Just For Now, page 6
My shoulders hitch as I absorb the blow of her words. Process them. Acknowledge the truth of them with a grunt.
Her eyes scan over my face and body in a clinical assessment, not the heated perusal I’d prefer. “Look,” she glances around again, “let’s talk more about this later. Not here with everyone around, okay? We can figure it out.” She reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze, leaving the heat of a chemical reaction behind without realizing it, then turning away and busying herself with the rest of the teardown.
Thoroughly dismissed by my own tour manager—a woman little more than half my age who I have an unrelenting and inconvenient attraction to, who sees me far too clearly for my comfort—I turn and head for my dressing room to wait for the ride to my hotel for the night.
At least I know that Blaire’s handled the accommodations with the same brisk efficiency she uses to carry out all her tasks. Including the task of dismantling me and effectively popping the bubbly high I was riding until I sought her out.
Chapter Nine
Blaire
Reluctantly I head to Beckett’s hotel room after a quick stop at my own for a shower and a change of clothes. It might be a small stage comparatively, but it’s still sweaty work to dismantle it and load it on the bus. Plus, the shower gave me a few minutes to stall and gather my thoughts.
The way he seeks me out after shows and asks my opinion—my honest opinion—doesn’t help me keep that pesky crush I have on him under control.
He’s supposed to be an asshole, a diva. Instead he’s earnest and sincere and wants to do better. Be better. He cares about his fans, and he cares about his people. He might cocoon himself in his room and hold himself separate for the most part, but between him and Kelsey, I know he wants to make sure everyone is taken care of. When Rodney got hurt at the last load out—nothing major, just a big scrape when he wasn’t paying attention to a screw sticking out of a piece of the set—Kelsey paged the tour doctor to check it out, assuring me that Beckett’s policy is to have all injuries seen to by a medical professional. Some antiseptic and a bandage is all it needed, thankfully.
To top it off, I know he’s attracted to me. I might’ve doubted it at first, but he stares at my tits at every opportunity, like tonight when I told him that his show sucks.
No, that’s not what I said. But I know that’s what he heard.
At least that put him off ogling my chest for a while.
Sighing, I raise my hand and knock firmly on his door. I wait, listening, but the doors are thick, and I can’t hear anything on the other side. I’m about to knock again when I hear the unmistakable sound of the safety latches being undone. The door abruptly opens and reveals a shirtless Beckett. My eyes immediately track over his rounded shoulders, the way his arm flexes, showing off his muscle definition as he holds the door open, the sprinkling of hair over well-developed pecs and down to his flat stomach, the hint of a six pack visible even unflexed. Speechless, I drag my eyes back up that tempting expanse, but when I get to his face, there are bags under his eyes I’ve never noticed before, and the lines on his face appear deeper. Combined with his normal scruff and messy hair, he looks haggard and worn out.
He steps back and motions me inside with the beer bottle in his hand. Letting the door close with a crash, he takes a swig and watches me walk across the room to the cream-colored conversation grouping, where I claim an armchair. He doesn’t follow, merely staring at me and sipping his beer.
I clear my throat. “You should really have water. Or tea with honey and lemon. Instead of beer.”
The smile he gives me is mocking, his eyes cold and hard. “Oh? So your services extend beyond tearing apart my show, but now to lectures about my post-show rituals? Will tea with lemon and honey or gallons of water bring back whatever deficiencies you’ve discovered?”
I snort, equal parts amused and annoyed by this self-pitying and slightly tipsy version of Beckett. This is the part of him I’ve been hoping to see all along, though. The flawed man behind the superstar persona. The guy who’s rude and leaves his dirty socks on the floor.
Though the sight of his bare chest, the way his pecs and arms flex enough to make the muscles stand out when he lifts the beer to his lips, the dusting of dark hair that thickens around his belly button to disappear beneath the low-riding waistband of his jeans … all of that only cements the crush that I’d hoped his behavior might start to dispel. He’s going to have to work harder at his sulky prima donna routine, though, for this longstanding crush to disappear. Dammit.
“Yes.” I nod firmly. “I’m a full-service tour manager.”
His eyes darken unmistakably. “Is that so?”
I hum noncommittally, sitting back in the chair and crossing my arms. “Let’s set aside the post-show routine conversation for now and focus on what’s missing from your show.”
With a heavy sigh, he flops down on the couch across from me and drains his beer, giving me a clear view of his throat working as he swallows and the naked expanse of skin in front of me.
Swallowing hard, I tear my gaze away, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “I seem to have hit a nerve with what I said earlier. About you not caring about the songs. Is that the problem?”
He scoffs, lifts the beer, realizes he just drank it all, then carelessly drops the empty on the floor next to him. My mouth twists in distaste, but I refrain from saying anything. This is what I want, right? What I need? For him to be an asshole so I can squash this crush once and for all.
