Feuds and Interludes (Rock ‘n’ Romance Legends #1)

Chapter 13

Thirteen

S hane

Despite my lack of sleep the night before, my interludes with Boone, and the fact that I’d forgotten my coffee in my haste to chase him down, I was on fire the rest of the day. We rehearsed the first five songs for the album before lunch, with Lydia sitting in to provide feedback, then after lunch, we worked on the next five until she thought they were pretty strong. But her comments were a little lukewarm for my taste, so when we broke for dinner, I asked her to stay back for a few minutes.

“What do you really think, Lydia? Please.”

Lydia Pride was one of the best producers in the business. Though Morrison was the final producer on all of the Wicked Soul records, Lydia was a good coach. I valued her opinion as much if not more than Morrison’s, especially since I knew she would be brutally honest with me, whereas Morrison would continue to dress up what I gave him until it was good enough, but maybe not as good as it could be.

Lydia pushed her chair back from the control panel and sighed. “Do you feel like this is growth for you?”

My first instinct was to clap back. My spine stiffened involuntarily, and I had to press my lips together to keep from spouting off angrily. I wouldn’t do that with her, not when she was prodding me to be better.

“I thought so until you just asked me that question.” I ran my hand over my head.

She smiled and folded her hands over her midsection. “Shane, you have so much fire in you—much more than the guys in your band, by the way—but I feel like…you’re keeping a lid on it. You only allow enough heat to keep the fire burning, but what if you blew the lid off and burned the whole shit down? What would happen then?”

I opened my mouth to speak, and my throat closed as I choked back that well-guarded vault of emotion I kept under wraps for the protection of everyone around me.

“I don’t know.”

She tilted her head. “You spend so much time trying to make sure that everything is controlled, everything is at the level you approve of…that’s got to be exhausting. I know you compose all of Wicked Soul on your own, and I personally think it’s made your band lazy. Have you ever let the guys in on the writing process?”

I shook my head. “Once.” I laughed humorlessly. “They knew that was the deal going in.”

“That it’s your way or the highway?”

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees and looked at the floor. “It’s worked for us.”

“What if you let them in? What would you think about having a group chat with the band? All of you. I’d sit in on it if you think that would help. Hear what they have to say about where you guys are as a band now. What do you think?”

“Like group therapy or some shit?” I shook my head. “That seems a little extra?”

She laughed. “I’m no therapist. I’ll kick your ass before I give you a hug. But maybe if your bandmates felt like they had a little more ownership in Wicked Soul, a little more responsibility, they’d help you take this music to the next level.”

“You think I can’t do it on my own?” I didn’t mean it to come out defensive, but was she saying I couldn’t do it on my own? I couldn’t be great my way?

“I think you can do it. You can continue going the way you are with Wicked Soul, putting out albums, and remaining a respectably talented band. You might even be great. But I think you can be greater. Drew is a decent bass player, and Tucker? He’s a fucking monster on the drums. But he’s playing these prescribed fills and shit. And you and Dean harmonize well together, both on vocals and guitar, and yet you don’t use it as much as I think you could. But that’s one producer’s opinion.” She held out her hands.

“One of the best producers in the business.”

She smiled and did a little bow. “Thank you. Now, how about we meet up tomorrow morning? Don’t tell the guys. And don’t worry, I won’t let this be a free-for-all.” She stood up and turned off the board. “Have some fun tonight. Try to relax. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She smacked me on the shoulder—her version of a hug, I guess?—and I pretended she hadn’t just shaken my whole foundation with her questions.

Do you feel like this is growth for you?

The more I thought about her words, the more anxious I grew. Normally in a situation like this, I’d grab my guitar and fucking play until my fingers bled. But tonight? Tonight I wanted Boone, and in the state of mind I was currently in, that was probably a bad idea. But I had to know. I had to know what he thought. About me, about this thing between us…

My band’s future and my heart’s future seemed to both be on the line right now, and I didn’t like it one bit. I was on the edge of a steep cliff with my mountain bike and as soon as I shifted my weight, I was either going to have the ride of my life, or break everything.

By the time I left the rehearsal cabin, the lights were off in the recording studio and the kitchen was closed, so I made my way back to the lodge. I could hear laughter as soon as I climbed the steps. It sounded like there was a rowdy party going on, but once I got into the lobby, I saw who was responsible for the sound.

