More to Us (6 page)

"He was probably just saying that to be nice." She shrugs. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going to see him again. Besides, I've moved on. I have Matt now."

Who she has no chemistry with. Why would she date Matt when she could be dating Dylan? She obviously still has a thing for him. She got all nervous and breathless just talking about him. Kind of like how I acted around Austin. And yet I turned him down.

I'm just like Amber. I felt this intense chemistry with a guy and then refused to go out with him. But at least I have a good reason. He didn't tell me who he was. I don't know what kind of game he was playing but I didn't find it funny. And I have no interest in guys who play games.

Austin

Where'd she go? We just ended a set and I'm searching the bar, trying to find her. She's no longer at the table she was at and I don't see her in line to get a drink. She's not on the dance floor either.

I make my way over to the bar, girls shoving pens at me as I walk. They want my autograph, usually somewhere on their body. I think it's less about my signature and more about getting me to look at their bodies. I get a lot of breasts shoved in front of me to sign, which used to be a major perk of the job but now I'm getting kind of tired of it.

It's like being asked out. The first few times it was awesome and flattering, but after a while I missed being able to be the one doing the asking. Just like I miss the fun of undressing a girl. I haven't been able to do that forever. When I go on a date and we go back to her place, the girl's taking her clothes off before I even have a chance to do it myself. It's all because I'm in this band, or maybe it's because I'm a Wheeler. I don't really know. But whatever the reason, the girls I date are too aggressive and it's starting to become a turnoff.

"Kent," I yell, trying to get the bartender's attention.

He turns to me, holding a bottle of vodka. "Yeah, what do you need?"

"Have you seen a girl in a black t-shirt and jeans? Long dark hair?"

He comes over to me, smiling. "The hot one with the tight little body?"

I want to punch him for commenting on her body. Shit, that's a problem. I met her for like two minutes. I can't be jealous over a girl I met for two minutes.

"Yeah, that's her," I say.

He nods. "She left with her friends right after the concert started."

"Huh. I wonder why."

"I don't know, but they left in a hurry."

"Okay. Thanks."

So she's gone and I didn't get her number and don't even know her last name. I can't even look her up. Why would she leave? Was she mad when she found out I was in the band? I was just kidding around. I didn't think she'd get mad about that.

I meet up with Van and Dylan in the back room. Van's laughing and giving a fist bump to Dylan.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Dylan's song just scored us about thirty phone numbers," Van says. "All from girls we'd actually go out with."

"I'm not going out with them," Dylan says. "You know I stay away from band groupies."

"Then I'll share them with Austin." Van points to a stack of bar napkins in Dylan's guitar case. "We'll divvy them up after the show."

"Not interested," I say.

"Why not? Did that girl finally agree to go out with you?"

"No. She left right after we started playing."

"She didn't like our music, or what?"

"I think she might be pissed at me for not telling her I was in the band."

"You should've told her," Dylan says, sinking into the brown leather couch that's across from the door. It's beat to hell with scratch marks all over it and cigarette burns. "Girls get pissed about that shit. Even guys do. I hate it when girls lie to me."

"It wasn't really a lie. I just didn't mention I was in the band. You really think that's why she left?"

"Hell if I know," Van says, tapping his empty water bottle on his leg. "I don't understand women. I don't even understand this idiot." He kicks Dylan's foot. "What's wrong with you man? Why are you acting all depressed? Everyone loved your song."

"I'm not depressed," he mutters.

"Van's right," I say, noticing the somber look on Dylan's face. "You seem depressed. What's going on?"

He blows out a breath and rubs his face. "It's stupid."

"What's stupid?" I ask, sitting next to him.

"If I tell you guys this," he looks at me, then Van, "neither one of you laughs at me or I'll kick your asses."

"Yeah, okay," I say.

He waits for Van to agree to it, but Van puts his hands up. "I can't promise you that. I wouldn't be me if I didn't give you shit. And besides, you deserve it after giving me grief over the lyrics I write after a breakup." He puts his hand over his heart. "I'm baring my soul, man, and you just stomp all over it." He fakes a frown and then laughs.