Moody, touchy, messy. I want the worst of him. Here and now. And then I can do my job and quit feeling tingles all over every time he touches me. Or looks at me with that lazy, heated glare he sends my way when he stares at my tits. Then if he ever decides to make a move because I’m temporary and therefore exempt from his no fucking the help rule, or close enough to a groupie to count, or whatever justification he might be able to come up with, I can firmly rebuff him without even a slight twinge of regret.
One thing I don’t do is fuck assholes. Literally or figuratively.
With a sigh, he covers his face. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious,” he says at last in a quiet voice, so vulnerable that it makes me ache. This is the side that he reveals to me when we’re alone like this, discussing what we can do to make the tour better, his shows better, entice fans to give him another chance. Deep down, he wants what all performers want—to be loved. And it speaks to the abandoned little girl inside me, who wants the same thing.
Sure, we go about it different ways—I work my ass off to make things better for everyone around me. I did it as a kid in my aunt and uncle’s house—doing chores without complaint, picking up after myself, trying to be as unobtrusive and undemanding as possible so that they wouldn’t resent my presence. He puts himself on stage in front of throngs of people, yearning for approval.
I want to reassure him that it’ll be okay. That we can turn it around. That his fans love him and just want to see him at his best again. I want to make everything better, and even though I’ve been trying to keep my heart on lockdown, keep him firmly in the realm of employer and not part of my inner circle, his vulnerability works like a wedge, pushing the circle wider, letting him in a little more.
I could argue that it’s my job. That I make more money if his shows do better. But that’s not my primary motivation. That’s a nice side benefit.
This, right here, with all his weaknesses naked and exposed, this is what makes me want to help him.
He’s not an asshole. He’s not rude. And if he’s messy, there’s no real evidence of it other than the empty bottle on the floor next to him. No dirty socks litter the floor. No empty takeout containers clutter the coffee table. The place is otherwise spotless, no evidence of inhabitation in the living area.
Dammit. Why couldn’t he be a messy asshole?
I open my mouth, needing to offer some kind of reassurance. “It’s not that obvious.”
He drops his hands to glare at me. “According to you, that’s what’s wrong with my entire tour. That’s why my ticket sales suck. Why I can’t get radio play. Can’t sell anything. Right?”
After a long moment of casting about for something to say, I finally nod.
His head falls back to the cushions behind him, and he stares at the ceiling. Neither of us say anything for a long moment.
Clearing my throat, I ask the question that’s the least likely to be helpful but that I’m most curious about. “Why don’t you care about these songs?”
He lifts one hand, palm up, then drops it on the couch next to him, the picture of dejected frustration. “I didn’t write them.”
“Oh.” What else is there to say? I guess it makes sense why they don’t matter to him, though. They’re just songs. He’s just singing them. They don’t come from somewhere inside him. “And you wrote all your others.” It’s a statement, not a question.
That hand lifts again before falling with a thump once more. “Most of them. There were a few in the beginning that someone wrote for me. But they were like something I would write. These …” He trails off and waves his hand around.
Aren’t. Neither of us says the word, but it hangs in the air between us.
I clear my throat again. “What made you go with a writer this time? Did you collaborate with them at all?”
He grunts. “No.”
I wait for the answer to the rest of my question, but that single syllable seems to be all he’s willing to give me. Even so, I want to know. “Why not?”
All of his previous answers to my questions have been directed at the ceiling, but he finally lifts his head to glare at me. “Why the fuck does it matter? These are the songs I’m supposed to be pushing. It doesn’t matter why I used a writer and why I didn’t have anything to do with the songs before singing them.” He points a finger at me. “Your job isn’t to be my shrink. It’s to turn this tour around.”
I leave shortly after Beckett’s declaration that I’m here to make his tour better, not to psychoanalyze his reasons for using songwriters on this album. It makes sense to me now why his performances don’t have the same spark as before, though. But I know a man who’s shut down and unwilling to dig into what’s really going on when I see one, so I quietly tell him goodnight and head back to my own room.
I just don’t get it, though. Someone as established as Beckett should’ve been able to get his label to give him some wiggle room if he needed more time to write a new album. He’s worried that this album is bombing and his tour is tanking. He obviously still cares to some degree. Why didn’t he care before, though, when the album was in production?
There’s something I’m missing here, but I don’t know how to find out the answer. And even if I did, I’m not sure what difference it would make at this point. Because Beckett’s right about the fact that this album is what we have to work with.
Kelsey passes me in the hallway, her eyebrows raised when she sees me coming out of Beckett’s room. I offer her a smile. “Strategizing how to improve ticket sales,” I tell her, and pause, wondering if maybe she knows why Beckett didn’t write this album. But even if she does know, I’m not sure she’d tell me. Or if she’d know the whole truth. Beckett seems to give out personal information like that in drips, hoarding it like it’s precious gold and he’s a dragon in a cave.
The questioning look fades from her face, replaced by understanding. “Good. I know that’s been weighing on him. Tonight was a little better, so I think what we’ve been doing is starting to work. Maybe it’s the start of an upward trend?”
