“Thank you,” he says, with a modest smile this time. It’s absolutely endearing that he still hasn’t gotten used to praise.

“You’re going to steal the show.” The words leave my mouth before I think about them. Before I think who it is he’d be stealing the show from.

“Not sure that would go over well.”

I’m positive it wouldn’t. In fact, after watching his performance, it makes me a bit nervous. Linc is a good singer, his voice complements Dylan’s well. But that’s what it does, it complements. It doesn’t compete with. Flynn’s voice…it might just give Dylan a run for his money on stage.

“Come up here and sing one with me,” Flynn says, surprising me.

I shake my head.

“Come on. It’s just us. No one will see. We’ll take off our shoes and everything.”

I force a smile. “Thanks. But it will take a lot more than that to get my ass on that stage.”

“I’m willing to take off more than my shoes if it helps.”

“You’re so dedicated to the cause.”

“Hey. I’m all in for you, baby.” He winks.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. I really do. But…”

Flynn walks to the end of the stage and sits on the edge, his long, lanky legs hang almost to the floor. “Come here.”

I hold his stare for a moment before rising from my front-row seat and walking to him. He reaches out to offer me his hand. I take it without hesitation and he weaves our fingers together.

“This stage is just higher off the ground. It’s no different than the one you sang on at Lucky’s.”

“It’s step six. I’m only up to step five.”

Flynn’s face expresses I’ve lost him…understandably.

“My therapist and I made a twelve-step-ish program to try and get me back on stage. It’s not actually twelve steps…but you get the idea. One foot in front of the other on the road to recovery. Step four was singing in front of three people at Lucky’s.”

“There were more than three people there.”

“I know.” I smile

“So you kicked step four’s ass. Just take a flying leap over step five and land on step six.”

“I’m moving along. I’m just doing it at my own pace.”

“How long have you been working on the list?”

When I say it aloud, it sounds even more ridiculous. “Two years.”

Flynn smiles. “Two years? Moving at your own pace? What are you, a turtle?”

I laugh. “It sounds worse than it is.”

“I’m sure it does,” he says, not believing a word of it. “Come on. Let’s do it. I’ll carry you up here. You won’t even have to walk the steps.”

“Tomorrow,” I blurt out, nervous that he might hop down from the stage and actually carry me up there.

Flynn squints. “Tomorrow, huh?”

I nod my head.

“All right. But I’m holding you to it.”

We work for two more hours at the arena. I notice that he isn’t arching the soft palate as much as he should, which is limiting his throat space and causing him to strain a bit when he moves into his falsetto. A few other minor posture corrections could also help reduce the tension on his cords and minimize the chances of reinjuring his voice. He’s only singing lead on two songs, but the two songs are challenging for any voice to perform without strain, no less one coming off an injury.

We make plans to return early tomorrow to practice the techniques I suggested so he’ll have a few hours of rest before his debut show tomorrow night. As seems to have become a running theme with us, as soon as the band arrives at the arena, Flynn and I slip back into being distant friends. At this point, it’s easier to ignore each other than it is to hide our obvious attraction. But it makes me wonder how long we can continue to ignore the obvious.

Chapter Fifteen

Lucky—
Eight years earlier,
age seventeen

“Are you nervous?” Avery is lying belly-down, diagonally across my bed, her legs kicking as she talks.

“Not really.” I shrug.

“How many people will be in the audience?”

“I’m not sure. A lot. My mom doesn’t play small places.” I’ve never been to Town Hall, but I know it holds well over a thousand people. Mom thought it would be a good venue for my debut as her opening act. Opening act. Me. In three hours, I’m going to be on stage in front of a shitload of people living my dream. I still can’t believe my dad is letting me go on tour with Mom. When I mentioned it to him more than a year ago, he was initially dead set against it. He wanted me to go to college, have something solid to fall back on, before trying my hand at a career that isn’t an easy one. But somehow Mom and I changed his mind. Now, two weeks after my high school graduation, and one week from my eighteenth birthday, I’m getting ready for my first night as one of two opening acts for Iris Nicks.

Avery rolls onto her back and stretches the gum in her mouth out between her lips and extended fingers. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if some hot guys had a picture of you in their room someday?” She motions to my wall of posters, at the center of which is none other than Dylan Ryder.

The sexiest rockstar in the world. I met him once—well, I was in the same room as him and he brushed by me on his way off the stage. But it counts.

“Imagine all the jerkin’ they’d be doing to your half-naked body pinned to the wall.”

Only my best friend would already have my poster visualized in her head. Not to mention guys fantasizing to it. “Let’s get through the first night of the show before you start selling posters outside, okay?”

“Shit!” She jolts upright. “I didn’t think of that. I could make posters and sell them! Fuck college. I’m totally getting rich off of your rockstar ass.”

I laugh and take one last look in the mirror before turning. “What do you think?”

“You look like a cross between a saint and a sinner. Total wet dream. Guys are going to want to lift that little plaid skirt to see where the garters lead to, and girls are going to be running all over the city trying to find blood-red Mary Jane stilettos.” I’d decided on sexing up a Catholic school uniform for my debut stage outfit. It went well with “Choices a Girl Makes,” the first song I’d be singing. A song about a girl struggling between her beliefs and her desires. Mom loved my choice. Dad…not so much.

“You know, the majority of my mom’s fans are older. So you talking about guys whacking off to me and lifting my skirt is sort of icky. They’re old. Like my parents’ age. Gross, Avery.”

“I thought you liked older men?”

“I do. Like twenty-five. Not twice that. Guys our age are immature.” I take one last look in the mirror and a deep cleansing breath. “You have your backstage pass?”

“Of course. You think I’d chance watching my best friend with the common people? I’m totally standing on the side of the stage and mouthing every word into my fake microphone. When they scream your name, I’m going to pretend they’re screaming mine.”

One of the things Dad insisted on was that I was not the only opening act. He didn’t want me carrying the pressure of being singlehandedly responsible for delivering an enthusiastic crowd. He wanted me to be able to take a break if I needed one, and have someone to share the burden of opening a sold-out tour. It meant I didn’t get to bring my band from high school; I’d be fronting the guys from After Sunday, the band that Lars Michaels plays with right before me.