I ignore him and focus on Dylan. "Just tell us."

Dylan sighs. "Fine." He shakes his head. "I know it's stupid, but I wanted her to be here tonight. And I had this strange feeling that she would be."

"I thought you said she moved to New York," Van says.

"She did, but she could've come back to visit. Maybe she has family here. I wouldn't know because she wouldn't tell me anything about herself."

"So you're depressed because she's not here?" I ask.

"I told you it was stupid. And what's even more stupid is that I actually felt like she really
was
here. Like I could feel her presence, but I think I was just feeling her through the song."

"Damn, this girl really messed you up," Van says. "Is that why you haven't hooked up with anyone since you did it with her?"

"You haven't had sex since May?" I ask, unable to hide the shock in my voice. As lead singer, Dylan gets a lot of girls offering to have sex with him.

"No," he mutters.

"You've been on a lot of dates since then," I say.
 

"Yeah, but I didn't let them get that far."

 
"Shit, I had no idea. So why are you holding out for this girl? She doesn't live here anymore, and you don't even know her last name."

He stares at me. "Sound familiar? You're obsessing about some girl you met for like a minute."

"That's true," Van says. "What the hell's wrong with you guys?"

"I don't know," I say, more to myself than them. I have no idea why I'm so desperate to see that girl again. She showed no interest in dating me, and now she's probably mad at me, and yet I still want to see her again.
 

We finish up at the bar, then go get something to eat. After that, Van and Dylan head back to their house and I go to mine. It's not really mine. It's my dad's house. I still live here. I need to get my own place but I haven't gotten around to it.

"How'd it go?" my dad asks, startling me. It's two in the morning so I thought he was in bed. He's sitting in the living room with just a single light on, reading a magazine.

"You scared the shit out of me." I sit on the couch. "What are you doing up this late?"

"I had to review some contracts that have to go out tomorrow. I didn't finish up until ten. I had a late dinner and now I have heartburn. I took something, but I'm waiting for it to kick in."

My dad works too much. So do my brothers. Wheeler Construction is growing so fast that we have more business than we can handle. I should be working more than I do and I feel guilty that I'm not, but if I did, I wouldn't have time for the band.

"You shouldn't be working that late," I say. "It's not good for you."

"The work had to get done and I've already got your brothers working overtime."

"I could take on some more hours."

He shakes his head. "I don't want you doing more hours of construction. It's hard on the body, even for someone in as good a shape as you." He sets his magazine down. "But I did want to talk to you about being more involved in the business."

"Oh, yeah? Like how?"

"I know you're not interested in sales or negotiating contracts, but I think you'd be a big help on the marketing side."

"I don't know anything about marketing."

"You don't need a degree in it. You're already good at it. You've promoted your band to the point that almost everyone in Chicago knows who you are."

"Not everyone," I mumble, thinking of Kira.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying that it wasn't just me who promoted the band. Dylan does most of our promotions."

"Austin, don't sell yourself short. That benefit concert you put on for Ivy's father was a huge success and you did all that yourself."

Last spring, I organized a concert featuring local bands to raise money for Ivy's dad who needed help paying his medical bills. We thought maybe a hundred people would show up, but we ended up with almost a thousand and raised a ton of money.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Come up with some events for the fall and next year. I'd like us to do some more charity events. Give back to the community. I'd rather get our name out there that way than with TV and radio ads. We can talk more about it later, but just give it some thought."

This isn't just an idea he's tossing out there. He wants me to do it. He keeps hinting for me to get more involved in the company, but so far I haven't agreed to it. Although he hasn't come out and said it, I know he wants me to spend less time on my music. He's always supported my decision to be in the band, but he sees it as a hobby. In his mind, construction should always come first and the band second. But I'm not sure I see it that way. Right now, construction pays my bills and I don't mind doing it, but I'd like to at least try to make our band be something more than just a hobby.

He yawns and gets up from the chair. "I need to get to bed. I have to be up at five."

