Chapter 8
brODIE
After a long-ass rehearsal and more technical glitches, it was time to call it a night.
Van had already scampered off, saying something about setting up interviews for concert night. I’m sure he wasn’t lying about it, but if I knew him—and I fucking did—it was an excuse to avoid me again.
To avoid a conversation that needed to be had.
Van could express so many emotions in his songs, but not so much when it came to real life.
I remember after his mom passed, then his dad, how silent he was—always holding stuff in. I could see how much he was suffering, the grief that weighed heavy on him. His eyes so bloodshot and weary, his face an icy mask of pain.
I offered what I could, even when he tried to shut me out.
I’d try to change his mood in my usual way. I’d make a joke—about myself or the band or something, anything, to distract him—and at least he’d laugh.
Any reaction was better than nothing at all.
That experience taught me that, more than anything, I wanted to be the person Van could talk to. That shoulder he could lean on.
All of us leaned on him all the time. Me most of all. But except for close family and friends, I’ve always been kind of a selfish brat. Taking more than I give.
But I didn’t want to be that with Van.
I was so far beyond lust for him at this point that I didn’t recognize myself.
Bad enough that Van was in my every waking thought; he’d ruined my libido for anyone else. The guys would laugh their asses off if they knew I hadn’t had sex with anyone for the past eleven months and thirteen days.
But who’s counting?
My attempts at flirting with Van had failed so far, so what was I going to do now?
I still didn’t have an answer.
Meanwhile, the guys were hyper as hell and itching to hit the town hard. I couldn’t blame them. New Orleans had a party scene that rivaled L.A.’s. Better, even, because it wasn’t fake or staged here.
This town was a music lover’s dream, and every corner we passed had me wanting to tell our driver to stop and let me out so I could sit in one of the dimly lit clubs and soak up the sultry atmosphere.
I’d need some kind of disguise, though, or I’d be mobbed and chaos would erupt.
Been there, done that, had the bruises to prove it.
Then I remembered the private party.
Ugh.
When I got back to my suite at the hotel, I showered and ordered a shitload of room service.
Surprise, I’m not such a prima donna that I can’t order my own food. When my assistant, Bibi, wasn’t on hand, that is.
Like most of our staff, she was on vacation after a long, grueling tour. And I didn’t mind at all. I had privacy on this trip and more time to think about how the fuck I was gonna talk to Van.
A half-hour later, and with no further answers, I sat down in my hotel bathrobe and scarfed down a turkey club with cajun fries and iced tea, extra sweet.
After stuffing my face, I responded to a group text from my family.
I was the youngest of four, so my phone was never silent.
My three siblings were all married now with kids. Family get-togethers were loud and chaotic, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Jack was my oldest brother at thirty-six. He’s with an orchestra in Denmark, and I kid you not, his ego’s as big as his cello. Chamber musicians are rock stars in Europe and party like ones, too. Yeah, Jack got along with my band brothers just fine.
My sister Vi taught piano back in Rhode Island, not far from my folks. She’s crazy talented, and I had a mind to invite her to our next event so she could play with us.
Then there’s Harriet. We’re fourteen months apart. But unlike the rest of our musical clan, Harriet’s a psychologist. She, her husband, and my six-year old nephew had recently moved to Georgia, about a three-hour drive from my home in Nashville.
I gotta admit, it’s nice to have family nearby. Not that a plane ride was long, but still.
Mom: When are you coming home?
Thanksgiving
Vi: Not before?
We’re in NOLA until the beginning of November, then back to TN for a few weeks.
Jack: I thought you were done touring for the year?
The concert was last minute, my decision. All the proceeds will go toward helping a local charity. I wanted to do it.
Harriet: Why doesn’t the press ever report about stuff like that? Instead, it’s you mooning the crowd or shouting raunchy comments.
That’s showbiz. How’s Dad?
Mom: He’s working on finishing the kitchen remodel. Knowing him, I doubt it’ll be ready for Thanksgiving. We may have to order takeout.
I’ve eaten worse on holidays.
