Mended
Page 3
“Can you hear me now?” Zane bellows.
I nod my head as my heart pounds in my chest. My hands feel cold and clammy and a nervousness that makes me weak and shaky takes over. Doubts race through my head and I’m questioning if he’s going to make it through this. A vague awareness that something bad could happen has been kicking around in my mind, and I can’t shake it. The Wilde Ones are doing a sound check onstage and Zane’s not on his game.
It’s July and the weather has been brutally hot. But today it seems cooler. Maybe it’s the California weather. Maybe it’s the excitement of being home. The Beautiful Lies tour bus finally rolled back into our home state of California after six months away. While we’re in town, I have a laundry list of shit to do—meet with the accountant for the band, catch my assistant, Ena, up on changes to upcoming stops, and stoke some fires in the publicity department at the label to ease the questions about the lead singer transition. I’m actually thinking some of the more mundane tasks of my job are suddenly looking better and better. On the road my day is always the same, but never the same—posting dailies and arranging rehearsals are automatic, but the rest evolves with the location, the people, and the needs of the band.
When the bus eased into the amphitheater, we could see tanned kids in board shorts and bikini tops already lined up at the will-call window. Security guards in polo shirts directed us to the artist parking lot, and we were officially home. Tonight we’ll be headlining our biggest show to date. We’re on tour without my brother, and still more than half of the shows are sold out, including tonight’s. River quit the band—touring just wasn’t for him—but even so, the album is on its way up the charts. Who knows—it may even hit gold status. The songs on the album were written and sung by River, but are performed in concert by Zane. Having him as my brother’s replacement has been the key to our successful transition in a world where replacing leads is normally unsuccessful—simply put, we’re lucky as hell to have him. However, River did promise to make a surprise appearance at our next stop. It’s going to be epic.
But tonight is all about the arena—Mountain View and the Shoreline. “That’s enough,” I yell to the band and call rehearsal. This place is the biggest outdoor venue we’ve played, and I couldn’t be more stoked—or more nervous. A sold-out show and a rocking opening band—what a combination. But a lead singer with another cold and a weakened voice that can’t be heard throughout an amphitheater scares the shit out of me.
I head straight for the bus and spend the next few hours hashing out a song with Nix that he calls a jumbled mess of muscular sense and big-riff sunshine—whatever the hell that means. All I know is that it needs help and that’s why he’s turning to me. I hadn’t played guitar since I was eighteen, but for some reason, I’ve picked it back up over the course of this tour. At first I played on whichever guitar was lying around, but last month I had my mother mail my old one to me, and it feels like home. It’s a light blue and brown Gibson—it’s the same guitar that Slash uses. Playing again seems to help pass the time and brings a sense of calm to me that I haven’t felt in a while.
Hours pass, and before I know it, it’s almost showtime. We make our way over to the amphitheater, do the typical festival schmooze fest, and then settle back until it’s our turn. Waiting for the band to take the stage is always the most nerve-racking time. I’m sitting in the practically vacant makeshift meet-and-greet area backstage and sipping a beer in a worthless effort to calm my nerves when a voice travels through the sound system. It’s a powerful and emotive mezzo-soprano range that is nothing short of explosive. She sounds unlike any singer I’ve ever heard before—with only one exception: Ivy Taylor. I push back the memories and emotions that her name evokes; they are just too painful. I can’t see her onstage, but I know that the voice belongs to Jane Mommsen. Her band, Breathless, is playing right before the Wilde Ones.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. I twist and glance up as Amy sits down beside me, crossing her legs. “Hi, Xander. I thought I saw you earlier at the hotel.”
She’s a beautiful woman—long, wavy dark hair, petite figure, very natural-looking. She’s wearing jeans, a blue shirt with some kind of foil design, and silver sandals. Grinning at her, I say, “Finally we catch up. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’d love that. How’s life on the road been?”
“You know, it has its ups and downs, but actually not bad. You?”
