Nadia
Sunday we stay in bed until late afternoon. My body is sore and raw in all the right places. I haven’t felt this comfortable being naked or even being in my own skin since before my abduction. Actually, ever.
Something about Flynn just allows me to let down my guard. To feel free. Like anything’s possible.
Flynn gained another fifty thousand followers since last night’s show. The short clips I posted seem to be going viral.
Flynn’s phone dings with an incoming text, and he picks it up and looks at it. “Hey, this is my dad,” he says, leaning up on an elbow. “He wants to know if I can fill in with his band in an hour.”
“Yes! I want to see his band. With you playing. May I come?”
Flynn’s grin is lazy. It makes my heart lurch. “Well, yeah. I was sort of asking you if it was okay if I played. I meanI didn’t know how long you were going to hang out.”
“Oh!”
Gospodi, have I stayed too long? Is this getting too intense for him? I don’t want to be like that horrible Cadence.
I crawl off the bed. “I can go now. It’s okay.”
Flynn grabs my ankle and tugs me back. “Whoa. Where are you going? Hang on. I don’t want you to go.”
“You don’t?” I try not to sound as happy and hopeful as I feel.
I think we’re pretty good together.
That was what he said once, but I didn’t know whether he meant in bed or as a couple.
Probably not as a couple because that’s not what we are.
He crawls over me. His long bangs hang across his right eye. He’s beautiful in the morning sun. Magnificent, really.
I wish I could capture this moment for his fans.
Not for me. I don’t get to hold onto him. To this.
He straddles my waist and pins my wrists beside my head. Because it’s Flynn and his touch is gentle, nothing about the situation reminds me of captivity.
“Peaches, I have a bone to pick with you.”
“What does this mean?” I don’t understand the English turn of phrase.
“It means I have a complaint to lodge.”
“Oh.” My heart rate picks up speed. I’m already upset before I’ve even heard why he’s mad at me.
“I’m getting tired of you not making demands of me.”
I blink. Try to comprehend his words. Blink some more. “What?”
“I just invited you to weigh in on what we do tonight, and you try to bail on me.”
Bail. I remember this word. He means leave.
A warm flush washes over my skin, creeping across my chest and up my neck to my face. Do I understand him correctly? Is he saying I have…rights to him? To his time? His life?
“I know I don’t seem like the most dependable guy. Before I met you, I used to party five nights a week. I slept around. I didn’t try too hard at much of anything. So I get it if you don’t think I can man up and be held accountable.”
“Wait. That’s not true. That’s not true at all. I don’t think any of those things about you, Flynn.”
Pain lances through my heart at hearing how he sees himself. Have I contributed to that self-image? I don’t understand how.
He shrugs. “You can ask more of me, Nadia. I mean, if you want.”
My lips part, but I don’t know what to say.
What is he offering me? To be my boyfriend?
“I want that,” he says.
“I don’t understand,” I confess. I think it’s less a language barrier than Flynn not being completely clear.
He looks down at me with those warm brown eyes. “Do you want more?”
Caught between rushing to assure him that everything he’s given me is more than enough and wanting to beg for it allthe full Flynn package of moving in together, buying dishes and using matching toothbrushesI end up with my mouth open and no words at all coming out.
In that moment, I watch something shut down behind Flynn’s eyes. “It’s cool,” he says, releasing my wrists. “I like what we have.” He climbs off me.
“Wait!” I grab his shoulders, but to my distress, he keeps moving.
I leap onto his back, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, so he’s carrying me when he stands.
He laughs, my weight pulling us both toppling backward to the bed.
“Like this?” I ask. “Can I demand piggyback rides?”
He frees himself of my hold and flips around, tickling me. I scream and giggle, pushing his hands away. “I’d be pissed if you didn’t.” I love the deep rumble of his voice.
“Can I demand spankings?” I must be channeling Kat, but I want the playfulness she and Adrian have. That ease and bond they have with each other.
