A Lush Rhapsody: A Rhapsody Novel (4 page)

* * *

B
y four o’clock
we’re finally done for the day. We’ve heard presentations on the ticket sales—all the venues are sold out—we’ve been given a tour of the state-of-the-art sound system and backstage area of the amphitheatre, we’ve met the chief executives of all the companies sponsoring the tour, and autographed all sorts of swag for radio stations to give away. I’m exhausted and ready to get back to the hotel. A couple of back-up singers for one of the other bands asked me to go out with them tonight, so I have a few hours to take a nap and get ready to go clubbing.

I pack up my stuff and give it to the crew who’s handling our equipment. Then I head to the dressing room and gather the rest of my stuff before I head to the car waiting in the back parking lot. Amphitheatres don’t typically have a lot of room backstage, and this one is limited to a long hall with doors on both sides. I’m dodging an open door on the left when a door to the right of me flies open and smacks the wall a few inches from my head. “Goddamit,” a deep voice rumbles as a hand reaches around the door to grab it and pull it closed.

“Watch the hell out,” I yelp as the door moves toward my head yet again.

A face appears, and then a whole body—a big, utterly delicious body. As my gaze travels up past the rock hard abs, and defined pecs that show through his plain white t-shirt, then over the curved, bulging biceps, I come to a square jaw with the exact right amount of blonde stubble. Finally I meet up with the sharp blue eyes of Rhapsody’s lead guitarist, Blaze Davis. Otherwise known as my Viking fantasy come to life.

I gape, my mouth and throat suddenly so parched I can hardly swallow.

“Sorry,” he says, a sexy smile parting his perfect lips.

“Uh huh,” I breathe out. Shit, pull it together O’Roark. I give myself a mental shake. “Yeah, well, you need to be more careful, you almost nailed me in the head.”

He shifts, dropping his hand from the edge of the door where he held it, and crossing his arms in front of his chest. My eyes drop to the biceps—and his chest—then snap back to his face. He’s smirking at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. Dick.

“Well, like I said,” he continues, “I’m sorry about that. The door doesn’t have a spring on it, so it flies open every time you turn the knob.”

While a part of me wants to continue being pissy at him, he’s sort of taken the wind out of my sails. He’s apologized, and told me that the door has a flaw that caused the issue. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? “Ok,” I finally say like a twelve year old. “I guess I’d better…” I gesture down the hall indicating I need to move along.

“You’re the new Lush girl, right?” he asks, leaning back against the door now, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.

I give him my best dismissive look, because even though he’s hot, he’s also a member of the enemy—Lush’s enemy.

“I’m the new keyboardist for Lush, yeah. And, a woman—not a girl.”

He chuckles, giving me the once over again, his eyes hot. I feel my cheeks flush and other parts tingle. Damn Viking.

“I agree, you’re definitely all woman.”

I roll my eyes, even though that deep voice is like warm caramel syrup sliding over my skin.

“Does bullshit like that ever work for you?” I ask in my snarkiest tone.

“Frequently,” he answers. “The bitchy thing work for you?”

Now we’re in territory I understand. I’ve been the bitch to my brothers’ assholery since I was old enough to fight back.

“Frequently,” I shoot back at him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait a minute there, short stack,” he says, his voice warm as he puts a hand on my arm and blasts me with a megawatt smile.

I glare at him and lift his hand off of my arm, dropping it quickly as though I can’t stand to touch him. Truth be told, even that slight contact sent tingles of anticipation all over my body and I would have loved to weave my fingers through his and see what that felt like.

“I didn’t mean to imply you’re a bitch, that was uncalled for,” he says more gently.

“Really? Because I absolutely meant to say your pick-up lines are bullshit.” I smile sweetly and cock my head at him.

He chuckles. “I’m Blaze,” he says holding out his hand. “And I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot.”

I stare at his hand for a moment, my fingers itching to grasp his.

“Go on,” he whispers with a grin. “Shake it. I promise I washed after I took a piss the last time.”

“Oh. My. God.” My gaze snaps up to his.

“Come on,” he chides again. “Shake my hand, tell me your name, then we can go our separate ways knowing we were polite and the tour won’t be hexed.”

I finally give in and shake his hand. “I’m Tully.”

He holds on to my hand longer than he should. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Tully.”

I yank my hand back. “Wish I could say the same.” I shrug. “But, whatever. See you around.”

As I walk away down the hall toward the exit door I hear him chuckle before he mutters, “You can count on it.”

I
t’s
nine a.m. and the phone is ringing next to my head. I pry one eye open and grunt as I reach for it, reading,
Shannon
, on the screen. I’m not often thankful for my sobriety—I know it’s necessary, but it’s hard to be grateful for something that makes you feel like crap most days—but right now, I am. If this were me at nine a.m. six months ago, I’d be in a hell of a lot more pain than I am now.

“Yeah?” I answer, my throat scratchy.

“You’re still asleep?” Shannon asks immediately.

“It’s nowhere near noon, I’m a rock star, what the hell did you expect?”

