Falling Under (Falling 3)
Page 52“Oz Hyde,” I tell him.
“Andersen Mayer, RCA records.” His grip is firm, but not crushing, and his smile is easy. “I have to say I was very impressed by your performance today, you two. Miss Calloway, you are every bit as talented as your parents, which isn’t surprising. But you, Mr. Hyde. I have to admit, when I first saw you, your appearance threw me off, led me to expect a…different kind of sound. You’re far more talented than I’d initially expected.”
Kind of a backhanded compliment, but I only shrugged. “Appearances can be deceiving. I’m glad you liked our music, Mr. Mayer.”
“Do ya’ll have any other original material you didn’t play today? Your covers were excellent, of course, but your original songs were fascinating. They almost defy genre, but with the right producer in the booth, I think we could tweak your sound enough to appeal to both the mainstream rock crowd and the edgier country people.” Andersen seems excited. “In fact, I think I have a producer in mind, actually. He’s kinda new to the game, but he’s done some really amazing work. Would you be interested in a meeting?”
Kylie and I exchange glances. “We’d love to,” Kylie answered for us. “I’d have to talk to my mom and dad first, but—”
“Of course, of course. I know you’ll want their help navigating the sometimes treacherous waters of the music business.” He fishes a business card from a metal case in his back pocket. “Call me first thing in the morning. I’ve got to go over my schedule with my assistant, but I’d like to set up a meeting with ya’ll sometime in the next week or so. I’ll get ahold of Jerry and see when he can hook up with us.”
“Sounds good,” I say, and we both shake Andersen’s hand.
He’s gone then, striding down the street with his phone in hand, already dialing a number. When he’s out of earshot, Kylie turns to me, eyes wide as saucers, giddy excitement shivering through her. She’s about to hyperventilate, I’m pretty sure.
“Why?”
I can tell Kylie’s brain is going a million miles a second. “He’s the producer behind some of the best music to come out of Nashville over the last three years. He did Brent Howell’s new album, which was edgy as hell. A lot like Eric Church’s harder stuff, ‘The Outsiders’ and whatever.”
“You really know a lot about this business, huh?” I ask, impressed.
She shrugs. “Well, yeah. I’ve grown up listening to my parents talk. They’re indie, on their own label, but they know everyone in this town, and I’ve paid attention. Music is…all I know, really. It’s what I’ve wanted to do since the first time I watched Mom and Dad perform live. I was six, and I sat in a little chair just off-stage, and I was just…in awe. I knew then that I would be just like them.”
“And now you’re on your way.”
She grins at me. “We’re on our way.” She leans up and kisses me. “Come on. Let’s go celebrate!”
We get our cash from Dan, say goodbye to Nell and Colt—after updating them on the quick conversation with Andersen—and head out. We go, of course, to my place, but after carting the gear into my room, Kylie pulls me back outside.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask.
She shrugs, smiles. “I don’t care. We don’t have to go anywhere. Just ride.”
“Sounds good to me.”
So we ride. I bought Kylie a leather jacket to wear while we rode, and she’s got it on now. The engine roars in our ears, the road flies under the tires, and Kylie’s arms wrap tight and low around my waist. Her cheek rests against my shoulder, her br**sts squish against my back, and all is perfect. It’s a warm spring night, clear, the moon high and a few bright stars shining through the city-glow. I head out of the city, away from the suburbs and away from the city lights. We ride until the night turns black and dark and thick, finding a two-lane highway cutting through rolling fields.
I turn off the highway, onto a narrow dirt road beside a fenced-in pasture. A stand of trees lines the pasture on one side, and a single orange light glows over the road, suspended from a power line. I let the bike slow to a stop beneath the light, at the edge of the road, kick out the stand, and slip off my helmet, hang it from the handlebar. Kylie does the same, leaning over me to hang the strap. She doesn’t back away but lifts up on the footrest to press her nose into my neck, her breath hot on my skin, her hands sneaking up under my shirt to graze my stomach and chest.
Crickets sing, and a bullfrog croaks from somewhere in the distance. An owl hoots, eerie and haunting. Out here, far from the city lights, the stars are a diamond veil across the black sky, the crescent moon pale.
Kylie stands on the footrest, swings her leg around to sit on the gas tank, facing me. Straddling me. Kissing me. Hands on my cheeks, breathing my breath, eager for me. Needing me. I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, deepen the kiss, and search for the hem of her shirt. Find it, slide my palm up her back.
“On the bike?”
“Why not?”
“Well, we’ll just have to be careful of the pipes. They’re hot as f**k still.”
Kylie slides off the bike, shrugs out of her jacket, stands facing me, peels off her forest-green long-sleeve T-shirt, slips out of her bra. Unbuttons her tight black jeans, kicks off her flats. Hangs her clothes on the handle of my bike, stands before me in nothing but a pair of black-and-white lacy panties. She turns around, showing me how the panties are cut high across the cheeks of her ass. Bends at the waist, teasing me with the round perfection of her ass, sliding off her underwear. Straightens, turns, approaches me. Stuffs the scrap of lace into my hip pocket. Pushes my jacket off. Unbuckles my belt. Lowers the zipper. Opens the button. Pulls my c**k out of my boxers, slides her fist around me.
“This is so f**king hot, Oz.” She puts her feet on the tops of my boots, swings astride the bike. “Being naked outside like this, with you? On your bike? God, I could come just from how exciting this is. It feels naughty.”