Beat (Life on Stage 2)

“It’s not his fault.”

“Don’t give me that shit. I saw the way he followed you around. He wanted in your pants. That’s why I sent him packing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let’s just move past this. He’s gone. We both have baggage. It’s time for a fresh start. To build our future on a clean slate.”

I don’t respond. With two fingers under my chin, Dylan gently lifts until our eyes meet again. “I love you, Lucky.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“You’re sorry? What the fuck does that mean?”

I remain silent, but words aren’t necessary.

“You have got to be fucking shitting me.” He stands. “Think long and hard about what you’re doing, Lucky. You can walk away from me if you want. But just try to walk to Flynn fucking Beckham, and not only will his band not be opening for Easy Ryder, but I’ll be damn sure he doesn’t play anywhere for a long, long time.”

Seething, he slams the door behind him so hard, the walls of the bus shake from the force.

I stay in the back after the bus pulls into California. It’s so quiet without the hum of the engine and radio blaring, it makes me wonder if I’m the only one left on board.

Wheeling my bag out into the lounge, I discover I’m not the last one on the bus. Dylan lifts his eyes to meet mine. “Give me tonight?” There’s a vulnerable tone to his voice that I’ve never heard before. “I have to do an interview this afternoon, but let’s have dinner afterward. Let’s talk.”

As much as I’d rather get on a plane this afternoon, run away from my guilt, the right thing to do is to end things like adults. I nod.

The car ride is uncomfortably quiet on the way to the restaurant. Dylan stares out the window, tugging at the collar of his shirt, seemingly as lost in thought as I am. It surprised me when he told me to dress for dinner, surprised me even more when he slipped on a jacket and tie.

The driver pulls up outside Chateau La Roque and Dylan tells him not to get out. Instead, he opens the door at the curb and offers me his hand.

“Thank you.”

“You look beautiful.” Lacing our fingers together, he walks us into the trendy French restaurant. I’m shocked he picked such a public place for us to talk, knowing the topic we will be ultimately discussing.

“Mr. Ryder,” a man with a thick French accent says. “Right this way.”

After we’re seated, the first ten minutes are filled with awkward small talk. It reminds me of a bad blind date.

“Dylan,” I say at the same moment he says, “Lucky.”

“You go first,” he offers with an appeasing smile.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m not sure what happened along the way, but I’m sorry. You’ve never been anything but kind to me.” I truly mean it. I hate myself for what I’ve done.

He takes my hand into his. “Me too. I’m sorry for a lot of things. First and foremost, for not giving you the attention you deserve. But that’s going to change. This afternoon, the thought of losing you made me realize how stupid I’ve been—”

“You didn’t—”

“Let me finish, I need to get this out. I waited too long already.” He stands. And I must be the most clueless person on the planet…because I’m watching the entire thing unfold right before me, and yet I still don’t see it coming.

He takes something from his pocket.

The next thing I know…he’s bending down on one knee.

Oh my god. No. This cannot be happening.

I hear gasps around the crowded restaurant, and then his words through a fog. “Lucky.” He clears his throat. “I’ve written hundreds of songs, yet I don’t know the right words to tell you how much you mean to me. I was planning on doing this once we got down to LA, but today I realized I’ve already waited too long. I know you aren’t ready for marriage and kids tomorrow, but I’m willing to wait. Until then, I want you to have my ring on your finger to remind you every day how much I love you.”

I don’t even notice tears are falling from my cheek until his thumb wipes them away. “Don’t cry.” He smiles at me, mistaking my angst for tears of joy. “I know what I want. Be my wife, Lucky. Not today or tomorrow. But promise me, someday?”

“Dylan.” My wary voice cracks as I pull him up from his knee to stand. I can’t do this to him publicly. Two minutes later, the entire restaurant is clapping and snapping pictures.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Flynn

“Arghh,” I groan. Cracking one eye open, I scan the room, grateful when I realize I’m at Becca’s and not in an alley somewhere. How the hell did I get here? I try to recall the last twelve hours: Nolan’s apartment for a few beers, Molly’s Irish Pub for a few more, then over to the Royal in Union Square when people started to recognize me. That’s where things start to get fuzzy. I remember the long bar, a cute bartender named Alexa…and wall-to-wall TVs.

Shit. The TVs. There must have been forty of the damn things. Every single one of them flashing the same news story. A picture of douchebag Dylan Ryder down on one knee, then of Lucky hugging him.

I moved to hard liquor after that. Tequila. Plenty of it, too.

It takes a few minutes before I piece together the bits and pieces that followed. Nolan. And the redhead. She had a deep voice. I vaguely remember teasing Nolan to check for an Adam’s apple before taking her home with him. What came next?

The redhead’s friend.

Shit.

Bella? Belinda? Beth? Something with a B. I think.

I remember the four of us stumbling out the door at closing time. What the hell did we do after that? Betsy? Bianca? Bailee?

Dragging my ass out of bed, I answer Mother Nature’s call and splash some cold water on my face. My head feels like I ran into a Mack truck last night. It’s a distinct possibility, for all I know. Headed back to my sister’s guest room, I abruptly halt when I hear her voice.

Barbara? Brooke? Bridget?

Skittishly, I head to the kitchen in search of the women’s voices.

“Good morning, sunshine.” My sister arches a brow. “How you feeling?”

“Like I look.”

The woman from the bar last night smiles like it’s normal for her to be sitting at my sister’s kitchen table.

“Hey,” I tentatively offer.

“I’m glad you woke up, sleepyhead.” She gets up from the table, pushes up on her toes and kisses me on the cheek. “I have to get to work, but I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye.”

“Umm…I’ll walk you out.” In the hallway, I try to fill in some more blanks. “Where did we go after the Royal?”

“You don’t remember?” She looks surprised. I must have faked sobriety pretty damn good.

I shake my head.

“Some karaoke bar, across town.”

Shit. “Lucky’s?”

“Yeah. That was the name of it.”

“I’m sorry.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I don’t remember a thing after leaving the Royal.”

She smiles. “You were pretty lit. But nothing much happened. Except you sang.”