A Lush Rhapsody: A Rhapsody Novel (5 page)

* * *

R
ehearsal ends up going well
, and I’m feeling some actual bliss when we finish and pack up our gear. The promoters have a regular fleet of hired cars going back and forth between the hotel and the venue all day, so Topher, Carson, and Garrett have already left when Dez and I finally roll out of the dressing room where we’ve been screwing around with some new songs and head toward the parking lot.

We’ve turned the corner from one hall into another when I hear her. If you could hear someone’s teeth gritting from ten feet away, that’s the sound that would be echoing around us.

“Somebody’s not too happy,” Dez murmurs as he lopes along next to me.

“It’s Tully,” I say, then clarify when he looks at me askance, “the new Lush girl.”

We get abreast of the open door to a dressing room and there she is, leaning against the door frame, one hand wrapped around a phone like she wants to strangle it, and the other dug into her thick curls, pulling so tightly I’m afraid she’s going to yank hunks out.

“Mom,” she hisses, “he’s a total asshole to me, why should I get him tickets to the show?” She pauses, obviously listening to her mother on the other end. Then Dez clears his throat, nudging me to keep moving, and she spins to look at us.

She glares at me.

I grin. “Nice to see you too, short stack,” I snark before we move on down the hall.

Behind us I hear her talking again. “Yeah, I know, he’s my brother. Okay…Yep…You’re right, if I’m going to waste all my time playing the piano at least the family should get something out of it. He can pick up the tickets at will-call…Yep…Tomorrow. Show starts at four.”

As we exit into the parking lot Dez shakes his head. “Damn, that sounds like one dysfunctional family.”

I snort. He doesn’t know shit from dysfunction. Dez’s parents are both artists, they fully support his music and couldn’t be prouder of him. But her conversation sounds far too familiar to me, and suddenly I need to go back inside, check up on her, make sure she’s okay, because I know that if you have enough conversations like the one I just overheard, the outcome is never good—for you or anyone around you.

“Hey,” I tell him as we reach one of the hired cars and the driver opens the back door for us. “I forgot my notebook, I want to work on some of the chorus for the new song we’re hashing out. Go on without me. I’ll meet you in an hour and we can grab some dinner before you guys go clubbing.”

He examines me for a moment in that way he does—all ancient Japanese wisdom and patient analysis. Seeming satisfied with what he sees, he gives me a nod, and climbs into the car. Before the door closes he says, “Try not to screw it up—you’re supposed to make her feel
better
.”

Before I can answer him the driver closes the door. I gape at the tinted window. How the hell does he do that? It’s weird ju-ju. I shiver as the car starts up and drives away. Then, I take a deep breath, and steel myself to face Tully, because I’m sure talking about dysfunctional families is the very last thing she wants to do with me.

I
stare
at my reflection in the mirror of the dressing room. I take in the big sad eyes, sloppy curls, freckles, and pale-as-a-ghost skin. I wonder if I’d been born tall and blonde my family would have liked me more? Or maybe if I’d had a dick. That seems to be a guarantee to an easy road in that group. My sister only survived by doing exactly what was asked, when it was asked, the way it was asked.

I tried, I really did. I used to try to bake things for them all—cookies, biscuits, soda bread—thinking that if I could master even one skill of the good Irish woman they wanted me to be they’d like me more. I’d spend hours with my grandmother’s recipes strewn all over the countertops, flour everywhere, my hands covered in batter and dough.

But it never failed that I would get distracted by the way the eggs looked as they slid around in the bowl, or the way the dough felt on my fingers. It would make music to me. The sliding eggs became a run up and down the keyboard, the sticky dough a staccato chord that followed the smooth run of notes. It was something I couldn’t control, but it meant that I ruined every recipe I ever attempted because I’d get distracted.

A knock sounds at the door and I’m jolted out of my moment of self-pity. I turn to find Blaze staring at me from the doorway, his gaze a little more perceptive than I want right now.

“You done with your call?” he asks as he slowly saunters in.

I turn back to the mirror, hoping he doesn’t see my embarrassment. A conversation like I was having with my mother is the last thing I want other people hearing. Especially big, hot, Viking male people.

He comes over to the makeup counter where I’m sitting and plants his very firm denim-clad ass on the counter so he can face me while I look at the mirror.

“When I was seventeen I quit the football team to join a band,” he says, with no preamble.

I stare at him, wondering where this is going.

“Were you any good? At football, I mean.”

He nods. “All-State quarterback three years running, two State Championships, and offers from D-1 colleges before my junior year.”

I raise an eyebrow, because I don’t know shit about football, so everything he said is kind of meaningless to me. He seems to understand that. “I was really fucking good,” he clarifies.

“But you liked guitar better?”

