Beat (Life on Stage 2)

A black tee shirt, worn jeans, black boots—both his arms already covered in tattoos at age twenty-three. Simple, yet simply perfection. He stands on the stage like he owns the place, looking like the rockstar that he is. Then he smiles and every woman in the place goes wild.

The shirtless drummer pounds his sticks on the drums a few times to start the song. He’s good-looking, but not in the same league as the lead singer. And then I hear that voice. It’s beautiful—filled with an intensity so hot, I fear I’ll melt standing this close. Is it possible to fall in love with a man who doesn’t even know I exist? In that moment, I’d swear it is. Because I’m head over heels in love with Dylan Ryder.

Chapter Six

Lucky

My phone buzzes on the nightstand while I tear off yet another rejected outfit and toss it onto the bed. The pile of discarded clothes is growing into a mound—I’m usually not so indecisive. Standing in my bra and panties, I reach for my phone and swipe my finger to read the incoming text.

Something came up and I’m running late. Sorry, babe. I’ll meet you at the party.

Not having to rush for Dylan’s arrival, I spend another thirty minutes deciding on just the right thing to wear. I settle on super-skintight black leather pants, a simple black body-hugging blouse that shows off my well-endowed anatomy and dangerously high leather boots with an open peep-toe. A silver cuff bracelet on one upper arm, a few dozen bangles on the other, and I finally like what I see. It’s understated, rockstar chic. If only it were the truth.

I make it to the party fashionably late. Dylan makes a big production over my arrival, whistling a catcall and taking me in his arms for a passionate kiss that wouldn’t be considered appropriate in most crowds. Although this group doesn’t look twice. Not when half-naked groupies backstage are the norm. The first time I went to see Dylan play, a woman was giving the drummer a blowjob on the couch in the back lounge area, while the rest of the band was arguing over the set list only ten feet away. No one batted an eye.

Dylan orders me a drink and the waitress delivers it with a look of annoyance for me and a groupie-quality smile for Dylan. I take a few sips, unsure what the contents of the glass consist of, although I’m positive it is not the Cosmo I ordered.

I stand dutifully by Dylan’s side as he holds court, entertaining his ever-expanding circle with stories about all the gigs they’ve played in different cities. My gaze wanders around the room, taking in famous faces, leaders in the music industry and a bevy of beautiful women. Then it falls on a set of startling blue eyes that are already trained on me.

Flynn cocks his head to the side and raises his glass from across the room. His grin is absolutely…adorable is the only way I can describe it. I can’t imagine men appreciate being called adorable, but there’s just no other way to explain it. It’s the dimpled grin of an eight-year-old boy standing in front of his first crush with a bouquet of dandelions proudly clutched behind his back. Only this grin is attached to the chiseled face and body of a mouthwateringly sexy man. He’s wearing just a pair of dark jeans, black boots, a skin hugging henley and a well-worn black leather jacket. His right ear has one earring, his left three or four. Tonight his shoulder length hair is pulled back, only accentuating his incredible blue eyes and dark lashes. Damn.

I nod and tilt my glass back at him, but he doesn’t turn away. Even when the blonde I hadn’t noticed standing next to him wraps her arm around his waist possessively.

The next two hours go pretty much the same way—Dylan soaks up the limelight, the waitress serves me dirty looks and the wrong drinks, and my eyes wander, always seeming to land on Flynn. Each time, I’m met with his blues already fixated on me.

“I’m going to find the ladies’ room and get some air for a few minutes,” I say to Dylan, who’s busy entertaining the crowd that surrounds him. It’s his night, and he knows how to hold court like a pro.

I spend a few minutes in the bathroom and then go in search of some fresh air. We’re on the third floor, but I noticed a breeze coming through a heavily draped set of doors as, every once in a while, people disappeared behind the curtain. Finding an empty balcony, I slip outside into the clear night. From inside, the muffled sound of Christina Aguilera’s “I’m Okay” plays, and I close my eyes and quietly sing along.

Enjoying the solace, I don’t hear the door open behind me. “Your voice is beautiful.” I know that soulful sound before I even turn to take in the man it belongs to.

“Thank you.” Both of Flynn’s hands are full. His left holds a beer bottle, his right extends a martini glass in my direction.

“This one is made right.”

I furrow my brow.

“The drink,” he clarifies.

“How did you know the others weren’t made right?”

He holds my eyes for a moment, almost as if he’s searching for something, before he responds. “Your nose scrunched up each time you took a sip.” He shrugs and takes a draw on his beer, eyes watching me over the tipped-up bottle.

I squint at him and lift the drink to my lips.

“Better?” he asks.

“It is. But how did you know what I was drinking?”

“Asked the waitress who kept bringing you the wrong ones.”

“And she suddenly found the recipe to make it right when you asked?” I arch one eyebrow suspiciously. I knew that woman was doing it on purpose.

Flynn looks a bit embarrassed.

“Well, thank you for noticing and coming to my rescue. You’re quite observant.”

He chuckles. “Women tend to call me the other O word.”

My brain jumps to orgasm, even though I know it makes no sense that a woman would call him an orgasm. “What other O word is that?”

“Oblivious.” He drains half of his beer. “So what brings you out here?”

“Just needed some fresh air. You?”

He averts his eyes, looking down almost shyly. Then he shrugs, and the crooked smile that I imagine has charmed the pants off droves of women is back. “I saw you come out here.”

“Won’t your date be looking for you?”

“Didn’t bring a date. Won’t yours?”

“Dylan’s busy. Not even sure he noticed I’m gone.”

He looks at me thoughtfully for a minute, and I think he’s going to say something, but then he seems to think better of it and just nods.

“So you have some pretty legendary parents, huh?”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Stalk much?”

“I prefer to call it industry research.”

“Hmmm. So you know who Avery’s mom is?”

“Avery?”

“My best friend. The new co-owner of Lucky’s.”

“Her parents are in the business too?”

“Nope.” We both laugh. “How’s your voice holding up?”

“It’s hanging in there.”

“You should rest it between the shows on the Wylde Ryde tour. Forty shows in forty days is too much for any set of vocal cords.”

Flynn grins, but says nothing.

“What?” I ask, confused at what I’ve said that’s put the sexy-as-hell smirk on his face.

“Stalk much?”

Damn it. So maybe I learned a little from Google the night after we had breakfast. My cheeks heat, but I pull a play card from his deck. “I prefer to call it industry research.”