Chapter Seven
Haylee
“Hay, that was your cue.”
“Damn it,” I mutter, then I drop my pick, kicking my frustration up another level. Rehearsal is not going well. And so far that’s pretty much entirely my fault. “Shit.”
Dylan gives me a sympathetic grimace. “No biggie. Let’s just start again.”
I sigh, running my hands through my hair. Starting again isn’t going to help me much.
“How about we take five,” James says, once again demonstrating his uncanny ability to read my thoughts. Usually I find it pretty annoying, but today I’m merely grateful for the break. I follow my bandmates to the minuscule sitting area to the side of our rehearsal space, accepting the beer Layla hands me with thanks.
“So,” she says, sitting in a folding chair across from me. “What has your panties in a twist?”
I scowl at her. “You know I hate that expression.”
“Deal with it.” She takes a long sip of her beer before pushing her red hair out of her face. “You’ve been in a pissy mood ever since Newcastle. What’s up?”
“You have been kind of pissy, Hay,” Dylan says from the floor in front of me, where he’s stretched out, hands behind his head. “You need to get laid?”
“You offering?”
He makes a big deal of shuddering. “You’re way too tough and intimidating for me.”
I grin down at him. “That’s right. Don’t forget it.”
“You’re still not talking,” Layla points out.
“Maybe I just forgot how annoying it was to be on tour with you assholes.” I take another sip of my beer, blowing Lance a kiss when he flips me off.
“Yeah, this tour has been so annoying,” Dylan says. “Packed crowds in the biggest venues we’ve ever played, flying across Europe, staying in five-star hotels, all our meals comped. God. It’s the worst.”
Lance laughs, pointing at our guitarist. “Kid has a point.”
Layla crosses her arms, glaring at me. “You’re sorely mistaken if you think you can distract me.”
“Yeah, Hay,” Dylan says, kicking my shin. “She’s got her scary face on. Better just tell her what’s bothering you.”
“It’s the weather. Who knew the U.K. would be so rainy?” It’s not even a lie. The tour opened in Stockholm, and I’d been too jet lagged and stressed about doing well to really get my bearings. After a stop in Copenhagen we’d flown over to England, making our way through the north of the country, stopping in Manchester, Liverpool, and Leeds before heading to Glasgow. The cities were cool—we had a lot of fun being Beatles tourists in Liverpool—but it had rained steadily since our plane touched down in Manchester. I’m looking forward to the following week when we’ll move on to Spain. The weather has to turn at some point.
Layla clearly doesn’t believe me, but she drops it when James brings up the show tonight. “What do you think about switching the set list?” he asks the group. “I think we’d get more impact on “Cry Heart” if we put it after the first break.”
I tune out as James and Lance debate the set list order. The two of them could argue song placement for hours. I never really saw the point. Just tell me what song to sing, and I’ll do my best to nail it. But James and Lance both believe, very strongly, that song order is an art form. Unfortunately, they rarely agree on the shape that art form should take.
“I need a ciggy break,” Layla says, standing.
“I’ll come with,” Dylan says, but Layla places the tip of her boot on his leg, holding him in place on the floor.
“No you won’t.” She points at me. “You can keep me company.”
I don’t bother to stifle my groan. I should have known she would hassle me until I gave in.
“Fine,” Dylan says as Layla and I head out. “Smoking is a filthy habit anyhow!” he calls after us.
“He has a point,” Layla says, opening the door for me. It’s drizzling and gray—a vast improvement from the steady rain of the morning, and we huddle under the building’s minuscule awning. “You really should quit.”
“I barely smoke. I don’t even carry cigarettes.”
“Yeah, you just bum off me or James.”
“Every once in a while. You’re the one with the habit.”
She shrugs. “I’m not the singer.”
I laugh, accepting her lighted cigarette. “I love how your concern has nothing to do with my health and everything to do with my voice.”
She grins at me. “What can I say, babe, you’re my meal ticket.”
We stand in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette back and forth. “I slept with Lennon,” I eventually say, not really needing any prompting to talk to her about what’s been bugging me now that the boys aren’t around.
