The Rider List: An Erotic Romance (3 page)

Maybe he’s a low-profile guy who is loaded for some reason that isn’t newsworthy.

Maybe I should go to sleep and stop thinking about it because it’s none of my business and it shouldn’t matter to me anyway.

Chapter Four

Evan

Three weeks go by, and it’s now the middle of June. I’m patient, and I’m enjoying the wait. Audrey is a good tease, even if she doesn’t know she’s doing it.

She stops by every day, and I get to see her. She’s always wearing the same thing, though. That’s the only downside to our routine. I’d like to see her in something else. A little mystery and anticipation wouldn’t hurt.

Actually, what I’d like to see her in is nothing at all. A bare naked Audrey has appeared many times in my mind, and as creative as I can be with my imagination, I know there’s more to that body than I can dream up.

I enjoy the short conversations with her. Some of them are just small-talk. Others involve movie and TV recommendations (she has a lot of these). Music hasn’t come up, and I don’t intend to bring it up for obvious reasons.

It’s been years since I’ve felt like I was having a real conversation with a woman. The girls on the road, the groupies, are star-struck and some of them have ulterior motives.

I used to bother with trying to figure out whether one or two of them might be being their true selves, but I gave that up long ago. So it’s refreshing to talk with someone who has no reason to act differently because I’m Evan Crawford. I like being Adam Lewis, for now.

If Audrey could read my mind while she’s in the house, I’m not sure she’d come back. I think of all the things I’d like to do to her, the things I’ve denied myself for years because they’re all too risky to be done with a girl I meet one night in a city that I’ll be leaving tomorrow.

There’s peril in taking that chance, but I’m not even sure it would be possible. One-night stands don’t come with the time to nurture the kind of relationship I want with a woman.

I’m determined to make it happen this summer, but for right now, all of that is just in my head. Audrey has become my fantasy girl.

I’m doing none of what I want to do with and to her, but at least I get to talk to her. I always ask her how her night was. Her answer always has the same theme: she’s bored.

The day after she had to leave so quickly, I reminded her that she didn’t answer my question.

“Which one?” she had said, and I knew from the look on her face that she knew which one. She was stalling and giving herself a few seconds to think of how to answer or to come up with the courage to answer at all.

“The question of whether you have a boyfriend.”

She had stopped by to bring fresh towels and to load up the old ones to take back to the office.

“I don’t,” she’d said, not looking me in the eye when she answered.

I didn’t press her. Didn’t ask why she didn’t have a boyfriend. Didn’t pile on the platitudes of telling her she can afford to be picky, or that surely she must get asked out a lot, or any of the other things lots of guys say to women when they’re trying to compliment them.

Honestly, I didn’t care why she was single. All that mattered to me was that she wasn’t with anyone.

We were just a few days into the first full week of my stay and she’d gone from dropping off the things I requested, to unloading the bags and putting the items away for me. There weren’t many, so it wasn’t much work, but I enjoyed sitting on a stool at the counter and watching her.

She’s stopped by the bungalow the day I get the first shipment of meat. “This’ll have to thaw, but would you like to have buffalo with me later?”

Audrey looked at me. “You’re not serious.”

I held up one of the packages, neatly wrapped with wax paper inside a plastic freezer bag. “You’ve never had buffalo?”

She shook her head, making a face like it grossed her out.

“It’s like beef,” I’d told her, “but healthier.”

“You don’t eat anything normal, like chicken or fish?”

“Occasionally. But this is great. You’ll have to try it sometime.”

I got her to try it the next day. I’d grilled some buffalo burgers outside on the grill. Audrey tried a bite, tentatively at first, but then admitted she liked it. “It’s not as greasy as a regular hamburger. I can live with that.”

One day she’d asked me about the list. “Do you do that everywhere you go?”

I laughed a little bit. “I actually think it’s kind of ridiculous. It’s just a matter of convenience, since I’m here without a car.”

“Makes sense.”

What she didn’t know was that the real answer was: yes. At least when I was on tour. Every place we went, we sent a rider in advance. Mine was always simple, the other guys got a little more elaborate in their requests. “Demands” would be a more accurate term.

She’d asked me why I didn’t want a car while I’m here.

“Simplicity,” I’d said. “If I want to go somewhere, I’ll find a way. But I want to spend most of my time relaxing, which means staying here, which means I won’t be needing a car much at all.”

I’m getting used to having her around, even for just a little while. But my patience is running low, the teasing I get from her each day is starting to push me to move this to the next level.

Early on a Tuesday morning, I go for a walk on the beach that turns into a run. The doctor had said to take it easy for a couple of weeks and then I could start back to my normal routine, which used to involve running.

Going to the gym used to be part of my life, even on the road, but that was short-lived. They just weren’t for me. The equipment, the noise, the roided-out weight-lifters making their bodies look like something created by a Hollywood prop department, and the distraction of women toning their bodies, their skin glistening with sweat… I couldn’t stand it.

So now I run to keep in shape. I prefer this alone time. I never listen to music while running. I wear noise-canceling earplugs. This period of silence is when some of my best ideas for music and lyrics have come to me.

But there’s nothing today. Not even a short melody or chord progression. Not a line of lyrics. Not even a song title. Nothing.

I finish my run and get back to the bungalow. I didn’t bring my phone with me, and it’s the first thing I check on when I get back inside. Two calls missed. Both from Bruce Burrelli, our band’s manager.

I know what he wants. He’s going to ask me where I am and why I’m not back in town for the studio sessions. I delete his voicemails without listening to them. I scroll through my contacts and tap his name to call him.