Harriet: I gotta go. Marlon just jumped in our pool, and he took our neighbor’s cat with him.
He’s definitely my nephew.
Harriet: No question. You can look after him over Thanksgiving weekend and give me and Raj a break.
Happy to, love you guys
I placed my phone aside and headed to the closet to decide what to wear.
I’d prefer to slip into jeans. Hell, I’d prefer to wear grey sweatpants and a t-shirt. I could put on a wig and have my security team sneak me into a local bar instead.
Maybe after I made an appearance at this shindig.
Remembering Van’s warning, I picked a black leather corset vest and a mesh top to go over it. Then, one of my trademark kilts, in purple this time. At the last minute, I slipped on a lace and silk thong. I preferred being commando, but sometimes I loved the feel of lingerie.
I’d often wear it on stage. But it wasn’t just a performance look. It was me. I didn’t abide by gender conformity. I wore what I liked and in a way that felt natural to me. It caused some backlash when I was younger, but I held firm.
I never understood why people would hate on someone for being themselves. What did my wearing makeup or lace underwear, or not being hung up on gender stereotypes have to do with anyone else?
After lacing up my black knee-high boots, I threw on several silver and gold rings and earrings. Some charcoal eyeliner, lip gloss, and a bit of styling crème to tame the unruly waves of my hair, and I was good to go. I sent a group text to see if my bandmates were ready.
Hey, assholes, can we leave now?
Van: Driver’s pulling up in ten. Regan and Dawson are on their way to your suite.
You’re not going with?
Van: I am, but in another vehicle
Holloway: Yo fuckers, I’m getting my dick sucked. I’ll be ready in ten.
Ronin: He’s busy getting his hair done. He wishes the stylist would suck him off.
Holloway: Fuck off, I score more than you
Faisel: Meet at Brodie’s room and go down together
I’m riding with Van
Faisel: Can’t we all ride in the same vehicle? There’s only five of us.
Van: Let’s meet at Brodie’s suite. Play nice at the party for an hour or two; then we’ll head to Crimson Bones for the rest of the night. I booked a VIP room. I’ll be ready on-site with NDAs.
Normally our PR person came along when we went out and handled all of that shit.
Suddenly, guilt ate away at me. Van had been working non-stop the last week leading to our trip here and now during.
Tours were hell to organize. Last-minute gigs like this one, even more so. And now he was dealing with the press and NDAs.
I’d have to find a way to thank him personally. I know what I’d like to give him, but in the interim, something non-sexual would have to do.
My phone buzzed. My bodyguards were here.
I opened the door and was greeted by Regan and Dawson. “The boys are meeting us here. Can we all fit in one car?” I asked as the nearby ping of an elevator sounded.
“Not with our additional security staff,” Regan replied and began talking into her earpiece.
Dawson glanced at me and gave me a thumbs up.
I liked the guy and had worked with him for as long as I’d been around Van.
Dawson was intimidating to look at, a massive wall of muscle and six feet four, but he had a laid-back personality that fit in well with the band.
I stepped into the hallway to join them and noticed my bandmates walking toward us with their bodyguards flanking.
“Are we set?” Regan asked.
“No, we’re waiting for Van,” I replied. “Nice look, Holls.”
“Right?” He grinned and ran a hand over his hair.
The stylist had parted Holloway’s blond, shoulder-length hair in the middle and feathered it. With low-rise, wide-legged pants and a tight collared shirt that was open to his navel, he was rocking the 70s look.
Until he did a turn and started twerking, causing all of us to groan out loud.
“None of us want to see your lame attempt at dancing,” I quipped.
Holloway chuckled. “You’re just jealous of my smoking hot ass.”
Ronin kicked Holloway in said ass, and they tussled, nearly toppling over. They hit the wall with a loud thud, and the sound reverberated down the hallway.
Dawson crossed his arms and pinned them with a dark look that had both Holls and Ronin standing at attention.
Dawson and Holloway were always at odds. Holloway tried to escape his security on more than one occasion, and it had caused a rift between them. That’s why Dawson was my primary now and not his.
“What do you think of my fit?” Holloway asked my bodyguard.