If she’s surprised she doesn’t show it, merely nodding to indicate she heard me.
“Last week. In Newcastle.” I take another drag of the cigarette, thinking about how he came outside the hotel to see James and me smoking. How I immediately recognized the anger and frustration in his eyes. That’s what led me to send James inside without me. I didn’t have any intention of sleeping with the guy, at least not then. But I found I just couldn’t look at those eyes and do nothing. I was sure my own eyes have looked that way countless times.
“How was it?”
I release a breath that’s more than a little shaky and grab the cigarette from her. “Amazing.”
She gives me her most sly grin. “Really?”
I nod, staring out at the depressing gray parking lot.
“It’s always the quiet ones,” she says.
“You have no idea.”
“I’m confused. Amazing sex usually puts you in a good mood.”
“There’s no usually about sex like this,” I murmur.
She waits for me to elaborate. “James caught me. He… didn’t approve.”
Layla makes a scathing noise at the back of her throat. “James is altogether too involved in your decisions.”
“He worries about me.” It’s true. Ever since the thing with my stalker, Randy… I close my eyes at the thought. Funny how after all this time I can’t even think his name without a physical reaction.
“We all worry about you, Haylee,” Layla says, and I look over at her, surprised. She’s staring hard at the far end of the parking lot, and I get the feeling she’s intentionally avoiding my gaze. I swallow, a slow trickle of guilt moving through me. “But we also trust you to make your own decisions. And it’s about time James did the same.”
“I don’t know that my decisions are all that trustworthy,” I say, thinking about the drinking Lennon and I did at the pub before stumbling back to the hotel. It wasn’t that I regretted what happened. But how many times have I found my direction at the bottom of a bottle?
It wasn’t like that with Lennon, a voice in my head whispers, and I have a sudden flash of him in bed, looking down at me, his eyes so intense I felt like they might burn me. In that moment, I felt so focused, so sharp, that I almost couldn’t believe there had been any alcohol involved in the first place.
“You like him.” Layla’s voice is knowing, with a slight undercurrent of surprise.
I look at her with raised eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have slept with him if I didn’t like him.”
“No, you really like him.” She peers at my face in that searching way of hers. “And it wasn’t just the amazing sex.”
“You’re being silly.” I try to ignore the warmth spreading to my cheeks. “I hardly know him.”
“You spent that entire flight talking to him.”
At her mention of the flight, my mind immediately goes back to the way he looked that night. It was dim in the cabin as everyone slept around us. But Lennon’s eyes were clear to me even in the darkness, steady and focused on my face as I told him about my mother.
“He’s a nice guy.” I turn my overheated face away from Layla.
She’s quiet for a moment, taking a long drag from the cigarette. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, you know.”
“What wouldn’t?”
“You. Liking a boy.”
I snort. “Come on, Layla. You of all people know that I have no problem liking boys. You’re my wingman for God’s sake.”
She tosses the cigarette to the ground and steps on it with the toe of her leather boot. “I don’t mean the way you like the boys we meet when we go out.” She pushes on my shoulder until I look at her. “And you know that.”
“Layla, it really isn’t—”
She holds up her hands to stop my objections. “All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t be a big deal. If you wanted to be in a relationship.” She smiles. “It might actually be kind of nice.”
I try to picture it, for just a moment. What it would be like to be in a real relationship with a guy. Someone to care about me, someone who wants to spend their time with me. Someone who listens to what I have to say. Who worries when I don’t come home at night.
And that right there is why it would never work. Because I’m really not the type who wants to come home every night.
Before I can respond, there’s a slamming of a nearby car door, followed by the sounds of male voices arguing. “You’re the one who wouldn’t get off the phone with Sam, so stop blaming me for being late.”
I squint through the fog to see the Ransome boys and Levi piling out of a dark van.
“Can we just get inside?” Daltrey asks, pushing Reed out of the way.
“What’s the matter, Dalt?” Cash asks. “Scared the rain is going to mess up your hair?”
