Someone to Watch Over Me (24 page)

“I wasn’t planning to!”

“You’re going dooowwwwnnnn,” Carter said.
“You’re gonna serve me breakfast, lunch and dinner in a bikini.
You’re gonna wipe my ass when I take a shit. By the time I’m done
with you, you’re gonna beg for mer—”

Grasping Carter’s face between my hands, I
pressed my lips to his in a kiss that left him befuddled and
motionless. Then I brought my knee up until it hugged his nuts,
just enough to provide warning. It was then that Carter grasped the
meaning behind the kiss.

“Damn Coop, why you always gotta go for the
balls?” he asked, climbing off me. Unlike my flesh, his guitar
looked none the worse for wear.

Following suit with alacrity, I climbed off
the floor of the body bag. The guys regaled me with many tales of
their past exploits and I’d rather not spend any more time there
than possible. God knows what lurked in the piles of the once-beige
Berber carpeting.

“Because it’s effective.”

“Your girlfriend kissed me,” Carter told
Tate, as if he didn’t already know. “What are you gonna do about
that, man? You gonna let her get away with that shit?”

“Yup.”

“Dude!”

Tate barely spared a glance from his tablet
where he was editing his music. He had a program that he used to
write notes and add lyrics. It was amazing. I, on the other hand,
used a sheet of paper and a number two pencil. “She enjoyed it as
much as I did.”

In the process of wiping the remainder of my
smeared lip-gloss from my mouth, I unintentionally bolstered Tate’s
claim.

Carter’s eyes narrowed. “You know—women line
up around the block for what you’re wiping from your mouth.”

“I hate to tell you, Carter, but if you wear
lip gloss, you better buy a better brand. Your lips are really
dry.”

“They’re chapped from kissing your ass,
Coop. But your kid’s not here right now, so I can curse all I
fuckin’ want, so fuck you.”

“What a rebel.”

“Your pimp hand’s weak, Twat, real fucking
weak. Someone needs to lay down the smackdown on her ass.”

“Jake,” Tate sighed, “hit him, would
you?”

I promptly stepped aside as Jake laid the
smackdown on Carter. It was all in good fun. Jake was a pretty boy,
but he sure could tussle. And Carter, I was glad he didn’t
pussyfoot around me. He acted like himself. I was just one of the
guys. He made me feel normal.

In the back of the bus, Shane was toking up.
Personally, I thought it was the least hazardous of drugs out
there, but neither did I think it was the perfect environment for
raising Levy. After a few deep drags, the whole bus began to stink
like dope. I could’ve gotten high from the secondhand smoke. But
then, I could get a contact high just being around Shane.

“It’s just pot,” Tate pointed out. “And
Levy’s not here.”

“Maybe I was contemplating taking a
hit.”

“You?”

“I’ve gotten high.” Dropping beside him on
the sofa, I stole his beer, which was leaving sweat rings on the
side table because he was busy writing instead of drinking it. But
hey, I knew the feeling. When inspiration hit, you had to cede. As
artists, we were at its disposal. God knows, that spark of
brilliance could fade as fast as it flared. “Geez, Tate, I’m a
mother, not a saint.”

Still absorbed in his writing, a small grin
played at the edge of his lips. “And when do you do this smoking of
illegal substances?”

“It’s been a while,” I admitted. “One of the
girls at The Loft gave me a ride home one night after work when my
car was in the shop. Levy was with Em. It had been a busy night. I
knew it would help me wind down.”

“What else have you done?”

“You.” I smiled coquettishly, looking up
from under my lashes. “You’re my drug of choice.” Unable to resist,
Tate abandoned his writing, pulled me onto his lap, and pressed his
lips to mine in a lengthy kiss. It was the first in several days
that involved the use of tongue.

He clearly missed using his tongue.

So did I.

Breaking the kiss when Carter began to shred
‘Gone with the Wind’ with his guitar, Tate leaned in close to my
ear. “Next week, we’re gonna test that piercing of yours.”

I felt a certain frisson over the thought,
my voyeurism—as Tate called it—emerging. I couldn’t help it. I
liked to observe Tate at work. There was something about watching
his baser side take over. From that angle, I’d see all of him, all
those corded muscles strained and…

“Sir, you are no gentlemen,” Carter pressed,
“and you, Miss, are no lady.”