She laughs. “Point taken. But wake up now, because we’ve got to talk business.”

Like I said, I have a mind for business. I’m not sure if it’s nature, or nurture, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way it comes from my old man, who runs one of the biggest insurance companies in the world. He was a crappy father, and a reprehensible human being, but he knows business, and I got that from him—along with the addictive biochemistry. He’s a real peach my old man.

“Okay.” I sit up in bed, untwisting my legs from the sheet and letting it settle around my hips. My cock is at half-mast because I was having a really great dream about Tully O’Roark, but I set that thought aside and focus on Shannon. “Shoot,” I tell her.

“I’ve been fielding calls all morning from the NFL,” she says.

If I wasn’t a moment ago, I’m wide awake now, and I grab my iPad from the nightstand and open up the notes app, ready to get the info down.

“They’re beginning the planning for the halftime show at next year’s Super Bowl, and they’re looking at you guys for the headline slot.”

“Holy fuck,” I breathe out. “Like Coldplay, Madonna, Rolling Stones headline slot? That slot?”

“The very one,” she answers, pride oozing from her voice.

“When will we know for sure?”

“Well, here’s the thing…”

Shit. Another catch. There’s
always
a catch with these deals.

“They’re looking at you, but also another band. They’ve got about eight weeks until they need to decide, so they’re taking a closer look, putting out feelers, seeing what kind of terms you’d want, and then they’ll decide.”

I rub a hand over the scruff on my jaw and remind myself to breathe. It’s like I can feel my blood pressure skyrocket, heart beating against my rib cage, and for a split second I find myself about to reach for the nightstand where in years past I would have had some cocaine to get my day started.

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but what other band?” I ask her.

She sighs. Yep, going to wish I hadn’t asked. “It’s Lush,” she tells me quietly.

“Goddamit!” I yell, leaping out of bed. “Why do they have to be in the middle of every single opportunity we get? They’ve played the fucking Super Bowl before, doesn’t the NFL want some fresh faces?”

“The NFL wants whoever will be best for business, you know that.”

She’s right, I do know it, and I also know that it doesn’t do any good to bitch about it.

“Right. What can we do to lobby? How do we give ourselves the best chance at nailing it?”

“They’re going to be watching the West Fest carefully. It gives them the chance to see both bands up close and right next to one another. If this were last year I’d say you’ve got an advantage because you have more instruments; a bigger sound, which is important, but since Lush added that girl on keyboards they’re able to match you in that regard.”

Fuck. That girl—Tully. It figures, she’s the hottest thing I’ve seen in months, and not only is she off limits because she’s from the enemy camp, but now she might be the reason we don’t get one of the biggest gigs a band can get. One that I want so badly I can taste it. Because while the old man might be able to ignore the concerts in arenas, and the Grammy nominations, and songs on radio stations from coast to coast, he can’t ignore the Super Bowl. He attends it religiously, watches it with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, from the comfort of his sponsor’s box. He’ll have a damn hard time denying that I’ve succeeded if I’m onstage at the Super Bowl.

“Okay, so what else then?”

“Well, with all the bad publicity the NFL has been getting from their players—the gang rape trial in Florida, the domestic abuse allegations against the California QB—the league is very serious about family image this time around.”

Oh hell. I’m the dude who just got out of rehab for a cocaine addiction. Hardly Sesame Street time.

“But don’t panic,” she cautions, like she can read my mind. “You’ve done a rehab stint, but so has Walsh Clark. When it comes to that you’re on even footing. And the important thing is that you’ve both
been
to rehab. You’re supposedly ‘cured’ and all that.”

I snort. What a load of crap.

“I know, I know,” she says, “but putting the addiction issue aside, they’ve got wives, kids, babies on the way. That’s where you’re at a disadvantage.”

“So, I should elope with a girl from the church youth group?” I joke. Sort of. I’d probably be willing to do it if Shannon said it’d get us the gig.

“No.” She knows I’d do it too. “You should keep Garrett in check, make sure no one gets photographed drunk, fighting or fucking, and then play your hearts out and may the best band win.”

The trouble is, I’m not sure if even Shannon really has a fix on which is the best band.

“Okay, I’ll make sure Garrett keeps it in his pants when he’s in public, and we’ll let our music show them that we’re by far the better choice.”

“Good.” I hear someone else talking to her. “I’ve got to get to a meeting, but I’ll check in next week.”

I disconnect the call and stare at the wall in front of me for a moment. This isn’t the first time we’ve been in a tight situation like this. Music is a tough industry, and we’re often competing against similar bands for a prize like the Super Bowl slot. In the past, I’ve done anything necessary to give us a fighting chance at winning.

I’ve anonymously sent Rhapsody swag to Grammy judges, paid managers to get their bands to pull out of competitions, and hired the daughter of a big movie producer as my assistant to give us a better chance at being asked to score the movie. Most of the time those things have worked, and I’m not against doing something to give us a leg up against Lush now. In fact, I think I know exactly what secret weapon I need, so I scroll through the numbers on my phone and make the call.

