Rhythm, Chord & Malykhin (3 page)

Eleven years later, here they were. Playing in front of what had to easily be around nine hundred people cheering and screaming.

I couldn’t help but smile through the entire forty-minute set.

Fifteen minutes after they went offstage, nothing could have prepared me for what came on.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight? Sure. I’d seen Michael Fassbender in
X-Men: First Class
. Hello.

But what happened fifteen minutes after Ghost Orchid got off the stage, after I’d screamed my throat raw cheering for my brother behind the drum kit, Gordo on guitar, and Mason on bass, was unexpected.

I fell in love with the voice in the dark. No joke, no exaggeration. It was a pure, raw love.

The stage had been cleared when the headlining band’s sound guy

scurried about one last time, checking on the two guitars, bass, a microphone and a drum kit that had been set up hours ago. When the lights darkened, the crowd that had swelled to fill the venue’s capacity, at what I estimated to be over a thousand people by that point, went bananas. They were animals, and it was as scary as it was exciting. In the pitch-black auditorium, a wispy voice began singing softly, making the fans shriek even louder.

With a flash of elaborate, multicolored LED lights on a huge panel behind the massive drum kit, the stage lit up like fireworks in July, illuminating two guitar players who had come out of nowhere, a bass player and a drummer already onstage.

The lyrics and the song floated through the air in a whisper, the notes the singer was hitting unidentifiable, and it was over—in an emotional sense, that is.

While Gordo had a good, deep voice that was rounded and almost hoarse, the singer onstage was the complete opposite. His tone was slightly higher, breathy and incredibly strong, piercing through the air with its clarity and tone. And the range he had… good grief.

I could only see an outline of a man walking on the stage with an energy and charisma that every person in the audience including me, couldn’t tear their eyes away from. I focused on everything going on: the explosion of yellows and reds on the LED panel behind all the music equipment, that beautiful melodic voice and the catchy instrumentals that flared after the opening verse.

It was love. Plain, easy, uncomplicated love.

Unfortunately for me, a ton of fans decided to come buy merchandise during the set. Trying to hustle about and sell as quickly as possible, I kept an eye and an ear out for the singer’s dynamic presence. He was so good. Well, the entire band was. Catchy, a mix of pop rock, indie and prog—they were a genre of their own. During the quick glances I could take when I wasn’t busy, the long, sinewy figure in black dress pants and a gray button-down shirt and tie moved and jumped in time with the rhythm constantly.

The next hour and half blew by in a mix of amazing music and sales. Watching the old pickle jar on the corner of the table fill up with bills kept me shooting smiles at all the people buying stuff, even though a part of me wanted them out of my face so I could enjoy the band playing.

During brief breaks between their set, the singer would talk to the crowd, thanking them for their presence and support, or he’d introduce the next song. At one point, a bra went airborne and smacked him in the arm in the middle of a song. The singer picked it up by the strap without missing a note and draped it over the microphone stand, letting it stay there for the remainder of the set.

It was a beautiful kind of insanity watching The Cloud Collision and their audience interact. It was easy, then, between the smiles I’d share with the guy “next door” named Carter, and the screaming, earplug-to-mouth chats I had with Ghost Orchid fans, to forget about why I was going to spend the next few months of my life with my three male best friends and eight strangers.

In the madness that ensued once the band finished their encore performance, in his swanky, tenor voice, the singer thanked everyone for coming out. I relished it all. The nonstop hustle to pull shirts out of one of the bins, while making sure I marked down every sale on the tally sheet correctly, was old and familiar. Before I knew it, the security in the venue was trying to usher fans out while Carter and I packed up the bins and tore down the racks. Usually the band would be trying to load the trailer at the same time so I wasn’t too sure who was going to come and help me take the bins out. In the past, one of the idiots would come inside and help me carry everything.

Carter must have read my mind because he waved a hand as he rounded his table. “I’ll get the dolly,” he said.

