced to swallow it down. I take a long pull from my beer to help wash away the bad taste.
“Nice to meet you, Lucky.” I extend my hand. I’m naturally a flirt; the last woman whose hand I shook was probably a teacher in high school. Actually, scratch that, Miss Cleary was hot, pretty sure I kissed her on the last day of school.
Lucky’s hesitant, but places her hand in mine. The feel of her soft skin makes me wish I’d taken a chance and run my lips over the silky smoothness of her cheek. Only, I know the cheek wouldn’t be enough. “Nice to meet you too.”
Dylan pulls her against his body possessively and wraps his hand around her waist before delivering more than a friendly kiss.
“Flynn here has a thing for Avery,” Dylan announces, looking at me.
Lucky flushes and I think I see what might be a hint of disappointment.
“Is that so? Well, don’t listen to anything Dylan has to say about my best friend. These two don’t get along. She’s a great catch.”
“Sure she is, if you’re into sadistic ball-breakers,” Dylan comments. “Me, I prefer sweet on the outside, with a side order of slut in the bedroom.”
Lucky elbows him in the ribs. “Dylan! What the hell is wrong with you?” She turns to me. “Avery is not a sadistic ball-breaker. I need to go give her a hand. She’s swamped again.”
For the next few hours, I try not to let my eyes wander to Lucky. But I’m fighting a losing battle. The smile on her face, the way she tilts her head to the side when she’s listening to someone, her body constantly moving in some small way to the music. Watching her is like watching a butterfly. It’s beautiful on the outside, its wings decorated with color that captures your eye, but it’s the way the butterfly flutters around, always seemingly out of reach, that makes you follow it with your eyes.
When Lucky starts dancing with Avery behind the bar, and I don’t even notice the woman standing at my side vying for my attention, I decide it’s time to get some air. I head toward the bathrooms and escape out the back door, a place I discovered this week that all the smokers seem to know about.
The fresh air feels good. It’s a warm spring night that reminds me of what’s right around the corner. Long days filled with sunlight, nights filled with women who finally have an excuse to wear little clothing. I should be looking forward to it, to getting back on tour. A different city, a different woman every night if I want it. Hell, on the road, one a night is by no means the daily limit. Yet the only thing I’m looking forward to is getting back on stage and playing my music.
“I should’ve known you were a smoker,” Avery says as she slips outside and joins me.
“Oh yeah, why is that?”
“Oral fixation. Explains why you’ve been staring at Lucky’s mouth all night.”
“I actually quit.” I inhale a long drag.
“Me too.” She pulls a cigarette from her cleavage and brings it to her lips. I light it for her.
“I only smoke one every now and then. I just bummed this one.”
“Then you haven’t quit yet, have you?”
“Close enough.” I pause. “Thanks for the heads-up that Lucky was meeting her boyfriend here tonight, by the way.”
“No problem.” Avery smiles and takes a puff of her cigarette. “I’m hoping Doucheluck doesn’t last as long as TomKat.”
“You lost me?”
“Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. That disaster took six years to unravel. Dylan was Lucky’s teenage crush. He’s also a douche. He doesn’t deserve my best friend. She needs a new boyfriend.”
“Yeah, well. I tend to keep away from women with boyfriends. Too many problems.”
“Sounds like you’ve been there before?”
“Not intentionally. Only when they fail to mention it before it’s too late.”
“Well, Lucky is worth breaking your rule.”
“She’s also the girlfriend of the lead singer of the band I’m going to spend six months traveling with.”
“I heard. Sounds like fate to me.”
“I think you’re confusing fate with fatal.”
Nolan Blake taught me how to smoke. How to hold a cigarette so I didn’t look like a chick, how to ditch it out with my bare foot so I looked cool yet didn’t burn the sole of my foot and, most importantly, how to smoke the whole thing between my lips without using my hands. The last lesson came naturally to him, considering he needed both hands free to strum his guitar twelve out of twenty-four hours of the day for as far back as I can remember.
“You know, this shit’s your fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you hadn’t taught me to smoke in sixth grade, I probably wouldn’t have developed the nodule on my throat that’s keeping us sitting in this waiting room looking like two gay guys.”
“If I hadn’t taught you to smoke, you wouldn’t have ever turned cool, and you wouldn’t have gotten to feel up Ellie Martin that summer.”
Ellie Martin. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in fifteen years. That girl had double-Ds in sixth grade. Perfectly round, like two giant cantaloupes. I sigh, thinking back to that day. “Totally worth a nodule.”
Nolan chuckles. “By the way, if we were gay, you’d be the catcher taking it up the ass. I’d be pitching.”
“I definitely would not be taking your skinny little prick. My anaconda would be splitting your ass in two.” I pause. “And why are we even having this fucking conversation anyway?” We both laugh.
“Mr. Beckham,” the nurse calls.
“You want me to come with you, honey?” Nolan says, loudly enough for the entire waiting room to hear. Then, with his hand adorned with a half dozen gaudy rings, he blows me a kiss.
After an hour with the otolaryngologist and a forty-five minute cab ride back downtown, Nolan and I are finally heading to Pulse Records to sign the tour contracts. Opening for Easy Ryder is an ideal gig for us—their audience looks a lot like our audience, our play time is only a little shorter than theirs, and since we have the same record label, we were able to arrange studio time to work on our next album during the tour. Yet I have a nagging feeling that I’m about to make a huge mistake. With no real tangible evidence to support my gut, I keep the feeling to myself and just try to ignore it.