Tate rolled his eyes and glowered at his
friend. “Fuck off, Carter.”

“I’m about to, watching you two eye-fuck
each other.”

“Get your headstock out of my back, Carter,”
I carped, batting at his guitar. “Why are you always poking me with
your instrument? Is it a proxy for your undersized cock?”

Tate belted out a laugh, helping me up from
his lap.

“You’re lucky I like you, Coop. Otherwise
I’d shove my headstock up your tight little ass.”

“OOoohhh! Big words for such a
wittle
man.”

“Tate, better get control of your woman
before I do it for you.”

“Cause you did so well the last time,” Tate
replied. “Do yourself a favor, Carter; spare your balls, and leave
my woman alone.”

“I remember when you used to have my back,”
Carter accused of Tate. “But that’s ok. I see where your priorities
lie. Wenches come first. Snatch before sidekick.”

Immersing himself back into his music, Tate
just nodded his head. “Just so that we’re clear.”

“You’re pussy whipped, bro.”

“Take it from the top, Shane,” Tate
prompted, ignoring him.

Twirling his Vic Firth’s like a pair of
six-shooters, Shane began beating his drums. Carter jumped in on
cue, and then Jake. Although half of them were playing on watered
down versions of the real instruments, they sounded totally fucking
amazing.

When Tate joined in on his guitar and began
belting out lyrics, I seriously think I wet my panties. No kidding.
I was in complete and utter awe. This was it, what I had always
dreamed of. He was making music. I was witnessing Hautboy history,
the birth of a rock song.

Suddenly, I understood Tate’s sexual assault
the night I sang at The Loft. I had never been closer, yet felt so
far from the object of my desire. He was out of my league. I wanted
to drag him into the Gas Chamber and perform a sexual act of
desperation, despite our audience, just to say that Tate Watkins
was mine, even if only for a short while. How fucking sad.

“Cooper…ooper…ooper…ooper,” Carter echoed.
“There she’s goes again, lost in la la land. You sure she didn’t
take something earlier, Tate?”

“I heard you,” I replied. “I’m just…” I
shook my head, “speechless.”

“Speechless good?” Jake inquired, “Or
speechless bad?”

My eyebrows arched to a position that said
‘seriously?’ “You’re asking my opinion?”

“You
are
a musician, babe,” Tate
pointed out. “Who better to ask?”

“A real musician. I sing twit songs.”

“We all sing twit songs at one time or
another,” he dismissed. “Christ, Carter, how many times did we have
to cover Seven Nation Army or About a Girl just to get in the
door?”

They started droning the latter to drive
home the point.

“Nooo!” I said in disbelief. Hautboy
covering another band? I just couldn’t picture it. Still. “They’re
not twit songs, they’re covers, and nobody’s expecting you to strip
your shirt off while performing them.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Carter objected. “They ask
us to take our shirts off all the time, and we usually comply
without hesitation. You should try it next time you take the
stage.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. Just like
that, my momentary bout of hysteria waned. Carter Strickland, Tate
Watkins, Jake Whalen, Shane Richardson…they were all people like
me.

“Well?” Tate pressed. “What do you
think?”

“I can’t. I don’t want to compromise your
style.”

“What the hell did you do earlier?” Carter
scoffed. “You told me I needed to drop down a bar. Were you just
agreeing with Twat?”

“No.”

“Well you have an opinion, don’t you?”

“You guys have ten years on me. Five of your
seven albums have won Grammy Awards for best album. And you’re
asking for
my
opinion?”

Carter looked at Tate. They both looked at
Jake and then Shane, as if taking a consensus. I felt like such a
dweeb, watching them all nod their heads with mocking conformity,
all but Shane who shrugged indifferently.

“Yeah,” Tate said. “Yeah, we are.”

Pushing my hand through my hair, I blew out
a breath. God, was I really going to open my mouth? Yeah, yeah I
was, and I would probably stick my foot in it, too. “Strawberry
Island, Flying High, Upside of Sanity, and Can’t Complain—four of
your Grammy winning albums—started off with what?”

Carter beamed. “Bass intros.”

He was right, but I was trying at all costs
to keep from ruffling feathers. Jake and Shane lived in the shadow
of Tate and Carter. The last thing I wanted to do was point out the
public’s constant disregard of their importance to the band.

