Beat (Life on Stage 2)

I load my stuff onto the bus before we head to the final show in Atlanta. Unsure where I’m bunking, I toss my bag under the table and take a look around. To the right, a long desk, equipped with a large flat-screen TV, various game consoles and two laptops securely affixed, dominates the living area. The rest of the space is taken up by a leather couch, capable of holding the entire band, a wide matching recliner, two tables, and compact, but efficiently equipped, stainless steel appliances.

A door separates the living area from the sleeping quarters in the back of the bus. Pulled back curtains showcase bunks that line the walls on both sides, two on each side, a top and a bottom. There’s a shower to the right and a bathroom to the left. Another door in the rear leads to the only private bedroom in the bus. Dylan’s room. The one he’ll be sharing with Lucky.

My band has toured before. Admittedly, our bus looked nothing like this, but I know from experience that walls are thin and groupies have no qualms about who might hear. Hell, the sounds that came out of the back were often the topic of ball-busting the entire next day. I smile, thinking of Nolan’s knack for mimicking a screamer he’d heard the night before. Yet the thought of hearing Lucky leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The thought of anyone mimicking her downright makes me angry.

Eventually, the guys load onto the bus. Dylan and Lucky are the last to join, and the driver takes off for the arena as soon as everyone is situated. The only greeting I offer is a nod at the two of them. They disappear into the back of the bus.

“Welcome to our home.” Mick opens his arms wide. “If you don’t snore, you can take the bunk above me on the right-hand side.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you share?” Mick asks, plopping down on the recliner. He cracks a beer even though it’s only eleven in the morning.

“Share? Like one woman and crossing swords?”

“There’s no room for threesomes in this thing. Unless you use Dylan’s room, and I’m guessing that he’s on a sharing hiatus for a while.” He shrugs. “I meant if your hookup is interested in touring the band. Works both ways, of course.”

“I’m guessing you’ll get all his hookups coming to you, seeing as he can’t satisfy them anymore,” Duff taunts.

“Fuck off. You don’t share because you don’t want them comparing.” Mick grabs his crotch. “My kielbasa to your miniature hotdog.”

Lucky walks to the front of the bus, eyes Mick still holding himself, shakes her head and sits down at the far end of the couch.

“So. You in or you out?” Undaunted by Lucky’s appearance, Mick continues the conversation. I catch her eye before I respond.

“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.