Tunes (Beekman Hills Book 2) Page 8

  “Did he?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. I’d like nothing more than to strangle my father right now and throw him in the East River.

  “He did. You kids have fun tonight. Gracyn, you’re in good hands with my boy here.” Sweet, sweet Mr. Langston. “I’ll see you both in the morning. Enjoy.” He handshakes his way out of the dining room and through the door to his waiting car, leaving me with his simpering son.

  I sigh and paint my most professional expression across my face. “Brooks, I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m just going to call it a night.” I nod, wanting to give him the hint that, yes, this is a good thing. A good idea to part ways and move on.

  “One drink, Gracyn. It’s just on the next block. I have inside information that the guy playing tonight is good.”

  He’s crowding my space a little, and with the shift and flow of the bodies packing the sidewalk, I find myself moving along with him when I really want to be moving away from him.

  As soon as we’re clear of the restaurant, I put some space between Brooks and me—as much space as I can manage on a crowded sidewalk. I have to play this carefully. These are new clients, and it’s a good account. I get that, but no way in hell am I letting this guy think he’s getting any extra services.

  “One drink. That’s it,” I concede.

  The smug smile that stretches across Brooks’ face should be all the warning I need. But, as we get closer to the bar, the music filters out to me. Wrapping itself around me. Calling to me. Distracting me and drawing me in.

  Chapter 15

  Gavin

  The past week has been healing in a way that I almost thought was impossible toward the end of the tour. The insanity of night after night after night of parties was more than I could stand.

  Sure, it sounds good to party all night, sleep all day, and get paid for playing music. And it is—mostly. The music is what I love, not the parties and constantly being on. That’s just not me. I am grateful for the opportunities. The success. But I’m tired.

  I’ve found peace in getting up early in the mornings and claiming a quiet little bench in Central Park to just play. Never would’ve guessed that my quiet time, my recharge, could happen in the city that doesn’t sleep.

  There are people all around, thousands walking past this bench—my bench—every day. And I know for a fact that there’s a bench on the other side of the shrubs behind me. Pretty sure someone has been enjoying a free concert most mornings. I’ve heard her singing with me, humming really. Shaking my head and smiling, I wait for her to try to find just the right pitch. It doesn’t work. She’s a little off-key, just the tiniest bit flat.

  Like Gracyn.

  I settle in, picking at the strings of my acoustic, the guitar I’ve had forever. The one I use to write music with. The one I swear even now has some sand from Florida rattling around in the body. It feels like a lifetime ago, and maybe it was. The six months spent there were some I would gladly forget, except for a handful of memories that still have me fucking confused and, like a dream hinting at reality, questioning whether it really happened.

  Getting discovered was nothing like I’d thought it would be. There was no slick guy in a suit, whipping out his business card, no big aha moment. It was just another gig in yet another shitty little beach bar for an audience that was more interested in getting trashed and hooking up than they were in us.

  Absolutely nothing set that night apart. We played fine, killed it really, but not a single soul seemed to notice the difference between us and the piped-in music that replaced us at the end of our set. No one noticed at all—except a couple of guys at a table in the back of the bar.

  After our shit was packed up and Kane had his entertainment for the night, those guys at the back table bought Nate, Ian, and me a round of drinks and invited us to hang out at their table. Turns out, it was a couple of the guys from Lightning Strikes. That kick-ass band out of Kansas City made it big a couple of years ago, and the singer and lead guitarist were just chillin’ in Florida with their wives.

  Everything I’d ever heard about Myles Donovan was that the guitar genius was the asshole of that band. But, when he slapped my back and handed me their label’s contact information, he was anything but an asshole. He was my fucking savior.

  “Really? We tried to contact these guys and got nothing.” I drained my beer and set the empty bottle on the table. “They didn’t even bother telling us to fuck off.” I huffed out a laugh and looked at their lead singer, Kade Evans.

  Myles was wrapped around his wife, the PDA bordered on uncomfortable in public.

  Kade flicked a bottle cap at him and turned to me. “Yeah, man, it’s not easy, but you guys are good. Really good. I think your next call to them will go completely different. I sent him some video from tonight. They aren’t gonna want to miss out on you.”

  There was only one person I wanted to share that information with, and as I grabbed my phone it hit me again, how fucking stupid I was. Gracyn was wiped from my fucking life. Nothing left of her, but a handful of selfies and an epic case of blue balls.

  I know how I look. I see it in the eyes of every soccer mom in the park and every buttoned-up suit on the street. The hair, the ripped jeans, the ink. Their judgment fills the air. The judgment that sits right alongside the desire. Like I’m not quite a person, just a commodity. Gracyn is one of the only people I’ve met who saw something more in me. At least, I thought she did.

  A quiet conversation drifts from that bench behind me, a one-sided conversation that leaves no doubt in my mind that the chick parked there has been enjoying listening to me for the past couple of mornings. There’s something in her voice, in her inflection, that screams Gracyn. Or maybe it’s that she’s on my mind yet again. She made it perfectly clear that she was only interested in a fling, something quick and temporary, and yet here I am, still fucking caught up in her.

