Page 9 of Drum Me Away
It wasn’t me either, but I’d wanted it to be. So badly that I’d convinced myself I was happy. But this impending breakup, fake as it may be, was making me unaccountably sad. What the hell was I going to do without Lucas?
Yeah, I’d managed for six weeks while he was back home, but I’d known he was returning. This…this felt permanent. And far more real than a fake breakup should.
“If you had your choice, where would you live?” I asked.
Instead of answering me, he glanced at his empty glass, then at mine. “You want a refill?”
“Sure.”
He hopped to his feet, all controlled grace and sleek muscles, and disappeared inside. When he returned, he carried the entire tray Dahlia had taken into the living room. After filling both flutes, he sat back down on the pool’s edge.
“I love the area where I grew up. And my family is there. My sister moved to New York for a few years, but it didn’t work out, so it looks like she’s planning to settle there too. I guess, if I had the choice, I’d probably move back home. Buy my own house on the lake.”
I sipped my mimosa. Our lives had been so different before we started the band. Whereas I’d hated my home life, couldn’t wait to get the hell away from my family, and had fewer than zero plans of ever returning, he was one of those lucky souls who craved his roots.
The other aspect of that information he’d just shared was the distinct lack of any tidbits regarding his girlfriend. Maybe it was on purpose; maybe he wasn’t ready to tell anyone about her. He and I had lost that tight friendship we’d had in the early years, so I could see where he might not consider me a close enough friend to talk about her.
That didn’t make it any easier to accept, for the record.
Still, if I read between the lines, what I heard him say was he wasn’t planning to bring his girlfriend out here; he wanted to go be with her.
I swallowed my pride and said, “It’s possible, you know. We don’t actually have to live in the LA area. We just do because it’s convenient. But you could always have your primary residence in Missouri and have an apartment or condo out here, for when we’re in the studio.”
He nodded, staring, I suspected, at something in his head. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true. What about you? What are you gonna do?”
I wish I knew. “I think the first thing I should do is take lessons on how to work a coffeemaker.”
He laughed. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh in… hell, I couldn’t remember the last time.
CHAPTER4
Lucas
Showtime.
The kickoff concert for our third North American tour. We’d be touring all summer into fall, wrapping up in October in New York City before taking a break for the holidays and then heading across the pond to Europe in January. Our first time performing somewhere outside the US and Canada.
I’d better be a free man by then.
We still had no idea of Dahlia’s plan. At least, I didn’t. And if Faith did, she hadn’t said as much to me.
Even though we were talking more now than we had in probably more than a year. Maybe longer. It’s like knowing the pressure of maintaining this not-real romantic relationship would be released had allowed us to reconnect the friendship we’d once shared.
I went along with it because I knew it would be easier on everyone if our “breakup” was amicable, like Faith suggested, but the reality was, if I couldn’t continue a fake love affair with her, I sure as hell couldn’t carry on a real friendship.
Which meant once we were no longer sharing a residence, it would be best to not talk at all.
Sure, when we were on the road, we were in close proximity pretty much all the time, but we weren’t alone. We were with the entire band. And usually hangers-on. Angel was almost always there, and now she had the kids and a nanny in tow too. Gabe was always around, of course, and Dahlia. Depending on which city we were playing, someone always seemed to have a friend or family member who joined us backstage before or after the show.
We were never alone until we were in our hotel rooms, and since those were separate, that was easy.
Now that we were a big enough act, we warranted individual dressing rooms too. I sat in mine, in a comfy chair in the corner, dressed and ready to go, sipping a chilled bottle of water, twirling my sticks through my fingers. I wasn’t one to get loaded before a concert; it was too easy for a drummer to injure himself if he was banging the skins while inebriated.
My mid-length hair was loose, which used to be a pain when it was longer and I was drumming and it got all sweaty and smacked me in the face. But the fans loved it, so Dahlia insisted. I looked forward to banging out a set without that stinging pain anymore.
I wore a pair of ripped jeans that sat low on my hips, because apparently women swooned over those V-shaped muscles that stood out courtesy of how freaking hard I worked to maintain my physique.
I wore a simple, white wifebeater that was one of about a hundred I had on hand. It was kind of a thing that I always ended up standing up in the middle of our set and tearing off my shirt. The girls in the crowd ate that shit up.