“Jane’s been going full force for a while now. But the tour ends with the summer and I’ll be glad to be back in LA.”
Standing up, I laugh. “I know the feeling. Let me get us that drink—I’ll be right back.” Tossing my empty bottle, I make my way to the coolers lined up under the tent and grab two beers. I know she’d rather have a glass of Chardonnay, but beer it is. Amy is Jane’s assistant, and I’ve taken her out more than a few times. We went to high school together, and we know most of the same people, so whenever I need a date, I ask her. Last time I saw her was almost nine months ago when I took her to River and Dahlia’s wedding.
Heading back to the table, I hear Jane yell out to the crowd, “Are you ready for three of the hottest guys in music?” The audience starts screaming and the overhead lights dim, cuing the guys that it’s the fifteen-minute countdown until they take the stage. I can see the band members huddle together in their typical pre-performance stance. I’ll have a quick drink with Amy and then join them. As I hand her the bottle, my fingers touch hers and we both grin, knowing that we’ll end up alone by the end of the night.
“You sticking around for the whole show?”
“I think I might.” She smiles.
“How about we ride back to the hotel together and have a real drink at the bar?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Great. Time for me to get back to work.”
She rises from the table, and I do the same. She stands up on her toes and kisses me quickly on the lips. “See you tonight,” she whispers.
I give her an expectant look and cross the room to join the band.
“You’re late,” Nix says with a snicker. “What’s with you two anyway?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing. We see each other casually once in a while.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Chicks are never cool with casual.”
Shaking my head at him, I don’t bother to disagree. Amy and I have been doing this for years. It works for her and for me. We like each other’s company but see each other only sporadically. I’ll call her every now and then and we’ll go out, but we are in no way exclusive. I don’t ask her about other men and she doesn’t ask me about other women.
I grab the bottle and pour the amber liquid into the shot glasses stacked beside it. It’s our preshow routine. A shot and a prayer, so to say. It’s Garrett’s turn tonight to “pray”—this should be good.
He raises his glass. “Here’s hoping Xander gets laid so he’ll get off our backs.”
Tipping my glass back, I quickly down the liquid. It burns as it makes its way down my throat. Once we’ve all drunk our two-shot maximum before a show, Garrett follows his toast up with, “Seriously, man, you need to get laid.”
The guys laugh and I actually join in. Jerking off in the small bathroom on the bus is definitely one of the downsides of touring. I’ve slept with a few girls at some of our stops, but screwing groupies isn’t really my thing. I’m not one to have time for a girlfriend, but I’m also not about to pull my dick out backstage. So it’s been a long six months.
Zane coughs after he slings back the shot and I look at him with concern. “You’re going to a doctor tomorrow.”
He shakes his head. “Yes, Mom, if you say so.”
“I’m not kidding. Your voice sounds like shit.”
“It’s a f**king cold. I took some medicine. I’ll be fine.”
“Doctor. Tomorrow. I mean it. I’ll have Ena set it up.”
“I can always sing,” Garrett chimes in, and I smack the back of his head.
“Hey. I can,” he responds, offended.
The lights start to flicker and I look at Zane with that feeling of uneasiness again. Second time this tour he’s coughing and hacking. We’re screwed if he really gets sick. He nods at me as I pat him on the back. Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he heads out first, raising his arm in the air. The crowd goes crazy. The six-foot-tall guy is a chick magnet and no one is missing my brother tonight. Garrett heads out next, yelling, “Great to be here, Mountain View!” and Nix follows with his trademark nod. Zane skips his normal charming banter, and I know he must be saving his voice. Again I think about how f**ked we are if he gets really sick.
I stand at the edge of the stage all night, until they finally come to their last song. “It Wasn’t Days Ago” is a simple but crowd-affecting ballad, and Zane belts it out. Shouts from nearly thirty thousand fans call for an encore. Turning away from the microphone, Zane coughs again. He bites his thumbnail, looks over at me, and I slice my finger across my neck.
