Malcolm James is one of the craziest dudes I know. I met him in Nashville when he threw a punch at some obnoxious prick who made an offside comment to a waitress. It was some dive bar way off the strip in Nashville, and the punch kick-started a brawl that ended with the two of us tossed in the back of a cruiser. The only reason we didn’t end up in jail was because the officer who’d tossed our asses into that cruiser was dating the waitress Malcolm had defended.
He is an amazing bassist with the ability to pluck out an intricate melody on an instrument meant for rhythm, and he’s been with me since the beginning of my career. He still practices every day and has been known to kick a chick out of his bed to make room for his bass. When it’s time to blow off steam, he’s a level of extra that most folks don’t come close to.
He’s big and loud with a killer smile that gets him all the booze and women he wants, and he fucking knows it. His heart is as big as he is, and the guy would do anything for me. He’s currently in New York City, doing some session work with a jazz band.
I called him up from my place in Tennessee. Said I needed to get away and wanted him to hear some of the new music I’d been working on.
“Get your ass to New York.”
And here I was. It was Friday afternoon, and I’d landed at LaGuardia twenty minutes earlier. I looked like a lumberjack, with layers of plaid and a ball cap pulled low, but I managed to make my way through the airport without being recognized.
The air was the kind of crisp that made your nostrils constrict, and the fresh snow glittered under a sharp January sky. I pulled on my shades and headed for the pickup area, shoulders hunched against a brisk wind. I caught a few glances tossed my way, but pulled my cap lower and kept moving. Normally, I was the kind of guy who was more than happy to take a selfie with someone, but I was focused on something else entirely.
My car service was waiting for me, and I handed the driver the address Malcolm had sent. It was somewhere in Midtown, and I assumed it was the place he’d been hanging his hat. But when I got out of the car, I glanced up, shook my head, and chuckled.
The Melon Ball was a strip club. I’d been there a few years back with Malcolm and the guys after a gig. It had been a crazy night. I slung my bag over my shoulder, paid my cover, and headed inside.
The place was a throwback to the eighties—the decade that coined the phrase “go big or go home.” Everything in here was over the top. Loud music. Plush seating. Neon lighting. Gorgeous women. I spotted Malcolm almost immediately. He was belly up to the bar, chatting with a blonde waitress who had a hell of a lot more hair than clothes. She looked over as I approached, and Malcolm turned around with a grin.
“You’re right on time,” he said, raising a shot glass in the air.
“Yeah?” I accepted one from the waitress. “Tequila?”
“What else?” Malcolm replied.
We downed the shot, and I tossed my bag onto the floor, claiming the stool beside my friend. The bartender, a guy who looked like he should be walking some runway in Paris instead of slugging beer, offered a polite smile and two more shots of tequila.
Malcolm laughed, eyes on me, a wicked glint lighting them up. “I figured I’d hear from you sooner rather than later.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
One eyebrow shot up. “Echo Mansfield? Why else are you here in New York? You hate the city.”
“I don’t hate the city. I just like it in small doses.” I frowned, deciding to play it cool. “What’s this about Echo?”
“You serious?” he sputtered, his other eyebrow joining the first. “Everyone knows you guys were holed up in the Catskills. Someone passed along that tidbit to the tabloids. They’re like a pack of rabid dogs. They’ve been hounding me for days now. The paparazzi are crazy as shit here. All of them asking about you.”
Uncomfortable, I was silent for few moments. Great. There went the whole flying-under-the-radar thing.
“The pictures were all over the place. I can’t believe you didn’t see them.”
“What pictures?” My head shot up, and I frowned.
“The pictures of Echo. She showed up at her place wearing the sweatshirt you had Tyler Oberman sign. Didn’t take them long to figure it out. Less than a day later, they were running stories with a picture of you in that sweatshirt after his last game, alongside Echo walking into her building wearing fucking men’s pajamas and the same sweatshirt.”
“Shit,” I muttered. Now I knew why my publicist had been emailing and texting and calling for the last few days. I figured it had something to do with the album that hadn’t even been recorded yet, so I’d blown her off. My mood darkened. There’d been that missed call from Axel the day before.
Malcolm whipped out his phone, that stupid grin still in place, and showed me a photo along with the headline: ECHO & BOYD SHARING MORE THAN CLOTHES? FOR FULL DETAILS, CLICK HERE.
“You gonna spill or what?” Malcolm asked.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Bullshit.”
I wasn’t going to tell him his bullshit meter was bang on. Instead, I shrugged and kept playing it cool. Not that it was working for me, but what else did I have? “It’s not what you think.”
“What did you do to piss her off?”
