Duet (Can't Help It Book 2), page 1
DUET
OPHELIA LEIGH
Copyright © 2024 by Ophelia Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters are fictional. Any resemblance to living persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
For Helen.
CONTENTS
1. make sure the door's not locked / when opportunity decides to knock
2. all the empty places / in our hearts
3. take away the mirror / don't want to see who I really am
4. not all songs are love songs / yeah I know what I said
5. don't even know where to begin / at my heart, my heart
6. you say you aren't afraid / but that's just another pretty lie
7. do you want to love me? / I'm never sure
8. no more posturing / no teasing
9. I'm here to tell you / it isn't chance or circumstance
10. you go and you go and you go till you can't
11. love you / hate you / so fuck you
12. it's no choice of mine / can't help it
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from KNIGHT OF SWORDS
Also by Ophelia Leigh
1 MAKE SURE THE DOOR'S NOT LOCKED / WHEN OPPORTUNITY DECIDES TO KNOCK
JOHNNY | AMSTERDAM
You know you have to cut back on the sleeping around when the morning’s first thought is who is this man in my bed and where did he come from? The inside of my mouth tastes like I’ve been dumpster diving and feels like the sandy underside of a wave. It takes a full thirty seconds to shake off the haze and remnants of last night’s drink fest before I remember: Amsterdam. Some hotel. Some weekday.
I don’t know days or dates any more. I only know things like three-month international tour and under new management and the pressure to keep writing new songs without my fifteen-year partner. Simon can go to hell for quitting the band. For staying back in the States with his pretty wife.
And I can do the same for being stupid.
While he’s still asleep, I study Piers or Peter or whatever his name is. He might be the prettiest boy I’ve ever woken up with. Last night I felt like I was swimming in some Nordic sea of like-minded blondes and for the first time in a while didn’t feel too out of place. The club I went to was crazy but dimly lit, and I was on my own, on the prowl. I should have been good and stayed home if yet another hotel room can be called home, but sue me. I was antsy and I’ve been on a self-imposed sex ban since Marina left abruptly. Well, no, since the night after Marina left abruptly and I woke up with the taste of yet another groupie lingering. Famous guitarist and big capable man that I am, I called for help getting rid of her.
I’m not doing that today. I’m not waking up my favorite security guard-slash-personal assistant and demanding her help.
While last night’s flavor-of-the-moment gets his beauty rest I slide quietly out of bed, head into the shower, and let the steaming hot water run over me until my skin’s bright pink and I can’t feel a thing.
Shit. Water off again, clothes on, hair fixed, I step back into the bedroom. He’s still sleeping, or pretending to sleep, so I kneel by the side of the bed and rest a hand on his shoulder.
“Guten tag.” My German is shit, mostly because I had German=evil drilled into my head by my survivor grandparents from the time I was little. But I don’t know any Dutch, so that’ll have to do.
His eyes flutter open. His profile is so beautiful it almost makes me lose my resolve. I could play with those lips forever and a day. A string of words leaves his mouth and the only one I recognize is sex. It sounds like a question. Did we have sex? Does he want more sex? Is he asking if I enjoyed the sex we had?
All I know is that he was really cute at the club last night, and bringing him back to my room seemed like a good idea at the time.
“I only speak English. Sorry.”
“Ah, right.” He sits up, the blankets barely draped over his lower half—what a body with those defined abs and the rest of his muscles cut into a vee that my eyes want to follow—and his face crinkles into a smile. I hope he’s legal. He said he was. “You already are dressed. Sorry, my English is terrible. Is time to go?”
“Yeah.” I brandish my phone like it has information in it I’m willing to share. “I have an appointment to get to. Some band thing. But your English is great.”
The quiet smile on his face makes me think he actually believes me, about both things. If there is an afterlife, I’m sure I’ll burn for all eternity for all the lies I’ve told but at least they work. Reaching forward, he rests a hand on my face and his skin’s so warm that I let my eyes close and melt into the touch. How many people are starved for contact? I know I am.
When my eyes open again he’s smiling. His thumb runs over my lip, and the reflexive kiss I give it is more honest than I expected it to be. “You’re lovely.”
It’s true. Bending forward, I kiss his lips. It’s a sweet short goodbye and Piers gets it. He reaches for his clothes and dresses quickly, efficiently, before giving me a one-armed hug.
“Thank you.” I’m not a complete ass, and I have no regrets about last night. I hope he doesn’t either. “This was really nice.”
My pickup, who I finally remember introduced himself last night as Noah—where the hell did those other names come from?—rubs a nice circle between my shoulders before pulling back, looking me up and down with heavy-lidded eyes and a sweet smile. “Veel dank, Johnny Blue. I hope you are back in Amsterdam again, and I hope you remember me when you do.”
Noah was right: his English is terrible. And also adorable. He lets himself out, smiling back at me one last time before the door shuts. A stab of emotion floods my gut and at the same time I feel the prickle of tears in my eyes. Why? Isn’t it enough to parade around on stage almost every night in front of tens of thousands of people? Isn’t it enough to hear them chanting my name, screaming every time I look or laugh or smile? What more do I need?
