Beat (Life on Stage 2)

An hour later, it’s show time. Lucky’s is packed, even though it’s a Sunday afternoon. It’s an odd mix of my parents’ music friends, industry people and a handful of kids from school. Avery stands next to me on the side of the stage as the MC introduces me. With a nudge from her, I walk the few steps until I’m standing front and center. My eyes roam the audience. Unlike the time I sang at school, there are no blinding lights to restrict my view. Instead, I see every face—every face watching me.

Eyes connect with mine. Expecting. Waiting. Watching. I just stand there. A deer frozen in the headlights. Mom sits front and center. She nods. As if to say, go on, start singing already, but I don’t. Instead, I frantically search for Dad. He’s standing in the back of the room. Our eyes lock and I ease a bit just finding him. I look down at his feet and nod to the small band standing behind me and they begin to play. Thirty seconds later, I’m singing my heart out and can’t see a single person, even though nothing has changed.

Chapter Ten

Lucky

It’s been two days since I heard from Dylan. The sound of his sexy voice does what it’s done to me since I was fourteen years old—I grin like a teenager when he says he misses me.

“I miss you, too.”

“What have you got planned for tonight?”

“I’m actually on my way to Lucky’s now. Avery’s still down a waitress, so I’m filling in.”

“Why is it that you’re always there when she needs you, but not when I need you?”

“When did you need me?”

“I need you now.” Dylan wanted me to go with him on tour. Sell Lucky’s entirely and travel with Easy Ryder. It’s been a source of contention between us lately, and part of the reason I decided it was time to start seeing Dr. Curtis again.

“You don’t need me. You want me. There’s a difference.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re disregarding my needs.”

“Really? I thought I did pretty good fulfilling your needs.”

“When you’re actually around, you do.”

“We’ll see each other in less than two weeks. I’m coming to the Atlanta show. Remember?”

“Two weeks is a long time.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.”

“That’s bullshit. I still don’t see why you couldn’t come with me.”

“You know why.” We’ve been through this a dozen times and the place to rehash it is not on the phone while I’m walking into Lucky’s. He doesn’t get why I need to keep with my plan. Why not being on stage is holding back more than just my singing career. I need to break through to move forward. “Tonight I’m going to get up on stage after Lucky’s closes.” Saying the words out loud brings a new wave of nausea.

“You’ll do great. Although that little stage is beneath you.”

“You sang on this stage once.”

There are some gargled voices in the background. Dylan covers the phone and then returns. “I gotta run. I need to do a sound check.”

“Okay. Good luck with tonight’s show.”

The bar is busy, but that doesn’t stop me from checking the time on my phone every three minutes. The way I’m watching the minutes tick down with dread, you’d think a bomb was due to explode. Actually, with how terrified I feel, waiting for detonation might be easier.

I clear a table and head toward the bar with new drink orders completely oblivious to my surroundings, when a familiar voice greets me. I jump, the simple sound startles me from my obsessive preoccupation with how many minutes remain until I’m facing the firing squad. My full tray wobbles on my unsteady hands and then tips, sending a half dozen empty glasses smashing to the wooden floor, where they shatter into a million tiny pieces.

“Shit!” I drop to my knees and attempt to rake the glass with my hands, but all it does is slice small shards into my fingers.

“Are you okay?” Flynn says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I thought you saw me.” He’s down on his knees attempting to help me gather the mess I’ve made.

“It’s not your fault. I’m…just a little preoccupied tonight.”

“A little? My uncle Nathan with Parkinson’s has more stable hands than you tonight.” I look up at Avery and she points in the direction of the back. “Go! You need a break. Jase and I got this. Take as long as you need.”

“You sure?”

“I insist.” She jabs her finger at the man next to me. “You. Flynn. Go with her,” Avery orders. She hands him a bottle. “Take this. She needs it.”

A minute later, we’re outside. The fresh air hits me and suddenly I’m bent over, hands on my knees, gulping air like I’ve been deprived.

Flynn wraps his arms around my waist and grabs me tight—he’s afraid I might fall. “You okay?”

I take a few shallow breaths before I respond. “I’m good. Sorry. Panic attack. It’s been a while since I’ve had one. I forgot what they can do to me.”

We’re in the alley behind the bar. Surprisingly, it’s empty—usually there are a few smokers polluting the air back here. Flynn rubs my back as I attempt to regain my composure.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks as my breathing returns to normal.

Two guys stumble loudly into the alley, lighting cigarettes before they’re even fully out the door. Flynn looks at them, then me, and grabs my hand. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

Fingers linked, we walk silently from the alley and make our way around the corner to a bench just outside Bryant Park. It’s after midnight and the street is quiet, especially for New York.

“So, I’d like to think you were so happy to see me, you couldn’t contain your excitement. But something tells me that isn’t it.” Flynn uncaps the bottle of Jack Daniels that Avery handed him and offers it to me.

I take a swig. My face scrunches up from the taste. “Thank you for walking with me. I actually feel better already.” I extend the uncapped bottle back to him.

He lifts the bottle to his lips, and then stops. “Glad I can help. Hope it’s my company and not the alcohol.” He gulps a shot from the bottle and smiles. “So tell me what’s going on? What’s got you so anxious?”

“It’s just…anticipation of something I need to do.”

“You breaking up with Dylan?” His voice sounds hopeful.

“No. Nothing like that.”

He brings the bottle to his mouth a second time, mumbling before he drinks, “That’s too bad.”

The first real smile of the day threatens my lips. “You’re ridiculously charming, Mr. Beckham. Women must fall at your feet.”

“Not the right ones,” he says and offers me the bottle, but I decline. “So talk to me. What’s got your sexy self all twisted up tonight?”

“It’s nothing, really. I…” It’s difficult to admit my fears to anyone, let alone a guy who does what I fear most on a regular basis and makes it look as easy as breathing. “I sort of have stage fright.”

“Okay…” he says, waiting for more.