Chasing Kane Page 5

  CJ using the word love? No wonder he looked homicidal during this exchange—poor kid had never been in love so far as I know.

  Frankie: I do love you, CJ. Probably always will. Lucky for me, I don’t believe that there’s just one love for everyone, and I need to find someone who I love and who can give me what I want and need out of this life. It’s too short to wait on a guy to be faithful to me between tours and until he gets bored.

  CJ: I was faithful to you the whole time, Frankie! Why don’t you trust me!

  Frankie: Because when someone has to ask after three YEARS “where we stand,” it makes me wonder where they thought we stood before.

  CJ: Whatever. Fucking whatever.

  I guessed this is where CJ discarded his phone, or close to it, because this is where the screenshot stopped.

  Me: Well that was intense. And personal. Do you guys share everything?

  I knew they did.

  Georgia: Yes. When we want to have someone with some sense weigh in on something … :-p

  Me: I love you. Napping now.

  Georgia: Don’t tell CJ I showed you.

  Me: Wouldn’t dream of it.

  What I did dream of, though, was much better. Georgia, our bed, and a family in the works. I always loved the beginnings of tours when all I could think of was my wife and the future before us before it turned into desperate missing her and doing all I could to keep my mind off of it.

  ***

  “Hot as balls out here,” CJ droned as we finished setting up the stage for the night’s show.

  I nodded, scratching some sweat away from my chin as Yardley came up beside us with a devious grin on her face. Dressed in a tight denim mini skirt and a snug tank top that prominently displayed her breasts, I prayed CJ would keep his comments to himself, if not his eyes. This look was uncharacteristic for our manager, but not all together outlandish. She’d been relaxing more on tour with us, only slipping into her more professional attire for certain venues and crowds.

  “You,” she said, pointing to me.

  “Yeah?” I pulled one of Georgia’s bandanas from my back pocket to swipe across my forehead. She had a dozen, so I knew she wouldn’t miss one while I was on the road. I needed her with me more than she needed the red fabric anyway.

  Reaching behind her, Yardley produced a disposable razor from her back pocket, wielding it in front of my face.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know what you expect me to do with that.”

  “You’ve gotta clean up the facial situation. Just a little,” she pleaded.

  I laughed. “Says who?”

  “Me.”

  “Why?” I challenged.

  “Because you’re one five o’clock shadow away from Hermitville, and that’s not really the image we’ve got painted for you.

  “Come on!” I stroked the edges of my jaw playfully. “It’s hip, isn’t it? CJ, what’d you call it? Lumbersexual?”

  At this, Yardley laughed. “Nice try. You need about seventy-five pounds on you for lumberjack status. CJ? With a little facial hair he could pull off that label.”

  “You callin’ me fat?” CJ asked, his accent thick as he feigned offense.

  Yardley shot him a challenging glance. “Never. You’re not. All brawn.”

  He flexed his arms, wriggling an eyebrow like it was a drunken caterpillar. “You know it.”

  “Anyway,” I pulled the conversation back to the topic at hand. “I’m not using that. I’ll get an electric razor and trim it. It’s not all coming off.”

  She sighed. “Fine. But tight to the face, Regan. Please.”

  “Why does Ronnie get to keep his beard?” I asked of the lead guitarist of, and Nessa’s co-lead singer in, The Brewers who had a beard he could probably tie an elastic around.

  “Because that’s just … Ronnie. It’s all very him.”

  I nodded. “I see. Would you talk to a woman like this? Nip this, tuck that, dye this, have that?”

  Yardley tossed her blond hair back, thick from the heat as she laughed, open mouthed and facing the sky before giving me any attention. “Oh, Regan,” she started, recovering from laughter. “Sweet, sweet Regan. If you only knew half the things women were asked to do in the name of image and business deals. Bet you’ve never been asked to sleep with anyone to help close a deal,” she said in dark seriousness.