Rose, Annie, Brandon and Boone were in the bar, the screen had karaoke lyrics going, and Brandon was currently up on stage singing “Do You Really Want Me” by Salt-N-Pepa. Boone was painting Rose’s fingernails and bobbing his head along to the song.

“Oh hey, Shane!” Rose waved me over with the hand she was trying to dry. “Dean and the guys took your rental into town to go bowling. He said to text him if you wanted to come out. They waited for you, but they didn’t want to miss their reservation.”

Boone glanced up and smiled at me. My heart fluttered at first, and then seemed to stutter.

“You can take one of our vans if you want to join them,” she offered, and then her eyes widened as I lowered myself into the empty seat next to Boone.

“Thanks,” I said to Rose. Then I leaned closer to Boone and asked in a low voice, “This okay?”

He beamed up at me. “You want to go next?” he asked, holding up the polish brush and pointing toward the screen. “We’ve got the karaoke machine on random so there’s no telling what might come up.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m good.” Really, I wanted to zone out and not have to think, and Boone and his friends kept me entertained for the next hour, at which point, Boone poked me.

“You know, we’d all feel a lot better if you took a turn singing. For all we know, you’re sitting there quietly judging us.”

“I’m not,” I protested. “I wouldn’t.”

But he was laughing, so I let out a breath and sat back in the chair. It was odd to me how close they were, the three of them. I’d never been cozy with the guys in my band, nor in the bands I played in before Wicked Soul. I was there to do a job, or so I told myself. I’d seen what getting close with your bandmates could do, and I didn’t want to give anyone that much power over me.

Boone had finished painting everyone’s nails but mine. I kinda wished I would have taken him up on the offer, if only to have him touch me. I was twitchy and my skin felt tight thinking about tomorrow morning. I needed to get out of my head.

“Fine, I’ll sing.”

Boone’s eyes widened and he clapped his hands. “Shane’s up!” He turned to me and placed a hand on my arm. “You sure?”

I laughed and nodded. “Hit me.”

I took the microphone from Brandon and stepped up onto the small stage. Then I saw the song that popped up.

“Oh, no.”

Brandon and Annie whooped with joy, and Rose burst out laughing.

The ’90s ballad “I Can Love You Like That” by All-4-One cued up, and I cringed. Annie and Rose jumped up and started slow dancing like junior high kids and the whole thing felt…right.

I hammed it up, which I think surprised all of them, but I kept my gaze on Boone. I even did some choreography—yeah, my metal-slinging ass could dance—and the others laughed, but Boone? He stared at me with stars in his eyes as if he were swooning over me. It only fed my momentary lapse of coolness, and I hit all the high notes, all the stylings and then some, until I had to gasp for air. When the song was over, I got high fives from Rose, Annie, and Brandon, and Boone just pressed a hand to his chest and shook his head as he laughed.

This was happening.

“I hate to be that one addict, but I gotta smoke,” Annie said, looking between us as I took my seat next to Boone once more.

“Oh, me too, definitely,” her brother said, getting a clue.

“Got one for me?” Rose asked as she followed them outside, waving to us as she caught up to them. They went out the door giggling and singing my song.

“That was wild, Butler,” Boone said as he packed up his manicure tools. “You went for it.”

“When one is challenged by the karaoke gods, one must push thyself into greatness.”

Boone chuckled and rested his chin in his hand, his smile fading. “How did today go?” he asked me. “You seem, I don’t know. Off, maybe?” He slid a hand onto my thigh and leaned closer.

I wanted to be able to trust Boone, but this was all so new. “Rehearsal went. We have the songs down. But then Lydia and I talked after.”

He leaned back a little. “Uh-oh. I’ve had those talks with her.”

I looked down at his hand. His nails were painted silver and he wore several beaded bracelets, some wooden and some gemstones. I placed my hand on top of his. Our fingers were the same length but his hands were thinner. Mine dwarfed his. “She wants us to have a big pow-wow in the morning…wants me to, I don’t know, open up, ease up on needing control.”

“Ouch.” Boone tucked his hair behind his ears and his gaze was so intense, I started to panic.

“Hey, maybe you could paint my nails.”

He seemed to figure me out. He stood up and tugged on my hand. “Why don’t we do it in my room?” He picked up his bag with his polish and supplies with his free hand.

I was happy to let him take the lead. I didn’t want to have to make any more decisions tonight.And wasn’t that something? Me giving up control to Boone Collins, of all people.

