Drum Me Away Read online

  But she’d shut me down, because by that point, Faith had confidence for days and she didn’t need my constant encouragement anymore. She didn’t need me.

  I liked feeling needed. Or at least wanted. And I didn’t get any of that from this bullshit fake relationship. Not to mention, I was really sick of living with the woman and not being able to touch her.

  Gabe hurried over to attend to her; Faith commanded a room like that. Everybody wanted to be close to her, like she was a pied piper or some crap. If he were any other guy, I’d have felt a surge of jealousy over the way he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led her deeper into the room, cooing and fawning over her, but this was Gabe. Besides being our faithful manager through all the climbing toward success, he wasn’t into women. He didn’t have an unrequited crush on Faith Devempor. Never had, never would.

  Unlike the other dumbass in the immediate vicinity.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Faith,” Gabe said.

  Cold sweat beaded on the back of my neck. Fuck. What had she heard?

  Hopefully, not all that lame crap about wanting to start a family. Not that I maybe didn’t feel that way sometimes, but Gabe was right, that was so not the way badass drummer Lucas Lloyd was supposed to feel. My fake relationship with Faith was all about two diehard rockers having a torrid affair that was mostly convenient and supposedly great fodder for song lyrics. We never talked about love, other than in the songs. We pretended we didn’t give a shit what anyone said. We staged moments where I acted jealous over an obsessed fan, and she ultimately threw herself into my arms and kissed me—make-believe kissing, of course.

  I mean, it’s hard to fake a kiss, but that’s what we did.

  And our fans, our bandmates lapped it up like kittens around a bowl of cream. Back in the beginning, we used to laugh about how ridiculous it was, how we couldn’t believe no one saw through us.

  They didn’t see through us because I wasn’t acting. It wasn’t fake to me.

  Well, it was, but it wasn’t, if that made sense. Which it didn’t. Which was why I wanted out.

  The band—that’s real. The music, the chart-topping albums—all that’s as real as the sun rising and setting every day. So why the hell did we need to carry on some stupid charade that got no one anywhere?

  I opened my mouth, prepared to point out that the fans will still be there after our breakup, that our bandmates may be pissed initially when they find out we’ve been living a lie all this time, but they’ll get over it.

  Faith said, “I don’t want to lose Lucas.”

  My entire world shrank to focus on that single statement. I held my breath, willed her to say more. Or just walk over to me and throw her arms around my neck and declare her undying love.

  “The band wouldn’t be the same,” she continued.

  The band. Of course. It was always, ever about the band.

  “Besides, he’s a founding member. All of this is as much his as it is anyone’s.” She waved as if to encompass the room, but really, she meant our fame.

  My shoulders drooped. I strode over to the wet bar and snagged one of those three-ounce liquor bottles. Whiskey. Good. I needed something strong. Didn’t matter that it was nine in the morning.

  “Breakups are never amicable, babe,” Gabe said in a soothing voice, as if this was all her idea. “This’ll ruin the band’s image.”

  Fuck Lucas. Just focus on the good of the band. Story of my goddamn life.

  “We can make this happen,” Faith insisted. “Let’s pull in Dahlia. She’s good at performing miracles. Look what she did for me.”

  There was a little part of me that had hoped that when Faith found out I wanted a fake breakup, she’d insist we not do it. That we should stay together. That she wanted it to become real.

  Apparently, I was the only romantic in this charade of a relationship.

  My dad’s words from a conversation we’d had less than a week ago echoed in my head. What Faith didn’t know— what no one save my family and my best friend knew—was that when I disappeared off the radar six weeks ago, I’d gone home to southern Missouri. Spent time with my parents, my sister, my best friend. Chilled. Relaxed.

  Tried to forget about Faith, even for a few moments at a time.

  During this particular conversation with my dad, it had been late, really late, and the lake my parents lived on had been quiet and dark, the calm surface reflecting the stars that had been out in full force on a backdrop of a cloudless sky.