“God, they really never stop fighting, do they?” Layla asks. I smile, remembering what Lennon told me at the bar back in Newcastle about his brothers and their arguing. “They have three multiplatinum albums, and they’re massively rich,” she continues as the boys troop up to the building. “What in the hell do they have to argue about?”
“Hey, girls,” Daltrey calls out when they’re close enough to see us through the rain. “What are you doing out in this weather?”
“Avoiding work,” Layla replies, and I notice that she still bats her eyelashes whenever she talks to Daltrey even though it couldn’t be more clear that the boy is infatuated with Daisy. I guess old habits die hard, and for Layla, flirting with a cute boy is definitely an old habit.
A big part of me wants to look away when Lennon comes into view behind his brother, to pretend I don’t see him, but I’ve never been that kind of girl. So instead I plaster on a smile. “Haylee,” he says, nodding. I feel a sharp stab of disappointment. That’s all I’m going to get? Isn’t that the way you want it? I ask myself.
“You guys feel like going out after the show tonight?” Reed asks. “We’re going to check out the local nightlife.”
“Oh, I don’t—” I begin, but Layla steps on my foot hard enough to shut me up.
“Hay, weren’t you just saying that you wanted to get out and see what Glasgow had to offer?” she asks, smiling broadly. A quick glance at her sharp, calculating eyes tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Actually, I was saying that I was tired,” I say, but she ignores me completely, turning back to Reed. “We would love to. All of us.”
I release a frustrated breath, knowing there’s nothing I can do to get out of it without sounding like a baby—and proving her point that my feelings for Lennon are slightly more complicated than those of a one-night stand. As the boys file into the building, Lennon stops at my side, a knowing look on his face.
“It’s okay, Haylee,” he tells me in an undertone. “You can come hang out without worrying about me making a scene.”
“I didn’t think you would—”
He shakes his head, his eyes searching mine. “You deserve to have a nice night out. I’ll see you later.”
He follows his brothers into the building, leaving me feeling like an ass. He was really great to me the other day, and all I’ve done since is avoid him and act like hanging out with him and his brothers would be torturous. Not exactly my best behavior.
“Thanks for that,” I mutter, as Layla slings an arm around my shoulder.
“You’re welcome,” she says cheerily, leading me into the building.
“We need to work on your sarcasm detector, Layla.”
She laughs, squeezing me a little closer. “And we need to work on your poker face.”
“What does that mean?”
She rolls her eyes. “You should see the way you look at him.”
“I don’t look at him like anything!”
“Like I said, we need to work on your poker face.”
Before I can argue any further, she pulls me back into our rehearsal space, where the guys are waiting for us to get back to work.
***
The show goes well. It’s strange, sometimes when I’m feeling on edge I end up performing better than normal. Like the show gives me something to focus on, a way to collect and focus my anxious energy. That’s definitely the case tonight. Toward the end of our set, I could swear the fans are cheering just as loudly for us as they do for Ransom.
The band is pretty jubilant as we make our way backstage. “That was kick-ass,” Lance shouts, fist bumping Dylan. “Best show yet!”
“I think we’re hitting our stride,” Dylan agrees, slinging an arm around me and kissing the side of my face. “Good job, babe.”
“I’m all sweaty, Dylan.” I push him away, but I’m smiling. It does feel good, those nights where everything just comes together, almost like it’s outside of our control. Supernatural.
“That was really great, you guys,” a voice says to my left, and I turn to see Lennon and Reed passing down a side hallway. It was Reed who spoke—Lennon is merely watching me in that quiet, wide-eyed way of his, like the rest of my band isn’t surrounding me.
“You were watching?” I blurt out.
“We were up in the family box,” Lennon says. “It was a great set.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, feeling heat come to my cheeks, though I couldn’t say why. Reed and Lennon both wave as they continue on their way.
“Wow, Hay,” Dylan says, shooting me a strange look. “What’s up with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re all mumbly and red-faced. It’s weird.”
I shove him. “I’m red-faced because I’m hot, idiot. The stage lights are brutal.”
“Can we stop bickering?” Louis calls from the door of our dressing room, earning a chorus of muted moans from all of us as we file into the room. I pause at his side, knowing there’s a good chance I’m going to regret asking this question.
