A Bleu Streak Christmas (10 page)

“Yes,
it is.”

I
don’t look back at him; if I do, I may cave. Maverick King definitely leaves me
wanting more. I’m just not sure how much either one of us is willing to give
just yet.

Chapter
Eleven

M
ave

“Wake
up, suckers!” Trace and his morning-person-perk rubs me wrong. He should keep
quiet until at least noon.

The bus isn’t moving, so I know we’ve
closed the short distance up north to Nashville. Rubbing my forehead, I go over
the itinerary and the next stop clarifies to me. West Virginia for Christmas.
This trip is going by way too fast. Once we’re home, it’s back in the studio
for a new album and Dillon wants my songs to carry it. It’s a heavy decision
weighing on me. I know it’s already made, because there’s no way he’s going to
let me chicken out. Besides that, I owe it to him and the band.

All it takes is the sounds of Izzy’s
curtain sliding open to get me moving mine open, too. I smile over at her as
she sits on the edge of her bed, finger-combing all that fair hair. Never have
an oversized T-shirt and pink night pants looked so attractive. Her pouty lips
smile back as she squints those sleepy peeps.

“Morning, doll.”

“Good morning.”

The need to touch her is too strong, so
I hunch in a sitting position on the bunk and offer her my hand. She accepts it
and starts running her velvety soft fingertips over my rough ones. My sticks
are close to being permanent extensions of my body and the years of owning them
have worn a path in skin. My other hand starts its daily tune, by tapping a
beat on the edge of the bed with my free hand as I enjoy the feel of her
exploring the long map of music on my palm.

“Music is always playing through you,
isn’t it?” she whispers.

As the beat slows, I nod and smile my
answer. This woman really notices and seems to really get me. More than that,
she seems pretty accepting—even with what I’ve shared with her. I wouldn’t
blame her for running the other way.

“Izzy, I wouldn’t touch that hand if I
was you. No telling where it’s been,” Trace says as he rushes back on the bus.
He thinks he’s funny.

I guess Izzy does, too, since she
giggles and releases my hand.

My foot reaches out and trips the
sucker as he passes me, causing him to face-plant in the aisle none too quietly.
Serves him right for ruining the moment.

“Dude! Can y’all cause any more
racket?” Tate grumbles from above me.

“I’ll make breakfast if you guys let me
shower first.” She smiles hopefully. All the babe has to say is “I’m cooking”
and she could have anything she wants.

“The shower is yours,” Tate mumbles
again.

She hops up and leaves me, so I lie
back down and doze with images of those gorgeous eyes twinkling at me…

Today’s one of those days with way too
much downtime. We’re imprisoned behind the gate at the arena until the concert.
I should have snuck out with Izzy and Blake whether Ben agreed or not. I scan
the gate and find a sea of cameras trained on the bus, where the paparazzi have
set up camp. Of course, this has garnered an early showing of the fans, also.
Translation—the band is on lockdown.

I’ve already tapped on my crowd’s last
nerve, so while I hit the bathroom, the jerks hid my sticks.

“Seriously, I thought you were swearing
off chicks for a while,” Max says around a mouthful of ice cream.

I steal a bite with my spoon, glad he’s
sharing the gallon with us. Yeah, so now for kicks, the guys have taken to
grilling me about Izzy. FUN!

“I’ve not dated in the last year. That
last one ‘bout broke me altogether for wanting to date.
Psycho
.” I shudder at the memory. That’s the thing about those
plastic chicks—all nice to begin with, then moves to clingy, then on to her
wanting me to buy her a flipping car and a house and all kinds of crap.

“True that,” Max says. He should know.
Dude had to call the cops on said Psycho one night when she showed up and
refused to leave.

“Besides, I said I was done with chick
drama. Izzy doesn’t speak enough to stir drama. Anyhow, she’s cool.”

“I feel ya bro,” Logan comments while
texting. He’s found his girl. Brooke is a cool one, too. They’re making it
official after we wrap up recording this spring.