  My dad and I sat side by side, each drinking a beer, and he told me about the first woman he’d ever loved, which, by the way, wasn’t my mom.

  I hadn’t ever heard this story before.

  “I was so crazy about her,” he said, “I followed her around like a goddamn puppy. Borderline stalked her.” He’d chuckled and added, “To be honest, by today’s standards, I was stalking her.”

  And then he shook his head. “She didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Didn’t know I was alive, let alone willing to walk to the ends of the earth for her. Absolutely shattered me when I figured it out.”

  Still staring out over the glassy surface of the lake, clearly lost in a bygone moment in time, he murmured:

  “If there’s one piece of advice I can give you, son, it’s not to let a woman destroy you like that. I almost lost myself, lost sight of who I really was, because I was trying so hard to be what I thought she wanted. Hell, if I hadn’t met your mom when I did, I don’t know what I would have done. I do know that I sure as hell wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have you and your sister. Wouldn’t get to sleep with the love of my life every night. I wouldn’t be happy.”

  The memory faded, just like that gorgeous night had, and I watched while Gabe continued to try to coax Faith, and she continued to hold her ground, and I swear I could practically see my dad nodding knowingly. “It’s exactly the same,” his voice whispered in my head. “This thing you have for Faith.”

  Shit. I didn’t want to lose myself, although, honestly, sometimes I felt like I already had. Rocking out on stage was supposed to be my greatest dream, yet this playacting bullshit going on with Faith was a thick smog smothering my dream, ruining it for me.

  I needed to get out.

  “Set it up,” I said, interrupting another of Gabe’s attempts to keep us together. I pointed at him, the now-empty airplane bottle of whiskey dangling from my fingers. “Find Dahlia. Tell her to meet us at the house. We’ll take it from here.”

  I strode out, unconcerned that I was leaving Faith behind. We’d driven over separately anyway.

  Six weeks ago, I’d been sitting at the island in the kitchen of the house Faith and I shared, nursing a cup of coffee and scrolling through my socials, when Faith walked into the room, all dewy eyed and her hair tussled, wearing a pale pink camisole and booty shorts with dark pink hearts on them. I’d had this vision of her striding over and climbing into my lap, and we made love right there, her splayed out on her back on the island while I grasped her hips and pumped into her, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

  Yeah, I was a fucking romantic, so what of it?

  Except I wasn’t allowed to be romantic because it didn’t fit my image. And Faith, as far as I’d ever been able to tell, didn’t have a romantic bone in her body.

  She’d smiled and yawned and waved from across the room, then strode straight to the coffeepot—I was always up first, which meant she hadn’t made her own morning coffee in years.

  Not since Angel found out she was pregnant with her and Matt’s first kid and they decided this monstrosity of a house in LA was too small for their growing family. They’d sold it to us—yeah, us, because Dahlia said our fans would eat up the idea of Faith and me moving in together—for a song so they could move to Malibu, and I didn’t blame them one bit.

  Their house in Malibu wasn’t a whole lot bigger than this one, to be honest, but it was right on the ocean, and that was really what the move was about, in my opinion. I grew up on the shores of Lak
e of the Ozarks in Missouri—yes, the one featured in that series called Ozark. So yeah, I got it. Living on the water was cathartic, comforting. Relaxing.

  That morning, six weeks ago, Faith had added creamer to her cup, lifted it in salute, and then she’d walked out of the room, not even speaking let alone touching me. Not that any of that was unexpected, but every single morning I hoped…

  And that particular morning, something inside me had broken. Suddenly, I couldn’t stand the idea of waking up the next day, waiting for Faith to become someone she wasn’t.

  I strode straight upstairs to my bedroom, packed my shit, and climbed into my Lexus LC convertible. I’d texted Gabe that I was going off-grid for a while but would be back before the kickoff of the tour. He’d texted back that I’d better have told Faith where I was going so she wouldn’t worry.

  Yeah, right.

  I took off.