“Hey, Lou,” I say, in the friendliest voice I can muster. “Are we allowed to use the family box to watch the headliner?”
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Grab a roadie, they’ll show you where to go.”
When I turn back into the room, both Layla and James are watching me knowingly, though their reactions couldn’t be less similar. Layla is smiling, James is scowling. Story of my life, I think as I grab a beer. “Hey, Dylan. You want to check out Ransom’s set with me?”
“Sure,” he agrees easily, collapsing into a chair.
“I think we’ll all come,” Layla says pointedly, and I offer her my most exaggerated eye roll. Let her think what she wants.
Twenty minutes later the whole band is sitting high above the theater in the family box. Daisy and Paige are already there, and they both welcome us—Paige a little more eagerly than Daisy. “The crowd is good tonight,” Daisy says as I take a seat next to her. “You guys really got them going.”
“It was a pretty good set,” I say, leaning over the railing a bit to get a better view of the stage. It feels like ages since I’ve watched a rock concert. Daisy was right—the fans are already going crazy and the lights haven’t even gone down yet. They scream and chant, stomping their feet in unison until the entire venue feels like it’s going to come apart. When the lights abruptly cut, the noise raises substantially. Daisy and Paige are both cheering, along with most of the members of my band. But I sit still, waiting and watching.
There’s a thudding of drums before the stage lights begin to flash, and then the Ransome boys all come into view, Daltrey at his piano, Reed behind the drums, Cash strumming his guitar and gazing out at the crowd in that cocky way of his. And there’s Lennon, standing to the side, his head bent over his bass as he plays.
Even from this distance, his fingers are mesmerizing. The bass line in this song must be fast, because his hands seem to fly across the strings, his head nodding slightly in time to the beat, dark hair covering his forehead.
And then he looks up at me.
I don’t know how he found me in the crowd. Don’t know how he even knew I would be up here. But there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s looking at me—not Daisy, not Paige, not my bandmates. Me. And I can’t look away.
The song ends abruptly, and I take a shaking breath, wondering what in the hell has gotten into me. The crowd is still going crazy as the band launches right into the next song, and I feel breathless, my cheeks warm. Lennon is still looking at me. And he’s smiling.
Ransom is good. That’s about the only cognizant thought I can come up with as I stare down at him. They play off each other brilliantly, completely in synch—not the easiest feat when the crowd is cheering loud enough to bring the house down. Daltrey can really sing, his voice bluesier live than I was expecting. Cash seems to have good reason for the cocky swagger—he can play guitar like nobody’s business. I’ve always considered him a mere pretty boy, assuming the guitar fills in their albums were helped along by some studio trickery. I was wrong. Cash is good. And behind them all, Reed keeps the beat, his arms a blur on his drum kit.
These thoughts come to me as if through a haze. Because really, all I can focus on is Lennon. Lennon with his broad shoulders, the strength in his arms visible from here. With his dark hair and dark eyes, so beautiful he makes my chest hurt, standing so still to the side of his more exuberant brothers. Lennon, whose gaze rarely drops from my face.
As the show continues, as the fans scream themselves hoarse, as the girls and my bandmates chatter happily in our box, one thought runs through my mind again and again—why in the hell did I think I needed to stay away from this man?
I can feel Layla smirking at me as we finally make our way back to the dressing room, but I can’t make myself care. I’m sure if I turned to James I would see him watching me, that concern, so familiar these days, on his face. But I don’t turn to James, and I don’t look back at Layla. Instead I go straight to the showers, washing my hair quickly. I’m too excited to spend much time on drying it, instead pulling it up into a messy bun. As I hurriedly apply my makeup, I can’t help but notice that my hands are shaking. It should frighten me, probably, that he’s having this effect on me when we’re not even speaking, but I can’t make myself care. All I want to do is get ready, make myself look good, and go find him.
I don’t have to look far. He’s standing in the hallway right outside our dressing room, waiting for me. His dark hair is damp and curling at his neck, fresh from the shower, and I suppress a little shiver at the thought. “Everyone’s about to head out,” he says, holding out a hand. “I thought I’d wait for you.”
