Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

19. Riley

Chapter 19

Riley

T he video I took the other day of me singing my song-in-progress was originally only intended for me. But, on a whim, I figured I’d post the video and see what my audience thought of it—I never expected the video to go viral. I got a call the next day from my label, raving about the song and asking if we could all come into Nashville to record it before we started our break.

Even though my label promised it would only take one day, none of us were too pleased to hear that our breaks were being cut into. After two months on the road, we were all craving a good night’s sleep in our own beds at home. Waylon personally called them back and said he would only go if they gave us free meals for the day. Surprisingly, they agreed. And when Ethan caught wind of that, he persuaded them to give us each $500 in cash to fund a night out on Broadway, which they also somehow agreed to.

So that brings us to where we are now, walking into a honky-tonk in downtown Nashville. I’ve become my worst nightmare, the dick that wears sunglasses to the club. And despite the sunglasses, eyes are immediately drawn to us the second we walk in. Optimistically, I think that maybe it's just because we’re all fairly attractive men in general.

“Oh my fuck, is that Riley Coleman?” I hear a girl hiss, shattering my illusions.

Fine, sunglasses off then if they’re not doing any good anyway.

“ It is ,” her friend squeals back.

I lead our pack deeper into the place, aiming for the bar. The crowd parts for me like I’m Moses—I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.

“Four shots of Jameson, please,” I say to the bartender, who’s dropped everything to tend to me.

“Actually, make that eight,”

Ethan says, sidling up beside me, his blue eyes looking a devilish black in this dim lighting. He’s wearing one of his favorite shirts tonight—it has cartoon wedding rings on it and reads, ‘I’m Saving Pegging for Marriage.’

“Sure thing,” the bartender responds, diligently lining up eight shot glasses and filling them to the absolute brim. I turn to my other side and see Waylon and Ethan beside me, the entire section of the bar clearing out reverently to let us stand there. We take our shots and then figure we might as well order beers, too.

I extend my card to the bartender, but he waves me off. “On the house.”

“We’ll drink you dry,” I warn. “Come on, take the money.”

“Really, on the house.”

“If you insist.” I shrug, taking my beer and returning to the depths of the crowd, my friends following me.

“Excuse me?” I hear a voice ask me. I turn towards it and see no one until I look down and see a petite, dark-haired girl by my side. “You’re Riley Coleman,” the girl says as my eyes meet hers.

The bravest person in the room, the only one to come up to me, is this tin y girl who can’t be over 5’2, who keeps getting jostled by the crowd like a buoy floating in the harbor.

“I am.” I nod, letting her take the lead, curious about where she’s going with this conversation.

“Who’s your new song about?” she asks, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. And the look in her eyes, it’s like a cat setting eyes on a mouse. I almost feel bad for any other guy she sets her sights on tonight.

“No one in particular,” I respond, returning her shadow of a smirk. “Why do you want to know?”

“No reason in particular,” she mirrors my response, laughing with her eyes. “Worth a shot.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink. “Do you want to dance with me then?”

“Sure,” I say, as the intriguing girl grabs my hand and pulls me deeper into the pulsing crowd, towards the band.

And so we dance, my hands never touching her besides an occasional brush against her arms. But, it’s as though the dam broke with that girl coming up to me. Everyone now wants to dance with me. The crowd tightens around me with people passing me drinks and someone even stealing my sunglasses from where they were hanging from the collar of my shirt.

People pass me more cans of beer, and I happily pop the tops and drink them, delighted by the foam that spills over the top and onto the sticky floor. I’m lost in the music for God knows how long, occasionally sweeping my eyes over the dance floor until I spot my friends, making sure they’re also having fun. Judging by Nash nodding along to the music from his spot on the edge of the crowd, Waylon jumping to the beat in the heart of the dance floor, his curly hair bouncing with him, and Ethan gripping some brunette’s waist with a lazy grin as she grinds onto him, I’m satisfied.

“Riley Coleman,” the band’s vocalist purrs into the mic in between songs. I look up, and everything blurs for a minute before the world s tills and I see him staring down at me from the stage. “I’ve been watching you all night, waiting for you to come up on stage with me, but it seems like you’ve been hiding. Get your ass up here and sing a song for us.”

The crowd cheers, practically pushing me towards the stage.

“I don’t know about that,” I respond.

“Alright, guys, he’s getting a little shy, so let’s use some good old-fashioned peer pressure. Cheer with me, Ri-ley, Ri-ley,” he starts, the crowd joining in with deafening volume.

I laugh and give in, making my way to the stage.

The vocalist smiles and pulls me into a handshake-hug, handing me the mic when we separate.

“Hey guys.” I grin out into the crowd. The fraction of my remaining rationality after all those drinks is screaming at me that getting up here while shit-faced is probably not a good idea…but the rest of my brain ignores it. “First order of business: I want my sunglasses back. So whatever little thief stole them, could you please pass them up to the stage? I promise I won’t get mad. Look, I’ll even turn around while they’re returned,” I say, turning to face the band rather than the crowd. I hear some murmuring before I sense something clatter by my foot. I turn back around and grab the sunglasses, putting them on. “Thank you. Now that that’s settled, do you guys know ‘Vicious’?” I ask the band. The crowd cheers when they hear the name of one of my most upbeat songs. “Then let’s get rockin.’”

The next day, I wake up with a pounding headache, extremely disoriented, before I realize I’m in a hotel room. I turn frantically to face the other side of the bed. Empty, thank God .

On the nightstand is a glass of water, a few Advil tablets, and a note in Nash’s handwriting that reads: Thought you could use this. Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything too embarrassing. Give me a call when you’re up, and we can go get something greasy to eat.

I groan and take the Advil before going back to sleep for a few more hours.

I’m not ready to face the world until afternoon, when we all head to a diner before parting ways. I’m still donning the sunglasses, glad for the excuse that they’re protecting my privacy, not easing my hangover.

Waylon grins from the opposite side of the booth. “Dude, you were awesome .”

“I was shitfaced.”

“And you were awesome ,” he reiterates. “Look at this video of you I saw online this morning.” He pulls out his phone and shows me a video of myself onstage, sunglasses on, beaming and dancing like a drunken fool while singing. At least I don’t sound half-bad.

“I can’t watch that,” I say, pushing it away, “I just hope my label isn’t mad.” I groan. “That’s seriously so embarrassing.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Nash offers.

“Yeah, Riley,” Ethan goads. “I actually really enjoyed that. How come you don’t dance like that for me in private?”

“Stop,” I plead half-heartedly, and they all laugh but drop the subject.