I yanked my head back. Malcolm didn’t know shit about what had gone down between us all those years ago. That was something I hadn’t shared with anyone. And as far as I knew, neither had Echo.
“It’s complicated,” I finally managed to say.
Malcolm nodded. “It always is, brother. Especially with women like Echo Mansfield.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, no offense. I just mean she’s not like ninety-five percent of the women you meet. She’s not gonna throw herself at you. She’s not going to bang you just because you’re Boyd fucking Appleton. She’s got studs lined up out the door for that shit.”
I scowled and ordered us another round of tequila just as a couple of dancers approached. Both blonde. Both stacked. And both half-naked.
“Hey, boys,” the one on the right said. “I’m Brandy.”
“Of course you are, darlin’,” Malcolm said with a huge grin.
She pointed to her friend. “This is Stacey. You want to party?”
Malcolm gave me a knowing look. He was probably remembering the last time we were here. We’d spent most of the night up in the private suites drinking, eating more drugs than we should have, and banging as much pussy as we wanted.
“I’m good.” I smiled at the girls. Saw the moment of recognition. And knew I’d have to leave soon.
Malcolm sighed. “Another time, ladies. Seems as if my friend here wants to behave.”
“This is the Melon Ball, boys. No one comes here to behave,” Brandy said, licking her lips suggestively. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
I looked at the woman. At her perfect, surgically enhanced body. Everything about her screamed sex. She would fuck me, blow me, do anything I wanted, and she’d do it like a champ. Ten days ago, I would have been all over her. But now?
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Well, when you come back, remember to ask for Brandy.” She winked at Malcolm. “I don’t mind private parties for three.” The girls headed off in search of another score, while a couple of dancers took the stage.
Malcolm sat back on his stool. “This is a first. I gotta say, Boyd. You’re going down like a motherfucking stone. Echo Mansfield has got you by the short and curlies. Wait.” He snorted. “You manscape, don’t you? Guess she’s just got you by the balls.”
Anger flared in my bones. I gave him a look and gritted through my teeth, “Go fuck yourself.”
Malcolm chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder. “If only I could.” He winked. “Let me help you out with something.”
I side-eyed him. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a big event downtown. Some fashion thing to raise money for animal shelters. A lot of musicians, movie people, models. I know for a fact Echo’s going to be there.”
“How?”
“When you texted me yesterday, I knew why you were coming here. I thought I’d help you out.”
“And how did you do that exactly?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“Let’s just say someone who works with her stylist likes big dick, and she rode this baby all night long.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yep. I’m the asshole who scored us passes to the event.” He tossed his credit card onto the bar and signaled the bartender for the bill. “Ball’s in your court, my friend.”
I sucked back the rest of my overpriced beer and set the empty bottle on the bar. “Just so we’re clear. You basically prostituted yourself out with this chick so that you could score passes to a fashion event we have no business attending.”
“Hey, if Blake Shelton can go, why the hell can’t we?” He paused. “You in?”
I’d come to New York City to see Echo. That had been the plan. But I never thought things through. Not really. She’d made no effort to get hold of me, and I’d been a pussy, afraid to contact her. Afraid of the rejection. Afraid that those few days we’d spent together didn’t mean anything to her. Afraid the connection I’d felt was only one way.
“Dude.” All of a sudden, Malcolm sounded serious. He pocketed his credit card and slid off the stool. “We live in a fishbowl, you and I. We swim around doing our thing, playing our shows, eating up the attention, and making a lot of people a fuckwad of money. We’re surrounded by leeches and parasites who only want to take. They don’t see past anything other than what they want to see.” He sighed. “Most people wouldn’t survive our world. Takes a certain kind of crazy, that’s for sure. And don’t get me wrong, I love this life, and I can’t wait to go on tour again. It’s just…”
“Just what?” I prodded.
He shrugged. “Sometimes it gets old. Sometimes it would be cool to come home to a lady who digs me for me. Not for my platinum credit card or the size of my bank account. If this could be a thing for you two, you should go after it the same way you attack a song. You give it your all onstage. Why wouldn’t you do that behind the scenes?”
“Jesus, Malcolm. You sound like a goddamn Hallmark card.”
He flashed a smile. “I try. Let’s get out of here. If we hurry, we’ll have a couple hours.”
“To do what?”
He looked at me as if I’d grown two heads. “To fucking jam, man.”
I followed him out into the late-afternoon sunshine and felt the chill of it on my face. New York City in the winter was something else. The snow seemed to hide the grunge and crap the dog days of summer never could. We trudged along the sidewalk, snow crunching beneath our feet, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
The thrill of the chase.
I just hoped I could catch the woman I was chasing. And that when I did, we didn’t kill each other.