  And ended up back home, at the house on the lake in southern Missouri, in the middle of the Ozarks.

  I spent my days fishing and boating, my evenings drumming in this local band that probably could break out of playing small, backwoods bars and the local fair if they’d only get rid of their lead singer. But he was the brother of the guitarist, who started the band, so that wasn’t happening. Sucked for my best friend, who was their bassist, because he was really freaking good, and he deserved so much more.

  On the rare occasion I went out in public, I wore my hair in a man bun and kept a baseball cap on my head and sunglasses on my face, and no one other than my buddy, my parents, and my sister even knew who I was.

  It was exactly what I needed.

  Except six weeks apparently wasn’t long enough for me to have gotten over whatever the hell I felt for Faith. And while that break had been great, I was right back to where I started: dreading every single morning when she’d get up and walk into that kitchen and not tell me she felt for me what I felt for her.

  “How did you survive?” I asked abruptly into the silence that hung over the living room like a freaking boulder, ready to crush us at any moment.

  We were back at the house, waiting on Dahlia. Faith had changed into a ribbed tank and those booty shorts she favored. It was more of her style from back in our college days, when the rocker girl had been all on the inside. Back then, she’d looked more like a cheerleader than the backup singer in a rock band.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” she said from the other end of the couch, where she sat with her nose buried in her phone, using one thumb to scroll through whatever was on the screen. Her Insta feed, if I had to guess.

  “Your morning coffee.”

  She glanced up at me and then dropped the phone onto the cushion. “I’m still pissed at you for leaving without telling me. Regardless of your reasoning.”

  What had Gabe told her? I’d never asked, and I hadn’t alerted Faith, either. I hadn’t been in a good place then, just like now.

  “Because you didn’t have anyone to make your coffee?” I asked, covering my own unease with a playful tone.

  She rolled her eyes, and I watched a smile tease at her lips. I fought the urge to melt a little. From a fucking half smile. God, I was pathetic.

  “It was so embarrassing,” she admitted. “I spent an hour that first morning, trying to figure it out. And then I got so frustrated, I threw on a baseball cap and drove to the nearest Starbucks. The chick in the drive-through line recognized me, and I sort of freaked because I didn’t have on any makeup or even a bra. I was literally in my pajamas, driving through Starbucks at ten in the morning.”

  “I don’t think that’s all that unusual.”

  “Yeah, but it’s me. Could you imagine if photos had shown up online?” She scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue.

  I shrugged. “Dahlia would have figured out a way to turn it into good publicity.” She always did. Hopefully, she’d maintain that trend while getting Faith and me out of this fake relationship.

  Faith shook her head. “I panicked and took off without my order and called Gabe and begged him to bring me a coffee. He did, and of course teased me mercilessly. Now, I have a standing GrubhubÓ order, every morning. You didn’t notice that they showed up the first day you were back home?”

  Back home? Yeah, right. This was no home. Sometimes I thought of it as a prison. A place where I was tortured by her presence, day in and day out.

  “Must have been while I was out jogging.” I usually went jogging much earlier in the morning, before it got crazy hot, but since returning from Missouri, I planned my exercise routine deliberately so that I left the house right before she came downstairs.

  “That makes sense,” she said, nodding. “So anyway, I’ve now canceled the order. Welcome back.” She grinned like…like we were buddies or something. Except we weren’t. We weren’t anything.

  And Dahlia was going to help ensure the rest of the world knew it, too.

  And I could finally be free.

  CHAPTER 3

  Faith

  Dahlia breezed into the house without knocking, like she usually did. She was all too aware that the likelihood of her walking in on something she didn’t want to see was next to nil.

  She was Filipino, with striking features and thick, dark hair with two bold red streaks framing her face. She favored tight suits with micro-mini skirts and stiletto heels that added inches to her height.

