Beat

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Flynn

The sun blares in through the small gap of the drawn curtains and lands directly on my face. I shield my eyes and try to fall back asleep, until I feel tiny hands trace the ink on my forearm. When her little finger follows the path of ink up to my shoulder, I surprise Laney by grabbing her and lifting her over my head. She squeals at the initial shock, but it quickly turns to a giggle. The sound warms me, even though my head is already beginning to throb.

“Uncle Sinn, you scared me!”

I growl, in my best monster voice, “Well, you shouldn’t wake a sleeping lion.”

“You’re not a lion, Uncle Sinn. Lions are scary!”

“And you don’t think I’m scary?” I lower my four-year-old niece from above my head and bring her forehead to my lips for a kiss.

“You can’t be scary, you have funny pictures all over your arms and back.” From the mouths of babes. Tell that to a tatted-up biker dude.

“Will you seep in my room with me tonight?”

“Maybe. If Mom says it’s okay.”

“Will you sing me that song when we go to bed again?”

“Sure.” I don’t have to ask which song. She made me sing it four hundred times the last time I visited.

“How come only one tattoo is colored, Uncle Sinn?” She pokes the red tattoo on my forearm—it’s the only ink that isn’t black or a shade of grey.

I jump up from the bed unexpectedly with her in my arms. She squeals again. “You’re chock-full of questions this morning, aren’t you?”

She nods fast, bursting with excitement, as if shooting off an arsenal of questions early in the morning was a good thing.

“Come on, let’s go find your mother.” I lift her over my head and onto my shoulders. Her tiny hands wrap around my chin.

“You’re up early.” My sister, Becca, is at the kitchen table. I walk to the coffee pot and pour before greeting her. Laney hasn’t said a word; she’s waiting for me to play the “where’s Laney?” game.

“I thought I heard Laney. Have you seen her?” I pivot left, then right, scanning the room.

My sister’s eyes rise to the passenger on my shoulders and she smiles. I picture Laney’s crooked-toothed smile gleaming back at her from above my head. “Nope. Haven’t seen her. Maybe she’s hiding under the bed.”

“That’s too bad. I was going to take her out for waffles and ice cream for breakfast. With whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream.” I grin, knowing my niece’s weakness.

“Uncle Sinn! I’m right here!” Laney screeches and tugs my chin up to look at her.

“Oh. There you are.”

My sister chuckles at the routine. “You know, I’m tempted to tell the speech therapist not to work on her Fs…because her name for you is just too perfect.”

I heave Laney from my shoulders and steady her on her feet. “Why don’t you go get ready for breakfast?”

“I wanna wear my Frozen pajamas to breakfast!” She jumps up and down.

I say okay, just as my sister tells her no. I love my sister dearly, but we’ve always been opposites.

“She can’t go to breakfast in her pajamas,” Becca scolds.

I shrug. “Why not? She’s four, not forty.”

“Because people don’t go out in their pajamas.”

“Your people don’t go out in their pajamas. Mine are perfectly fine with it.”

“Your people are nuts.”

“My people are fun.”

“Because they wear pajamas to breakfast?”

“No. Because they don’t care about what other people think of them wearing pajamas to breakfast. Lighten up, Bec. You sound like Mom.”

Her eyes widen to saucers. She huffs, but I already know she’s gonna cave. “Fine. You can wear your Frozen pajamas. But no slippers. Put on shoes and socks.”

***

“So how long are you in town for?”

“If everything goes as planned, seven weeks. Then I’m on the road for six months.”

“Six months? That’s a really long time, Flynn. Is the whole thing by bus?”

“Most of it. But Easy Ryder has some dates in Europe. I’m not sure if we’re playing those or the current opening act, Resin, is. That’s one of the things my agent is still working out before we finalize the deal to join the tour.” The original Wylde Ryde tour was supposed to last six months. But the band’s sales have dipped a bit, so they added almost six more months to try to regain momentum before the release of their next album. And the current opening act couldn’t join the extended dates.

“Agent.” She smiles. “Listen to you, big shot. You’re not going to get too famous for us, are you?”

“Never. I’ll always come back for my girl.” I lean over in my seat and kiss Laney on her very full check. She has a dollop of whipped cream on her nose and ice cream dripping down her chin. But she’s smiling from ear to ear. I’m guessing my sister’s idea of a fun breakfast is adding a banana to whole grain oatmeal.

The attentive waitress swings by our table again. “Can I get you anything else?” Her smile is directed at me. I’m not full of myself—well, maybe I am a bit—but I can tell she’s interested in something more than breakfast. She’s cute, although a little on the young side.

“We’re good. But thanks,” Becca responds just as I open my mouth to speak. I know my sister—her over-the-top smile oozes a bit too much sweetness to be real. She barely waits until the waitress is out of earshot. “Jesus, Flynn. Is that the norm for you these days? That waitress was practically drooling.”

“Can’t blame her. I am one of America’s most eligible bachelors, you know.” I sigh loudly, clasp my hands behind my head, and tip my chair back.

Six months ago I was on a reality TV program, where I was the bachelor. I fell hard for Kate, one of the contestants, but my feelings weren’t returned. Last I spoke to her, she had just found out she was having a baby girl with her new husband, Cooper.

A few weeks after the show ended, a magazine came out with their annual list of America’s most eligible bachelors, and my name was somehow on it. I thought it was pretty comical that anyone would describe me as an eligible bachelor, seeing as I was unemployed at the time. But that doesn’t stop me from gloating about it to my sister and my buddies.

My sister rolls her eyes. “You were an honorable mention on the last page of the article. The writer probably just felt bad for you because you did that stupid show and didn’t get the girl in the end.”

“You just can’t see the hotness of your own brother,” I tease. “Laney, who is the handsomest man in the world?”

She immediately points to me, her sticky lips smiling brightly, barely containing her mouth full of food.

“See.”

“Is that what you do, you shovel their mouths full of sweets to get them to fall in love with you?”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Gross, Flynn. Just gross.”

***

The lead singer of Easy Ryder is a bit of a douche. He made me wait at a bar for hours the other night before canceling, then today he’s more than an hour late. I get it, s**t happens. But walk in the room and at least pretend you give a crap by expressing an insincere apology. Instead, the minute he sits down at the conference table with me, Nolan and nine suits from Pulse Records, Dylan Ryder starts bitching.

“I asked for Throat Coat tea. That’s not what this is,” Dylan berates the assistant who just delivered his drink without ever looking up at her.

“It is Throat Coat tea, I made it myself,” she says in a timid voice.

“Then your water tastes like s**t. Use Voss.”

“I don’t think we have Voss.”

“Well, then go to a store,” he barks and lifts the cup over his head for her to take it away.

The assistant’s face flushes. “Okay.”

“So.” He turns his attention to me and dives right in. “I wanna be clear about one thing before we bring your band on board.”

“All right.”

“This is my show. The name on the tour is Easy Ryder, not Flynn f*****g Beckham or In Like Flynn, or whatever it is you call yourselves. I like your sound or you wouldn’t be here. But my tour is my tour. We aren’t coheadlining, you aren’t playing encores and cutting into my show, and you certainly aren’t selling your crap in my arenas.” He stops and glares at me. “You good with that?”

Total douchebag. “Got it.”

“I’m gonna hold you to it. p***y is going to love your pretty face. Will make you feel like you’re more important than you are. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Like you? “No problem.”

Again, he glares at me. My short, stoic answers leave him questioning if I’m mocking him or responding with the respect a petty soldier shows a commanding officer. Eventually, he nods and turns to his manager. “Sign ’em. You leave in less than two months.”

And just like that, In Like Flynn is going on tour.