Well, that explained a lot. Over the course of the concert, I’d seen the size of Carter’s wrists and biceps. I was more muscular than he was and that wasn’t saying much; I was a runner, not a weightlifter. By the amount of bins and boxes he had stashed on his side, there was no way he was going to be able to carry those things all the way to the bus. I finished tearing down Ghost Orchid’s display while Carter came back. We helped each other carry our backbreaking bins onto the flatbed dolly before he took it upon himself to wheel them out while I pushed both of the tables onto their sides and folded the legs in.

“Flabby!” Eli hollered from across the empty auditorium, skipping around the employees busy mopping the floor. “You need help?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “You’re like thirty minutes too late. Carter and I are pretty much done.”

The asshole had the nerve to snap his fingers as if he was disappointed he missed out. “I’ll help you carry the tables so we can get going.”

As we walked out, I told him how good the show had been and even mentioned how well he played. After more than ten years of drum lessons and an intense practice routine, he really was good. Eli had somehow managed to avoid doing any actual schoolwork in middle and high school using his drumming skills as an excuse with our parents. Copying my homework when I was asleep or copying whatever girl was dumb enough to share with him, helped too. Luckily for him, it paid off. My dance classes as a kid had only afforded me the opportunity to not look like a complete ass at prom.

Once we made it outside, Eli steered us toward the huge trailer hitched to the back of the bus. My shoulders began burning from carrying the two tables in an uncomfortable position. Four other men stood inside the massive trailer, trying to arrange the protective flight cases of musical equipment in an orderly manner. I recognized two of them from The Cloud Collision’s performance and the third man was their sound guy, who had been checking their equipment before they’d played. Gordo’s presence rounded out the four men packing the trailer.

“We’re stopping at a travel center on the way out of here, so if you wanna shower, grab your shit from your suitcase,” Eli said. He leaned toward me before taking a quick sniff and pulling back with a frown. “Take a fucking shower. I’m begging you.”

“Shut up,” I laughed, taking a step away from him.

I wasn’t going to lie. I had taken a whiff of my armpits when I’d been breaking down the tables and it hadn’t been pleasant. Not at all. I had a feeling I was going to end up buying some men’s deodorant soon or I’d steal Eli’s. Whatever was easier.

Walking toward the front of the bus, I saw someone bent over at the hips, looking through the compartment where the suitcases were stashed. The bare upper body, shadow of dark hair and a full-sleeve tattoo caught my eye while I stopped behind him. “Mason.”

He stopped moving around for a second before continuing to push things over in his endless search for his luggage.

“Mason.”

Nothing.

“Mason, you dick,” I said again.

When he laughed from inside at the same time that I took a step forward, I frowned. I would swear on my life it happened in slow motion. My foot went up on its own, eyeing the target—his ass—at the same time I spotted someone stepping out of the bus. It was another bare chest with a full-sleeve tattoo and a dark head of hair. And as the tip of my foot connected with the black dress pant-covered ass, I realized that it wasn’t my supposed future husband, Mason, I had kicked in the ass.

Mase was the one coming out of the bus.

M
ason
—the bastard, asshole, prick, dick—that he is, doubled over in laughter when he saw my face turn bright red at the same time I squealed, “I’m so sorry!”

No!

No!

When my Mason-imposter-clone turned around with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, I wanted to fall on the floor and die. Or blame it on Eli. But I couldn’t… because he wasn’t anywhere near me.

“Did you just kick him in the ass?” Mason cackled, holding his stomach with the palms of his hands.

I was mortified, beyond mortified, so far into the realm of mortification I couldn’t see the starting line; so it wasn’t too strange when my face got so hot it rivaled the maximum heating temperature my straightening iron was capable of. I was one of those people who acted like a complete ass when I was nervous. According to Eli and Laila, I acted like a complete ass all of the time, but when I was nervous it reached epic proportions.