Flynn flips me to my belly and lands a few choice slaps on my ass. “Always. You have the perfect ass for spanking.”
I try to think what else to demand of Flynn. I’m still not sure what he wants from me, all I know is I desperately want to give it to him. Everything he desires.
“I want my song.”
Flynn rolls me onto my back. “You’re getting your song, sweetheart. I’ve been working on it, but it’s not ready yet.” He leans over and kisses me.
“I’m going to make demands all day long, Flynn Taylor. You’ll be sorry you asked.”
He doesn’t look sorry, though. He looks far more content than he did a few minutes ago. “So tell me what you want to do this afternoon.”
Oh.
My pulse races when I finally get the gist of what he’s asking of me. He’s saying I get to weigh in on his time. His plans. His life.
Is he really giving this to me?
I draw a breath and sit up, facing him. We’re nose to nose. “I definitely want to see you play with your dad’s band.”
Flynn’s grin makes my whole world combust. Flames lick the walls of his bedroom, the floor, the bed. With one simple smile, he burns down the walls between us, and I have nowhere to jump but into his waiting arms.
“Let’s go, sweetheart.” He hops off the bed, sending me a wink over his shoulder as he goes to his dresser to find some clothes.
I sit on the bed to watch, savoring the moment. Not wanting to share this one with Flynn’s fans. No, I was keeping this incredible Flynn scene all for myself.
Flynn
My dad’s band was playing in a microbrewery in the suburbs that caters to an upper-middle-class fifty and older crowd. The Nighthawks are a solid choice, as they play the music of that generation although it might get a little louder than the manager anticipated.
I park in the lot and unload my guitar and amp from the van. Nadia tries to take the guitar from me, but I don’t let her. “You’re not my pack mule, Peaches.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“My muse.” My girl. My inspiration. My everything.
She likes my answer.
I grasp her nape and pull her in for a kiss, breathing in her butterscotch scent. “Your job is to look beautiful and be you. Can you handle that?”
I love seeing the laughter light up her pretty face. “Yes.”
“Good.”
We walk in together. My dad is up on the stage, setting up the equipment with Lenny, the drummer and David, the keyboardist. I’m filling in for Jeff. My dad does a doubletake to see me with a girl. Up until now, I’ve been the chip off the old block when it came to women. I didn’t do long term. I didn’t even do short term.
I lift the amp onto the stage and set my guitar down beside it then walk around to climb the stairs and set up.
“Hey, bud. Who’s your friend?”
Girlfriend. I don’t know why it pisses me off that we’re not using that word. I want full rights to this girl. I want to own her world as much as she owns mine.
“This is Nadia. Nadia, my dad, Shawn.”
“Hey, Nadia.” He tips his head my way. “You two hang out last night?”
Ugh. My stomach turns at his assumption she’s nothing more than my hookup from last night.
Nadia’s smile wobbles.
I lace my fingers through hers. “We hang out every night. Nadia is my muse.”
There. If I’m not calling her my girlfriend, I’m going to wear the hell out the title she’s letting me use.
“Your muse, eh?” My dad flashes a grin that I know looks just like mine. “Everyone needs one of those. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“Oh, you’re Russian,” he says when he hears her accent. “Like Oleg?”
“She lives in the same building as Story and Oleg. That’s where we met.”
“Nice. You like music?”
“I love it. Especially when Flynn plays.”
“Great. You’ll get to see him sing quite a bit this afternoon, too. He’s going to play frontman.”
“Oh good!” She claps her hands together. “I want him to play frontman more with the Storytellers, too. His fans want more of him.”
My dad slides me a questioning look, and I experience a smudge of shame over my newfound popularity. No, not shame. Guilt.
Like I shouldn’t have the thing my dad wanted so badly but never quite achieved. I think he wanted to be bigger than U2. Bigger than The Rolling Stones. Like the Beatles with the screaming females throwing their panties and fainting when he went by.
