The Rider List: An Erotic Romance (11 page)

I look at her for a couple of seconds, then look at Sophie, whose eyes are as big as silver dollars.

Sophie says, “Mom! She doesn’t want to talk to him.”

“I’m sorry,” Mom says again.

“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”

I go upstairs, thinking how glad I am that I didn’t accuse Sophie of giving out my number. I would have never thought my mother had done it. I wasn’t upset when I thought it was Sophie, but I’m a little angry with my mom.

She knew I didn’t want him to have the new number, but she didn’t know how bad the breakup was. I never went into detail about how Wyatt intentionally hurt me to try to get what he wanted.

If I’d gone into all that with her, it would have led to discussions about my father, and the whole thing would have been messier than it already was.

So, back when we broke up, I told her it was a distance thing and we had drifted apart.

Wyatt is the last thing I need to be thinking about right now. I have an entire evening with Adam coming up, and that’s my sole focus as I get ready.

Chapter Fourteen

Evan

It’s the longest day of my summer so far, and all because I’m looking forward to the first extended amount of time I’ll get to be with Audrey.

Everything up to this point has been quick, almost rushed, and while there’s an element of excitement in that, there’s nothing that beats the anticipation of having her all to myself the entire evening, and maybe even overnight.

She has more of a hold on me than she knows. She’s in almost every thought I have. She’s as curious as she is innocent, and she’s letting me explore those boundaries. With every small chip I make in her wall, mine cracks too. I have plenty of time with her, I know I shouldn’t be rushing it, and I won’t—if I take it too far, too fast, those chips and cracks will shatter us both.

I spend a good part of the morning on the beach, walking, running, and doing a lot of thinking about the situation with the band. Not because I feel like it, but because I’m avoiding something. There are two missed two phone calls, both from Jay, and twelve unanswered text messages, eleven from the other two members of the band and one from Bruce that reads:
You need to call me ASAFP.

Adding the
F
doesn’t do much to compel me to call him.

This is the first time in my professional life I feel like I’m being irresponsible. And it’s no fun. Actually, it sucks worse than anything I’ve experienced during my career.

Being here on the island, isolated from work, isolated from everyone who knows me both personally and by recognition of my fame…that’s what is making me happy right now.

That, and Audrey.

As much as I don’t want to join the band for studio time, I do miss playing music for the love of it.

As I head back to the bungalow, I start to think that maybe it’s time I pick up a guitar again. I’ve tried writing lyrics, but nothing comes. Maybe I just need to hold a guitar in my hands again. Feel the strings under my fingers, the weight of it propped on my knee, the feel of a pick strumming. Maybe that will get me back into it.

After a shower, I grab a quick bite of leftovers from last night, and search the Internet. I find what I’m looking for, but I don’t want to call the resort office and have someone, maybe that Jeanine girl, drive me. I don’t want anyone to know where I’m going or what I’m doing.

So I get an Uber driver. The guy shows up in less than fifteen minutes, I get in the backseat of his car, and give him the address and the name of the business: Lanier’s.

“Guitar shop?” he asks.

“Yep.”

We leave the island, driving over the bridge that connects to the mainland.

The driver says, “Just visiting?”

“Yeah.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Five weeks.”

“Big plans for the Fourth?”

I haven’t made plans for July Fourth. I haven’t even thought about it. I remember telling Chris I’d try to make it to The Windjammer to see Three Figures playing the bash, but I don’t think I’ll be going. “No, what about you?”

“Working. Lotta drunk people needing rides all day long, you know?”

“True.”

He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “First time in Charleston?”

“No. I’ve been here before, but not long enough to see the city.”

He’s an older guy, and he tells me his family has lived here since the 1700s. “All these plantations you see around here, my family helped work the fields. Probably helped build the big fancy houses, too.”

He talks a lot about Charleston’s history, and the spots downtown that he knows about. He’s interesting, not the annoying kind of talker. Which is good, because I’m in a great mood because of what I’m getting ready to do and I don’t need anyone spoiling it.

