Beat (Life on Stage 2)

Lunch is delivered when I return to the living area feeling clean on the outside. The inside is a whole different story.

“Ticket sales are up,” Brett says. The three men are now sitting around the dining room table, a platter of sandwiches in the center. “We sold out the rest of the next four shows. Beckham is giving us the recharge we needed. He’s bringing in the younger crowd…the eighteen-to-twenty-two demographic that does the bulk of the spending on music.”

“He’s a showboat. Linc runs circles around his cocky ass. Teenage girls don’t know music from shit,” Dylan spits back.

“They buy tickets.”

“Until the next cookie cutter comes along. We’ve seen a hundred of these guys over the last ten years.”

“I don’t know. Beckham’s got talent. He’s more than just a pretty face,” Duff adds, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. “What do you think, Lucky? You know his chops better than anyone. Is pretty boy a phase or does he have staying power?”

The right answer would be to say no. Dylan’s insecurity about becoming an aging rockstar at the ripe old age of thirty-five does not need to be fueled by my gushing about a younger singer. But the need to defend Flynn wins out. “He’s vocally gifted. He can run from E2 to E6 and his falsetto has major endurance.”

Dylan’s brooding stare is piercing into me when I glance in his direction. Ignoring him, I quickly turn my attention to fixing my plate.

“Told ya,” Duff gloats. “And he’s a pussy magnet. He’s good for the tour. Enjoy it. He’s bringing us new fans, not taking them away.”

“The change from his head voice to his falsetto is choppy. Linc’s is smooth.” Dylan’s tone is definitely less than agreeable; he’s challenging my assessment of Flynn’s vocal ability. I don’t take the bait—no use in arguing over the better vocalist. We’re both influenced by the artist—for entirely different reasons.

“Whatever, man.” Brett shrugs. “I can’t sing for shit. That’s why I manage pains in the asses like you. But I can count pretty damn good and there’s more to count with Beckham on the tour, so I’m happy.”

The afternoon is peaceful, although Dylan is on the quiet side. We watch a movie, then sit around talking about the upcoming venues for the rest of his tour. He frowns when our conversation falls to an awkward silence, and not for the first time today.

“Is everything okay, Lucky?”

“Ummm. Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem…off, lately. Like there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

He pushes a lock of hair behind my ear and searches my face. “Is there?”

I furrow my brow.

“You said you didn’t mean to make me feel like you’d rather be somewhere else. You didn’t say there wasn’t somewhere else you would rather be.”

I’m a crap liar. Luckily, there is a truth I can grab onto. “It’s just a big change. I haven’t been on a tour bus in a long time. I feel sort of…unsettled.”

“You’ll get used to it.” He gives me a sly smile. “You know, I had an ulterior motive for bringing you out on this tour.”

“Oh yeah, what is that?”

“Trial run.”

“For what?”

“A full-time position.”

“As a traveling voice coach?”

“As my permanent traveling companion.” His face is serious as he watches me.

I blink in surprise. We’ve been together almost a year and never talked about changing our relationship. My immediate reaction is acute. My palms sweat and a cloak of claustrophobia hits me. I look down to hide my apprehension. “Oh.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…my life is in New York.”

“Is it? You finally let go of Lucky’s, and your boyfriend is on the road.”

My heart feels heavy. The truth is, down deep, my hesitation has little to do with my life back home and more to do with the commitment I’d be making. The only carrot I see dangling in front of me from his offer is that Flynn’s band would eventually be joining the tour as the opening act. But agreeing to essentially move in with my boyfriend just so I could be closer to another man is definitely not the right thing to do. “I don’t think I’m ready for this yet, Dylan.”

“It’s been almost a year, and I’m thirty-five years old. I’m ready.” He sighs and sits down next to me. “Don’t answer me yet. We have another week and a half before you’re done traveling with us, for work anyway. Let me convince you.”

Not knowing what else to say or do, I nod.

A strain fell upon the peacefulness of the afternoon after Dylan asked me to go on the road with him full-time. It wasn’t anything he said—the unspoken blared much louder. Or maybe it was that I knew I didn’t need to consider my answer.

Avery and I skipped the Easy Ryder show, choosing instead to stay in and drink wine in our PJs. I was pretty sure she didn’t fly halfway across the country to sit in a hotel room, but she insisted and, to be perfectly honest, it was exactly what I wanted to do.

Dylan asked me to sleep with him tonight, rather than spend the night with Avery again. So I called it an early night, knowing he wouldn’t be back from the post-show party yet, but that the wine would lull me to sleep quickly.

The next morning, I wake to a feeling of melancholy. The man I thought I was in love with is sprawled next to me, his bare ass peeking out from beneath the sheet. I always loved how he slept naked; it made the mornings more interesting. But in this moment, I’m questioning everything. What I’ve felt in the past, what I feel today. The only thing I don’t question is heading downstairs for coffee and hoping I won’t be drinking it alone.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Flynn

Being on tour with a legendary rock band certainly has its perks. I’ve never really struggled to capture the attention of women. My sister lovingly says it’s because I’m a “full-of-myself dimpled whore,” although I like to think it’s my glowing personality. But last night no personality was required backstage, that’s for damn sure.

What I thought was the post-show laidback style of Easy Ryder, with only a few women permitted through security into the inner sanctum, turned out to have a qualifier—the laidback style of Easy Ryder when girlfriends and wives are around.

The backstage lounge was filled with women who didn’t require small talk. One of whom made that abundantly clear when she greeted me by sticking her tongue down my throat and grabbing my crotch.

When I left, alone, I reasoned that my sister was visiting. That it’s normal for a single guy to turn down a hot redhead who whispers in his ear that she has no gag reflex, in favor of going back to his hotel to wait for his sister and her five-year-old daughter. The fucked-up part? I didn’t even have a hard-on when she pushed her breasts against me and suggested we step into the bathroom.

Yet here I sit, six-o-fucking-clock in the morning, and my dick starts to turn to steel when I see a woman in a tank top and baggy sweats.