"That's only a few hours sleep. You need more than that."

"I could say the same about you." He smiles as he gets up from his chair. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

For the most part, my dad and I get along well, which is why I don't mind living here. But he does have rules, like no bringing girls home for the night. That's one reason why I need to move out. A big reason.

I go to bed and a few hours later I hear my dad getting up for work. I go back to sleep because I have the morning off. I'm working for Nash this week but he called last night and said I didn't need to be there until noon. Something about the supplies we needed not being delivered on time.

At ten, I head to the gym. I go to one across town because I know the owner and he gives me a deal. I like that it's a local gym and not one of the big chains. I also like that it's not a meat market. You don't see girls wearing skimpy outfits parading themselves in front of guys. The people who go here are serious about working out. It's not fancy. It's no frills. It has the equipment I need and it's never too crowded. It's basically the perfect gym for me, which is why it's worth the drive.

"Hey, Austin," Mike says as I pick up my water bottle. He comes over to me at the weight bench. I just finished working my arms and chest. My muscles ache but in a good way, a way that proves I've worked my body to fatigue.

"Hey," I say. "You're late today."

Mike is one of the trainers here. He usually lifts weights before work, around six or six-thirty. We got to be friends when I was in high school and used to do early morning workouts. Now I have to fit in workouts around my construction job and gigs with the band.

"One of my clients had to meet early," he says, "so I moved my schedule around." He walks over to me. "You ever thought about being a trainer? We're looking for someone to hire."

"I can't." I grab a towel from the stack by the water cooler. "Between the band and my job, I barely have time to sleep."

"You get commission on each client and you wouldn't have to take on a lot of clients to start."

"I'll give it some thought," I say, but I'm not really interested. I like working out, but I don't want to train someone else. Being a trainer isn't easy. I've seen Mike training some of the guys here. They always think they know more than him so don't follow his instructions and then get mad when they don't see results.

"It's a good way to meet girls." Mike smiles at me as he grabs a towel. "But I guess you don't need any help in that area."

He glances at a girl on the treadmill who's smiling at me. She's here a lot and we've talked a few times but I have no interest in going out with her. She's one of those girls who's all muscle, no curves, and she's way too thin. She doesn't even look healthy.

Mike takes off for the free weights while I fill my water bottle at the cooler. Throughout the week, I alternate working my upper and lower body. Today was upper body, so I'm done and heading to work soon. As I'm drinking my water, my eyes catch a flash of orange shorts as a girl darts around one of the weight machines to adjust it. She's bent over so I can't see her, except for her legs, which are tan and shapely and solid muscle. She stands up, her back to me, and moves her neck side to side. She's wearing a white tank top, the kind girls work out in, with narrow straps at the top and a stretchy fabric that clings to her body. My eyes go to her bare shoulders and arms which look strong, her muscles flexing as she adjusts her long dark hair in her ponytail.

She's facing the wall but takes a step back and leans forward, placing her hands against the wall as she stretches the back of her legs. Seeing her bent over like that, her tight round ass on display, I feel a twitch in my shorts. I glance over at the TVs suspended above the treadmills and take a drink of water. I'm dying to look back at the girl but I promised myself I wouldn't be one of those guys who stares at girls at the gym.

I hear the weights clank and a girl's voice say "shit." I glance back at the girl and see her trying to adjust the machine, her head down.

I walk over to her. "Need some help?"

"Maybe. I was trying to—" She stops as her head lifts and she sees it's me.

It's that girl. The one from the bar last night. Kira. What's she doing at my gym? Out of all the gyms in Chicago, she joins
this
one? A small, local, no-frills gym? I can't help but smile. I never thought I'd see her again, and here she is, lifting weights at my gym, looking hotter than hell in those orange workout shorts and that skimpy white tank. Underneath it is an orange sports bra that matches her shorts. Normally a sports bra flattens a girl's chest, but not this one. This one pushes up her breasts and creates some nice cleavage which I have a good view of because I'm about a foot taller than her.