Pretty Instinct (6 page)

“Why don’t you go ahead and put your stuff up there,” I suggest. “You’re more than tall enough to reach.” Why I didn’t let him do it in the first place rather than lean all kitten-like across the way, I have no idea.

While he’s busy doing that, I scoot away and grab a pop out of the fridge, taking a seat at the table. He takes the hint and soon joins me.

“So where we headed?”

Oh shit, that’s right!
We aren’t moving. We should be.

I hold up one finger and lean out in the aisle. “Uncle Bruce!” I sit up straight again and smile at Cannon weakly. In fact, he probably thinks I’m nauseous or something; even I can feel my freakish attempts at facial expressions.

“What?” My uncle saunters through the bedroom door and over to me.

“We gotta get our poop in a group! Shouldn’t we be mobile by now?” I raise my brows at him questioningly.

“Poop in a group? Is that like get our shit together?” He asks and Cannon chuckles.

“Yes, same. Either one, you pick, let’s do it!”

“So he’s coming?” He cocks his head in Cannon’s direction. “Didn’t want to take off ‘til
you
were sure.”

Well color me the absorbed asshole. They’ve all been packed in that room like sardines, not goofing off at all, but giving me range to make a decision. A decision we should be making togethe
r
. At the very least, they probably thought I’d have enough courtesy to let them all know when I had decided for sure. “Sorry.” I glance guiltily up at my uncle through my lashes. “Will you get them? Let’s have a quick meeting.”

I’m staring down at the table, picking nervously at my fingernails, when they all settle around me. Well, except Conner, who never
settles
, but rather bounces half onto the seat, half onto my lap.

“Guys,” I start, stopping to clear the ball of shame clogging my throat, “I’m sorry I made you wait so long. We’re all a part of this decision and I’m not sure what came over me.”
Yes, I am.
“Forgive me?” I look up now, eyes pleading with each of theirs, one at a time. Especially Rhett’s. Hell, I haven’t even seen him in the last hour, but I’m assuming Jarrett filled him in seeing as how he’s not attacking Cannon as though he’s hijacking us.

Bruce simply gives me a warm smile, proud I’m making it right. Conner wraps me in a big hug and Jarrett laughs before speaking.

“If I was mad at you even half the times you seem to think I am, I’d never be happy.” He leans over in what he thinks is whispering to Rhett, “Raggin’. They get emotional and paranoid.”

Rhett, always the last to bounce back, hasn’t flinched. His face tight and unrevealing, arms crossed in front of him, he fixes me with a pointed glare. If a less trusting person than myself walks this earth, it’s Rhett Foster. Always assessing, forever prepared for and expecting worst case scenario, his guard never relents. It’s why he’s such a brilliant songwriter and drummer, he’s broodingly intense and analytical to a fault.

“Call me crazy, but shouldn’t we hear him play?” he asks, voice as sinister as his mood.

Again
,
oh shit! Now I know they must all think I’m flying by the crotch of my jeans. Picking up a band member you’ve never heard play? Might be a bit much.

As if reading my thoughts, which he so often does, Rhett mocks me with his condescending sneer. “Forgot that part, huh?”

My mouth opens and closes at least five times before Cannon’s up, back, and seated again, Songbird ready to play. “What do you want to hear, Conner?”

Jarrett’s laugh matches my grin; everyone else on this bus would stake their life on what Conner will say, what he always says.

“‘Beautiful Boy,’” he answers, as predicted, bouncing in place as the corners of his mouth reach for his ears. “My mom always sang me ‘Beautiful Boy.’”

Long before anything happened,
this
is something he remembers. I’m glad, it’s a wonderful memory, but not the only one I need to know about.

“Well, let’s see if I can manage half as good as your mom.” Cannon winks at him, adjusts his guitar, and strums the first chord. “You gonna sing with me?”

Conner’s head bobs up and down and I turn away, gathering myself. No sooner than I’ve squeezed back the looming tears and gotten myself collected, I’m lost now in my brother’s glee and Cannon’s hauntingly smooth voice and superb playing. He went and did it. He changed it up, holding me paralyzed in his gaze as he sings out the new line, “and your sister’s here.”

My gasp is embarrassingly audible, the first tear I’ve shed in front of Conner in years escaping and tracing a line down my cheek. I don’t reach up to wipe it, rather embracing the release, sticking out my tongue to lick it. The taste of being beguiled mixed with my pain is salty and bittersweet.