When we arrive at the guitar shop, he asks if I want him to wait.

“Please, that would be great. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” he says.

The shop is small, and thankfully not crowded. Acoustic music plays from the speakers. There’s a girl behind the register. She’s wearing a black t-shirt, her skin is pale, her hair is dyed pink, she looks like she weighs eighty pounds, and she has a lip-ring. She can’t be more than nineteen.

She says, “Welcome to Lanier’s.”

“Thanks.”

“I just work the register, but I might be able to answer some questions. If you need help with a guitar, though, Andy will have to do that.” She motions across the store. There’s a guy over there talking to a man and a woman about an amp.

“I’ll just look around for a few minutes,” I say.

“Cool,” she says, having no idea who I am. Good.

I browse the guitars on display. They’re arranged by brand. I look at all the sections, even the brands I don’t particularly care for. It’s just nice being around these instruments again.

I get to the section where they keep my favorite brand and I immediately spot the exact model I’ve been using for the last two years. It won’t be the same—they always have a broken-in feel to them after much use—but it’s the best one I’ve ever used.

The girl at the register is looking down at her phone when I get to the counter. She looks up, surprised. “Oh, sorry.” She laughs. “Do you need some help?”

“I found what I’m looking for. Can you make sure you have it in stock?”

She hops off the stool and starts to come around the corner of the sales area. “I just need to get the model number—”

Before she can finish that sentence, I say the model number.

She chuckles. “Wow, you really know your stuff.”

I shake my head. “I’ve just played that one for years. Looking for a new one.”

“Okay, well, I’ll look in the back and see if we have it. If not, we can order it. Should take only a week.”

“I don’t have that much time,” I say, and it probably comes out as seriously as I mean it, which is more than I wanted to let on. “I just mean I won’t be ordering anything. I need to get this today.”

“I’ll check,” she says, and ducks around the corner into the back stockroom.

As I’m waiting, the sales guy, Andy, comes over. “Sarah helping you?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He looks at me strangely for just two or three seconds, but it’s enough to let me know what’s about to happen. He has recognized me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s happening in a store that sells musical instruments.

One side of the store is completely wallpapered with posters of bands. They’re jammed in there, some overlapping others, and it’s hard to make them all out but there’s a good chance there’s a poster of Tuesday’s Fault up there.

Maybe I’ll escape this place by just signing something. I’m hoping like hell as this unfolds that he doesn’t know about my leave of absence, or if he does, that he hasn’t obtained his information from the gossip media. I’m not in the mood to talk about that, or answer questions about it, nothing.

The last thing I needed was to be recognized, and now it’s happening. I should have ordered the guitar and had it delivered, then I wouldn’t have had to come here.

But I was feeling impulsive when I made the decision, and once I did, all I could think about was having it in my hands. Today.

The guy is still looking at me with an odd expression on his face. “Anyone ever tell you if you grew your hair out a little you’d look like the guitarist for Tuesday’s Fault? What’s the guy’s name? Evan…something.” He snaps his fingers several times, as if that will help him remember.

He’s probably not much older than his co-worker Sarah, his hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt, the one just about every guy has when he’s a teenager.

“Never heard of them,” I say, and try to play it off.

“It’s a band from Colorado. I’m not a fan of theirs, otherwise I’d know the guy’s last name but it’s escaping me at the moment.”

This guy. Jesus. I don’t say anything. I just look at him and pretend that I care what he’s talking about. I just want it to stop.

I just shrug.

“This Evan guy, he’s the one who wigged out on stage a couple of months ago. They had to take him to the hospital. I read about it the other day. Anyway, like I said, they’re not my type of music. I like more of the underground stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, and bite my tongue. Underground stuff like Pink Floyd. Right.

I find myself resenting him a little, and it’s a weird feeling. I’ve never paid attention to praise or criticism. This is the first time I’ve felt the swell of pride about my music, the first time I’m tempted to defend it.

Sarah finally emerges from the back room. She’s carrying what will be my new guitar.

Andy says the name of the guitar. “That’s a really good guitar.”