He got plenty of actiondon’t get me wrongthat was the source of my parents’ nine breakupsbut never the adulation he truly craved.
I’m not sure how I even know that. He’s never come out and said it specifically, but he’s my dad. He’s said things here and there that allowed me to piece together that his dreams were deferred. Dried up like Langston Hughes’ raisin in the sun.
I know he’s bitter that his bandmates never were able to write their own hits. They fell back on playing covers of other popular 80’s rock songs and eventually stopped creating their own music. I suspect drugs and alcohol abuse had something to do with that. My dad’s fully functional, but I’ve certainly seen him in as many valleys between the peaks as I’ve seen my mom through and all related to excessive partying.
My mom’s breakdowns are just more honest. I don’t think my dad has ever taken the time to look at his own baggage.
So I haven’t mentioned anything to my dad about our recent success, other than telling him about the music videos we did with the skateboarding stars a few months ago. I doubt Story has told him, either.
It occurs to me that my fear of eclipsing my dad may be another one of the reasons I never tried too hard with the band.
Even now, I find myself hoping Nadia won’t say more about the fans. Or our growing success.
I look around at the setup of the stage. There are no wings on this one, it’s just a semi-circle in a corner. “There’s no backstage here, Peaches, but if you sit front and center, I’ll sing every song just for you.”
Nadia pretends to swoon which makes me laugh. “Okay. Give me your phone.”
I love when she makes demands of me. I hand her my phone, knowing she’s going to start posting photos, videos and live streams of me. I don’t mind because it makes her happy. I think it gives her something to do, and she feels safer viewing the world through the lens of the camera, and that’s fine with me.
I plug in my amp and tune the guitar, and my dad goes through the playlist. They’re all classic, fun songs. The style is totally different from the Storytellers, but it’s the music I was raised on, so a piece of cake for me.
The place is about one-third full, but it’s still early, and the band hasn’t started playing yet. I’m definitely not too proud to play to an empty bar. Hell, the Storytellers spent three years playing to however many people showed.
Nadia takes the table in front and orders a burger and fries while we finish getting set up.
We start with the Rolling Stones’ “Start Me Up” with my dad on lead vocals which perks the crowd up. Nadia props my phone against her purse on the table to stream it.
We go right into Boston and then a Chicago song and some Van Halen.
I have a good time singing to Nadia, maybe showing off a little. There’s a little part of me that’s making fun of the oldtimer music, a little part paying homage. It’s all in good spirits.
The crowd fills in, and they seem to enjoy us, which makes my dad happy. At the end of the set, I slide into a chair beside Nadia and munch on her french fries.
“Tiktok is going crazy over you,” she says with a smile.
“Yeah?”
“They love the father-son thing. And seeing you do classic rock. Your fangirls say they’re on their way over to watch it live.”
“Oh shit.” My stomach sinks.
“What?”
How will my dad feel if my fans crash his party? This isn’t going to go well. “I just…I don’t want to steal my dad’s thunder, you know?”
Nadia frowns. “What?”
“I mean, this is his band’s gig. I don’t want to make it about me.”
She only looks further confused. “Flynn, your dad is so happy to have you playing with him. Do you have any idea how proud he is of you?”
I scratch my neck.
“Seriously. Did you hear the way he introduced you? He loves having you play with the band. That’s why he put you on as the frontman.”
“No, it’s just because I’m replacing the guy who sings those songs.”
She shakes her head. “You have this backward, Flynn.” She hesitates. “I think maybe because of your childhood, you and Story are used to playing parents to your parents. I get itI have an alcoholic dad.”
Eons of grief stored in my cells suddenly dumps into my gut. I’m swamped with emotion. With the weight I carried as a boy of trying to parse, understand and navigate all the emotions and dynamics in our chaotic home. There was lots of love but no stability. Our parents could barely take care of their own dramas to notice ours.
Nadia must see my pain because she reaches out and covers my hand with hers. “Parents want their children to surpass them. Or they should. If they don’t, then that’s their problem.”
