The Beauty Series Bundle (31 page)

It’s been over two weeks since I sang or played. “I haven’t rehearsed.”

“Choose something familiar like… ‘What Hurts the Most.’ You’ve been performing that song longer than we’ve known each other. It’s one of your best and you can knock it out of the park without even warming up.”

She’s right. It’s always one of my best performances. It could work.

Gah! Am I really considering this? “We both know this stunt is nuts. Even if they like my voice, this is unprofessional. And desperate. They’ll tell me to get lost.”

“I’ll go with you. We’ll act like I’m there for the audition and you’re there to support me. We’ll swap places at the last minute.”

She makes it sound so easy—and so hard to say no. “I’m gonna do it. What do I have to lose at this point?”

“Nothing.”

She’s right. When you have nothing, there’s very little for you to lose. “I have to get ready.”

W
e’re called back
into a studio and I’m nervous as hell. This isn’t me trying out for some mediocre band playing small clubs. These guys are doing it big time.

Addison introduces herself and I stand back as she drops the bomb. “I won’t be the one auditioning today.” She gestures over her shoulder. “She’s here to sing in my place.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before the guy I recognize as the vocalist speaks up. “I don’t think so—that’s not how things work around here. Addison Donavon is the person we’re expecting. That’s who our agent lined up, so there are no exceptions. We don’t play tag team.”

I knew this was a bad idea. I’m on the verge of turning around to walk out the door but Addison isn’t ready to cave. “My manager arranged this audition for me before I knew I’d be leaving the country. Doesn’t it seem ridiculous to let this audition go to waste when what you need is standing right here in front of you?”

“We’re not looking for a second-rate replacement.” It’s obvious who the leader is here by the spokesperson: Mr. Perfect Blond Locks with earrings and tatted forearms.

“That’s not what you have here. She’s an incredible vocalist and musician. She plays by ear—guitar and piano.” As much as I appreciate Addison listing my virtues, I’m beginning to feel like something of a charity case. I despise it.

“No. She doesn’t have a scheduled audition so she doesn’t get to play or sing unless her manager arranges it.” Fat chance of that happening since David dropped me after the Blake incident.

The arguing continues like that—back and forth—until I finally interrupt. “It’s okay, Addison. Let’s go.”

“No! It’s not okay.” She turns back to the one she’s been arguing with. “You’re messing up big time if you let her walk out of here.”

This is humiliating, and I refuse to stand here being discussed like I’m not present while Addison pleads for me. I lift my guitar case from the floor and walk toward the door. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused and I wish you the best of luck in finding the perfect vocalist.” It’s my polite way of telling them to kiss my ass as well as code for Addison to shut up and come on. I may be a smidgen on the desperate side, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna beg. I may not have a job or the man I love, but I still have my pride. This band of nitwits isn’t going to rob me of that.

“Have a wonderful afternoon,” I say with an edge of venom as I turn for the door. And may your crotches be infested with the crabs of a thousand whores.

“Wait.”

I stop as I’m almost out the door and look back to see which one of these jackoffs is talking to me. It’s the leader again—the tall one with the Keith Urban hair. He’s lounging back in his chair and asks the other band members, “Should we let the little lady entertain us?”

Damn, he’s smug. “Don’t do me any favors.” Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t get smart with these guys but I can’t help myself. They’re pissing me off in a bad way, acting like I’m at their mercy.

The guy drumming pencils against the desk starts laughing. “She’s a feisty one. That could be a good sign.”

Blondie motions for me to come back, but my feet don’t move. “Come on and show us what you can do.”

I’m not quick to jump at his request. I don’t want to look desperate, so I paste on my best poker face and walk casually back toward them. My guitar case thuds atop the conference table and I take out my mom’s worn guitar. I slide the strap over my head and move to a vacant stool.

“What’s your name?”

I think it’s best that I don’t use my real name since I’m in contact with my father now. There’s no way of knowing what’ll happen when his relationship with my mother goes public—and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before that happens. Those kinds of things don’t stay buried forever, and I can’t risk an association with him that might identify him as my father.