I look at him and manage a forced smile.

“You been playing long?” he asks. “Or just starting out?”

“I know my way around the strings pretty well.”

“Just wondering. I teach lessons on the side.”

I manage another forced smile, this one is
really
forced, as I pull my wallet from my pants. “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He takes a card off the counter. “Call anytime. Ask for Andy.”

I take the card. He walks back to the other two people he was helping and I hear him ask if they have any other questions. I pay with cash and I can’t get out of there fast enough. I walk outside and drop Andy’s card into a trashcan.

Back in the car, the driver asks me, “Where next?”

“Home,” I say. “Well, that’s not my home. Back to the resort.”

The driver laughs. “I was going to say, if you live there, you must be on that list they keep of the richest people in America.” He laughs at his own joke.

We pull up to a stoplight. I look out the window and the idea comes to me suddenly.

“Can you pull in there, please?”

He looks and sees where I’m pointing.

The light turns green, he gets in the right lane, and pulls into the parking lot.

I get out of the car.

“Want me to wait again?”

After getting the guitar case out of the backseat, I walk around to his window, and hand him a cash tip. “No. Thanks for the ride.”

He looks out the window, then back at me. “What are you gonna do, buy one of these?” He laughs. “Crazy as hell, son. Must be trying to impress a girl, huh?”

Chapter Fifteen

Audrey

Adam calls while I’m in my bedroom finishing getting ready. My immediate reaction to seeing his name on my phone’s screen is that he’s calling to cancel. I know I have no reason to suspect that, it’s just that I’ve worked myself up to having such a great night that I’m dreading any kind of disappointment.

“What’s your address?” he says when I answer.

It surprises me a little. “My home address?”

“Yes.”

“Why, are you picking me up?”

He lets out a sigh and it’s obviously a fake one, heavy and dramatic. “Damn, you spoiled my surprise.”

I’m standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, turning a little and making sure this dress looks okay. I’ve been worried about it ever since I put it on. “Why are you picking me up? Did you rent a car?”

“Audrey?” he asks, his voice measured, low. “Are you going to give me the address? You do trust me with it, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good, because it would be kind of a letdown to find out you trusted me enough to let me get you naked, but not with your address.”

Just the thought of him getting me naked sends a shiver through my body. I give him the address, he asks if I’ll be ready in thirty minutes, and I say yes.

I go downstairs and ask mom and Sophie what they think of my dress.

“I love it,” Mom says.

Sophie barely looks at it and says, “It’s good.” She’s still upset that I didn’t take her shopping with me.

“Soph, I promise I’ll get you something you’ll really love for your birthday.”

“Okay, then the dress looks awesome.”

“Where are you going?” Mom asks.

I hate lying about this, but it’s not as though I’m lying to gain something or to get something past her. I’m just doing it for my own privacy reasons. I tell her I’m not sure where we’re headed, just going out to dinner downtown, not that I’m going over to one of the bungalows at the resort and fucking some hot guy I can’t stop thinking about.

I get a text and I’m sure it’s from Adam, but I look down at my phone and it’s from Wyatt. Fuck. Great timing, asshole. I barely look at the little preview of the text on the lock-screen. It says something about him coming home for July Fourth. I delete his text and forget about it.

Adam calls a couple of minutes later. “I’m on your street.”

“See you in a few minutes.”

I tell Mom and Sophie goodbye. I haven’t told them I’m being picked up, so they think I’m going to my car and have no interest in coming outside to see who’s picking me up.

I’m at the end of the driveway when he drives up in a white BMW.

Adam gets out and walks around the car. He’s wearing black shoes, jeans, a white shirt with no tie, and a black lightweight blazer. He opens the passenger door.

“If you’re trying to impress me, it’s working,” I say. “But only a little.”

“And if you were trying to impress me with that dress, you went way beyond the call of duty.” His face is so close to mine, I think he might kiss me but he doesn’t.

I laugh. “Want me to spin around and model it for you?”

He smiles. “Later. Just get in.”