  Lyrics start coming together, forming in my mind.

  One kiss, and I was done.

  I wish you wanted more than fun …

  I pluck at the strings, lost in the memories and the sound of that voice floating over my shoulder. A conversation that could be about me but is obviously not about me.

  She’s going to get up and go soon. It’s getting to be time. How pathetic that I’ve gotten into a groove with this woman I’ve never met, not even seen. I shift, hoping that today is the day—that, just this one time, I’ll catch a glimpse of her as she leaves the park. It’s stupid. Without a doubt, I’ll be disappointed, but I look for Gracyn everywhere.

  One time,

  You were mine,

  Only once in my life.

  It’s time to move on.

  Will I ever move on?

  A flash of movement, a hint at the owner of the voice, my audience. The shape of her as she pauses, light and shadow filtering through the branches. So close and still miles away. She looks—

  “Jesus, get a job.” A balding guy in a shitty suit blocks my view.

  I lean forward, trying to look past him. Desperate not to miss this chance—

  One chance to show

  Everything you need to know …

  The lyrics, my muse. Close but so fucking far, and she’s slipping farther away from me by the second. By the year.

  One apology.

  A rush out the door.

  Did you ever want me, want me?

  “It’s not like you’re going to ‘make it big,’ playing guitar in the park.” Air quotes. He air-quotes that shit like he’s got all the inside knowledge.

  “Thanks, man. I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Much as I want to tell him that it’s too fucking late, that I have been discovered, that his teenage daughter is most likely stalking the band’s Instagram and is probably one of the countless chicks sending Kane boob pics, I tamp that shit down. I want to keep my chill, not cause a scene, but this asshole keeps digging.

  “You know, be a responsible adult and not bum off the government, begging in t
he park. For what? So you can get drunk on a bottle of cheap vodka?”

  He’s still going, but I’m done. Done listening to his litany of shit. I tuck my guitar in its case and sling it across my shoulder. Dude is standing there, still fucking lecturing me.

  “You married? You got kids?” I ask even though I know I shouldn’t let him get to me.

  The wedding band on his hand and the tired, used-up look on his face give it all away. I hand him a signed CD from our current tour. The one with our fucking faces all over the label.

  “Maybe your wife or your daughter will appreciate the fact that I don’t have a real job.” Hard as I try, I can’t hold back the, “Fucker,” as I stride away, hoping to catch a glimpse of the purple scarf I saw through the branches.

  But, of course, I have no idea which way she went. And it doesn’t even matter. It’s not her, not Gracyn.

  Chapter 16

  Gracyn

  Crisp, raw music pulls me into the tightly packed bar and wraps its arms around me. The only thing detracting from the velvety voice flowing through the room is the incessant yapping of my escort.

  “I thought of you when I heard they were having live music in here tonight.” Brooks guides me to an open area at the bar. A small Reserved sign propped up against a bottle of champagne marks the spot with two seats. “You’ve always got music playing while you work.”

  He pulls out one of the tufted leather barstools and waits for me to take a seat.

  “It looks like these seats are taken,” I say, looking around the crowded bar with no other available chairs.

  It makes perfect sense that there is nothing but standing room only here. The sounds of acoustic guitar and that voice are like honey, drawing all the flies. I kind of think that, if I checked out the floor, I’d see dropped panties littering the space.

  “I had them reserve us a spot here, at the bar. I want nothing but the best for you.” Brooks leans in close, crowding me again. “Jesus, they didn’t even chill the champagne properly,” he mutters through a disgusted sneer. “Why don’t you sit your pretty little self down? And I’ll get this straightened out with the management.” He swipes the bottle off the bar and plows his way through the busy room to the hostess stand.

  I can’t hear what he’s saying to the poor hostess, but it’s probably better that way. Brooks has been hovering on the edge of smarmy pretension since I showed up at his family’s office, teetering just on the precipice of inappropriate with his leering looks and way-too-close proximity. Brooks is a harassment case waiting to happen.

  The bartender tosses me a smile and quick nod that she’ll be down to help me in just a moment. The purple streak wrapped around her messy bun brings me back to a different time, a different restaurant, miles and a lifetime away.

  “What can I get for you?” She pulls me back from a full-blown flashback.

  Why do I torture myself with reliving my biggest regret?

  I haven’t been able to find anything on Gavin’s band since they played at the Beekman College summer concert series a few months after we met—after I bolted, literally running away from him in Destin.

  Giving in to the memories, I lean forward and order the fruitiest tequila drink that she can think of. The combination of reminiscing and the music leaves me craving a taste of spring break.

  “Thanks.” I hand her my card and take a cautious sip of the frozen tropical goodness, wanting to avoid the brain freeze that seems to plague me. Mangoes, berries, and tequila blended with ice. “Do you know who this is playing? He’s incredible.”

  She runs my card and snaps it back down on the bar in front of me. “He is, right?” She darts her gaze past me, and her smile is replaced with a look of restrained irritation as she excuses herself and hustles down to the far end of the bar.

  I pick up my glass and turn in my seat, searching for a stage, a microphone, something.