I take his hand without a second thought, knowing that I’m smiling like an idiot as he leads me down the hallway through the chaos of roadies and venue staff.
“You watched,” he says, his voice soft amongst all the noise. Somehow I have no trouble hearing him.
“I did. You guys were…” I release a long breath. “You were good.”
“Yeah?” He sounds a little shy, a little proud. God, it’s cute. My brain is still functioning enough to remind me that I don’t normally go all soft and gooey for adorable, but I firmly ignore it.
“Really good.”
He squeezes my hand a little, and I feel a flutter deep in my stomach. Then we step through the stage doors, and the noise and flashes surprise me so much I stumble. Lennon’s hand slides up to my elbow, steadying me, and he leans in close to my ear to shout over the noise. “You okay?”
I nod, trying not to wince as the crowds of fans push against the barriers that provide a narrow path for us. Up ahead I can see Daltrey and one of the other boys—Cash I think—ducking into a van. I remember what I said to Lennon back in that alley in New York, about not liking crowds. How he admitted that he felt the same way and how we laughed about our choice of career. As if thinking the same thing, his hand tightens against my arm. “Come on,” he yells in my ear. “I’ve got you.”
I nod again and step down to the pavement, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. I can do this. It’s no big deal. Even if the fans are close enough to touch. Even if they do look completely determined to break down the barrier and—
I take a deep breath, trying to still my racing mind. Get it together. I try to remember my earlier excitement, how eager I was to go out with Lennon and have a good time.
Suddenly Lennon pauses, leaning down to me, so close I can feel his breath against my neck. “You look really good tonight,” he says.
It’s so unexpected in the middle of my near panic that I laugh. He grins down at me. “You’re laughing at my compliments?” Lennon’s smiles, I’ve come to find, are kind of a rare thing. Maybe that’s why it makes me feel so damn good when his lips tilt up at me.
Of course, it would happen when I was happy. When I was laughing, when my fear and anxiety are eclipsed by Lennon. When my guard is down.
A hand reaches into our path, grasping my free arm, pushing against me so I’m trapped between Lennon and the metal barrier. For a fleeting second I can see that it’s a girl, not much younger than me. She’s not screaming for Ransom. She’s screaming my name. “Haylee, I love you! I’m your biggest fan!”
And then her face is gone, replaced by towering height. Dirty blond hair, watery blue eyes. The crowd disappears, and I’m back in my house, the old house, cowering on my chair, and I know, I know, that this time it ends differently, this time no one comes to find me, this time Randy manages to—
“Haylee!” Lennon’s voice seems to come to me from very far away. I’m vaguely aware of him pulling on my arm, trying to get me to cross the last few feet between us and the car. Between us and safety. “What’s the matter?”
You’re not in the house, I tell myself desperately. You’re outside. You’re okay.
But Lennon is pulling on my arm, and I don’t feel like I’m okay. He’s stronger than me, bigger, and I feel like I’m about to lose it, like I’m seconds away from falling to the ground. Cowering in a ball sounds really good right now and—
“Haylee!”
That voice isn’t Lennon’s. I spin, panicked, and there’s James, coming toward me. I’m so relieved I could cry. He throws his arm around my shoulders, and my face automatically goes to his chest, the same place I’ve found refuge countless times before. “I got you,” he whispers into my hair, pulling me along. I’m vaguely aware that Lennon has released me, but I have no idea where he is, only that James is here now and he’s pulling me into a car, pulling me to safety. The door closes behind us, and the sound dims a little.
“You’re okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
“Who else is here?” I whisper into his jacket, not wanting to look up, terrified all over again that Louis will see me like this or, God, the Ransomes—
“Just Dylan and Layla,” James says, and I release a shuddering breath. They’ve seen it before.
“You’re fine, Haylee,” James says, and I hear Dylan say something to the driver. Then we’re pulling away from the curb, away from the crowd that continues to scream. Away from Lennon.
I didn’t hear where Dylan told the driver to go, but it doesn’t matter. I know that we’re not going out tonight after all.