We climbed the stairs slowly, and Boone sang a few bars of my silly song.

“You sing it better,” I said, placing my hand on his lower back.

“No way,” he said, putting his arm around me. He fit snugly under my arm, and he slid his hand under my shirt. It felt so damn good to be with him. I didn’t even care that anyone could see us, I didn’t care if anyone else knew what was going on between us. I’d take all the teasing if it meant him looking up at me with those blue eyes.

We got to his room and he fumbled with his keys. I leaned forward and nuzzled his hair. He smelled like?—

“Native from Target. Strawberry Vanilla Taffy. Come on in,” he said and held the door open for me.

I burst out laughing, caught sniffing him. Then I looked around.

“Wow. You’ve, uh, done some redecorating since this morning?”

All of his clothes, his guitars, everything was spread out on every surface.

“Oh. Yeah, well. I was trying to decide what to wear, and?—”

“I don’t care.” I pulled him in for a kiss like he was the only air left in the world. He and his friends had kept me from breaking apart tonight, but now I needed more.

Boone backed us up to the bed and dropped his bag on top of a pile of clothes, and though I really wanted to keep kissing him, he deserved better than for me to only half focus on him.

As if he sensed my mental sparring, he pulled away.

“Why don’t we sit at the table and you can talk while I paint,” he said, and he bent down to grab his polish bag. “As different as we are, Shane, I can tell you’re upset, and I know I need to get shit out before I can let it go.”

“Yeah,” I said, my shoulders slumping. “I never really talk about this stuff, though, except with Pops.”

Boone pushed me down into a chair at the little table in his room, and he pulled his hair back, using a hair tie from his wrist to make a low ponytail, just like Pops wore.

“Alright then,” he said in a thick British accent, “fire away, lad. Tell us about it, love. Oh wait. That’s my Papa. I don’t do a good Irish accent.” He laughed and sat down across from me. He reached for my hand and inspected my nails. It helped that he wasn’t looking me in the eye. He pulled out a file and began shaping each one. Thankfully I didn’t bite my nails anymore, so they didn’t look terrible.

“There’s a reason for everything I’ve done in my career,” I said, though whether I was justifying my actions or thinking out loud, I had no idea. “When I decided to form a band, I hired these guys based on their talent and knowledge of their instruments. That was it. I’d been writing songs for a long time. I started with Pops, you know. I moved in with him when I was a teenager.”

“What about your family?” he asked, still not looking in my eyes. He finished filing my right hand and moved on to the left. “I remember meeting your mom when we were little. She seemed…intense.”

I smiled. “Mom is intense. And intensely against me being a musician. I’m just as stubborn as her, so when she didn’t back down, I left school with my GED and moved in with Pops. He immediately connected me with as many folks in the music industry as he could, and I began what was basically an internship. I worked in studios, I got a job at Guitar Center doing repairs, I took lessons with anyone who would teach me, I roadied for Brothers’ tours. The whole time I was making a mental list of how I’d do things when it was my turn.”

“Sounds fair,” he said, finishing the left. He pulled several colors of polish out of the bag and gestured with his hand. “Which color?”

My gaze was immediately drawn to a dark teal that reminded me so much of his eyes…

“That one.”

“Not black?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

I shook my head. “I do have more than one side, Collins.”

He chuckled and started to shake the bottle of base coat. “So what did Lydia say that has you questioning everything? Right? I mean, that’s what it seems is happening.”

“Yeah. It’s funny, because it’s the same shit that you once said in an interview that pissed me off.”

“What?” His head shot up. “What did I say? Wait, you actually listen to those?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. You said you thought I could do more than I was doing with Wicked Soul.”

He pressed his lips together. “Oh. Yeah. That. So, what did she say?”

I was glad he didn’t deny saying it, but I wanted to know more. Maybe not now, while I was in the middle of this whatever-the-fuck kind of crisis, but I valued his opinion more than I ever thought I would.

I was coming to realize that despite our vast differences, we hailed from the same rock lineage and, as a result, we’d had to face similar struggles to make names for ourselves as part of that legacy, as well as prove we were able to stand on our own.

I sighed, trying to release some of the tension in my shoulders. His touch was light but firm and I tried to concentrate on that contact.

“She asked me if I felt like I’d grown with this album. And for the first time, I don’t know.”

