Page 53 of Naughty Dreams
Her blue eyes widened as she brushed back a lock of copper-brown hair. “Wow. You couldn’t tell.”
“I’ve learned to cover it.” DJ sat across from her, an acoustic guitar cradled in his lap. “My foster dad tried to rip my arm off. Ever since, it likes to pull that shit at inconvenient times.” DJ’s gaze moved to Roy, sitting on the couch toward the back. As promised, it offered the best view of the bus interior and exits.
Leann’s expression became steeped in sorrow and anger. “I wanted to do this piece. But there are times what I’m learning gets overwhelming. I know that seems trite—you all are the ones that went through it, not me, but…”
“Your article will help the kids in the system, and the good foster parents.” DJ touched her knee, flustering her in that DJ-way of his, but it was intended as a reassurance. “We made itthrough, and things happen for a reason. All of that, it goes into our songs. What bubblegum shit would we be singing if we didn't have that?
"Hey, I like some of that bubblegum shit. ‘Call me maybe.’" Tal, stretched out in the upper bunk across from Pete’s, punctuated the song verse with an effeminate jut of his hips. Leann’s photographer was quick to snap the shot.
"Don't do that again, ever," Pete told Tal. "I have to sleep at night."
“Seriously, we got way lucky with our last foster home,” Steve put in. “That’s how we met, and Marjorie’s the closest thing we’d ever consider to a mom.”
He sat next to Lonnie, the Olive Oyl girlfriend. The short cotton dress over striped leggings she’d been wearing in Roy’s file photo was her preferred fashion statement. Today the dress was red and the stockings were white polka dots against a black field. Her shiny black shoes had thick soles and heavy silver buckles.
When Roy had first met her, she’d shaken his hand solemnly and thanked him for protecting the band. A science geek pursuing an astronomy major, she seemed level-headed, and a good influence on Steve. He’d successfully talked her into taking a semester break to join them in Dallas for the rest of the tour.
“Marjorie came up with the idea to help Tal sleep better,” DJ told Leann, glancing up at Tal. “When he came to crash at our place, he’d have nightmares and wander the house. She unrolled a yoga mat behind his drum kit. He slept on it like a baby.”
“Still do,” Tal said. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind a nice cushy hotel bed, but sometimes I prefer to sleep with my kit.”
Leann returned to Steve’s earlier comment. “You said Marjorie is the closest thing you’d ever had to a mom. You don’t see her actually as your mom?”
“At a certain age, you give up on that,” Tal said. “You’re too broken. You’re never going to trust it enough to call her that. Her saying it’s okay, or her deserving it, doesn’t change that.”
The band members exchanged glances. Lonnie slipped her hand into Steve’s, her fingers stroking his. DJ gave Leann a nod. He wasn’t disagreeing. “It wasn’t her failing,” he said. “Some things stay broken.”
When Leann had enough material for her interview, they were thirty minutes from the rendezvous point with her ride back to the city. Pete brought her and the photographer a beer and pointed a finger at DJ. “Play That Tune.”
DJ groaned, but Steve fist pumped and Tal did a drum roll on the bus ceiling.
“We give DJ something outside his wheelhouse to sing, and mock him if he sounds like shit. It’s how we keep him humble.” Pete winked at Leann. “
“Give it a try,” Steve told her. “Suggest any song you think he can’t do.”
“‘Call Me Maybe,’” Tal hollered.
“Can’t dowell,” Pete amended. “A toddler can sing anything. Doesn’t mean he should. If you ever hear DJ rap, you’ll never get it out of your head. It’s like fungus stuck in the brain.”
“Can I record this?” Leann asked.
“Oh, hell no.” DJ grabbed her recorder and tossed it to Lonnie for safe keeping, while shooting an accusing look at his jeering bandmates. “I can trusthernot to slip it back to Leann.”
Leann held up both hands. “Okay, okay. But I would like to hear it.”
It was impossible to overlook how easy it would be for DJ to talk the divorced mom into bed with him. A pleasant interlude, no strings attached. Hell, her photographer was straight, and even he was crushing on the lanky, relaxed kid with piercing eyes.
Roy wasn’t jealous. It just gave him some interesting feelings, noticing how DJ wasn’t angling for the low hanging fruit. Instead, his gaze kept moving to find Roy, as if making sure he was still there, working on his laptop and phone, and enjoying the visual confirmation that he was.
Roy frowned as he read the latest report from his best investigator. He hadn’t made any more progress on the stalker than law enforcement had. The asshole knew how to cover his bases.
His attention returned to the bus as DJ sang “Call Me Maybe,” while he played the basic chords for the song on his guitar. Roy had expected him to do an exaggerated version, to spoof the teen favorite. Instead he straddled the line between pop and heavy metal, offering a damn good cover.
When he reached the end of the first chorus, he paused and cocked his head. “Score?” He got tens from Leann and her photographer, a fair-to-middling hand gesture from Steve and Pete, and a boo from Tal. Lonnie smiled at DJ, the recorder securely cradled in both hands.
“Tal and sour Simon from American Idol are brothers from a different mother,” Pete told Leann.
“Next?” DJ asked.