I’m put on the spot to come up with a name—just like the night Jack Henry asked me who I was. I immediately think of using “Paige Beckett,” but that alias would defeat the whole purpose of avoiding a connection to my paternity. “Laurelyn Prescott, but I plan on using Paige McLachlan as my stage name.”

I see Addison jerk her head around to look at me. She has to think I’ve flipped my wig. I’ll have to come up with something to tell her. Later. Right now, I have three guys I have to win over with my voice.

“I’m Charlie.” He’s the lead vocalist, the one I’d sing with. I strum my guitar as he points to the guy with a slick head slouched in a chair, arms crossed. He appears unenthused by my presence. “That’s Ryan. He plays keyboards and mandolin.” He moves to the pencil pecker and I already know what he’s gonna say. “That’s PJ, our drummer.”

I’m still not feeling like Miss Congeniality after my icy welcome, but I smile as I reply, “Nice to meet you.”

“What are you gonna play for us?”

I’m confident in my decision. The Rascal Flatts song is the best choice since it has that crossover country pop sound like Southern Ophelia. “’What Hurts the Most.’”

“Nice choice.”

I begin playing, singing with my eyes closed. Most people think I do so because of nerves, but that’s not why. I use the time to feel the music and visualize. I transfer to that place so my audience will feel the genuineness of what I’m singing. Finding that spot in my head isn’t going to be difficult; this song has taken on a whole new meaning for me since parting ways with Jack Henry.

I’m keeping tempo with my boot heel on the stool’s support rung when I come to the chorus. And that’s when I open my eyes. The three members of Southern Ophelia are watching me intently but I know it’s do or die; this is where I must go in for the kill, and I choose Charlie as my victim since he’s shown himself to be the head of this trio.

My eyes meet his and I expose myself fully, using the lyrics as my emotions. I show him my heart and soul—and the dreadful way it looks without Jack Henry. He sees my dark side but only because I allow it.

When I finish, there’s a moment of silence before Ryan and PJ take turns complimenting me. Charlie simply stares. Ryan snaps in front of Charlie’s face, and he finally seems to come out of his daze. “Charlie. What did you think, man?”

I gesture toward the door. “I can step out and let you talk in private.”

“I’m pretty sure that won’t be necessary,” he says as he grins.

That’s when I know there’s no decision to be made. I’ve won over the triad of Southern Ophelia.

T
hree
. Long. Fucking. Months. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen Laurelyn. And I don’t think I can take another minute. I die a little more each day she isn’t in my life.

She’s been damn near impossible to find. Fate has worked against us every step of the way. The hoops Jim has jumped through for the smallest bit of information have been ridiculous. One step forward, two steps back—instead of the other way around. A criminal on the run would’ve been easier to find.

But I’ve finally found her. Laurelyn Paige Prescott—better known to the public by her stage name as Paige McLachlan—that’s the woman I’m here to see tonight.

I still smile when I think about her taking my name, but I can’t help but ponder why she’d need to use a stage name. She never mentioned using one before and it makes me wonder if something happened with the sperm donor. Or worse—maybe with Blake Phillips.

I enter the auditorium lobby and the thick crowd makes it difficult to push through. The Martin I’m carrying adds to my difficult navigation as I bump shoulders through the horde, so I have to apologize with each step.

I find my assigned seat. Because I’m a creature of habit, I’m happy when I see it’s in a dark corner. I sit and place the Martin by my feet. I’m nervous and adrenalized as evidenced by my rapidly beating heart. I’m about to see the woman I love walk out onto that stage.

I look at the time and see it’s only a minute until eight. My heart is pounding erratically, throbbing in my ears over the loud crowd. Finally, musicians begin filing onto the stage to take their places. That’s when I see her for the first time in three months. My Laurelyn. All the time and distance that separated us disappears upon finally seeing her face again.

She looks the same, yet different. Her hair is a little longer and darker. Her honey highlights are missing and she’s slimmer. She’s still beautiful as ever but doesn’t fit the image etched in my mind these last few months.

She’s wearing brown boots—the same ones she wore the first time I saw her—with stonewashed jeans and a strapless white top. Her bare shoulders make me desperate to touch her exposed skin. And kiss it. Her top is fitted below her breasts while the bottom flows loosely over her jeans. I picture them riding low on her hips so I have easy access to kiss her belly.