“It was an accident!” I told the guy in front of me. I couldn’t look at him directly, not even close. Somehow, at some point, I’d linked my fingers together and covered my forehead with my palms without even noticing it. My eyes went wide as I dragged my hands down the sides of my face until I was cupping my cheeks. “I thought you were Mason” wheezed out of my mouth.

The real Mason only laughed harder from his spot ten feet away.

Out of nowhere, the guy in front of me, whose ass had just become friendly with my foot, laughed. It was a sweet, clear sound.

And it reminded me of the guy who had just finished singing.

No
. Please, no.
Don’t let it be him.

“It’s fine,” the warm voice chuckled.

Grumbling deep in my chest, at myself more than anything, an awkward smile covered my face as I finally started to shift my gaze, because what the hell else was I supposed to do? “I’m really—”

Tattoos.

All I caught at first was the thick swirl that painted his pectoral, followed by the tattooed bands of black ink that striped the length of his arm. Then there were the tattoos on half of his neck, located on the same side as his full-sleeve tattoo.
Hello.
Yeah, after the first quick glance I realized his imposter only had one full-sleeve tattoo versus two.
Way to go, idiot.
My friend didn’t have any tattoos on his chest, but it wasn’t like I’d seen him from the front beforehand anyway.

My eyes strayed back to the hard, flat muscles that packed his chest and checkered abs, and then the narrow hips that flowed seamlessly into the slim-fitting black slacks that had paraded around the stage less than an hour before.

Fuck my life. It was him. The singer for the band.

Whyyyyyy
.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathed out, forcing myself to drag my eyes all the way up. If I kept on looking at his bare chest any longer, I’d officially earn my Hussy Merit Badge.

The guy was smirking at me, folding long, muscular arms across his chest. It was right then that I asked myself if I’d died. He was… I don’t think a proper word exists to describe the face above the body I’d been just short of ogling. Mason was a specimen worthy of all the attention he received, but this guy was… just…
oof
. Just as good looking in a completely different way, mainly because he wasn’t my lifelong friend whose looks I’d become almost desensitized to.

Most importantly though: I had just kicked a hot guy, a stranger, a man I was going to be spending the next three months with, in the ass.

Again I asked myself why. Why. Why hadn’t I just kept my foot to myself? All I wanted was to pull a turtle and hide in my shell.

As much as he looked like Mason from the neck down, their faces were very different. While Mase looked like a model for a cologne line, with his almost androgynous features that had gotten him called a pretty boy hundreds of times in the past, this other guy wasn’t so classic. His bone structure was a little harsher and his eyes deeper set. They both had black hair but it was cut differently. This man’s was shaved down at the sides, the top just a couple inches long, while my childhood friend’s hair was a good length all over. But still, the faint resemblance was there.

“E! Flabby kicked Sacha in the ass!” Mason cried out, basically cackling as he bent over from how hard he was laughing.

I felt Eliza’s heavy hand on my shoulder before I heard his snort. “Fucking Flabby,” my brother laughed, slipping a heavy and sweaty arm over me. “Does that mean I don’t have to introduce you after all?”

The man I could safely assume was Sacha—a guy, for the record, not the girl that the dumbass I’d shared a womb with led me to believe he was—shook his head before extending a hand out in my direction. “Sacha,” he said after I dropped my hands from my forehead and took my outstretched palm in his. “It’s nice to meet you, Flabby.”

The elbow I brought up to jab Eli in the rib was an after thought. “It’s Gaby, actually,” I tried to correct Sacha AKA hello-how-are-you-sexy, shaking the warm hand a little longer than I needed to. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Eli snorted again. “Don’t listen to her, her name’s Flabby, man.”

Sacha smiled again—a pull of sensual lips and straight white teeth—before he dropped his hand, eyeing Eli and me. “Are you two—?” He drew a straight, horizontal line in the air between us.

“Eww…” Eli and I both groaned out at the same time, shaking our heads quickly. It didn’t make us pull apart, though.

