Beat (Life on Stage 2)

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.

His gaze drops to my chest, then flicks back to my eyes with a goofy half grin. “Certainly is.”

He watches every step I take toward him. I can see why women would find him irresistible. Two words and a look and he makes me feel desired. Before I’ve even had morning coffee, no less. Add in a guitar and a voice like an angel, and the line will be wrapping around the bus after his first show.

He reaches into the cabinet above his head and pulls out two mugs. I guess I’m not the only one finding him irresistible this morning. My stomach turns a bit at the thought. “Sleep good?” I say, trying my best to sound light.

“Like a baby. You?”

“I did, actually. It’s been a long time since I was on a tour bus.”

“You always up this early?”

“Yep. Pretty much every day. Six a.m., whether I go to bed at eight p.m. or four in the morning. You?”

He grins before turning his attention to the coffee pot, which beeps as it finishes brewing. “Same.”

He fills two mugs. “Cream and sugar?”

Oh. So he’s not taking coffee for an overnight guest. I perk up at the thought of us having morning coffee together and take a seat at the table. “Yes, please.”

He grins again.

“What?”

He shrugs. “I take it the same way.” He brings a coffee mug to the table and waits for me to sip. “Good?”

It’s exactly the way I like it. “Perfect.”

He turns back to tidy up. Living on a tour bus teaches you to put things away faster than the tire hits the next bump. I’m treated to the sight of his naked back as he cleans up. It’s strong, lean but muscular, and I’m delighted by the way the muscles ripple when he reaches to put the milk away. I totally shouldn’t be getting so turned on watching the man open a damn refrigerator door and close it. I just walked out of the bedroom I’m sharing with my boyfriend, and he’s sleeping less than thirty feet away.

Flynn turns around and catches my stare. Another boyish grin. Damn him. Does he have to be so adorable? With that body? I force my eyes to my coffee and sip again.

“What do you normally do at six a.m.?” he asks. “Do you exercise or something?”

“Exercise? Me? Have you seen the size of my ass?”

“I have. And that reminds me.” He turns back, opening the cabinet above his head, and takes out a few Hershey’s Special Dark bars. “Saw these at the store before we boarded the bus last night, figured I’d grab them in case you weren’t well stocked.” He winks. “Gotta keep that ass in its fine shape.”

Lord help me. The man may be more sinfully sweet than my chocolate bars. “I actually didn’t have any. Thank you.” Flustered, because he’s still watching me, I change the subject quickly. “I write.”

He slides in on the opposite side of the table from me. “What do you write?”

I feel silly for having said anything. No one knows I write poetry. Not even Dylan. “Poetry mostly.”

“Huh. Poetry.”

“What?”

“I write music in the morning.” He dips his chin toward the notebook sitting on the table. “It’s the same thing. At least, if it’s good it is. A good song is just poetry set to music.”

“Are you writing a song now?”

He nods. “I’m still working on the lyrics. Right now it’s just random thoughts and words that need to be sewn together. But I have the concept and, I think, the title. I need to hear the music in my head before I can write the actual lyrics. Once I have the rhythm set, the words come easier.”

“What’s the title?”

“‘Blur.’”

“Hmmm…” I sip my coffee. “Intriguing. What’s it about?”

“It’s about how two very different things can be closely connected. Sometimes polar opposites, yet the line that separates them is very fine. And as you get closer to the line, things become a blur. The blur is almost a state of euphoria between the two sides, but you can’t stay in the blur forever. Something pushes you from one side to the other, and then there’s no coming back.”