“Evan, you’re alive?”

I don’t find this funny, but that’s not the worst part of it. The worst part is that he couldn’t think of anything original to say.

“No,” I say, “I’m dead, but I’ve come back to fuck up your life.”

“You’re doing a damn good job of it. Where are you, man?”

“I’m staying somewhere for a while.”

“Where’s somewhere?” he asks. “And how long is a while?” There’s a tone to his words that I don’t like. It’s as though I owe him an answer.

“Bruce, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t work for you, you work for me, right?”

“I work for the band.”

“Same difference.”

“Come on Evan, what’s the problem? What can I do to get you back here?”

I walk over to the refrigerator and pull out a carton of fresh blueberries. I pop a couple into my mouth. “I’m not coming back.”

There’s silence on his end of the line. I wait it out.

“Not coming back now or…at all?” He’s sounding worried, desperate.

“I’m not sure right now.”

“What’s gotten into you, man?”

My mouth is full of blueberries. I walk over to the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water. Bruce remains silent, letting me take my time with an answer.

I swallow the water, washing down the berries. “You were in Indianapolis.”

“I’m everywhere you guys are. But you haven’t told us shit about what that was all about. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I just need some time to myself.”

“I think you’d be better off getting back in the studio. I’m saying that as a friend.”

I laugh, because he’s never been a friend. That’s why we hired him in the first place. “Bruce, you’re saying that as a businessman, and I can appreciate that, but don’t try to fuck with me. I gotta go.”

I end the call.

They all know what happened to me in Indianapolis, they just don’t know how serious it was, and they don’t know that it changed my outlook on damn near every aspect of my life. It’s not something I like to talk about unless I have to, and whenever I do, it comes at a time of my choosing.

He’ll call back, I’m sure. And the guys will call, too. I can predict it now: first, Jay, our lead singer; then Marcus, our drummer; and lastly—because he’s always the last to do things—Scott, the bassist.

The conversation will quickly move from questions about where I am, to questions about what’s happening to the band. I’m in no mood to discuss the current or future state of Tuesday’s Fault. In fact, as I stand here in the cool air conditioning, I’m not even sure Tuesday’s Fault is a thing right now, much less in the future.

. . . . .

I decide to test the limits of my newfound anonymity by going to a bar on the island. There’s a restaurant down on the main strip that has a rooftop bar overlooking the beach. I put on jeans and a long-sleeve white button-down shirt, roll the sleeves up, and head down there about 10 p.m.

There’s a cover band playing Jimmy Buffet songs. The bar is crowded, packed wall-to-wall with people my age and younger. All the tables are taken. A few waitresses weave in and out of the groups of people standing around. No one seems to be paying attention to the band.

Making my way to the bar, I see all the stools are taken. I wait my turn before the bartender points to me and smiles. She’s worked up a sweat and a few strands of hair stick to her face.

“Yuengling,” I shout over the music and the loud chatter.

It’s been years since I was able to be anywhere like this and not get noticed. Just a few minutes into my little experiment, and I’m already enjoying it.

I hand the bartender a twenty, take my beer, tell her to keep the change, and find a good seat near the back of the bar against a railing.

It’s a good spot for people watching. There’s a group of guys who look to be in their early-mid twenties standing in a tight circle, talking loudly, laughing, slinging arms around each other and slapping each other’s backs.

They seem more interested in engaging in this behavior than interacting with the many girls who are here tonight. I don’t get it.

Tired of watching these guys acting like cavemen, I shift my focus to two girls dancing together, which requires me moving closer to the bar.

The band has dropped the Jimmy Buffet songs and they’re now playing a song by The Plain White T’s.

“Adam?” the voice says, just off to the left and little behind me.

The name registers in my mind but I’m caught off guard. I’m not used to responding to that name out in public.

I turn my head, which takes a half-second, but seems to take thirty. It’s Audrey, of course. She looks hesitant, almost nervous, like she wasn’t sure she should have come over to say hi.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she says, leaning closer to me so she doesn’t have to shout. I can smell her perfume, or soap, or shampoo, or whatever it is and it makes me want to throw her over my shoulder, take her back to my place and fuck her.

As much as I wish I could do that, I’ll have to settle for talking. “I wasn’t planning on it. Last minute thing.”

“Well, you picked a good place. The band is good.” She looks over at them, then back at me. “I mean, once they changed up the music a little.”

I nod. “You here alone?”
Say yes, Audrey, say yes
.

“No, I’m here with some people.”

I sip my beer. She said
some people
. I wonder if she’s here with a guy. She said she didn’t have a boyfriend, but the thought of her existing on the planet without at least one guy close by trying to be with her is insane. There has to be at least one. “What are you drinking? Let me get you something.”

“Oh, no.” She shifts on her feet, then points over her shoulder to where her friends are without looking in that direction. “I mean…you know what? Sure, I’ll take something.”

My eyes scan the general direction where she pointed. I’m looking for a guy who’s watching her. That’ll be the guy she’s here with, the one trying to fuck her.

I haven’t even touched Audrey, and I’m already feeling like I’ve staked a claim to her and have to defend it.

“This place doesn’t have food?” I ask, trying to change the subject to flush from my mind the idea of kissing her right here.

“No. Have you been to the restaurant downstairs?” she asks.

“Not yet.”

“They have the best crab cakes on the island.”

“I’ll have to check it out.”

The bartender finally makes his way down to us. I order a shot and a beer for each of us. We click shot glasses and throw them back. Audrey winces, then lets out a rush of air. “That’s my last shot of the night.”