Beat (Life on Stage 2)

As I step closer, Flynn’s head turns in my direction and Waif Girl follows his line of sight. I’ve never had an issue with confidence, but suddenly I feel short and regret eating that donut an hour ago.

“Hey. I was just coming to look for you,” Flynn says with an easy smile.

My brain short circuits watching his lips move as he speaks. Lips I can almost still feel on me. I’m momentarily lost, remembering the way his hands threaded tightly through my hair. I blink myself out of the haze. “Well.” My arms rise and fall at my sides. “You found me.” Seriously? Nice moves, Lucky.

I watch as his eyes drop to my lips. Knowing his mind is in the same place as mine makes it that much more difficult to focus.

He cocks his head, a smile dangling at the corner of his mouth. “Can you give us a minute?” he says to the waif, without taking his eyes off me. She walks away, annoyed.

“You okay?” He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing along the top of mine.

I nod.

“I’ve been thinking about this morning all day…”

So have I. God, so have I. “Me too.”

“I’m sorry if I pushed too hard.”

“You didn’t push. I kissed you.”

He grins. “I meant step six. I’m sorry if I pushed you too hard to go up on stage.”

“Oh.”

“But I’m glad to know you were thinking about our kiss all day.”

“I wasn’t…I meant…I…”

He leans in and whispers, “I was too. I can still feel your body against mine.”

A voice comes over the backstage intercom. “Five minutes, Easy Ryder.”

“Guess that’s me now, too.”

“Guess it is.”

“You going to watch from the audience?”

I nod.

“I’ll see you from the stage, then.”

“You won’t be able to see anyone in the audience with the lights.”

“Don’t need to.” He taps his finger to his temple. “When I close my eyes, I see your face right here.”

Even before Dylan and I started dating, I’d been to dozens of Easy Ryder concerts. They’re legendary, even after only twelve years of playing together. The type of band that is so in tune, the show is never the same because someone makes a change on the fly and the band just goes with it seamlessly. Tonight is no different. The pull of the show has been intense and there’s a crackle in the audience, a sort of slow burn that feels like it will turn into a wildfire when the spark hits the flint in just the right spot. That flint has been “Sins of Mine,” the latest single that is climbing the chart. I know for a fact that the song was written with Dylan’s voice in mind, and it’s obvious the crowds have loved it so far.

Not having the play list, I assume we’re about to get to that moment with “Sins of Mine,” when the stage goes dark. I’m surprised when the first chord strums and it’s “Just Once More,” Linc’s song. But tonight it’s Flynn’s to sing. I hold my breath until we’re pulled from the darkness and a spotlight shines on only him.

Jesus. Holy mother of all sinners. I seriously need to remember to breathe.

He looks like a rock god on the stage. Perfectly magnificent in the spotlight as he sits on a stool with a guitar resting on his lap. It’s impossible to tear your eyes away. The crowd stands in silent worship as he looks down and leisurely strums the intro. Then slowly, from the darkness behind him, the drums start to roll…at first low, then louder and louder. Until we can feel the vibration in our chest. Flynn stops playing for a moment, the spotlight dims, the arena goes dark again, and when the lights come back on, the full band starts playing. Right before he begins to sing, Flynn closes his eyes for a moment and then finally looks up and smiles to the audience. That lazy, slow-spreading, dimple-bearing, completely titillating smile. And the place goes mad.

Flint to spark.

Fire.

Even though the place is rocking, I seriously don’t move for the entire performance. I’m captivated. By every note. Every lyric. Everything about the man. If I were fifteen, his poster would definitely be pinned on my wall…maybe even right over Dylan’s.

After the show, I head backstage to the band’s lounge. It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to get through because security is flanked by women. More than one has the name Flynn Beckham on her lips. I’m so excited for him, I’m still smiling even after being pushed and shoved as I attempt to show my badge to the guard.

Unfortunately, Dylan isn’t feeling the post-show happiness that I am. “What’s the matter? You guys were incredible,” I say.

“Mick came in three bars late in ‘Solace.’ Duff played the recorded version of ‘To the Wall’ instead of the live version, and I couldn’t hear out of one of my earpieces. It was a shit show,” he says angrily.

I may be partial to the band, but I didn’t pick up on Mick’s or Duff’s flubs. “I didn’t catch it. I’m sure no one else noticed.”

“You were probably too busy dancing around in the audience.” I know how Dylan can get when he’s not happy with his music. He’s a perfectionist. It’s a large part of why Easy Ryder has been successful for so long. But usually his attitude isn’t directed toward me.

Security brings back a half dozen women—they’re winners of a radio contest and the prize was tickets to the show and meeting the band. Dylan unenthusiastically shakes their hands. The other members of Easy Ryder at least act gracious. They stand around and chatter to the star-struck fans, making them feel at ease.

Eventually, Flynn walks in and I sit back and observe the reception he gets. Everyone is congratulating him, slapping him on the back and telling him how great he did. Everyone, that is, except Dylan. Security begins to usher the contest winners out when one brave woman yells, “Wait! We didn’t get to meet the last member of the band. Flynn, I love you!”

Flynn turns and smiles. Dylan looks at Flynn on one side of the room, then back at security. “They’re done. He’s not part of the band.”

The thing about lead singers is, they’re the face of the band. So while that often leads to overinflated egos, it also leads to singers bearing the weight of the band on their shoulders. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell which of the two is causing the front man to act a certain way.

“Remember when we were his age and hit our first tour?” Duff lifts his chin toward the bar area where Flynn has just walked into the after-party at a club on the strip in South Beach.

“Nope.” Dylan knocks back the remainder of his glass. He’s usually a beer drinker, but tonight he’s drinking vodka on the rocks and the effect is noticeable. He’s relaxed a little, his anger seemingly dissipating more with each refill. He holds his glass above his head, rattling around the ice as the waitress passes.

“Another one, Mr. Ryder?”

“Keep ‘em coming.”

“Well, I remember,” Duff continues without being asked. “That first year. It was better than the highest high. Probably why I ended up in rehab a couple of times after that first tour. Chasing that high was like a dog chasing his tail. The kid’s good. He’s gonna do well.”