* * *

A
fter hanging up
, I pull on a pair of boxers and open the door to the balcony, stepping outside into the warm San Diego sun. My room is directly over the swimming pool three floors below. I lean over the railing and look down at the turquoise water, as a form flows under the surface. It’s a woman, and though the water distorts her image, I can see that she’s wearing a red bikini and has dark hair. She swims laps, doing flip turns and pushing off underwater each time she reaches the end of the pool. There’s a rhythm to it, and I find my tired mind lulled by the motion and the repetitiveness of her routine.

When she’s done more laps than I care to count, she finally pulls up to the shallow end of the pool and lays her arms along the edge, catching her breath for a moment. I’m about to go back inside when she walks up the steps and out of the water. My heart freaking stops in my chest. I don’t even have to see her face to know it’s Tully, because that body. Fuck. Me.

She’s pint-sized, but not anywhere that counts, her tits are full and round, the tiny red triangles of her bikini stretched tight across the alabaster flesh. Her long hair streams down her back and she bends over to squeeze the excess water out of it, giving me a perfect view from behind. The swimsuit barely covers anything and I’m treated to the sight of most of her beautiful ass.

My dick strains against the boxers and I swallow around my dry throat. Then she shifts and I see it—a tattoo, full of vibrant colors and beautiful lines, right on her left ass cheek. It’s the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t tell what it is from up here, but just the fact that she had it stamped on her gorgeous ass makes me love it already.

“Nice tat,” I call out before I can think. She stands straight and turns around, shading her eyes with her hand as she looks up to see who’s talking to her.

I wave and she flips me off. It’s more than okay though because then she walks to a lounge chair and picks up a pair of sunglasses. I get to watch her the whole way, and it’s worth any grief she throws at me without a doubt. She’s poetry in motion, all bouncing soft parts and smooth skin.

“So what is it?” I call out again.

“None of your damn business,” she answers without looking up at me.

“I think I’ll make it my business to find out now. I like nothing more than a challenge, short stack.”

She flips me off again before going inside, and I chuckle. I’m wide awake now, and as I make my way to the shower I know I’ve got great spank bank material—the image of Tully O’Roark and her pretty tattooed ass should get me through the next thirty minutes just fine.

* * *

E
ach band
on the tour is assigned two-hour rehearsal slots while we’re in a location, we all have full-on dress rehearsals the day before a show, then we perform before moving on to the next city. Today our rehearsal slot is at four p.m., and Garrett is already fifteen minutes late. Granted, we can warm up and play the songs without a lead singer, but we look like idiots, and everyone in the place can see that our most visible member is MIA.

“From now on one of us brings him with us to every rehearsal and performance,” I caution the other guys. “That means tracking him down an hour ahead of time and keeping tabs on him until it’s time to leave the hotel.”

“He’ll be here soon, I’m sure,” Dez counsels. “I saw him at midnight and he was sober, so I’m sure it’s just a chick, not a hangover.”

“I don’t give a shit if he’s in bed with the goddamn president, there’s no excuse for being—” I check my watch, “twenty minutes late to our first rehearsal of the tour.”

“I’d totally do the president,” Topher says, as if that’s the point of this conversation. His lanky frame is wrapped around his bass, and he strokes the neck as if it’s his dick in his hand. “She’s hot, and all those buttoned-up blouses and pencil skirts? It’s the whole librarian fantasy thing.” He gets a dreamy look on his face and Dez chokes trying not to laugh.

Before I can lay into Topher for losing focus, Garrett comes sauntering out onto the stage, his auburn hair mussed, and a lollipop dangling from between his goatee-framed lips.

“Nice of you to join us,” I snap. “Rehearsal started twenty-five minutes ago, asshole.”

“Aw, fuuuck,” he groans as he wipes a hand on his vintage Rolling Stones concert t-shirt. “Not now, Blaze. I just had to talk some chick’s idiot boyfriend down after he found us shacked up in my suite. Guy was a monster, and he was ready to beat the crap out of me. I ended up having to call the hotel security to drag him out. Why don’t we have security at our rooms?”

I raise an eyebrow at him as I strap my guitar back on and walk to my mic, ready to finally run through our set. “Because the tour is giving us security at the venues, on the buses, and in the hotel lobbies. It’s a huge waste of money to hire extra guys to stand outside our hotel room doors.”

“Dude,” Carson intones from his drums at the back of the stage. “We’ve got more money than most of us could spend in the next decade, what difference does it make? If it keeps Garrett from getting the shit kicked out of him maybe it’s worth the extra change.”

“What’ll keep Garrett from getting the shit kicked out of him is if he quits screwing other men’s girlfriends. Now can we get started?”

The rest of the guys nod their heads and Garrett salutes me, because he’s an asshole like that. The stress is rolling through me, and I feel the jonesing coming on, but luckily I’m in the perfect place to handle it this time. I raise my right arm in the air and hold up a fist.

“From the top,
Sand Castles
. One, two, three, four!” I play the opening bars to our first song and for the next ninety minutes I lose myself in the one thing that holds the demons at bay—music.