“Where do you rent BMWs?” I ask, as I’m sitting down on the plush leather seat. It’s then that I notice the new car smell.

“It’s not a rental.” Adam closes the door and walks around to get in.

I look at him. “You bought this? For tonight?”

He shrugs a little. “Mostly for tonight, yes. I’m taking you out to dinner and I wanted to pick you up.”

My stomach tightens. This is starting off better than I could have imagined. But he is being a little ridiculous. “Don’t you think it would have been easier to rent one?”

“Do you want me to return it?” He grins.

I laugh. “No, no. It’s just… I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Good. I’d like to keep surprising you.”

. . . . .

He has made reservations at a nice restaurant in downtown Charleston on East Bay Street.

We’re led to a table next to a window that looks out over the street and there’s a decent view of the harbor, though it’s somewhat obscured by container ships and one cruise ship.

“Ever been here?” Adam asks.

“First time.”

“Good. I was hoping it would be new for both of us.”

It’s an expensive, white tablecloth restaurant. It’s not my kind of place at all, but I’m not going to tell him that. I’m actually excited to be here. I’m curious about it, and I figure Adam might have more experience with upscale places so this should be a good experience.

The waiter arrives at our table. He’s wearing all white, including the tie, and he’s rattling off tonight’s specials. All of it sounds very elaborate to me. I look at Adam a few times and he’s looking at the waiter and nodding.

The guy says, “For an appetizer, I recommend the crab cakes with sautéed spinach and jalapeno corn tartar, or the salad with farm-fresh goat cheese, prosciutto, sautéed and spiced pecans, diced peaches, clams, drizzled with a champagne honey vinaigrette.”

I look at Adam to let him make the choice.

“Crab cakes sound good to me,” he says, looking at me for approval or input.

“Sure.”

“Excellent,” the waiter says, and he starts talking about the different wines they have. When he’s finished, he offers a recommendation, one of their red wines.

“That sounds good.” Adam looks at me.

“We’ll have that.”

We’re left alone for a few minutes to peruse the menu. It’s honestly overwhelming, but I’ll find something good.

“Peaches and clams?” Adam whispers.

I laugh silently as my eyes meet his. “I know.” I make a cringing face. “I mean, it sounds awful. Who orders that?”

“Not us.”

“Thank God.”

A guy comes over to our table holding a bottle of wine with one hand, a white towel draped over his other forearm. He announces the name of the wine and the year. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Adam makes eye contact with me and raises his eyebrows.

The guy pours a little wine in each glass and asks us to taste it. To me, it tastes like, well, red wine.

Adam sips his and says it’s good.

The guy pours more into each of our glasses and leaves the bottle on the table. The waiter comes up a second later and Adam tells him we’re still going to need a few minutes before we order.

“I’ll check on your crab cakes, sir.”

We’re both sitting here quietly, looking at the menu. I feel self-conscious about it for a moment, until I realize this is a two-way thing. I’m not talking, he’s not talking. It’s not just me causing the silence.

“It’s so quiet in here.”

He nods, his eyes scanning the menu, then up to me. “Not a great place to talk. I guess we’ll have to whisper.”

I sip the wine and put my menu down. “I didn’t figure you for a white table-cloth kind of guy.”

He smiles. “I’m not.”

“Well, I’m not that type of girl.”

“That’s always an interesting phrase.”

I laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He leans over the table a little. “Want to get out of here?”

“Badly.”

He puts his menu on the table, reaches into his pocket and takes his wallet out. Before I know it, he’s laying cash on the table. A few twenties. We stand up and the waiter is on us quickly.

“Everything okay, sir?”

“I’m sorry,” Adam says. “We have to leave. I left some cash.” He tilts his head toward the table, reaches for my hand, and we walk out of the restaurant.

“I don’t do stuffy,” he says, once we’re out on the sidewalk.

“And you thought I did?” He’s still holding my hand. I don’t want him to let it go.

“No,” he says and the corner of his mouth turns up to a little grin. “I was thinking something nice, something different. But I’d rather go somewhere and be comfortable.”