She takes a guitar, which I strongly suspect is the instrument her sperm donor gave to her mother, and lifts its strap over her head. She should be holding her Martin instead of the one hanging on her shoulder right now.

Her back is to the crowd and again I’m reminded of that night in Wagga Wagga when I watched her do the exact thing. She mesmerized me beyond measure then and that hasn’t changed. She still bewitches me.

My American girl takes her place behind a mic and then I notice the guy next to her and how crazy all the chicks in the audience seem to be about him. I take notice of the other two band members. Jim didn’t mention this—that she was part of an all-male band—and the little green monster residing within decides he wants to come out to kick arse and take names.

When each of them is in place, an instrument in hand, the guy beside Laurelyn adjusts his mic. “How’s everyone in Dallas doing tonight?”

The crowd goes crazy with cheers and whistles as the drummer begins beating his largest drum to get the crowd on their feet. It sounds like everyone in the auditorium is clapping in unison with the pounding percussion. “Anyone in this place ready to party?” he shouts, and the noise explodes. These people love them.

He picks out a sound on his guitar that I don’t recognize and announces, “Ladies always go first and our lovely Paige is gonna start us out with one from our new album called ‘Let It Go.’”

Her name is Laurelyn. Not Paige.

My beautiful girl closes her eyes and I remember that as her signal—she’s getting ready to sing. It’s her way of shutting out the world and going to that place where she uses music and lyrics to tell her story.

Music is what feelings sound like. Isn’t that what she says?

I’m sitting on the edge of my seat. I confess I’m a desperate man only holding on by a thin, thin thread. All I’ve been able to hear in my head for months are the words I wish I’d told her. But I’m here with her now and this is my chance to prove to her how good we are together.

She told me she loved me once and I pray that hasn’t changed.

She leans into her microphone as she sings of memories and goodbyes and I know her voice is the only one my heart recognizes. My core lures her sound into my chest and wraps it around the dead walls of my heart so it will have the desire to beat again.

She opens her eyes when she starts the chorus. Like always. I don’t like hearing her sing these lyrics about letting go. I know she chooses songs that speak from her heart and the thought of her singing those words with us in mind kills me. Maybe it means she’s still thinking of me. Loving me. Holding out hope that I’ll come for her.

The crowd bursts into cheer and praise when she finishes her song, as they should. She’s a fan-fucking-tastic performer. I already knew that but I don’t think I realized the degree until this moment.

The other singer steps up to his mic. “That girl can tear it up, right?”

The crowd answers with louder yelling and clapping. “This next one we’re gonna do is called ‘Win You Over.’” He looks at my girl and smiles as he gives her a wink. What the fuck is that about? The guy is looking at Laurelyn as he sings about winning a girl’s heart after it’s been broken. He’s watching her eyes as he sings and that’s when it strikes me—the motherfucker isn’t singing for the crowd. He’s singing to my girl.

Son of a bitch!

Don’t look at him, Laurelyn. Don’t fall for that shit—his seductive grin, his smooth voice, his deep dimples. I know those moves and it’s all bullshit so he can fuck you.

I’m grasping the armrests of my seat so hard, I think I might crush them. What if I’m too late and she’s already with this jerkoff? It’s a real possibility. She wouldn’t have a reason not to be. She has no idea how much I love her or the lengths I’ve gone to to find her. I’m certain she thinks I’ve moved on to my next companion. Why wouldn’t she?

And then I think of the woman I almost made number fourteen. She gladly went up to a hotel room with me, a complete stranger, only minutes after meeting. She was going to let me fuck her because the man she loved didn’t return her affections. She wanted him out of her head that badly, if only for as long as it took to get off. That’s who I could be to Laurelyn—the man she needs out of her head so badly, she’d let this guy fuck her to erase me.

This is bad. Very bad.

I consider leaving my seat and walking toward the stage so she might see me and know I’ve come for her. I want to see her reaction. I need to look into her eyes so I’ll know if I’m still the one she loves. Or if it’s him now.

I get up but my feet are frozen in place. They won’t obey the commands being sent by my brain. They’re smarter than my head or my heart. As much as I want her to know I’m here, I can’t because I’m certain security would stop me from moving closer to the stage.

