Page 46 of Goode to Be Bad

She nodded. Then her eyes widened. “Does that mean I get your personal phone number?”

I laughed. “Yeah. And you can even use it to message me.”

“I’m getting Myles North’s phone number,” she said, doing a silly little dance.

Harlow faked a pout. “God, whatever. The second another famous person comes along, I’m no longer special. I get it.”

Claire shoved Harlow. “You’re old news now, bitch. I’ve been in the bathroom with you, helping you pee because you were drunk off your ass on tequila. You are officially no longer a celebrity, but a sister. Sorry.”

Harlow hugged her, laughing. “It’s fine, I’d rather be a sister anyway.”

Claire faked gagging, pushing Harlow away, who clung like a leech, laughing. “Too sweet, too sweet! Keep hugging me and I’m gonna barf.” She pretended to shudder as Harlow let go. “I’m allergic to sentimentality.”

Claire handed me her phone, and I put my name and phone number in it, and then she sent me a message; I saved her contact info and she immediately sent over the video. I had an idea brewing, but I knew I’d need a bit more footage for it to work. The trick would be to get Lexie to play and sing again, and to let me record her, and then put her out into the universe.

But first things first…I had to find her. Again.

9

Lexie

Myles, and everyone else, seemed to realize I’d been pushed to the max, and backed off the personal shit.

The rest of the week was just plain fun—the most fun I’d had in years, if I’m honest. Every day the Badds shut down one of their bars and had everyone over. They had several bars, it turned out—the original, Badd’s Bar and Grille; a second location co-owned by Bast and the triplets, Badd Kitty Saloon, where we’d met the first night Myles and I arrived; Badd Night, a third location owned by Bast, the triplets, and Zane, and was more of a live music venue than a mere bar. The newest location, and the first outside Ketchikan, was The Badd News Bar in Anchorage, which the triplets, Bast, Zane, and the two sets of twins all co-owned, run more as a franchise with Badd management oversight.

Every night that week was different, because not everyone showed up at the same time every night. It all depended on kids and work schedules and other obligations, but everyone showed up at some point, and every night, after the kids were in bed, the musical people ended up sitting together and jamming. And honestly, I fought it at first. I tried just sitting and listening and pretending my fingers didn’t want to play, that my voice didn’t want to lift. But it was a futile fight. After the first night, I knew I was hooked. I knew Corin was right, knew Myles was right.

I’d played and written songs consistently since Dad’s disastrous talk with me, but it was like a dirty secret. Something I hid from everyone, my roommate included. If I could have hidden it from myself, I would have. Because I had believed Dad. I’d believed him. He’d told me I sucked, that I should give up, and I’d believed him.

I’d given up.

But music wouldn’t give me up. During college I’d be lying awake half the night, restless, irritated, exhausted. And eventually I’d roll out of bed, grab my ukulele, and find somewhere to be alone. The communal bathroom was usually the best place—I’d sit on a toilet and play, sing, and hate myself for it. I’d sing my songs, sing the songs I was listening to on the radio and couldn’t get out of my head. Sing the songs I loved, my old favorites, the classics. I learned new ones. It was a habit, like a secret drug habit. One I couldn’t quit, no matter how hard I tried. I’d go two days, three, but I’d always end up with my ukulele in the dorm bathroom or under a tree outside, singing and playing, and hoping no one was listening.

And then…Myles happened.

Back on the bus, during his tour when we’d first met, he’d bribed me to play for him. He’d told me he’d give me an entire night as my own personal sex slave if I played one of my own songs for him. I hadn’t been able to resist that offer, so I played him a song I’d written a few months before, as a way of expressing some feelings for a guy I’d been struggling with. I’d been quiet, timid, nervous, and he’d listened, and told me I was talented and that he wanted to play with me sometime. I’d told him he could play with me anytime, and that, of course, had led to a really long, fun night. I’d given the man a hell of a tongue workout, that’s for sure. I must’ve had at least a dozen orgasms that night, hadn’t let him get even one until I’d been ready to pass out, and then I’d finally let him plow me as hard as he wanted. I think he’d probably thought I’d want something more creative, more acrobatic, or something most men would find degrading or emasculating. But really, at the end of the day, I’m a simple girl. I just want to come as hard as I can, as many times as I can, for as long as I can, until my body stops letting me come. And good goddamn, but Myles North could make me come like no other man ever has, and I took full advantage of that.

That had been the start.

Playing for Myles.

Then we’d sing along to songs together, sharing an earbud.

He’d play a song and I’d sing along. I’d let myself play my ukulele now and then, in front of him.

But that was it. Nothing major.

Then I’d heard them jamming. Heard his distinctive guitar style, his unmistakable voice. I heard other voices, other instruments. And I’d been pulled physically, bodily pulled, as if by a rope around my waist. Up, to the roof. Ukulele in hand. I’dhadto play.Hadto sing. It had been impossible to resist the need. Like an addict being offered a free hit of the purest grade substance.

While I’d played, I had beenalive.

And it was terrifying.

Because now I was truly addicted.

To the rush, the aliveness, the attention. I needed more. Like any drug, the more I used, the more I needed. And every night that week, I got hit after hit. Sitting in the circle surrounded by Crow and Myles and Tate and Aerie and Canaan and Corin, playing every song we knew and jamming improv jazz style when we ran out of songs we knew. Singing, and having people watch and listen andvalidateme. Pay attention to my singing and playing as if I wasgood. Like I had something of value to add. Being appreciated for my talent.

Being appreciated forme.