  “This establishment most likely won’t be getting any more of my patronage.” Brooks huffs as he plants himself on the chair next to me, effectively blocking my view of the room. “I’ve got them all straightened out. Put them in their place.” Brooks whips his condescending gaze to my drink and demands, “What the hell is that?”

  “My drink.”

  He plucks the offending beverage from my hand and plops it down on the far side of the bar.

  Shocked. I’m shocked at his presumptuousness. And appalled. Shocked and appalled.

  “The champagne will be out in a moment as well as some desserts they thought would smooth things over.”

  Why am I even here? What made me think this would be anything different than the Brooks show?

  “They evidently have a new pastry chef, though I doubt it will be anything worth bothering with.”

  I tune him out, trying to ignore his rant, and reach for my drink, sucking half of it down in one big gulp.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Goddamn brain freeze.

  My eyes water, my nose wrinkles up, and all I can manage is to bite my fist and breathe deeply. And curse gloriously. “Fuck, this shit hurts.”

  The bartender hands me a glass of tepid water and an exaggeratedly sympathetic look. When she sets a wine bucket down on the bar in front of us, the green bottle with gold foil around its neck resting in an ice bath, her sudden departure earlier makes sense. “Brooks—”

  “You should watch your language,” he corrects me. He fucking corrects me.

  My head is spinning, my blood thumping, and I am on the verge of ripping into this asshole when the most amazing presentation of tiramisu is set before me. I hate to admit it, but the truth hurts; I can totally be distracted by dessert.

  “Thank you,” I tell the bartender.

  She smiles at me, but it tightens as she shifts her attention to Brooks.

  “Is everything to your satisfaction, sir?” She pours a taste of the champagne for him and then waits patiently while he goes through the motions of sniffing and tasting.

  “This is amazing,” I moan around a mouthful of the boozy coffee dessert.

  “I’ll let Sasha know. Thank you. She’s our pastry chef, um”—she leans in a little closer to me and drops her volume—“and she arranged the music tonight. She knows this guy and—”

  “I suppose this will suffice,” Brooks states loudly, pulling all focus back to him. “And you can take that away.” He dismissively waves a hand at his untouched dessert and my fruity brain freeze.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ll be keeping my drink, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let that sweet little confection go to waste.” I trade my now-empty plate for the full one and move my glass closer to me again.

  All the aggravation in the world is a small price to pay for the dessert alone. I scoop a perfect bite onto my spoon, and just as it passes my lips, my mouth bursting with flavors and textures like nothing I’ve ever tasted, the fantasy all comes crashing down.

  “You’re not really going to eat both of those, are you?”

  Yeah, the asshole went there.

  And, to make matters worse, Brooks has the nerve to reach back and pat my ass, adding, “You don’t have any extra space in that skirt, sweetheart.”

  There is so much wrong with this situation. So much.

  “Get your hand off of me.”

  He laughs. The dick has the nerve to laugh. And, instead of moving his hand, he squeezes the nonexistent fat on my backside. It’s probably a product of my anger, but it feels like the whole restaurant has gone quiet. I don’t hear a thing. Not even the frostiness of my glass registers in my hand—until it’s too late.

  GAVIN

  I end my set, blissfully unrecognized. I’m still just some guy playing his guitar in a nothing little venue—if this even counts as a venue.

  My sister asked me to fill in at the last minute at the restaurant where she works. Totally a spur-of-the-moment thing, but this is the part of music I really dig. Yeah, I fucking love the money I make off record sales, the pace and pulse of tours and stuff, but I totally get
off on popping into little places like this and just playing.

  Sasha promised me free drinks and my choice of her unbelievable culinary creations as payment. Actually, she offered to pay me, but all I need is the soul-healing vibe going on here and some of her pastries or whatever she made tonight.

  With my guitar tucked away in its case, I make my way to the bar, weaving through the tightly packed tables, shaking hands along the way. At the corner of the bar, couples are leaning into each other, chatting on either side. I nod to the bartender and check the place out for real. I came running in—late, of course—and barely got my shit set up before I had to start playing. I stuck mostly with covers tonight, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

  “Whiskey, right?”

  Not sure why the bartender even bothered to ask when she places the double in front of me, grabs an empty plate from the couple to my right, and scurries off down the bar.

  Chapter 17

  Gavin

  The first spicy silk of whiskey passes my lips as I hear a haughty laugh from the guy next to me. He’s got his hand on his date’s ass, but his gaze is roaming the room, almost like he’s checking out his options, looking to see if there’s something better out there.

  Dick. Who does that?

  The woman he’s with is gorgeous—what little I can see of her. But, really, who fucking does that?

  Just as an oversize serving of my sister’s tiramisu is placed in front of me, I snag a flash of movement. The chick to the right grabs her mostly empty drink and chucks it right at the asshole next to me. There’s so little in it; it has to be the most pathetic drink toss in the history of bad dates. All that hits the guy is a small splash of something with the unmistakable scent of tequila along with a cherry and the plastic stirrer straw. But this guy, the asshole, goes fucking ballistic.