The eye-fucker finishes his song and Laurelyn trades her guitar for another instrument—maybe a mandolin. She never told me she played anything but the piano and guitar, so I’m suddenly jealous that these blokes know something about her that I don’t.

They begin the next song, a duet called “Tell Me What I Want to Hear.” Great. That’s exactly what I want to watch—the two of them sing together. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I might as well take a seat and calm the fuck down.

They go through the rest of their set and I watch this bloke eye-fuck Laurelyn for almost two hours. It’s brutal to see it happening when I can do nothing about it. I’m mad as hell, but do I really have the right to say anything? I don’t know, but I damn sure plan to find out.

When it’s time for the last song of the night, Laurelyn takes the stage front and center—as she should’ve done all night—and I recognize the song coming from her bandmate’s keyboard.

“This song is one I wrote when my best friend and I traveled out of the country several months back. I found myself with a lot of time on my hands and took the opportunity to do a little songwriting. I began writing it while we were there, but I couldn’t quite make myself finish until about a month ago. It’s called ‘Without a Goodbye.’”

I
t’s a beautiful song
, but so sad. The lyrics describe us perfectly, and I know in my heart, she’s singing about us—at least I hope she is since the words describe making a mistake by leaving without a goodbye. It has to be us.

The show ends and the people file out around me. I sit motionless. It takes a while but the auditorium eventually clears. Before I get up, I take out the single long-stem red rose I tucked away inside the Martin’s case.

With her guitar in one hand and the rose in the other, I begin the walk that will end my long search to find my beloved. I’m wound tighter than a spring—partly because I’ve watched Don-fucking-Juan make moves on my girl all night—but more so because I’m finally about to see the woman I love with all my heart.

Once I make my way down to where the stage leads toward the back, a security guard stops me. “No one is allowed back there except the band and the staff.”

“I have Paige’s extra guitar.” I hold up the evidence in my hand.

He crosses his arms and puffs his chest. “Sorry. If that belongs to one of the musicians, then you should make other arrangements to get it to her.”

I can see that muscle man won’t be sweet-talked, so I pull out my wallet to begin our discussion in a manner that may persuade him. I take ten hundred-dollar bills and hold them in front of his face. “One thousand dollars cash. It’s yours if you let me back so I can give Miss McLachlan her guitar.”

His eyes grow large and he looks around. He reaches for and swipes the cash from my hand. “If you get caught, don’t you fucking tell them it was me that let you back. Got it?”

Bingo! “Absolutely not.”

He swings a door open and points down a hall. “She should be in the lounge while they’re packing up the stage. Third room on the left.”

“Thank you.”

He shuts the door behind me. I stand in the corridor for a moment and take a deep breath. My heart slams against my chest, trying to escape to find its mate. It’s drawing me to her because my heart requires her to feel complete again.

I make my way down the hall. I pass a couple of blokes along the way but they see the guitar case in my hand and say nothing. I stop at the door and hesitate because I’m scared shitless.

The door is cracked and I see Laurelyn sitting on a couch—with the eye-fucker beside her. His hand is on her leg and he’s rubbing it slowly—just the way I did so many times. Fuck! He’s touching her but even worse, she’s letting him. And it’s breaking my heart. I’m sure I feel it shattering into a million pieces as I stand here witnessing the one thing I was so afraid of.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping I’m seeing this wrong or that my mind is playing tricks on me. When I open my eyes again, he’s leaning over. To kiss her.

I turn away. Sickened. Devastated. Heartbroken.

“Hey. What are you doing back here? Who are you?” I hear someone call out and I turn to see the band’s drummer.

I swallow the tortured sounds threatening to escape from my throat. This is my fault. I fucked up and now I’m paying for it.

I hold up the guitar case for him to see. “This belongs to Miss McLachlan. Could you please give it to her? And the rose too.”

“A Martin. Cool.” He takes both from me and asks, “Do I need to tell her anything?”

Yes. Tell her how much I love her and that I’m so sorry for letting her go. “Just tell her I enjoyed the show and that I said she was fan-fucking-tastic.”

He holds up the case and the rose. “Who should I say these are from?”

“She’ll know who.”