“One more song for tonight,” he tells the screaming fans, and my blood pressure rises. “This one is a cover, an ‘ode to’ I’ll call it. It’s for Xander Wilde, the band’s manager, and it’s his favorite song. Everyone ready?” As he starts to sing Linkin Park’s “Iridescent,” I close my eyes and listen. When he hits the chorus, his voice gets so low my eyes snap open. Zane turns to grab a bottle of water while the guys continue to play, but I can tell something isn’t right.
CHAPTER 2
Something Beautiful
Last night definitely didn’t go as planned—a visit to the ER, then sleeping in a chair next to Zane all night on the bus because the steroids he was given freaked him out wasn’t what I had expected. It’s noon and Amy and I are just arriving at Pelican Hill Resort. She invited me to join her at some party being thrown tonight by her band’s label. I would rather have skipped, but since we are here anyway, Ellie, the tour manager, insisted we all go for the good PR.
I’m exhausted and really need some sleep before dealing with the press and tomorrow night’s show. The paparazzi have been everywhere—by the bus as we exited to the waiting car in LA, outside the doctor’s office, at the gates of Zeak Perry, Zane’s father’s house, and now they’re here in Irvine at the hotel.
To avoid the chaos awaiting us in the lobby, I called Ellie and asked her to check me in and meet me at the pool bar with the room key. I drape my arm around Amy, and we head that way. I’ve been here a few times, so I know my way around. Cutting through the grotto and over to the pool and cabanas, I steer Amy to the right and stop in my tracks as all the air rushes from my lungs.
My body floods with adrenaline and my gut twists. I don’t even have to do a double take, since I’d know her anywhere. There’s no mistaking her. She’s just so beautiful—the elegant planes of her face, those high cheekbones, the red lipstick, and her platinum hair, which may be shorter than it used to be but is still tucked behind her ear like it always was. She looks the same. No, she looks better. Her skin glistens in the sun and my gaze automatically follows the shape of her long legs. They look smooth and tan against her white bathing suit. An ache forms in my chest as I think about running my fingers up them. She still looks like that eighteen-year-old girl I once knew, but now she has the body of a woman—lean and toned and full of curves. The sight of her is so familiar it doesn’t seem like a day has passed since I last saw her—and everything I ever felt for her, it’s all still inside me.
My pulse races at the mere memory of us. She’s reclining in the cushioned lounge chair, reading a magazine just outside a cabana. My heart slams harder in my chest when she sticks her earphones in her ears and it transports me back to the last time I saw her do the very same thing. We’d skipped school and were at my grandparents’ house—their pool. She was lying on the lounge chair listening to music and singing along—her voice so full of soul. I’d moved to sit with her under the guise of putting lotion on her back. She sat up and smiled that shy smile she didn’t need to have when she was with me. I squeezed the tube into my hands. And after rubbing them together, I slowly applied it to her back, kneading my way up and down, touching every inch of her that I could.
Suddenly she sits up and looks over at me. Her eyes pin me in place, bringing me back to the here and now. She looks at me as if she remembers me for who I was, what we were. Not what I did to her. With my chest pounding, memories of us keep flashing through my mind. Fighting a smile, I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—remembering what we were, what we shared, how we loved.
She quickly breaks our connection when she averts her eyes and turns toward the man handing her a drink. I suck in a deep breath, trying not to feel sick at the sight. He’s nearing fifty, wearing a terry-cloth robe. He’s about my height, dark brown hair, meticulously groomed facial hair, and not exactly ripped, but fit. I’ve never actually met him, but I hate him all the same. Damon Wolf. I’ve seen his picture on TV and in magazines. He’s her agent, her fiancé, and I’m sure he’s the reason she’s not singing anymore.
She looks up at him with that same forced smile she used to give people she just wanted to appease and mouths “thank you.” I have a sudden urge to go over and deck him, but then her gaze shifts back to mine. After a few moments, he pulls her chin back to make her look at him, and I can sense some discomfort between them. We could always sense each other’s feelings even when we weren’t near each other.