Boone nodded without looking up. He made deliberate strokes on my nails with the brush, leaning in close to observe his work.“She thinks all artists have room to grow and get better.”

“Right, but…I guess I always thought that was for me to decide, you know? I didn’t want to accept that anyone else might know what was best for my band. That doesn’t mean I don’t ever listen to feedback or that I’m not willing to take advice from Morrison, but?—”

“Isn’t that the definition of growth, though? Accepting that you don’t have all the answers?”

“I guess, but what about you? You are Stellar, for all intents and purposes. Do you collaborate for Stellar?”

“We do. I might come in with the bare bones for most of the tracks, but Annie and Bran always make them better. Bran is way better at arrangements than I am, and Annie, frankly, has a much more extensive vocabulary than I do, and she often tweaks my lyrics to make them flow better. We’re more of a democracy than not. But at the end of the day, the responsibility to be great lies solely on me.”

He blew on the first hand and moved on to the second.

“I think the difference between us, Shane? Is that I was always told I could and would make it. I had total support from my family from the beginning. Sounds like you didn’t, and that would make it hard to trust people with your art, for sure.”

I watched him expertly apply the second coat on my left hand…and it dawned on me.

“How was I so wrong about you?”

He looked up, his blue eyes unsure, his vulnerability sucking me in.“What do you mean?”

He let go of my hand, closed up the polish bottle, and reached for the top coat. I wanted to snatch his hand back. Don’t let go .

“You’re so real, Boone. I thought you were only your stage act. Your little snotty comments, all a show. I had no idea that you…that you’d understand. And it was wrong of me to assume that everything was handed to you.”

He laughed. “Compared to you, it was. It’s true, I never had to live the shitty-apartment-off-Sunset life. I didn’t have to spend years playing in bars before I got noticed. Nepotism is a thing, man. But I fought so hard to be taken seriously… still fight. I don’t want anyone to ever question whether I’ve earned what I’ve accomplished.”

“Which is why you don’t tell people you’re sick.”

“The focus is on the music, the performances, sales, charts. That’s what counts.”

“Boone.” I leaned in and tried to put my hand on top of his, but he pulled his hands back.

“No. You’ll mess it up.”

“Sorry.” Even with nail polish, he was a perfectionist. He used a series of tools to clean up any potentially stray marks—there weren’t any—and then he picked up my hands and blew on the nails gently. I couldn’t stop staring at his perfectly shaped lips. Makeup artists used liner to get the effect he was born with. Unbelievable.

“Boone, I’m serious. You need to tell them. You need to take care of yourself?—”

“Shhhh,” he said, standing, and then he pressed a finger against my lips. He moved to my side of the small table and knelt between my open thighs. “Don’t touch anything. These need to dry.”

He went to work on my fly, and I scooted my hips back with a jerk. “What are you doing?”

Without looking up, he pulled my cock out. “I’m not done taking care of you.”

“Boone,” I said, intending for it to mean stop, no, it’s not necessary , but it came out more like oh, please, please do that, yes .

He took his time exploring with his tongue, that fucking metal ball driving me wild as he dragged it across my hypersensitive flesh. I reached for his hair, but he caught my wrist without losing a beat.

“Hands on your thighs and don’t fucking move them. If you mess up my work, Butler, you’re in trouble.”

Oh, I was in trouble, all right.

He gazed up at me with those deep, deep blues as he hollowed his cheeks and my legs started shaking so bad, I could barely stay in the chair.

“I want you to come in my mouth, Shane. Make me a mess.”

His words hit me like a lightning bolt, and I came with a surprised shout, doing exactly as he asked. He flattened out his tongue, closed his eyes, and let me make a mess of his pretty face, the visual almost as intoxicating as the sensation. The orgasm hit me so hard that when I finally relaxed, I was slumped over in the chair, barely able to form thoughts, much less worry about my band’s future.

“God, that was awesome,” Boone said as he wiped his face with his fingers and sucked one into his mouth. “You were so neat, too. Didn’t even get any in my hair.”

That made me laugh, and I reached for him, brushing his hair back. “I like you messy, Boone.”

He laughed, then pushed up on his knees and kissed me. “Good. I like your mess.” He stood and took my hand. “Come lay with me.”

I stood, tucked myself back into my drawers, pulled off my shirt and pants, and let him lead the way, dropping his own clothes onto the floor as he went.

Yeah, he was a mess. I was becoming quite fond of his mess.