  CJ stood, suddenly interested, sliding between the two of us. “No one’s fuckin’ asked me that. What’s a guy gotta do to get laid around here!” He held his hands out to his sides, half playing and half something I barely recognized before turning and marching up the stairs to our bus.

  “Fine,” I conceded, not wanting to get into a conversation with Yardley about who has ever been asked to sleep with whom. “I’ll go right now.”

  “Thanks. You’re good people, Regan. The label is lucky to have you.” She walked by me and onto the stage, checking the work we’d all just completed. By far one of the most involved, hands-on managers I’ve ever read about or come across.

  “What was that about?” Nessa’s warm rasp of a voice came from behind me.

  She sounded like she grew up singing in old-time jazz bars. The kind filled with cigarette smoke and martinis. It wasn’t dry and unattractive, rather it was as unique as her style. I turned to face her, always surprised by her appearance. She donned a long, fitted black and white striped sleeveless dress, hot pink combat boots, and a light, flowery pink scarf around her neck that allowed just the shadow of her black pearl necklace to peek through. Her jet-black hair and as-striking blue streak in the front made her a complicated puzzle to figure out, especially when she got behind the mic and belted out the raw, bluegrass-come-pop sound her band executed with perfection.

  I scratched at my face. “Hermit’s gotta go.”

  She chuckled, playfully reaching up and twirling the hair at the end of my chin in her fingers. “Thank God.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling something like blush rising through my face. “Don’t like it?”

  “It’s fine, but I prefer you with it a little … less. The hair, though? Never cut that. Go down fighting for that!” Her hand shook over my head, messing up my already disastrous hair before she bounded the stairs to the stage.

  “Good luck tonight,” I said, turning for my bus.

  She slung a guitar over her shoulder. “You too. You’re playing with us, right?”

  I nodded. “We’re on before you, though, I think. So I’ll be warmed up.”

  Nessa looked down at her guitar, which she’d only recently learned to play. “Regan,” she said playfully, “I have a feeling you were born warmed up.”

  I blushed fully this time at her compliment. “I could say the same for you. Don’t over think it up there. Rest that voice of yours until then.”

  Once on our bus, I shut the door behind me to keep the heat out since the AC was on for the time being. I waded through the front, where members of The Shakes were napping. They were a full-on bluegrass band, only recently signed to GSE. They were as wide-eyed on stage as the newbies they were, and they partied a little longer than the rest of us. Well, them and CJ. I trusted that by the time we hit Montana they’d settle into a routine and not party every night like it was their last. At least most of them would. Their own drummer and CJ were clearly cut from the same mold, and had only one operating level: On.

  Five

  CJ

  My eyes worked over the soft mounds of her succulent chest when I looked up to find her face and those startling mismatched eyes. Staring right back at me.

  “You lost?” Nessa asked, pointing behind me as I leaned against her bus. “I think your bus is back there.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not lost,” is all I said, creating a silence I’ve learned can be more inviting than uncomfortable under the right conditions.

  I sensed she could handle the way I was looking at her—undressing her quite slowly with my eyes and enjoying every damn second of it.

  She blinked a few t
imes, crossing her arms and leaning against the bus, too, facing me. She swallowed once before speaking.

  Come on. Almost there …

  “You did a hell of a job tonight,” she started, tucking the electric blue piece of hair behind her ear.

  It looked like the energy from that ball at that museum we went to in fourth grade. The kind that sent electricity through the whole class as we held hands, causing our hair to frizz up with the residual static. I’d be lying if I said my hair wasn’t standing a little on end as I stared, watching confidence flow off her. Nessa didn’t fidget with her fingers or spend time studying her shoelaces. Eye contact was her game, and lucky for me, it was a game I’d mastered long ago.

  “Thanks,” I said, straddling the line between confident and cocky. Between being humble and a horse’s ass, as my dad always said. Too bad he wouldn’t know humility if it kicked him in the teeth.

  Which I wish it would.

  “What does CJ stand for, anyway?” her head leaned slightly to the side, eyes narrowing as she weaseled her way into my head.