I nod my head as my heart pounds in my chest. My hands feel cold and clammy and a nervousness that makes me weak and shaky takes over. Doubts race through my head and I’m questioning if he’s going to make it through this. A vague awareness that something bad could happen has been kicking around in my mind, and I can’t shake it. The Wilde Ones are doing a sound check onstage and Zane’s not on his game.
It’s July and the weather has been brutally hot. But today it seems cooler. Maybe it’s the California weather. Maybe it’s the excitement of being home. The Beautiful Lies tour bus finally rolled back into our home state of California after six months away. While we’re in town, I have a laundry list of shit to do—meet with the accountant for the band, catch my assistant, Ena, up on changes to upcoming stops, and stoke some fires in the publicity department at the label to ease the questions about the lead singer transition. I’m actually thinking some of the more mundane tasks of my job are suddenly looking better and better. On the road my day is always the same, but never the same—posting dailies and arranging rehearsals are automatic, but the rest evolves with the location, the people, and the needs of the band.
When the bus eased into the amphitheater, we could see tanned kids in board shorts and bikini tops already lined up at the will-call window. Security guards in polo shirts directed us to the artist parking lot, and we were officially home. Tonight we’ll be headlining our biggest show to date. We’re on tour without my brother, and still more than half of the shows are sold out, including tonight’s. River quit the band—touring just wasn’t for him—but even so, the album is on its way up the charts. Who knows—it may even hit gold status. The songs on the album were written and sung by River, but are performed in concert by Zane. Having him as my brother’s replacement has been the key to our successful transition in a world where replacing leads is normally unsuccessful—simply put, we’re lucky as hell to have him. However, River did promise to make a surprise appearance at our next stop. It’s going to be epic.
But tonight is all about the arena—Mountain View and the Shoreline. “That’s enough,” I yell to the band and call rehearsal. This place is the biggest outdoor venue we’ve played, and I couldn’t be more stoked—or more nervous. A sold-out show and a rocking opening band—what a combination. But a lead singer with another cold and a weakened voice that can’t be heard throughout an amphitheater scares the shit out of me.
I head straight for the bus and spend the next few hours hashing out a song with Nix that he calls a jumbled mess of muscular sense and big-riff sunshine—whatever the hell that means. All I know is that it needs help and that’s why he’s turning to me. I hadn’t played guitar since I was eighteen, but for some reason, I’ve picked it back up over the course of this tour. At first I played on whichever guitar was lying around, but last month I had my mother mail my old one to me, and it feels like home. It’s a light blue and brown Gibson—it’s the same guitar that Slash uses. Playing again seems to help pass the time and brings a sense of calm to me that I haven’t felt in a while.
Hours pass, and before I know it, it’s almost showtime. We make our way over to the amphitheater, do the typical festival schmooze fest, and then settle back until it’s our turn. Waiting for the band to take the stage is always the most nerve-racking time. I’m sitting in the practically vacant makeshift meet-and-greet area backstage and sipping a beer in a worthless effort to calm my nerves when a voice travels through the sound system. It’s a powerful and emotive mezzo-soprano range that is nothing short of explosive. She sounds unlike any singer I’ve ever heard before—with only one exception: Ivy Taylor. I push back the memories and emotions that her name evokes; they are just too painful. I can’t see her onstage, but I know that the voice belongs to Jane Mommsen. Her band, Breathless, is playing right before the Wilde Ones.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. I twist and glance up as Amy sits down beside me, crossing her legs. “Hi, Xander. I thought I saw you earlier at the hotel.”
She’s a beautiful woman—long, wavy dark hair, petite figure, very natural-looking. She’s wearing jeans, a blue shirt with some kind of foil design, and silver sandals. Grinning at her, I say, “Finally we catch up. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’d love that. How’s life on the road been?”
“You know, it has its ups and downs, but actually not bad. You?”
“Jane’s been going full force for a while now. But the tour ends with the summer and I’ll be glad to be back in LA.”