Her voice is so hopeful and young sounding on that last question that I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth—that no amount of marketing will make up for a lack of soul. And that’s what’s missing. It’s Beckett. That indefinable spark that makes him a star. And he’s just phoning it in right now. Not even really trying, despite how worried he is about sales numbers.
Instead I nod. “Maybe.”
We go our separate ways, and I mull over how to fix this. But the simple reality is, if Beckett won’t do his job, I can’t do mine.
Chapter Ten
Beckett
Another show. Another disappointing turnout. Another opportunity to seek out Blaire.
I crave her approval. Which is stupid. But there it is.
Yeah, she’s my tour manager, so obviously I want her to think my shows are good. But it’s more than that. I want her to like my shows. I want her to tell me it was amazing and mean it. That she can’t wait for everyone to see these shows because they’re so good. That the critics dragging my album and my shows are wrong. I want to put that same starstruck expression back on her face from that first time we met.
Instead she looks at me with clinical detachment. Or pity. Or she grimaces when I ask her opinion on a show, because they’re not what she expects of me.
And I want to give her what she expects, except …
She’s right. I feel nothing when I sing these songs. I didn’t realize it was obvious, because no one’s mentioned it before now.
But like I told her, everyone around me tells me what they think I want to hear.
And that’s what makes Blaire so appealing. She tells me the truth, even if she knows I won’t like it.
Chet’s the only other person who’s ever done that, but he’s so obnoxious about it that it makes me want to punch him in the face. Except for the last two years, even he’s been avoiding telling me unpleasant truths. Like the fact that these songs suck and will do more harm than good. That I should’ve waited, given myself time to grieve the loss of my mom, and actually written my own album. Or at least collaborated with the writers if I wasn’t coming up with enough songs on my own.
When Blaire tells me I’m not measuring up, it makes me want to do better.
So tonight I did my best to connect with the music. With the lyrics.
Which is hard, because so many of them are nonsense, and the underpinning music is boring and repetitive, even if it has a solid bass line and a strong beat. How’m I supposed to emote about nonsense? And without any kind of melodic interest?
My songs actually mean something. They have heart. Soul. Emotional hooks. And the music, the melodies and chords, support that. These new songs are just insipid rehashes of the same shit everyone else is peddling.
Still, I did my best.
When I find Blaire, she’s bent over, once again with that drill in hand. I pause to admire the shape of her ass and the lean lines of her legs encased in soft leggings. I want to run my hands up those lines and cup her ass. But I put the brakes on that line of thought immediately.
Don’t need to go there.
I might crave her approval.
And I might love the way her lips get pink and shiny when she sucks them into her mouth while she thinks and imagine how they would look stretched around my cock …
But dammit. She’s not the one who should be relieving my post-show sexual tension. I could get any one of the crew of groupies always hanging around to take care of my growing hard-on.
The problem is, I don’t want any of them …
My inconvenient attraction to Blaire aside, meaningless sex lost its appeal a while ago. And since I don’t do relationships … I’ve basically been a monk for the last few years, despite what the gossip sites regularly report. There are always lurid stories about me appearing in those rags—fiction, almost every one of them. Not that it matters. Clicks and advertising dollars are all that matter. The truth is boring.
Giving myself a tiny shake of my head, I clear my throat and call Blaire’s name loud enough to be heard over the sound of the drill.
She straightens, and gripping the drill in both hands, reaches her arms high above her head, arching her back as she stretches. The move pushes her tits out, round and plump and perfectly sized to fit in my hands, like she’s putting on a show for me. I have to bite back a groan, because this isn’t helping with my resolution to keep my hands off her.
Not even the casual touches that I’ve allowed myself, because I can already tell those will get out of control if I’m not careful. That chemical reaction is too addictive.
When she lowers her arms, she passes off the drill to one of the roadies and turns to face me with a smile. “What can I do for you?”
The question is innocent, and I know that she doesn’t mean anything sexual with it, but I can also tell from the flicker of amusement in her eyes that she knows I’m wishing it was a double entendre.
With a soft laugh, she crosses her arms—which doesn’t make it any easier to keep from ogling her tits spilling over the low scoop neck of her top—and eyes me up and down. “Let me rephrase that—did you need to speak to me about something?”
The question is carefully worded so as not to mean anything else, and I can’t help grinning at her. “Yes. I gave some thought to what you said after the last show. Was tonight any better?”
Her shoulders hitch, and she looks away, her brows pulling together as she contemplates my words. “It was better,” she says at length, the words drawn out like she’s hard pressed to even admit that much. She drops her arms and shakes her head, sighing as she meets my eyes again. “I don’t know what to tell you. None of it sounds like you. I really don’t understand why you went that route at all.”
I grit my teeth at her answer, irritated and disappointed. Jaw clenching, I give her a jerky nod. “Thanks. Maybe next time will be even better.”
