Off of it all and clean for one year and two months, lately Beckham just wanted to be done. To walk away from his career and have a quiet life somewhere in Italy or Tennessee. Since he was from Tennessee, that probably ruled out a quiet life there. Italy would have to do.
He’d already had a successful nearly twenty-year career. Starting out singing with his family’s band as a kid, and finally building a solo career that he could continue living off of for a lifetime and then some, he was set. His last recording project had gone platinum, being touted as the groundbreaking album of the decade. And just a year shy of thirty. If he quit in a year, he could still go out on top.
Of course, he hadn’t told this to anyone.
He was excited for what he was secretly thinking of as his last year on the road. And the thought of Ian on the tour made everything sound a thousand times more appealing. The tour felt manageable and was going to be his best yet. Beckham knew he was finally healthy enough to pull it off.
His phone rang the next day, after his morning run.
“I’m in,” Ian said.
After at least ten minutes of excited conversation, they agreed to meet the next day at Ian’s house.
“Come over before we get serious about packing,” Ian warned. “This place is about to be turned upside down.”
Ian opened the door before Beckham even knocked, giving him the bro handshake-hug like they’d been friends forever. And maybe they had. There was none of that awkwardness of first time meetings, no uncertainty. Ian was hilarious and straightforward, and just being around him felt like relief for Beckham. He needed real, down-to-earth people in his life.
They were on their second cup of coffee when a dark-haired angel walked through the house, her curly hair trailing into the V of her shirt, her shorts making it hard to resist staring at those perfect legs. Beckham swallowed and glanced at Ian, who smirked at him.
“I know, my wife’s hot. I can’t even take it half the time and I live with her. Go ahead and catch your breath there, Beck.”
Beckham watched Ian look at his wife, who had turned red and looked like she was about to kill him. He swallowed hard again, waiting for the fireworks.
But she just turned and smiled at him. “Hi, I’m Sparrow. Please don’t listen to his nonsense. He has this disease that makes him speak without thinking.”
Beckham shook her hand and smiled. “Can’t fault the man for telling the truth.”
Ian’s laugh bounced off the kitchen walls. He grabbed Beckham’s shoulder and squeezed. “I like you, man.”
They pulled out the guitars after they’d talked a while and then the friendship was officially established. All track of time was lost.
Beckham and Ian got together a few times a week, planning the show. Beckham wanted it to feel like a mutual collaboration—not just his thing, but the two of them working together throughout the evening. They would sing a few songs together, Ian would be featured on the guitar through several of Beckham’s songs, and Beckham had gotten Anthony to do choreography for some of Ian’s songs.
Ian agreed to do the talk show circuit with Beckham, surprising audiences midway through Beckham’s interviews. It was a huge hit. The two of them had such an easy rapport with each other that talk began circulating about them doing a movie together.
Ian would miss the first week or two of rehearsals while they finished packing and moving, but besides the songs with Beckham, he and his band were ready. They had already been practicing for the past few months.
Rehearsals would begin the next morning and Beckham was ready. In addition to doing vocal exercises every day to keep his voice in shape, he had a trainer who kicked his ass every day. They switched it up, running through Griffith Park, Sepulveda Basin, Malibu Creek State Park, and every now and then, Runyon Canyon Park. If they went to the same place two days in a row, fans magically appeared, no matter how remote the trail.
For someone trying to clean up his act, the girls were probably the hardest vice. For years he’d had bad habits and girls were at the top of the list. It was just so convenient. And numbing—something he’d needed to be since … the very first time he’d had sex. There were always girls, women of all ages, ready and willing to do whatever he wanted. And he’d obliged far too many. Being at Hazelden had helped him see that his problem in that area was possibly even bigger than the drugs, since he had relapsed a few times in the past year plus. He spoke to his AA sponsor, Troi, a few times a week. He’d also told Nate and Anthony he needed to be accountable to them. Thanks to them, it had been a long time since he’d relapsed. After witnessing a rockbottom fallout during a girl-crazed weekend, far too much press, and seeing how it was messing with Beckham’s mind to be such a sleaze-bag, they knew he had to get a grip. They took the job seriously and checked in with him, especially if they saw him spending too much time with a groupie.
Just a little longer and maybe he could find a nice, normal girl. As much as he missed sex, and fuck him, he missed it, all the weirdos out there had significantly helped to cure him. If there were even any normal girls still out there … Beckham wasn’t sure anymore. He’d gotten to know Sparrow better over the last few weeks, and she made him hope that there could be a nice, beautiful woman out there for him too. She was exceptionally rare, though, anyone could see that. He really didn’t have time for a real relationship anyway, so he might as well keep clean. Otherwise, a nice girl would want nothing to do with him.
He found his thoughts straying to Roxie Taylor once more—something that happened frequently during the month since he’d seen her—and knowing that she was a possible problem for him, he gave Nate a call. Nate picked up on the first ring.
“You ready to work like a madman?” was the first thing out of Nate’s mouth.
“You know I am.” Beckham laughed. “I just need to mention something…”
“What’s up?”
“Well, there’s this dancer coming on the tour. She … she might be enough to make me get off my sabbatical.”
“What’s her name? I’ll make sure we keep her as far from you as possible offstage.”
Beckham stretched one arm over his head and paused for a minute too long.
“You still there, buddy?”
Beckham squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand slowly over his face. “You know what? I don’t want to call any attention to her. I’ll be fine. Hey—got another call coming in … I’ll touch base with you tonight.”
“Beck, just tell me her-”
Beckham clicked his phone off and ignored the guilt rising in his chest. You got this. You’re gonna be too busy to even think straight, much less to get in trouble with Roxie Taylor.
He ran an extra two miles and felt slightly less conflicted afterward.
Beckham didn’t feel like going home yet. He’d decided to put his house on the market as soon as he got back from the tour. When he was in town he avoided going home until he was just too tired to stay out anymore. Not a good sign. The walls seemed to close in on him there.
He had a meeting with Anthony to discuss the next morning’s rehearsals and pulled into their favorite sushi place with five minutes to spare. Anthony was sitting at their usual table, enjoying a drink. When he saw Beckham walking toward him, he guzzled the drink and looked like he wished he could hide the evidence.
“You can drink around me, Anthony.” Beckham laughed. “How many times am I gonna have to say it before you believe me?”
Anthony flipped back the strip of blue hair hanging in his eyes. “I’m just looking out for you, hon. I don’t want to make it worse for you. You’re early.” He stood and gave Beckham a huge hug.
Anthony was a frontal hugger. Beckham wasn’t really, but he’d given up avoiding them. He slapped Anthony awkwardly on the back as they both sat down.
“I put in an order already—we can let our waiter know if you want to try something new,” Anthony said briskly. He flipped open his iPad and turned it so Beckham could see the schedule. “I’ve fixed it since we last spoke. I’ve moved up “Shadows” and pushed back learning the routine for “Right Here”—I think it will work out better.”