“Do you like Greek food?” Just as I say it, he lets go of my hand, which I realize a couple of seconds later I’m still holding out, like if I do it, he’ll grab it again.

“Love it.”

. . . . .

It’s just a few minutes later, and we’re sitting at a table in a restaurant where people are wearing shorts and t-shirts, there’s loud talk and laughter, a TV behind the bar is showing a baseball game, and the wait staff is rushing around responding to order numbers being barked out from behind the counter.

“This is my kind of place,” Adam says.

We look at the menu together. I tell him a couple of my favorite things I’ve ordered during the many times I had been here. We’re sipping beer—Adam got a Yuengling and I decided to try it for the first time, discovering that I like it.

After we place our order, Adam says, “So, you went to college here?”

“Right around the corner from where we’re sitting now. We used to eat here once a week. I haven’t been back in about a year, though.”

“Why not?” He sips some beer.

“Just haven’t. Busy at work and at home. I don’t get downtown that much anymore.”

Adam wraps a napkin around the bottom of his beer bottle. “What do you do? I mean, aside from the places on the beach where I’ve seen you?”

“Not much, really.”

Our food comes and I’m saved from having to talk more about the current sorry state of my social life. For now, anyway.

We take a few minutes to enjoy the food, then get back to talking.

“I want to know about you,” I say.

“You do?”

I nod.

“Even though this is just a fling for the summer?” He raises his eyebrows.

The thought stings. As much as I know that’s all this can be, and as much as I know that’s all I should want, there’s a growing part of me that wants a little more.

But Adam is clearly not there, so I don’t reveal those thoughts. I just play along. “Sure. What does it hurt to tell me a little something about yourself? You know about my family situation—”

“And your non-art-art,” he says, cutting me off.

I laugh. “Right. That, too. So tell me something about Adam Lewis.”

“I’m from Colorado.”

“Really? I’d love to visit there. My God, the scenery would be amazing to shoot.”

He finishes a bite of his chicken gyro. “It is nice, but I prefer the beach.”

“Why’s that?”

“I didn’t really grow up doing what most of the guys do there. Lots of hunting and fishing. Not really my thing.”

“What was your thing?”

He sips his beer, a long and slow pull from the bottle, almost like he’s buying time and trying to decide what to say.

“I spent a lot of time in Denver. Music clubs, theater. That was my circle of friends. Very different from my dad and two brothers.”

I’m a little surprised he’s sharing this much, and I want more, but without pushing him. “Two brothers?”

“Yep. Both older. I’m the baby.” His eyes move around the room like he’s looking for something, but it also looks like he’s deciding whether to tell me more about his family. “My family owns a buffalo ranch.”

“Now it makes sense.” My eyes widen. “You’re a cowboy?” I ask, only half-joking.

He laughs. “Not even close. My dad and brothers, on the other hand…” He smirks.

“Cowboy hats, spurs, leather chaps, all that stuff?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

I manage to hold back a laugh. Most of it, anyway. “Don’t tell me you dressed like that as a kid.”

“When I was very young, yes. But I didn’t have a choice. And,” he says emphatically, “it wasn’t leather chaps or spurs. The hat? Yes.”

“Awww. I can see it now.”

He lifts his beer. “Well, you can stop seeing it because that hasn’t been me for about twenty years and it never will be again.”

He sounds contemptuous, like he has some disdain for the family business.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, as if he knew what I was thinking, “I love my family, but I had bigger dreams than living on that ranch, you know?”

I want so badly for him to continue, to tell me about those dreams. They must have come true, considering he’s doing so well. And there must be something wrong with the situation now, considering he’s running from it for an entire summer.

I want him to let his guard down just a little. Enough to give me a glimpse of the real Adam. Enough to make it easier for me to let my defenses down too.

But he told me, quite clearly and abruptly several weeks ago when we first met, that he doesn’t want to talk about his business. So I don’t press him. The truth is, I think he’ll tell me. Eventually, anyway.

“Do you see them often?” I ask, not knowing where they live, exactly, or where he lives and works.