  “Not without a drink first, Vanessa,” I teased, winging a guess at her given name.

  A smirk slowly peeled one side of her mouth upward. “Not really a big challenge you overcame, there. I’m not weird about my name like you seem to be.”

  “Who’s weird?” I took a deep breath, shrugging it off. Frankie and I had had a similar conversation three years ago when she first asked me what CJ stood for. So, I did now what I did then. I reached for my wallet, handing Nessa my license. “See? No periods. Just CJ,” I assured before shoving it back in my jeans.

  She nodded, skeptically, the way Frankie had off and on for the first few months of our relationship. I knew Nessa would eventually drop it. They all did. Even Frankie, though it took her longer than most.

  You drop it, Kane. Frankie wants nothing to do with you … just like you knew would happen.

  “But, Nessa’s a name all by itself, so I took a chance there,” I continued.

  “It is?”

  I nodded. “It’s a Gaelic name, actually. Nessa was the mother of the King of Ulster. His name was Conor. She was wildly powerful and beautiful, and really looked out for her son.”

  “Oh yeah?” Nessa eyed me with almost comical suspicion.

  I put my hand to my chest. “I’m dead serious. She tricked her second husband, King Fergus, into giving up the throne and kingdom to his stepson for a year. But, during that year, Conor was such a wise and awesome ruler, that the people chose him to be their permanent king.” I smiled proudly.

  “Wow, you and Regan really dig into your Irish history, huh?”

  “That,” I admitted, “and I take a minute to Google interesting names when I hear them on the off chance that they fit into my culture. Got lucky with Nessa, I guess. Not a bad namesake. I’ve got nothing on Vanessa, though. Sorry.” That earned me a hearty laugh from Nessa.

  “So, does your C stand for Conor, by any chance?”

  I laughed. “Hardly the king type.”

  Looking around, desperate to change the subject, I noticed the usual division amongst members of our tour. Some headed to their busses, phones in hand, talking to loved ones no doubt. The rest of us? We were just bored, itching for trouble. To my deep, bubbling pleasure, Nessa was still leaning against her bus, seemingly assessing the two different cultures. Deciding which she’d assimilate with for the night.

  Taking my chances, I nodded my head to the crowd flowing away from our own RV-like park in the middle of the desert. “Come get a drink with us.”

  Me. I wanted to say me, but I’d learned a lot over the years, and was far ahead of the testosterone filled hook-up attempts of my earlier youth.

  She sighed, heavy as if I’d asked how a dying relative was hanging in there. “I don’t know …” Her eyes were cautious, no doubt scanning my face for signs of delinquency. Assessing her own ability to maintain whatever composure she thought she was maintaining around me.

  I shrugged, dredging from the depths of the barrel the last of my tricks. “I heard some of the guys say they were going to some bar called Rocky Springs. Join us if you want, but …” I paused, forcing her eyes up to mine. “Don’t come alone, okay? New city, weirdos, all that.”

  She laughed, her face glowing with the creamy fluorescence of the last of the stage lights left lit. “How big brother of you.”

  I grinned, throwing a wink before turning on my heels. “Not any big brother your parents would want you hanging around.” I walked away, my heart alive in my chest with the intoxicating sensation of fresh flirtation.

  One, two, three, four … shoot, five, six. Did I misjudge her? Seven, eight …

  Finally, it came.

  “CJ, wait up.” Her voice sounded nonchalant in the few seconds it took her to catch up to me.

  I kept walking, saying nothing but allowing her to fall in step next to me, her long, muscular legs making easy work of keeping up. I’d been so entranced by her eyes, I’d failed to notice until now that she’d changed from her stage wear into shredded, tight-as-sin jean shorts with a white T-shirt stretched impossibly across a black-lace bra. She kept the pink combat boots, though. I liked that.

  “Tough choice?” I teased. “A night out with fun people over staying in your bus reading, or sitting around the campfire singing Kumbaya with my cousin?”