I know the answer and it frightens me.
It’s in the way my ex simply sashayed into the dressing room before a gig, said it had been fun but it was over, and that she’d have her things cleared out of our house before I got back to L.A. Then she turned and walked out in those runway model heels of hers, and her pert skinny backside was the last thing I ever saw of her in person. She didn’t even pause to look back at me, or seem the least bit sorry about the way things happened.
Shit. Moving into the living room area, I flop down on the couch, phone still tight against my palm, and jam my knuckles into my mouth. If the room was soundproofed I’d scream, but I’m not going to start an international incident. This will have to suffice.
The truth of the matter is that I’ve been latching on to anyone I feel remotely comfortable around, making their lives as miserable as mine.
No wonder Simon quit the band. No wonder we had to strong-arm his tech into replacing him on bass. Now I understand why people cringe when they see me about to violate their personal space. What does Johnny want now? How can I make him go away without risking my career?
Enough. This is week three of a three-month tour, and if I don’t get my shit together I won’t be able to finish it. That’s the last thing I want. Nothing that’s happened makes me less of a businessman. The show, as they say, must go on, and now that Simon’s gone and we’re under new management, I’m the only musician left who knows how to keep the whole tour from tanking.
The business about having a band thing to go to wasn’t a lie. Ruby sits across the table from me checking things on her phone before glancing up. A moment of silence passes between us, but she nods at the coffee cup in my hand—with cream and maple syrup, as always—and finally cracks a smile. “You know how hard it was to get maple syrup here? Drink your damn coffee and stop looking at me like the world’s about to end.”
“You’re the one who called me for a meeting.” It’s hardly unusual for me to be talking with our manager. What is unusual is that she wanted to see me without the rest of the band. Our former manager used one-on-one meetings to sow distrust, so I’m on high alert. But I’m also willing to cut Ruby some slack. She’s only been with us a month or so.
I blow across the cup and take a tentative sip of early afternoon coffee. That it tastes like home hits me right in the gut.
“Chill out.” Ruby laughs, and the smile lighting her face makes her look like a young Donna Summer without the disco trappings. “I’m just checking in. Don’t think of it as a meeting. Think of it as breakfast.”
That is something I can do, and the rumbling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since before deciding to check out the streets of Amsterdam last night. Here it is seventeen hours later, and the toast and slabs of fruit and cheese and smoked salmon between us on the table are looking pretty good. What the hell, I load my plate with reckless abandon and after shoveling a few bits of it all into my mouth and chasing them down with another sip of coffee, I start to feel more like myself and less like one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. “Breakfast was smart.”
“I’m taking care of our star property. Word on the street is your last manager wasn’t so hot at it.”
That’s an understatement. My mouth is too full to say anything, so I nod my thanks.
Ruby leans forward. “So, Johnny. The one bit of info I did get from Deke before I was even a fly on your managerial wall is that you’ve got a hell of a gift for keeping track of the business side of things. Which is my job, strictly speaking, but I don’t mind sharing. I want it all to be on the up-and-up. How are we doing?”
Oh, I get it. Code for how am I doing? Swallowing back the toast, I give Ruby a nod. “Good. We’re doing good.”
For all that I talk, I don’t talk much about how I’m feeling. Not with her. I save that for my poor PA, and try to keep band business discussions to, well, band business.
Our manager nods, but she doesn’t sit back and doesn’t relax, so I go on. “For the first time, I don’t feel like I have to keep tabs on the money end of things. Deke was skimming off the top, so I needed to keep tabs on that.” I didn’t know he was skimming off the top to pay off Marina to ditch me in the name of publicity, but I’m all the wiser now. By reputation Ruby doesn’t pull that kind of shit, which is one of the reasons we hired her. “But I’m not worried about the nightly take any more.”
Setting down my coffee mug, I fold my fingers together and smile across at her until she relaxes enough to sit back again. Of course I still keep an eye on the money, but she doesn’t need to know that. “You negotiated us better show guarantees. The promoters stopped screwing us over by inflating their advertising budgets. Everyone in the band likes you. Even better, the crew loves you. So when I say we’re good, it means we’re good.”
The sigh of relief she breathes lights her face enough to be visible. “Fuck, yeah.”
Reaching across now, I rest my hand on hers. Sue me, I’m a touch-based person and if I don’t have contact I get more than a little crazy. “Look, I know you bit off a lot, taking us on. It’s not easy cleaning up the mess Deke left behind, but don’t worry. For the most part, we’re easy. I think between us, we’ve got it covered.”
“Yeah.” Now she reaches into her bag and pulls out a binder. “This is the schedule for the rest of the tour. I wanted to talk it over with you personally, because you know Dave Nutter has a family emergency, so Bleed Me Dry is already on a plane heading home. We have a number of suggestions for a permanent replacement opening act, but tonight and tomorrow we’ve got local bands booked. If that’s all right with you, of course.” Ruby turns the binder toward me, flipping through the pages until she finds the one she wants. “Okay. Look at these bands. Do you have an immediate hell no reaction to any of them?”
