An old, vintage bicycle.
I haven’t ridden a bike in years, but I push the door open and step inside to the sound of an ancient “ding” from the bell above the door. There’s nobody in sight, just aisles stacked high with junk, packed so tightly together I can barely make my way through. I duck under an old oar, and find the bike resting up against an old steamer trunk. It’s cherry-red, one of the old-fashioned upright models that must be thirty years old at least. I don’t know anything about bicycles, but the leather seat seems solid, and when I turn the pedals, the chain spins slow but fine.
The owner lets me have it for twenty bucks, and throws in an ugly safety helmet too. I set off back down the road to the beach house, wobbling all over the place like I’m learning to ride from scratch again. Cars pass me, tooting their horns, but I put my head down and keep pedaling, feeling the burn with every push. It’s not just me that’s out of shape: the tires are nearly flat, and the chain is sticking and stiff. I should have had someone check it out before I left, but now I’m well past halfway home and can’t bring myself to turn back, so I struggle on, panting for air.
Ryland would laugh his ass off if he saw me now.
I remember his arms around me, the flash of raw desire in his eyes. My stomach does a slow flip—and I nearly drive straight into a ditch.
Down girl!
I let out a noise of frustration, coming to a stop on the empty road before I can plant face-first on the asphalt. I take a deep breath, and then another. Clearly Ryland is a threat to my well-being, in more ways than one. Just when I swear I’m going to starting making healthy emotional choices, he comes around: tempting as the devil, and twice as dangerous. I barely know him, it’s true, but a guy who walked right up to me in a casino and kissed me hot enough to burn the world down is hardly the safe, reliable type.
And safe and reliable is the only thing on my wish list right now. An accountant, maybe. Yes, a normal, boring accountant who volunteers at the animal shelter and calls his mother every Sunday. He’d take me out to dinner, hold my hand over the table, and drop me at my front door with a chaste kiss on the cheek. No heart-stopping reckless make-outs, no glittering intensity in his stare, making my skin shiver and my limbs turn to liquid gold…
My phone rings in my purse, saving me from having to think about Ryland James and his miraculous kisses. I pull it out, and laugh when I see the caller ID.
“Twenty-four hours without checking up on me? You’re slipping, big brother,” I tease, starting to walk along the road. I push the bike beside me with one hand on the frame.
“I’m showing restraint,” Dex replies. He sounds more relaxed now. “We’ve been flying all day, I thought about about having the pilot call down especially,” he adds with a chuckle, “but I figured you couldn’t get up to too much trouble in Beachwood Bay.”
Don’t bet on it…
“Nothing new here,” I say brightly, “How’s the tour?”
“It’s going great,” he replies. “The crowds are amazing, and it’s great to be back with the guys again, and we’re already writing songs for the next record.”
“That’s great,” I reply, feeling a pang of envy for my brother. Not the fame and adoration, and the hectic pace of life on the road. But for his sense of purpose. As long as I can remember, he wanted to be a rock star: playing in the basement, teaching himself chords on a beat-up old guitar after school. His music is his life force, his passion, and even with Alicia in his life now, that love just seems to fuel his music, not diminish it.
I find myself wishing again I had that kind of clarity. A direction, something to guide me from day to day. Connor was always my direction, and now I’m spinning like a compass needle, searching for true North.
“…the label is on board, they’re even running a contest to write one of the tracks.”
Dex’s voice filters through my thoughts.
“A contest?” I repeat, pushing the bicycle around a bend. I’m just about ready to melt in a puddle from the heat.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” Dex explains. “We’re inviting people to submit a demo track, and we’ll record the best one for the album. Anyone can enter, not just professionals. I had my doubts at first,” he adds, “but we’ve had a ton of entries, and we only just announced it. It’s getting us some great buzz.”
“It’s a really good idea,” I reply, struck with the thought of it. Imagine, going from being an unknown songwriter to having a track on what will surely be one of the biggest records of the year. It’s the kind of break people dream about. “Will you be OK recording someone else’s song? You’ve always written your own stuff.”
“Hey, good music is good music, I don’t care where it comes from or who wrote it.” Dex sounds nonchalant. “Anyway, we’ve got a month until we pick the winning track, so I don’t need to worry about it. Right now, I just need to get through this tour without dropping dead of exhaustion.”
I freeze.
There’s a beat.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dex says quickly.
“Hey, it’s fine.” I force my voice to sound upbeat. “Listen, I have to go. Give my love to Alicia and the guys.”
“Tegan…”
“Really, Dex, it’s OK. I know you didn’t mean it. Love you!” I hang up quickly, before he can apologize again. I’m sick of everyone dancing around it, like the slightest mention is going to trigger me, sending me spiraling back into the darkness again.