He nods. “I liked guitar better. Football was fine, I liked the conditioning, and being part of a team, but it was almost too easy. Almost like I already had it all worked out. It never made my blood race or pushed me to reach for things I wasn’t sure I could achieve. I’m not a natural at music.” He looks at me and his eyes are so laser-focused on me that I squirm in my seat. I drop my gaze but I meet up with his broad shoulders and chest, his pecs and abs rippling beneath that plain white t-shirt he always wears. The cotton is thin, and tight, and he is one hell of a specimen.

I’m uncomfortable by how attracted I am to him. I shouldn’t feel this way—he’s the enemy—so I do what I always do, and cover it with snark.

“Is there a point to this info dump?”

He chuckles, not put off by me at all. That’s a first.

“Yes, the point is that my old man went ballistic. He’d raised me to be a football player, not a guitarist, and he lost his shit totally and completely.”

“Oh,” I answer quietly. My family has always known I’ve got a problem with music, so there were never any big blowouts, just the steady disappointment over a couple of decades.

“He belted me a couple of times, then he tried locking me up in my room, but after a few weeks he realized that wasn’t going to do it.”

I swallow, my stomach twisting. He’s telling me stuff that goes far beyond the disapproval I get from my family—this sounds like a story of abuse.

“After that it was a succession of removing things—my car, my allowance, my bank account. Eventually, he ran out of things to deny me, and took the only thing left—he disowned me and threw me out of the house.” Blaze stands and stretches, his t-shirt lifting a couple of inches and giving me a view of smooth skin and a soft trail of blonde hair leading to the button fly of his jeans. Lord help me. Blood pounds through my veins a little faster and harder than it does normally.

“I’ve been on my own since I was seventeen. I’ve heard every insulting thing about music that a parent can say to a kid, and I know what it does to you, in here—” he puts a fist to his chest, right over his heart, “when the people who are supposed to love you most in the world can’t accept you for who you are.”

I nod, because now he’s speaking my language. That pain is unique, and not everyone understands it.

“So I just wanted you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to—about your family or whatever—I’m around. I get it.”

He gives me a twisted little smile, and a piece of me does a funny flip inside my chest. He’s really beautiful. From the top of his blonde head to the tips of his Converse-clad toes. And as he says, he gets it, gets what it’s like when you feel that you can’t do anything right, that your family will never really love you the way you love them. Everything in me is turning sort of gooey.

“Thank you for that—”

A voice sounds from outside in the hall.

“Hey, you seen Tully? We need to make sure she gets back to the hotel safe. I don’t think the security staff realized that she was still here.”

It’s Mike’s voice, and I jerk back, suddenly reminded that this guy a few inches from me is the enemy. The one person who shouldn’t be in my dressing room with me, the absolute last person I ought to be getting all sappy with. I struggle to recover, looking away from him as I stiffen my spine.

“Thanks, but I don’t think we have nearly as much in common as you’d like to believe.”

He blinks at me, and then I hear Mike’s voice in the room with us, and I spin on my chair quickly, as Blaze stands straight and steps away.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mike snarls at Blaze.

Blaze smirks, his soft expression from a few moments ago completely erased.

“Just getting to know the new girl,” he answers, evil grin firmly in place. “I’m the welcoming sort.” He’s so convincing that I’m not sure he didn’t actually come in here and play up to me intentionally to piss off my bandmates.

“You’re an asshole. Get the hell out of here before I have my security guys haul your ass out like they did after that show in Tulsa.”

I see Blaze’s hand squeeze into a fist and his eyes flash with hatred. “Fuck you,” he tells Mike. “You too afraid to take me on yourself? You have to get your hired goons to do it?”

The room is swimming in testosterone, and I hop out of my seat to move between them.

“Stop it. Both of you.” I look from one scowling face to the other. They’re both big. Blaze is taller, but Mike is so bulked up that he’d give him a run for his money.

“Blaze is leaving anyway, it’s no big deal.” I look him in the eyes, and give a sharp nod. “And don’t come back,” I tell him. A little twisty knot works its way through my chest when I spit the words out. It feels wrong because it’s dishonest.

His gaze falls from Mike to me, and I see a flash of something that looks a lot like disappointment cross his face before it relaxes back into insouciance.

“Whatever you say, short stack, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’d still love to see that tat on your ass. I’m sure it’s well worth it.”

Mike lunges, but I glue myself to him long enough that Blaze makes it out the door.

“What the fuck was that about?” Mike glowers. “And how the hell does he know you have a tat on your ass? Do you? I mean…” He turns red and sputters to a stop, awkwardly trying to extricate himself from the line of questioning.

“I do. He saw it at the pool and nothing was going on.” I sigh as I walk over and grab my backpack. “He was just annoying me, he seems to enjoy it. It’s harmless though.”