“Close,
provocative
intros. No matter
what instrument you start with, bass, drums, keyboards or vocals,
it needs to make an impression. You’re telling a story. Your intro
is the initial factor in winning your audience’s attention. Ninety
percent of listeners will judge your song within the first ten
seconds, which decides whether they turn the station or not. You
might have a ten percent curve because of your fans.”

Carter broke his stare and turned to Tate.
“Your girl thinks you need to rewrite, Tate.”

“She’s right,” Tate agreed. “The numbers
speak for themselves. What the Doctor Ordered was the closest we
came to our original material since Can’t Complain. Our last two
albums were shit.”

Life happened. Shane overdosed and spent
time in rehab. Later, he and Jake demanded to have their share of
the spotlight. Tate accommodated them with generous solos. It
didn’t work out. It compromised the style of music they were known
for, and affected ratings.

Bending at the waist, Carter stared me in
the eyes. I think he was expecting to find that I’d gone away to la
la land again. He looked disappointed that I hadn’t. “You’re
supposed to disagree there, Coop.”

“You asked for an opinion. Either you want
the truth or you want me to make you feel better. I can’t give you
both.” Insert foot into mouth now. “Look, all I’m saying is if
someone wants Metallica, they’re going to listen to Metallica; if
they want Mumford and Sons, they’re going to listen to Mumford and
Sons. The same goes for Hautboy. You’re known for your amazing bass
lines. It’s what works for you. Shut up Carter,” I said when he
beamed a gloating smile. “Downplay the slapping for a more melodic
bass line. Less is more.”

Carter’s smile fell.

“When someone says Hautboy, they expect bass
and killer lyrics. It’s what you’re good at. It’s who you are. Keep
it fresh, but give your fans what they want.”

Behind me, the flint sparked and a fresh
cloud of pot smoke thickened the air. “Like she said, she’s just a
kid,” Shane dismissed. “She don’t know jack about writing
music.”

“She’s our target audience,” Tate disagreed,
tolerantly. He didn’t sink to calling Shane a moron or deride him
for his petty observations. Tate was essentially the head of the
band, not just the lead singer. It was his job to keep the peace.
“That in itself makes her opinion valid.”

“And she writes better shit than you ever
have,” Carter added. “Oh, wait, you haven’t written any music. So
shut the fuck up.”

By Shane’s expression, you’d think Carter’s
words came from Tate’s own mouth. “You’re right, you know; his
priorities
have
changed. It won’t be long before you’re in
the same boat as Jake and me. You won’t be Hautboy’s bass player;
you’ll be ‘Tate Watkins’ bass player.’”

“Fuck off, Shane.”

Moving past Tate, Shane drove his point
home. “Man, you’re making a mistake, listening to her. She’s just
another one of your countless strawberry girls. They come and go,
but we’re your fucking band.”

Oh, wow.

To my surprise—and everyone else’s—Tate
jumped off the sofa and grabbed Shane by the collar. His guitar
fell to the floor, humming a discordant complaint over its abrupt
upheaval.

“She’s not another fucking strawberry girl.
She’s not a fucking whore or a fangirl. She’s my fucking
girlfriend, ok? If I hear you call her anything but Cooper, I’ll
knock out the rest of those rotted stumps you call teeth.”

Carter stepped forward before any fists
could be thrown. Shane yanked his shirt from Tate’s grip and ambled
to the front of the bus. Through the short confrontation, he hadn’t
dropped his joint. I guess we all knew where his priorities
lay.

“She’s coming on tour with me,” Tate stated,
eyeing Carter and Shane. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

“Me,” I spoke up. “I never agreed.”

“Shane was just throwing a hissy fit,”
Carter dismissed. “It’s not the first time. Don’t take anything he
said personally.”

I gasped mockingly. “You mean Tate Watkins
has fucked other women? My God, all this time I thought I was
special. I was his only strawberry girl.”

“Excuse us,” said Tate, grasping my arm and
dragging me to the back of the bus. It wasn’t a far walk, and the
thin veneer door of the bedroom provided little privacy. I went on
the defensive and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I don’t think I’d like you to call me that
anymore.”

“I’ve never called anyone that but you.”

“Yeah, well, between Carter and Shane, the
sentiment has soured.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I tried to ease
the tension nagging me. “You know I don’t give a shit about your
past.”