  Her mouth dropped and she punched my shoulder a little harder than a flirt. “What do you know about him? He can party as hard as we’re about to.”

  The good news was, she affirmed we were in for one heck of a night.

  “What do I know about him?” I half-scoffed. “We just grew up together, he’s married to my best friend—”

  “Georgia is your best friend?” She looked shocked for a moment, but it quickly faded. “I guess I can see that,” she said with a shrug.

  “Yeah?” I arched an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

  “I suppose if someone the likes of you would have a girl as a best friend, it would have to be a take-no-shit girl like Georgia,” she said with an approving smile, nodding her head. “And you never slept with her?”

  “Why does everyone ask that?”

  “Bet they don’t ask her,” Nessa challenged, accurately compartmentalizing mine and Georgia’s personalities and lifestyles.

  I clicked my tongue against my teeth. “If you must know, no. We’ve never slept together. Seen each other through too much shit for that nonsense.”

  “Yeah,” Nessa replied wistfully.

  Something in her voice made me slow and turn to look at her. Her head was tilted down slightly, just enough for the electric blue swath of hair to hang forward, masking the view of her face from the side.

  “What?” I nudged her side, needing to break the cloudy mood looming in her posture if we were going to have any kind of night at all. “Missing a boyfriend back home?”

  Her spine straightened and she shot me the most deliciously incredulous look. “Nah,” she answered, waving her hand, “I dropped his ass long ago for feeding me the same lines you’re serving up.”

  I laughed, glancing at the sky for a moment and shaking my head. Nessa was going to be some work, and I was willing to give myself one night to decide if it was worth the effort for what I’d hoped would be a couple-night fling at best. Maybe some more down the road if we got too pent up on tour—but nothing more.

  ***

  “Come on, big boy, hit one!” Nessa cheered—jeered, really—over a shot of tequila that was a number I lost count of hours ago.

  Standing—for certain interpretations of standing—a few paces back from the dartboard, I sloppily brought the feathers of the dart in front of my eye, squinting the other. Though that was an exercise in practice over principle, since I couldn’t see straight anyway, no matter how many eyes I had open.

  Squaring my shoulders to the board I tilted back slightly before lurching my weight forward, hurling the unassuming dart toward its target. It missed spectacular
ly, the dart bouncing off a stone column and landing right in the drink of some girl sitting off to the side of the board.

  “Score!” Nessa hollered, raising her strong arms into the air, fists of glory above her head.

  The girl, a petite brunette with shoulder-length hair in tight curls looked offended as she wiped what smelled like rum and Coke—probably Diet Coke—off her cheeks and chest. Her friends mimicked her look of disdain until I spoke.

  “Sorry, honey.” It rolled off my tongue as practiced as breathing, despite my thick inebriation. I pulled an empty chair next to her and turned it around, straddling it as I sat, facing her. “Let me get that for you.” I took the napkin from her hand and wiped away the last carbonated droplets of my intentional miss off of her collarbone.

  “It’s okay,” she managed, trying not to look too offended or embarrassed. Her eyes darted from my face to the table and back again.

  I shook my head, taking her hand. “That won’t do. Come, dance with me.”

  Curly Sue looked shocked, her face all roses as she stood, her hand tight in mine.

  “Lucky bitch,” one of her friends whispered not so quietly as I escorted her away from the table.

  I winked at Nessa for the second time tonight as I scooted passed her and onto the tiny, crowded breeding ground of a dance floor.

  “Oh, come on,” she teased, loud. “Is that the consolation prize for being assaulted by your own drink? A dance with the tattooed wonder? Run, girl, run! It’s all a trick!” She fell into a fit of laughter, signaling to the waitress walking by that she would, in fact, love another shot. She could really put them away—I’d have my work cut out for me if I decided to pursue her.

  “Is she a friend of yours?” the girl asked as we secured our tightly bordered real estate on the dance floor.

  I took hold of her wrists, placing her hands on my shoulders as mine girdled her tiny waist. “Sort of. Tour mate. What’s your name?”