When he’s finished the song, Conner’s boisterous clapping breaks the silence, drawing us all back to the present. “That was really, really good, Cannon. I say yes!” Bubs praises and casts his vote.

I snicker softly, leaning over to kiss his sweet cheek. “I vote yes too. And it was beautiful.” I peer back at Cannon. “Very.”

With a brisk jerk of his head and a wink, he then turns to the boys expectantly. “Anything else?”

“I’m sold.” Jarrett slaps his shoulder and keeps striding past him to the back. “Con Man, come play
Halo
with me.”

I catch my balance on one hand as Conner rumbles the whole bench in his excited departure.

“Guess I’ll get us on the road then. Welcome to it.” Bruce shakes Cannon’s hand, pats my head, and walks to the front.

And then there were three.

Rhett hasn’t taken his eyes off Cannon once this entire audition, nor does he now. I’m unsure who I feel worse for, Cannon, the victim of palpable scrutiny, or Rhett, the ever-tormented soul.

“Rhett,” I pat the seat beside me and slide over, “come sit down, ask your questions.”

If push comes to shove and Rhett is truly unhappy, Cannon goes, bottom line. But sometimes I have to help Rhett figure out if his first reaction is what he
really
feels, or if it’s merely the product of his lifelong branding.

“Come on,” I coax him again, holding out my hand.

Grumbling, he takes it and eases down beside me. Our thighs touch under the table, his leg bouncing up and down feverishly, which I calm with my hand to his thigh. “Cannon, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” I
beg
him with my eyes to pacify my admiringly anal best friend with a repeat of the testimony I’d already forced out of him.

“Okay, sure.” He clears his throat, swiftly pushing back some errant coffee strands off his forehead. “My name is Cannon Blackwell. I’m from Indiana, twenty-seven, graduated from IU, Business Management.” He stalls, rubbing a hand on his thigh nervously; it’s obviously daunting to recite his autobiography on the spot. “Never been married, although I was engaged up until,” he consults his non-existent watch, “almost five hours ago. My fiancé, Ruthie, and I were driving home from visiting her parents. We got in a fight and she dumped me on the side of the road with only my guitar and bag. Well,” he laughs and waggles his head, “she actually dumped me out with nothing, then pulled over not far up the road and threw those two out, but not my phone, unfortunately. I figured out she wasn’t coming back about the same time Liz found me.”

Hiding any pity, I smile, tempted to reach across the table and pat his hand, which I manage to squash. And it doesn’t escape my attention that the Sommerlyn on his background is now narrowed down to mom or sister, because there’s never been a wife, he told me no kids, and the fiancé now has a name, Ruthie.

It dawns on me that we’ve reached an impasse of stony silence and I turn my head to Rhett. He’s doing that steeple his fingers and tap the ends together thing he’s long since mastered, his inner contemplations shining off him like a beacon. “Well, thank God,” he finally says. “Here I was worried you might be shady. Pissing off your fiancé bad enough to drop you on the side of the road and never come back? Nah, nothing shady about that.”

Rhett is scarily good at that—slicing you to the quick with not so much as an extra blink, no inflection whatsoever in his voice.

Cannon readjusts in his seat, sitting up a little straighter, letting the broad stretch of his chest and shoulders speak for themselves. “Liz. Approached. Me.
Then
I pissed in a cup and let her run my background with no safeguards provided by any of you in return. For all I know, you’re all cracked-out criminals, yet here I am, climbing into your sanctuary and giving life and what it throws at me a chance. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and honestly,” he grins and shrugs, “it feels pretty fucking good.”

I swallow down my laugh and resist high-fiving him, happily shocked. Rhett just got served. Is it okay to still say “got served?” Who cares—that shit happened—and it’s making me feel…hmm…please stand by while I put words to it.

“You write lyrics?” Rhett asks him.

He shakes his head. “Nah.”

“You should.”

Cannon, we’ve all discovered, is a perfectionist. Refusing to let us adapt our set list, he was bound and determined to learn our music before the wheels on this bus hit Vegas, and he succeeded—seven songs in less than forty hours. By the time we need to head over to the venue, we’ve all had mere patches of sleep here and there, everyone’s fingertips are numb, and my voice is crackly. But everyone hung in there, and Cannon’s far more ready at this early stage than I could have possibly hoped. And it turns out he can hang on bass quite well…I knew he was downplaying his musical capabilities the minute I asked.