Standing up, I laugh. “I know the feeling. Let me get us that drink—I’ll be right back.” Tossing my empty bottle, I make my way to the coolers lined up under the tent and grab two beers. I know she’d rather have a glass of Chardonnay, but beer it is. Amy is Jane’s assistant, and I’ve taken her out more than a few times. We went to high school together, and we know most of the same people, so whenever I need a date, I ask her. Last time I saw her was almost nine months ago when I took her to River and Dahlia’s wedding.
Heading back to the table, I hear Jane yell out to the crowd, “Are you ready for three of the hottest guys in music?” The audience starts screaming and the overhead lights dim, cuing the guys that it’s the fifteen-minute countdown until they take the stage. I can see the band members huddle together in their typical pre-performance stance. I’ll have a quick drink with Amy and then join them. As I hand her the bottle, my fingers touch hers and we both grin, knowing that we’ll end up alone by the end of the night.
“You sticking around for the whole show?”
“I think I might.” She smiles.
“How about we ride back to the hotel together and have a real drink at the bar?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Great. Time for me to get back to work.”
She rises from the table, and I do the same. She stands up on her toes and kisses me quickly on the lips. “See you tonight,” she whispers.
I give her an expectant look and cross the room to join the band.
“You’re late,” Nix says with a snicker. “What’s with you two anyway?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing. We see each other casually once in a while.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Chicks are never cool with casual.”
Shaking my head at him, I don’t bother to disagree. Amy and I have been doing this for years. It works for her and for me. We like each other’s company but see each other only sporadically. I’ll call her every now and then and we’ll go out, but we are in no way exclusive. I don’t ask her about other men and she doesn’t ask me about other women.
I grab the bottle and pour the amber liquid into the shot glasses stacked beside it. It’s our preshow routine. A shot and a prayer, so to say. It’s Garrett’s turn tonight to “pray”—this should be good.
He raises his glass. “Here’s hoping Xander gets laid so he’ll get off our backs.”
Tipping my glass back, I quickly down the liquid. It burns as it makes its way down my throat. Once we’ve all drunk our two-shot maximum before a show, Garrett follows his toast up with, “Seriously, man, you need to get laid.”
The guys laugh and I actually join in. Jerking off in the small bathroom on the bus is definitely one of the downsides of touring. I’ve slept with a few girls at some of our stops, but screwing groupies isn’t really my thing. I’m not one to have time for a girlfriend, but I’m also not about to pull my dick out backstage. So it’s been a long six months.
Zane coughs after he slings back the shot and I look at him with concern. “You’re going to a doctor tomorrow.”
He shakes his head. “Yes, Mom, if you say so.”
“I’m not kidding. Your voice sounds like shit.”
“It’s a f**king cold. I took some medicine. I’ll be fine.”
“Doctor. Tomorrow. I mean it. I’ll have Ena set it up.”
“I can always sing,” Garrett chimes in, and I smack the back of his head.
“Hey. I can,” he responds, offended.
The lights start to flicker and I look at Zane with that feeling of uneasiness again. Second time this tour he’s coughing and hacking. We’re screwed if he really gets sick. He nods at me as I pat him on the back. Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he heads out first, raising his arm in the air. The crowd goes crazy. The six-foot-tall guy is a chick magnet and no one is missing my brother tonight. Garrett heads out next, yelling, “Great to be here, Mountain View!” and Nix follows with his trademark nod. Zane skips his normal charming banter, and I know he must be saving his voice. Again I think about how f**ked we are if he gets really sick.
I stand at the edge of the stage all night, until they finally come to their last song. “It Wasn’t Days Ago” is a simple but crowd-affecting ballad, and Zane belts it out. Shouts from nearly thirty thousand fans call for an encore. Turning away from the microphone, Zane coughs again. He bites his thumbnail, looks over at me, and I slice my finger across my neck.