The gallon finally gets passed back to
me, so I let them say what they want while I dig several bites out of the fudge
ripple. People would probably laugh if they knew we pass an ice cream tub around
instead of a liquor bottle.

“Izzy’s great. Just don’t screw it up.”
Dillon points his spoon at me in warning.

He tends to act like my old man. He’s
been filling those shoes since we were kids, so I guess he’s earned the right
to point.

“There’s nothing to screw up.” That
felt like a flat-out lie. Having my fill of ice cream, I pass the tub on to
Trace. “I just met the chick.”

“It sure doesn’t look like
nothing
to me. The both of you been
dancing around each other with stars in your lovesick eyes.” Trace dorks out by
making kissing sounds.

“Enough about that.” It’s time for a
new subject—fast. “How do y’all propose we slink around Nashville tonight with
the paparazzi hot on our trails?”

“Ben’s already saying to let Blake and
Tate handle it,” Dillon answers begrudgingly. We all grumble in return.

“That sucks. We’re supposed to be
handling that.” Max glares out the window, towards the jerks responsible for putting
a kink in our plans.

His glare moves to curiosity and then
settles into a pondering look. I already know what he’s thinking.

“How can we pull off a prank stuck in
here?” I ask him.

“I’m trying to figure it out.” He
starts chewing his nails, indicating just how deep he’s digging in his hat for
an idea.

“You guys better outthink him or you’ll
be in trouble,” Jen grumbles from her bed.

We all look down the hall, and I can’t
get over how she looks like a stick with a beach ball attached midway. She’s
pregnant-miserable and seems to need to lay up a lot. Rubbing my flat gut, I’m
mighty glad that mess only happens to females. It looks painful.

I wait for Max to mouth off at her, but
he doesn’t. Wow. The idiot is being wise for a change. That’s another thing
about being this far pregnant, everybody is scared of her. She’ll bark at you
one minute and be crying the next, and I want no part in either option.

“Let’s order them some super-spicy
treats,” Logan offers with a chuckle.

“Not funny,” Max mutters, still focused
on the scene outside the window.

Something is going down on our watch,
so I sit back and get to thinking. I’m sure folks think grown men goofing
around the way we do is cheesy and immature. The way we look at it, life is way
too serious not to be able to rebel and laugh at it. So who cares what people
think? Laughing sure feels good.

We all grow silent for a spell, but before
we come to a prank conclusion, Ben bustles in.

“No.” He says this rather sternly as he
runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair that is leaning heavy on the
salt these days. Dude is only a few years older than us, but I’m sure we are
personally responsible for each of those gray hairs. I know I’ve added a chunk
all on my own.

“How do you know?” Dillon asks.

“Jen texted me that you’re up to no
good. No pranks on the photographers.”

“Why not?” Max snaps.

“Maxim King, have you ever noticed how
every one of your schemes ends up biting you in the butt? Shall I remind you
about your latest with Izzy?”

Ah… Daddy’s home. No horse playing now.

He crosses his arms and eyes us. “You
guys are tired of being cooped up. I get it. How about you play around a bit,
but for a cause?”

That piques all our interest. The whole
bunch of us sits up straighter to listen.

“Whatcha got in mind?” Dillon asks.

“You guys up for an impromptu jam
session near the gate?”

“What’s the mischief in that?” Max
grumbles.

“While the guys jam, you get to do a
striptease for the cameras.”

All eyebrows pucker in confusion. Did
Ben just say what I thought he said?

“You’re giving me
permission
to flash the paparazzi? Hot dang!” Max is on his feet,
rubbing his palms together in two seconds flat.

Ben stops him from exiting. “Whoa, whoa.
Slow your roll.” He pulls a fat sharpie out of his back pocket. “Strip down to
your boxers.” He hands Trace the marker. “Write hashtag Music Notes across his
chest, back, and down his legs.”