There’s no official backstage area at Elite, a favorite stop of ours here in Vegas, but we’ve played it several times and not only are the owners awesome, but it’s small and the crowd is usually regulars, so I’m comfortable with Uncle Bruce and Conner at the table front row center in the audience. One less thing to worry about, since Cannon’s new and hell-bent on playing every song, still making me somewhat antsy despite his stellar determination and progress. He’s definitely a natural, though, with an amazing ear and memory, so if anybody can pull it off, my money’s on him.

“Helllloooooo, Vegas!” I grip the mic and get their attention. “It’s good to be back in Sin City with ya’ll! You miss us?” The crowd whistles and hollers, several familiar faces out there. “Didn’t I tell you when we left, I’d—” I cup my ear, asking them to finish.

“See You Next Tuesday!” the room yells in unison.

“That’s right,” I chuckle in the microphone. “And here we are! Surely it’s Tuesday somewhere! Now, has anybody seen my boys? Rhett, Jarrett, get your asses out here!”

Lords of the ladies, they both strut out all casual like, every ovary in the room their captive. Thank God Conner’s in the front row, his back to the pair of imposter D’s bared in offering behind him.
She isn’t a regular
. I would’ve remembered her blatant self. Jarrett eats it up, flirting right back, his shirt “accidentally” riding up as he straps on his bass. Rhett, as usual, gives a quick wave above his head and scurries behind the seclusion of the drum kit.

“Wait,” I look around, then back to the crowd. “Where’s my guitarist? Hmm.” I point to my chin and tap. “I know I had him around here somewhere. Cannon, oh Cannon, come say hi to this kickass crowd!”

Out he walks, six feet of unmistakable chiseled perfection, poured into tight, dark jeans, a plain gray t-shirt, black cap turned backwards, and boots. The roar of the females is deafening, but I barely notice over the rushing in my own ears. He truly is eye catching, the kind of guy you notice even if he’s merely checking the mail in his sweatpants. Your heart speeds up and your mouth goes dry. Your eyes wander all the way down him by themselves and you can’t stop your mind from wondering what he’s packin’ under those clothes.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,
Siren
,” he grumbles in my ear as he passes.

“All right, all right,” I push down my hands to settle the crowd as much as my own libido. “So now you’ve met the Cannon. I gotta tell ya, it’s damn insufferable being trapped on a bus with these three. I’ve got some aggravation to get out. Ya’ll ready for that?” I glance down at Bruce, pointing and motioning to ask if Conner’s earplugs are in. At his thumbs up, I lift my foot and stomp my black combat boot down hard on the stage, signaling Rhett to count it off.

We open with one of our own, “Cloaked.” Rhett wrote it amid his senior year of high school, “dark” lyrics softened only by the natural rasp in my voice and emotion I can’t hide as I sing it. It’s a song about all of us, hidden, “cloaked” under the guise of loving, well put together families. At the second chorus, the words that bled from Rhett’s heart onto the page, “the real me you never choose to see hates the real you,” evoke all they’re meant to in me. I shove both hands in my hair and tug my way through the lyrics.

Cannon’s short solo is up and I look at Jarrett, his face etched with the concern he’s trying to temper. We’d practiced it no short of twenty times, but…my head swivels high-speed, face alight and foot stomping out the beat on its own.
He nailed it.

Cannon’s quite humble, ducking his head, not a clue how good he is. Beyond relieved, amped up and feeling alive, I watch him, waiting for him to look up from his fret. And when he does, high on emotion and before I know what I’m doing,
I wink at him
.

My face must wear the disbelief that suddenly hits me because his chuckle blends in with the closing chords. The roar of applause gives me a reprieve long enough to shake off that whole out of body experience and square my chin.

“For our next song, we’re gonna switch it up a little. I’m betting you’ve never seen this before.” I pause while Jarrett and Cannon cross the stage and trade instruments. I don’t care who you are, but especially if you’re a musician,
it’s
fucking hot
. “Secret’s out—my boys are
multi-talented.”
I fan my face to toy with the crowd.
Uh huh
. When they’re ready and the cat calls have quieted, I turn and look at Rhett. “Let’s give ‘em their ‘Walking Papers.’”