  She was a highly sought after publicist on the LA scene because she was a wizard when it came to making people look good—or bad, as the preference sometimes was. Like mine had been when we’d first formed the band. My tight-ass, high society image was so not appropriate for this lifestyle, yet I’d had no clue how to change it. But Dahlia had, and, per her usual, my new look had been a hit with our fans.

  I wondered how she’d feel when we announced our desire—well, Lucas’s desire—to break up. We couldn’t deny that her idea had helped grow our fanbase. My bank balance didn’t lie.

  But if Lucas had fallen in love, I had no right to insist he keep up the pretense with me. He deserved to live his best life.

  Dahlia waved her phone as she strode into the room. “I barely have to do damage control on this morning’s botched press conference,” she said, and then pointed the device at Lucas. “Nice job with that look over your shoulder, that pissed off expression on your face, telling everyone you were going to practice for the upcoming tour. Got an alert that another arena sold out shortly after the first video was posted online. Not a coincidence, I assure you.”

  Lucas scowled, and Dahlia kept walking, blowing right past us and striding into the dining room. She was at the wet bar, based on the clinking of glasses and what sounded like ice being dumped. A few moments later, she returned to the living room carrying a tray laden with champagne flutes, a jug of orange juice, and a bottle of sparkling wine stuffed into a bucket of ice.

  While she expertly popped the cork, Lucas said, “That little show was worthy of celebrating?”

  “Nope,” Dahlia said, popping the P and pouring bubbling liquid into three tall flutes. “But it’s before noon, and the only things I drink before noon are mimosas and bloodies.” She handed us each a glass and then tipped up her own, draining half of it in one swallow. I wasn’t worried that she was about to get hammered and possibly give us bad advice; Dahlia had an alcohol tolerance higher than pretty much anyone I knew.

  After refilling her glass, she plopped onto the overstuffed chair perpendicular to the couch Lucas and I shared and pulled her iPad out of her purse.

  “So, four years of some of my most brilliant work and you want to flush it all down the drain. Is that my understanding?” she asked, her eyes on her iPad screen.

  I winced and glanced at Lucas. He sat there, stony faced, but I could tell by the way he gripped his glass that he was angry. He’d perfected the unaffected rocker persona, but I lived with the man. Before this whole charade, we’d been practically best friends. I knew his moods, even if he did a damn good job of trying to hi
de them.

  “Not flush it down the drain,” I said, clearing my throat and taking a swig of champagne mixed with OJ. Dahlia could be a hard-ass when it came to messing with her creations, and Lucas didn’t deserve to be attacked for wanting to live a real life.

  “Just make adjustments,” I added. “We’re ready to move on to the next phase of our lives.”

  She lifted her gaze to stare at me over the top of her iPad. “And what is that phase? The one where you finally admit this relationship is actually real?”

  I forced out a laugh while fighting the blush I could feel creeping up my neck. A few months after we started this whole fake dating business, I’d gotten drunk and confided to Dahlia that the idea of actually dating Lucas wasn’t unappealing, if I weren’t so damn afraid of relationships, courtesy of the last one I’d been in.

  The craziest part was, two days later, Lucas had asked if I wanted to go on a real date, and I’d balked from the memories of my last “real date.”

  That moment had marked the demise of Lucas’s and my friendship, which sucked royally. Especially considering we were still carrying on with this pretend romantic relationship.

  “We want out, Dahlia,” Lucas said. “We want to break up. You can make that happen the way you want it to, or you can leave it to us. Your choice.”

  He knew exactly what to say to ensure Dahlia quit fighting us and decided to help. No way would she allow us to manage this on our own. She was fond of saying, “You two are fantastic at making hits. Not so much anything else. You stick to the music, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  She pursed her lips, her gaze darting between Lucas and me, and then it dropped to her screen, where she began furiously tapping. “Fine. I will create a plan, and you will stick to it like actors on stage on Broadway. Do you understand me? No deviating.”

  It sounded like she was a mother scolding her children. I chuckled uneasily, but Lucas nodded and said, “Fine. So long as the end result is the public is aware that we’re no longer together.”