I scan the list: Pink Freud, Soul Catcher, Glow Wonder, 837, Stash. “None of them are an immediate no.” I point to Soul Catcher. “I know their drummer pretty well, and they’d probably be okay if Brandon and their keyboardist could figure out how to get along. So I’ll leave that one up to him, but I’m personally fine with any of them.” I look back at her without blinking. “Why is this my decision, Ruby? It should be the whole band.”
“And it will be, when we’re all together at sound check later.” Ruby nods, tucks a curl back into place, and taps her coffee cup. “I promise I’m not playing favorites, but…”
“But you love me, and value my expert opinion.” I give her my best am I right? shrug, all innocence. “I’m sorry I can’t be a dictator and pick an opening act here and now, but since Simon left I’ve worked hard at making the Bolts a group effort again. To give that up over a decision it will probably take us all of ten minutes to make together would undermine everything.”
She grins. “In other words, welcome to the Lightning Bolts, a bastion of democracy in an industry that demands otherwise.”
“Call it what you will.” The way I see it, she’s learned quickly to manage my moods by doing things like this. She knows I haven’t been right since the end of the domestic tour, and someone must have told her the best way to get me out of a funk is to keep me busy. “Also, thank you. I know I haven’t been much fun to be around lately. Thankfully they don’t pay me to be happy around the clock.”
Eyes closed, Ruby nods. “They ought to. When you’re happy, the world is happy.”
As if the universe actually revolves around me. “Ruby, Ruby. The world doesn’t care if I’m happy. It only cares if I’m singing and playing guitar and posing with fans and giving interviews. Happiness isn’t any part of the equation. But I appreciate you looking out for me.” I swallow the last of my coffee, push back from the table, and nod to our manager.
Hopefully my room’s been cleaned and put back together so I won’t have memories of last night to deal with. One bout of emo combined with poor decision-making is enough for one day. One night. One city.
One gig at a time.
LILA | LONDON
The text message staring back from my phone could be the most important one I’ve ever received. Unless it’s a joke. Rubbing my eyes doesn’t make it go away, and neither does a sip of old coffee. Oh, Jesus, that’s disgusting, the milk went sour in it overnight. Rain splatters the window. Pulling the sweater closed over my tits, I read it again for good measure.
Lightning Bolts want Stash to open for the rest of their tour.
It’s still the same message. Still unbelievable. I still feel like I’m dreaming.
I still despise the sellout Lightning Bolts and their pop-cliche mega-hit “Can’t Help It,” but who ever gets the chance to step in mid-tour as warm-up for a band that big? It’d be like opening for Coldplay, for Christ’s sake, and no struggling band in their right mind would turn it down.
I’m in, I text back to Terry. Did you check with the guys?
They’re packing gear and clothing. Advise you do the same. Meet at office 2pm to discuss logistics.
Hell, yeah. Holy fuck yeah, I should’ve said, but Terry’s a Brit and so’s the rest of the band and they already think I’m a bitch with a potty mouth, and if I’ve learned anything doing time in London it’s that Americans are always either underestimated, overestimated, or laughed at behind their backs. Actually there’s no or to it: they love to make fun of us.
Especially American women in their music community, but who cares? My hands are shaking as I do a quick search for details on the Lightning Bolts tour. They’re in Amsterdam now for another day, then heading to Hanover and after that, Hamburg. The part of me that hates those pop posers says how very Beatles of them but the part that’s just now waking up to possibilities does a fist pump. How very Beatles of them!
Then the self-doubt hits. Why us? Everyone knows about the shit that went down yesterday with Nutter’s wife in that drug bust and how it yanked Bleed Me Dry back to the States, but…why us? Why Stash? Why not any of a dozen or two other willing, eager, and ready bands who are much more likely than we are to ask how high when the Lightning Bolts say jump?
Okay, Lila, breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Get your ass in gear and get dressed, and make sure you know where your passport is because any minute now you’re going to be making your way to Germany to join up with the biggest tour of the year and oh Jesus, I knew I should’ve loaded up on spare strings last week when I was at the music store.
Wait. Meet at 2? Suddenly I’m manic, hopping around getting dressed, trying to do everything at once: hair, clothes, boots, brush my teeth, go back for deodorant, smear some liner on my eyes, some spray in my hair. Jesus, we’re going on the road with the fucking Lightning Bolts. If I don’t look the part I can kiss my career goodbye before it even says hello.
By the time I make it to Terry’s office, breathless and disheveled, my purse rolled into a ball under my arm, I probably look every bit the part of the starry-eyed American who gave it up to come to London to form a band because the competition was too great at home. How presumptuous of me to think I could ever be God’s gift to guitar. Arrogant little girl. Who do I think I am, the second coming of Chrissie Hynde?
Terry’s receptionist is a thin, twitchy-eyed blonde girl named Alba who’s always acted like her boss is way bigger than a poor-to-middling music manager. She taps the pencil twice to her perfect younger-than-mine lips before pointing to Terry’s office like I don’t know the way.