Dawson responded by shaking his head.
I heard the ping of the elevator, and I knew it was Van.
I began to shift my balance from one foot to the other, rocking back and forth. If I had room in the hallway to pace, I would’ve done so, like I did before a performance when my nerves hit.
Then I saw Van step into view, and my belly fluttered like the first time I’d ever graced the stage.
Instead of his usual denim outfit, Van wore a slim-cut navy-blue suit.
It fit him to perfection: simple, classic, timeless.
Instead of a button-down, he’d worn it with a white tank top underneath and his necklace, of course. I nearly swallowed my tongue as he drew near. My heart raced so fast that my ears buzzed, and my vision narrowed.
I watched his powerful stride, sure and confident. Fuck, he was gorgeous.
But then I noticed his eyes; they were bloodshot, with dark circles underneath. That nagging guilt crept up on me again, but I pushed it aside for the moment.
“Looking hot, Van,” Holloway yelled out and nudged my shoulder.
I smacked my bandmate upside the head, messing his hair.
“Not the hair, man, that’s sacred,” he quipped.
He went to smack me in return, but Dawson caught his wrist and stopped him.
“Careful now, they’re insured,” Holloway joked, and Dawson dropped his arm like he’d been burned.
“Grow the fuck up,” I heard Dawson whisper.
“Excuse me?” Holloway replied and got up in Dawson’s face.
Okay, not his face. He only came up to Dawson’s chest.
“You heard me,” Dawson snapped back, his face as red as his hair.
“Look, you have no—”
“That’s enough,” Regan interrupted, and everyone shut up. “We need to get a move on.”
She nodded at Dawson and the other security personnel, then motioned for us to follow her.
Van drew close, moving in step beside me like always.
“You look amazing,” he whispered in my ear, so low I almost didn’t catch it.
I glanced over and noticed his eyes locked on my mouth.
Straight men didn’t look at me that way. That I knew for damn sure.
But Van was wrong. He was the amazing one.
His smell alone, God, it was heady. Leather, musk, and amber. It was delicious.
I wanted to grab him by the lapels of his suit, shove him against the nearest wall, and show him just how talented my mouth really was.
Singing was the least of it, and PR obligations be damned.
Ignoring my body’s instinct, I took a deep breath and tried to calm down.
“Thanks,” I replied, my voice suddenly hoarse. “You look handsome yourself. Even though I prefer you in denim.”
Or nothing at all. Yes, I would definitely prefer that.
“Gotta change the look sometimes, especially if I’m going to be photographed with the most seductive man on the planet.”
I tripped, tumbling into Regan.
Thankfully Dawson was walking behind and caught me before I, or Regan, face planted on the carpeted floor.
I shook my head and mumbled my apology. “Sorry, I stumbled over something.”
Yeah, my tongue.
Did Van have any idea what he’d just said to me?
He’d called me popular, provocative, and hot in the past, but it was always in the context of selling my image to the fans. But Van calling me seductive stoked the fire inside me that was always simmering.
For the first time in my life, I prayed not to get a boner as I walked beside the man I wanted more than my next breath.
My cheeks heated and, fuck, I was blushing now? I think the last time that happened, I was seventeen.
By the time we got to the elevator, I was all but jumping out of my skin.
Hot, bothered, restless, shook.
Thank fuck the rest of the guys took the first elevator down.
Dawson and I waited patiently with Van and Regan. I tried to distract myself and not stare at Van, but it was a losing battle.
Van being Van, he pulled out his phone and began to swipe. “The party tonight is hosted by Juliana Green. She’s a longstanding patron of the arts in this city and is, I’m told, a big fan of yours.”
“Got it.” I nodded. “Operation kiss ass is now in play.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve got such a way with words.”
“Not like you,” I replied.
“What do you mean by that?” Van stopped me, gripping my arm.
Shit, I almost gave away my knowledge of Van’s songwriting.
“Come on, you’re the manager, the negotiator. You’ve got a much better way with words than me.”
Ping. The elevator doors opened, and we were ushered inside.
Saved by the proverbial bell.