Just then my dad invites himself to join us, and Nadia pulls her hand away and grabs a fry. “Are you enjoying the show?” he asks.
“I love it,” Nadia says. “Flynn’s fans are loving seeing him play with his dad. They’re supposedly all rushing down here.”
My dad’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t look upset. More interested. Maybe even pleased. “Who are these fans? Do you have a big following, bud?”
I shove a fry in my face.
Nadia answers for me. “They have a line wrapped around the building for their shows now. They’re definitely on an upswing.”
“It’s thanks to Nadia’s promo efforts,” I say. “She’s been posting videos and live streams of our performances and rehearsals.”
My dad looks at Nadia with fresh appraisal. “That’s brilliant.” He shakes his head. “Social media has changed everything hasn’t it?” He sounds just like the Gen X’er he is. “It’s all about Tiktok, right? Things are so different nowyou don’t have to wait to be discovered. You can just make your own fame.”
“Yeah.”
“You guys could just stay indie and control your own futures. The pathways to success are more varied than they used to be.” There’s an enthusiasm in my dad I haven’t seen before.
Something in me relaxes. He isn’t jealous. Our success won’t hurt him. Nadia was rightparents want their kids to surpass them.
Maybe I was the one who didn’t want to surpass him. To make him less of a man or a role model or musician. I wanted to prove how his path of just playing small local gigs was the way to go. That it was enough.
But Nadia is helping me see that while it may be enough, there could be more. I could believe in something bigger. Something huge, even. It terrifies me, but at the same time, it feels possible. There for the taking if I’d just be willing to reach out and grab it.
“Yeah, staying indie would be cool,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve even considered the question of whether I’d actually choose indie or go with a major label if they both were offered. All this time, I had this idea that you had to get “discovered.” Like I had to sit back and wait for someone else to come to me instead of putting myself out there. But what if being indie was an actual choice not a default? It’s an interesting idea.
“You could hire Chelle’s publicity firm to handle your account. I bet she has ideas of how to take your band to the next level.” Nadia reaches out and wipes a smudge of ketchup from the corner of my mouth with her thumb. It’s a simple gesture, yet intimate and caring. I catch her wrist and bring her hand back to kiss the back of her hand.
My dad follows it all with interest. I guess it must be weird to see me with someone I’m so connected to when I’ve never even brought a girl home before.
“Chelle is the one who connected you with the skateboarders?” he asks.
“Yes, she works for a big PR firm and lives in Story’s building, too.”
“Another Russian?”
“Russian’s girlfriend.”
“Sounds like a great resource.” My dad nods and pushes back from the table.
As he walks away, I lean over and kiss Nadia’s cheek. “You were right.”
She bats her lashes with a smug tilt of her lips. “Say it again.”
I kiss her again. “You were right, you were right, you were right. I’ll say it all day.” I get up because the band is reassembling on stage. “Any requests?”
“My song?”
“Sorry, Peaches. It’s not ready. I’ll play you something good, though.”
We get back up and play the second set, following the set list my dad gave me. All the while, I rack my brain for a song the band would know that I can sing for Nadia. I come with a few over-the-top rock romance ballads that would be funny, like, “You’re the Inspiration” by Chicago or “Every Woman in the World” by Air Supply, and I’m totally up for being cheesy, but I would love one that feels a bit more honest. And then I think of it “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by the Proclaimers.
It’s an easy song to play and has a bit more of the punk edge of The Storytellers. I’m sure my dad knows it because he used to sing it to us when we were littlewith a fake Scottish accent and everything.
When we finish a rendition of “Down Under,” which is supposed to be the show closer, I start plucking the riff to the song, looking over my shoulder at my dad to see if he’ll recognize it. His brow furrows, so I prompt him. “Five hundred miles.”
He grins and joins me, cuing the beat for the drums.
I bring my lips to mic. “This next song is for Nadia, my muse.”