“I just barfed in my mouth,” Eli gagged. “This is my baby sister.”

The slow nod that Sacha gave us in return made it seem like he wasn’t entirely sure whether Eli was lying or not. Smart guy. You could never trust Eli Anthony Barreto. Ever.

“We’re twins,” I explained. “I’m filling in for Zeke the rest of the tour.” When Sacha quirked an eyebrow—a very dark one on his smooth, almost pale skin—I remembered that tonight would only be the bands’ fourth tour date together. He might not know who exactly Zeke was. “He was the old merch guy.”

By the way he nodded and snapped his fingers, it was obvious he hadn’t known Zeke’s name. “Right.”

Someone yelled from inside the bus, telling us to hurry up. Eli squeezed my shoulder. “Grab your stuff, stinky, and I’ll meet you inside.”

My stuff. The stranger’s butt. Ugh. My face got all hot again, and I found myself smiling nervously.

I nodded and watched my brother and Mason retreat into the bus, leaving me with the man whose ass I’d just kicked. He smiled and gestured toward the open compartment. “I’ll get your bag if you promise not to kick me again.”

Throwing my hands up in surrender, I shook my head. “No ass-kicking, I swear.” I couldn’t help but choke a little before adding, “I won’t call you a dick again either.” What was wrong with me? What I’d done was bad enough, and then calling him—well, Mason really—a dick was the cherry on a shit sundae.

He tipped his head back and laughed, the sound uninhibited and wonderful. “Deal.” A moment later, he was asking me which suitcase was mine prior to pulling it out. I started yanking out clean underwear, a shirt and sweatpants while he finally managed to retrieve the big black suitcase he’d been rummaging through when the ass-kicking incident happened.

Dread knotted my stomach as I remembered what I’d done. Humiliated, I zipped up my suitcase and shoved it back inside the compartment. “Your show was amazing,” I squeaked out, keeping my eyes toward the trailer hitched up to the bus. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was great.”

“Thank you,” he murmured softly. It was impossible not to absorb the tone of his voice when he thanked me. There wasn’t a hint of superiority or conceitedness in it at all. He sounded pretty genuine. “First time?” he asked.

“Yes.” I found myself toeing the ground, feeling awkward. “I hadn’t heard of you guys before tonight.” For a split second, I thought about telling him that I thought his voice was beautiful, but I didn’t want to sound like a suck-up.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Sacha zipped up his suitcase, holding a bundle of clothes to his chest. He turned to look at me, a kind smile on his five o’clock-shadowed face. “Did you get what you needed?” I nodded and followed after him silently before he waved me into the bus first with the towel in his hand. He winked. “Don’t want you to forget about our deal so soon.”

Ugh. I was never going to live this down.

“I’m really, really sorry,” I insisted, still feeling horrible as I climbed up the steps into the bus. My face was getting red all over again.

Why the hell had I done that? My subconscious answered:
because you really believed he was Mason, and if it had been, no one would have thought twice.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” my twin bellowed the moment I stepped a foot past the curtain and into the living space.

I stopped like an idiot, or better yet, like a deer caught in the headlights. Eli clapped loudly until the low buzzing of chatter inside stopped. I couldn’t help but notice that there really weren’t any ladies on the bus besides me—unless you counted Mason and Gordo—and I knew my twin well enough to accept that he wouldn’t refer to me as a female. “Everyone, now that the asshole we kicked off the bus earlier today is gone, I want to introduce y’all to our newest addition.”

He reached out to grab my hand, throwing up both our arms like I’d won a boxing match. “This is my baby sister, Gaby. She’ll be with us for the next few months.” He shook my hand, still in mid-air. “Flabby, say hi,” he instructed me as if I was a little kid. Fucking Eli.

I grinned nervously at the five new faces looking me intently, and let my brother wave my hand for me. “Hi, guys.”