Mike relaxes a touch, running a hand across his hair. “Just watch out for him. Blaze is ruthless, he’ll do anything to get what he wants. I wish I could believe that the new sober him is a better guy, but I don’t think it was the coke that made him that way, I think it’s something a lot deeper.”

God, that’s right, I remember now that the tabloids said he’d been in rehab. How could I have forgotten that? Given my family, substance abuse is about dead last on my list of things I want to deal with in friends, dates, colleagues, whatever. Why does a guy who turns me on so much have to be such a nightmare?

“What do you mean?” I ask, a little scared of the possible answers. “What’s he done that’s so horrible?”

“I’ll tell you about it someday,” Mike answers. “But for now let’s get you back to the hotel. Rock Steady magazine wants to do that photo shoot tonight instead of tomorrow morning. They’ve got some concept that involves the hotel swimming pool.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

I can’t help but laugh as we walk to the parking lot to meet the other guys. I realize that while Mike and Joss might be controlling by saying I’m not allowed to hang out with Blaze, they’re also being protective. I can tell they genuinely think he’s no good. No one’s ever been protective of me before—well, except for Savvy. It makes me want to please them. I almost think they’re growing on me. Earlier I’d have said Blaze is too, but that can’t be. I can’t
let
it be.

* * *

I
t is entirely
possible that I’m going to die of embarrassment. I am standing in tiny cut-offs, a black halter-top, and short furry boots, my hair a mass of curls on top of my head. And while the outfit would be cute for onstage, I’m currently at the swimming pool of the hotel, being held by Mike, Joss, Colin, and Walsh.

They’re wrapped around me from my feet to my shoulders, their hands and, God help me, tongues, everywhere. Colin is on the ground, my foot on his thigh as his hand wraps around my calf and he licks my knee. My other leg is bent up to waist height and Mike holds it, an evil grin on his face as he leans over, leering while his hand inches under my tiny cut-offs. Joss stands behind me, his hands on my waist and his face buried in the crook between my neck and shoulder. Walsh stands next to me, my arm extended as he licks up my inner elbow.

And to be fair, the licking is more suggested than actual, although I know Colin’s spit on me a few times just for fun. We’re pretending for the cameras, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it’s awkward. Especially since Tammy and Marsha, Walsh’s and Colin’s wives are standing a few feet away watching the whole thing.

“Pout those lips more and give me your best sultry look, Tully,” the photographer instructs.

I clear my throat and manage to croak out, “Okay.”

“I’m so glad you smell good, Tully,” Joss mutters from my neck, making me shiver in discomfort. “This could have really sucked if you smelled like Mike.”

“Careful,” Mike replies. “I might tell Mel how much you enjoyed sniffing Tully.”

“Dude,” Walsh says from my other side. “You so don’t want to go there. Look at where your hand is. Jenny will never believe you didn’t enjoy that.”

“Oh my God, stop!” I hiss. They all four laugh.

The camera keeps snapping and snapping.

“Hey, baby,” Colin yells to Marsha. “You want to try a position like this tonight? Minus the clothes and the other guys of course.”

Marsha and Tammy crack up and I feel my face go hot. Please, let it end soon.

“Okay, let’s get to the next set of poses,” the photographer tells us.

Hallelujah.

As the guys peel themselves off of me, the hair and makeup girls come over and redo everything, taking my hair down, lightening my makeup, and putting some sort of newsboy hat on my head at an angle. The next set of pictures have a much more brotherly vibe. The guys sit with me in the center, all of us laughing and tossing a baseball around.

In another set of shots I’m on the edge of the pool, my legs dangling into the water while Joss and Mike face me from the water and Colin and Walsh flank me. The minute Joss and Mike strip off their shirts the number of women doubles on the surrounding balconies and the viewing area the magazine set up poolside for spectators.

For the final set of pictures we split the difference between the brotherly poses and the siren shot. The wardrobe people put me in a black bikini and all of the guys in white button-up linen shirts. Then the crew roll the guys’ jeans up to mid-calf, sit them on the edge of the pool side by side, feet dangling, and lay me across their laps on my back, head tipped back, hair flowing out onto the concrete pool deck.

They tell Lush to ham it up, and they truly get their money’s worth. The guys are hilarious, saying outrageous things, laughing their asses off, making faces at the cameras. They’re so relaxed and so genuine it’s amazing. I get the easy job—lie there and keep my eyes closed—but I have to admit it’s hard not to laugh at their antics.

“That’s a wrap!” the photographer calls out finally, and everyone applauds and begins congratulating one another. I’m about to sit up and crawl off of the guys’ laps when I hear Walsh ask, “On three?” The other guys’ voices ring out “Three!” and I feel myself rolling…right. Into. The pool.