“Does it matter which notes?” Trace
scratches the light scruff on his chin.

“Trace, you really are too blond
sometimes. Not actual notes. Write the words that spell out your charity.
M-U-S-I-C space N-O-T-E-S.”

“Ohhh. Got it.” Trace nods.

We roar in laughter once Max is down to
his boxers.

“Red and green polka dots? Really?”
Dillon asks.

Max shrugs. “Some of us are in the
Christmas spirit. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’ll add to the fun,” Ben
mumbles while pulling something up on one of our laptops.

“Max, I thought you were drinking those
protein shakes with Mave?” Logan asks on a chuckle.

“I am.”

“It ain’t doing your skinny butt a bit
of good. Seriously, Jewels is threatening to take you to the vet for a worm
treatment.” Dillon slaps him on the shoulder, causing Trace to smear a letter.

We all crack up at this.

Max rolls his eyes. “Stop picking on
me.
Ben
, I feel vulnerable.” Max fake-pouts
while covering his nipples. He’s always been a guy who can dish it out and take
it just the same. My brother cracks me up.

“Okay, here’s the deal. Dillon and
Logan can jam with the guitars. Trace tambourine it and Mave, I can fish out
your practice snare drum from under the bus, but that’s as good as I can do for
you.”

“That’ll work fine except for the fact
these bozos hid my sticks.”

“Give them back to him.” Ben looks
around sternly, sounding all fatherly.

Dillon walks over to the freezer and
fishes them out before handing the ice-cold sticks over. “We just wanted you to
chill
for a while.” He produces his dumb
dimples with his dumb joke.

“You guys really do need to get out for
a while with these lame jokes you keep sharing. Now, listen up. Give me a few
minutes to get Joe to help me set up some chairs near the gate for you. Then
you come out and do a few songs while Mr. Sexy struts around and strips down to
his boxers.” He pauses. “You get me, Max? The boxers stay on. Under no
circumstances do they come off.”

“If you say so.” He shrugs.

“I most certainly do say so. This way everybody
wins with you goofing off some. The photographers get interesting pics that I’m
sure will make for a better Christmas, the fans get an unexpected show, you get
to blow off some steam, and most importantly, you stir up some buzz about your
charity. I’ve set the hashtag up on Twitter for your Music Notes, so maybe some
donations will start pouring in.”

And that is why Ben Henson is the best
manager we could ever be stuck with. The guy is always on his toes and looking
out for us at the same time. Dude earns every penny and then some.

We’re out the door, waving at the fans
from just enough distance that we don’t have to get stuck doing autographs.

Plopping in front of my drum, I ask,
“Okay. What are we singing?” All of us look to Dillon for the answer.

He shrugs. “Why don’t we just play
around a bit? Nothing particular. Mave, you start us off and we’ll follow.”

Dillon thinks he’s being slick. He
wants me to start the beat of one of my songs and lead the group to play it.
Okay. I take the bait and start a song I’m itching to perform—“Renewal.” It’s a
ballad Dillon is after me to debut at the New Year’s Eve concert. Max joins in
for that one, and then we move to an upbeat one I’ve entitled, “No Stopping Us
Now,” and it seems right fitting when Max starts slowly unsnapping the buttons
on his shirt while shaking his bony hips.

The fans go wild for it and the
photographers are grinning. Ben’s right. We all win. We have a blast for the
next hour. I’m beating away on my drum, when a beautiful face pops up close to
the other side of the fence. I grin over at her and she blushes on cue. She
nods her head over towards Max, who is down to his boxers, probably freezing,
still dancing like nobody’s business. I shake mine and wink at her, causing my
doll to giggle. The woman gets us and that’s all there is to it.

•♫•♫•♫•

“I’ve had enough of you cheating!”
Blake throws his cards down on the table and huffs like a baby. We only cheat a
little. What’s the big deal? Keeps things interesting that way.

“Why have we stopped?” Max asks,
reshuffling the cards.