“One more song for tonight,” he tells the screaming fans, and my blood pressure rises. “This one is a cover, an ‘ode to’ I’ll call it. It’s for Xander Wilde, the band’s manager, and it’s his favorite song. Everyone ready?” As he starts to sing Linkin Park’s “Iridescent,” I close my eyes and listen. When he hits the chorus, his voice gets so low my eyes snap open. Zane turns to grab a bottle of water while the guys continue to play, but I can tell something isn’t right.
CHAPTER 2
Something Beautiful
Last night definitely didn’t go as planned—a visit to the ER, then sleeping in a chair next to Zane all night on the bus because the steroids he was given freaked him out wasn’t what I had expected. It’s noon and Amy and I are just arriving at Pelican Hill Resort. She invited me to join her at some party being thrown tonight by her band’s label. I would rather have skipped, but since we are here anyway, Ellie, the tour manager, insisted we all go for the good PR.
I’m exhausted and really need some sleep before dealing with the press and tomorrow night’s show. The paparazzi have been everywhere—by the bus as we exited to the waiting car in LA, outside the doctor’s office, at the gates of Zeak Perry, Zane’s father’s house, and now they’re here in Irvine at the hotel.
To avoid the chaos awaiting us in the lobby, I called Ellie and asked her to check me in and meet me at the pool bar with the room key. I drape my arm around Amy, and we head that way. I’ve been here a few times, so I know my way around. Cutting through the grotto and over to the pool and cabanas, I steer Amy to the right and stop in my tracks as all the air rushes from my lungs.
My body floods with adrenaline and my gut twists. I don’t even have to do a double take, since I’d know her anywhere. There’s no mistaking her. She’s just so beautiful—the elegant planes of her face, those high cheekbones, the red lipstick, and her platinum hair, which may be shorter than it used to be but is still tucked behind her ear like it always was. She looks the same. No, she looks better. Her skin glistens in the sun and my gaze automatically follows the shape of her long legs. They look smooth and tan against her white bathing suit. An ache forms in my chest as I think about running my fingers up them. She still looks like that eighteen-year-old girl I once knew, but now she has the body of a woman—lean and toned and full of curves. The sight of her is so familiar it doesn’t seem like a day has passed since I last saw her—and everything I ever felt for her, it’s all still inside me.
My pulse races at the mere memory of us. She’s reclining in the cushioned lounge chair, reading a magazine just outside a cabana. My heart slams harder in my chest when she sticks her earphones in her ears and it transports me back to the last time I saw her do the very same thing. We’d skipped school and were at my grandparents’ house—their pool. She was lying on the lounge chair listening to music and singing along—her voice so full of soul. I’d moved to sit with her under the guise of putting lotion on her back. She sat up and smiled that shy smile she didn’t need to have when she was with me. I squeezed the tube into my hands. And after rubbing them together, I slowly applied it to her back, kneading my way up and down, touching every inch of her that I could.
Suddenly she sits up and looks over at me. Her eyes pin me in place, bringing me back to the here and now. She looks at me as if she remembers me for who I was, what we were. Not what I did to her. With my chest pounding, memories of us keep flashing through my mind. Fighting a smile, I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—remembering what we were, what we shared, how we loved.
She quickly breaks our connection when she averts her eyes and turns toward the man handing her a drink. I suck in a deep breath, trying not to feel sick at the sight. He’s nearing fifty, wearing a terry-cloth robe. He’s about my height, dark brown hair, meticulously groomed facial hair, and not exactly ripped, but fit. I’ve never actually met him, but I hate him all the same. Damon Wolf. I’ve seen his picture on TV and in magazines. He’s her agent, her fiancé, and I’m sure he’s the reason she’s not singing anymore.
She looks up at him with that same forced smile she used to give people she just wanted to appease and mouths “thank you.” I have a sudden urge to go over and deck him, but then her gaze shifts back to mine. After a few moments, he pulls her chin back to make her look at him, and I can sense some discomfort between them. We could always sense each other’s feelings even when we weren’t near each other.