A low murmur of multiple “Hi” greetings were spoken while I yanked my hand away from Eli’s grasp. At that very instant a hand landed on the small of my back. Turning my head over my shoulder just barely, I saw that it was the only person it could have been—Sacha. Up close and under the decent lighting of the bus, his skin looked clear and a little glossy from how sweaty he’d become during the concert. He really was good-looking, and a little taller than Mase as well.

“Don’t bend over in front of her. She likes to kick people in the ass,” he laughed, giving me a sly smile before shimmying his way around us to walk to the back of the bus.

I groaned to myself while Eli and Mason laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Minutes later, I found myself squished between Mase and Gordo while the bus driver steered the traveling hotel and trailer to where I’d been informed we’d be showering that night. The couches on either side of the bus were long, but it seemed like everyone was crammed into that front area closest to the door, including the narrow kitchen and bathroom. After the mini tour Eliza had given me hours before, I knew that past the door by the bathroom were the twelve bunks we’d be sleeping in, and at the farthest end of the bus was a small room with a U-shaped couch along the walls.

Mason introduced me to two of the guys from The Cloud Collision, a big muscular guy named Julian and a lanky one named Isaiah that I recognized as being the guitar players for the band. I caught Sacha standing in the kitchen, drinking something steaming from a ceramic mug, still half-naked. Still unbelievably hot, if not hotter than before. The yellow lighting in the bus did wonders for the lean cut of his chest and for his narrow hips with their cut oblique muscles, all of which then did wonders for my panties—I mean my hormones.

“You should wear shirts like that more often.”

I slid my gaze over to Mason, whose entire side was pressed against mine. I shouldn’t have been as surprised to see his eyes on my “shirt,” and by my shirt, I really meant my breasts. The tank top had begun to ride low enough so that the edge of my lavender bra was visible. Instead of replying, I frowned and tugged my shirt up enough so at least the girls weren’t hanging out so much… since half an inch of boobage was apparently too much to begin with.

When I met Mason’s gaze again he was smirking, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I can still see them.”

“No way.” I rolled my eyes, trying not to be too self-conscious. It wasn’t like I didn’t get the same reaction from him every time we saw each other over the last three years. Well, it was the same reaction from just about every guy that wasn’t my brothers or dad. I’d spent ten years of my life trying to keep people’s attentions away from my chest and now, after everything, I still didn’t want people looking there for longer than a quick glance.

Gordo nudged me from his spot on my other side. With hair so dark it was almost blue, a beard that was so thick and wiry it could pass as pubic hair and his naturally dark skin tone even tanner than normal, his face was one of the most familiar things in my life. “Are we going to be on the same team together?”

“The same team…?” And then I remembered what team he was talking about. “Hell, no.” No, no, no,
no
.

“Oh come on, Flabs,” Gordo insisted, his dark, nearly pupil-less eyes narrowing.

Mason, who was still leaning forward, rested his forearm on my knee. “You’re already trying to choose teams, asshole?”

“I’m not playing, so he can’t be trying to choose teams.” I made sure to look both of them in the eye so that they would know I wasn’t playing around. I wasn’t going to play ever again.

“You have to play,” the man whose real name was Luis Alberto claimed. “It’s our tradition.”

What it really was, was a yearly tradition of humiliation and physical pain. I shook my head at Gordo. “It’s not happening, Gordis.”

“You’re playing,” Mason reiterated, eyeing my boobs again in a gesture that was intentionally meant to annoy the shit out of me. Really, I didn’t think he liked my breasts
that
much, it wasn’t like I had a D cup size, much less the Double-D size he usually salivated over, but irritating me was definitely at the top of his list of things he enjoyed. “I need those puppies on my team.”

I smiled at him sweetly.

There was a time, immediately after my surgery, that I had really tried to get him to quit making comments about my chest. For about six months straight he’d revolved between calling me Hooters and Twin Peaks. In typical Mason fashion, me complaining only made him do it more often. So I stopped telling him anything because I knew he really he did it to get a rise out of me. Instead I just began handling it differently.