A Bleu Streak Summer (The Bleu Series Book 3) (13 page)

“It’s Keekee!”

“—a ride home.” Max walked away without so much as a goodbye, ignoring her whiny protests that followed him all the way out the front door.

The blinding flashes were instant. Max rubbed his eyes to rid them of the floaters as the paparazzi circled him like a pack of lions going in for the kill.

“Where’s your hot date?” one shouted from the midst of chaos.

“Are you feeling ill, Max?”

“Something got you upset, man?”

Max produced a knowing smirk just to mess with them, not realizing it would come back to bite him in the butt. He walked down the sidewalk in a cocky swagger until almost tripping over one of the photographers blocking his way.

“Whoa, man.” Max held his hand out, grabbing the guy on the shoulder to help him from landing on his aggravating backside. After he had the guy secured in an upright position, Max continued on.

“Thanks, Max,” the guy called out like they were the best of pals.

Max kept strutting away and the pack kept persistently circling him. He pulled his phone out and shot Will a text. The kid had turned out to be his lifeline that summer with Mona’s exit. A tinge of foreboding struck him, knowing his lifeline would be heading to college too soon.
How am I not going to sink?

He shook that discomforting thought off and focused on getting out of the current sticky situation. He typed quickly.
Trapped in Beverly Hills. Rescue me with my truck.

Will replied quickly.
Where?

Max scanned for a road sign and text his location to his rescuer and then added—
Park in a nearby alley. Sit tight until I find you.

The paparazzi were still shouting out questions and comments, mostly inappropriate. Dizzying chaos was escalating, pushing the musician to a precipice of panic. A song bubbled through Max’s pursed lips from out of nowhere, giving the group an impromptu performance of his best Ray Charles impersonation.

“
Georgia
…”  Max bellowed out the lyrics to “Georgia On My Mind” while the crowd halted in abrupt silence. He seemed to be full of spontaneous shows that night. Thankfully, this one seemed to put the frenzied mob into a trance.

His eyes swept over the swanky neighborhood. It sparkled in too much glam and pageantry, reminding him he was only a visitor. The charade of celebrity was not the real Maxim King and this egotistical part of California was not his home.

Homesick
.

It struck so sharp against his heart as he screeched out the lyrics that his hand rushed to grasp his chest, begging the wound to hold together. The pain so violent, surely there would be no way to survive it.

“
Keeps Georgia on my mind…”

Overwhelmed by the grief of missing home, the persistent threat of tears stung his eyes. Although it was well into the dark of night, Max grabbed the shades dangling from the front of his borrowed vest and swiftly pulled them on to mask his emotions. Rapid flashes of cameras firing off indicated he wasn’t fast enough with his shield. Worry tickled his throat, but a harsh cough rid it, knowing it was futile to dwell on it.

“Max, man, are you okay?” the paparazzi feigned sincere concern over his state, hoping for an exclusive scoop. Others began spewing out their own inquiries with realizing the impromptu performance had concluded as hastily as it had begun.

With bleary eyes that were quite useless as a guide, Max entered the first door he pushed on. Oblivious to his surroundings, he stumbled through a dimly lit bar. Soft jazz music easily mingled with the languid chatter, along with a few gasps of recognition adding to the racket as he made his way to the back on a clear mission to escape.

“It’s Maxim King!” a woman squealed.

“Let me buy you a drink, man!” a man shouted toward his retreating back.

“That concert last week was amazing!” a breathless woman said.

Keeping his chin tucked down and shades concealing his eyes, Max threw a hand up in recognition, but rushed to a side exit without glancing back.

The heat of the night vanished in an odd vortex as the dark skies opened up to allow a sudden rain shower to meet him in the alleyway. Of course, this was not the one Will had found to hide down. Max was instantly soaked to the bone, feeling even more weighed down. His legs kept propelling him forward in a clipped pace, wanting to outrun the heavy clouds of dreadful defeat.

I’m going to drown…

ELEVEN

“Move (Keep Walkin’)

-tobyMac

Five sets of weary eyes continued their showdown with one set of extremely unenthusiastic ones. The same five sets from yesterday, except Ben was now in Tate’s place at the meeting. And the meeting table had moved from the kitchen to the back deck.

“No,” Max repeated. The breeze danced through his hair, but the clouds continued to stingily hide the sun. He severed his stare first, thinking he needed to focus on finding his own sunshine.

“You need to clean up the dumb mess you made last night.” Ben’s tight tone gave no wiggle room for Max to find an out.

Max looked back at his other manager, thin lips pressed in a severe line, deep lines marring his forehead. He wondered if Tate put his foot down and demanded Papa Bear Ben to handle the latest fiasco.

“Maxim,” Mave said in a quiet warning.

“Look, all I did was goof off a little bit last night. The world is going to think whatever they want. A statement from me ain’t gonna change it.” His eyes swept over the grey waves crashing onto the shore.

“I didn’t know you were Jehovamethaptist.” Trace scratched the side of his blond head.

“I’m not, Space Cadet. I made it up.” Max couldn’t stifle the eye roll before it escaped.

The group snickered, but Ben cleared his throat in warning before addressing Max once again. “You need to apologize for making fun of religion. That’s a vast community you slammed last night with the restaurant exorcism.”

Snorts joined the conversation from his bandmates, but cut off abruptly when Ben delivered a scolding look.

“Fine,” Max muttered, conceding to pay the repercussions for his stunt.

Blake pulled up the notepad app on his iPad to dictate Max’s statement. The young assistant had matured over the last few years, proving all the members of the band wrong, and completely proving Jewels right as always.

Max began once Blake gave his head a nod. “I made up Jehovamethaptist as a joke that I am now realizing was in poor taste. God is far greater than any title we like to slap on our relationship with Him.” He paused to let Blake catch up typing. Once Blake looked up, Max began again. “The only religious organization I belong to is the Dirt Roads Faith of Tiny Town Church where silicon fruit-loops are sacrificed as burnt-out offerings.”

Ben groaned loudly, but was drowned out by the raucous laughter overtaking the rest of the group.

Shoving his fingers through his grey hair, Ben leveled Max with a look of exasperation. “Well, you took it serious for all of two seconds. And that’s two seconds longer than I expected.” He moved his attention to Blake, whose hands hovered over the screen with needing direction. “Only keep the first two sentences and add, ‘I apologize if I offended anyone.’”

“Funny, man. You are a member of a
Baptist
church back home.” Logan pointed out.

“That’s not the
point
.” Max scowled at no one in particular.

“We get it. The chick made fun of your faith and it struck a nerve.” Dillon waved his hand to dismiss it. “Let’s move on.”

“Max, if you need a break, we are fine with it. Will can finish out the last few concerts for you.” Ben’s harsh features softened.

Apparently, the topic had already been discussed without Max. He glanced around the table and was met with understanding, steady gazes. He shook his head. “Nah, man. All’s good as long as you idiots don’t set me up on anymore blind dates.”

Trace huffed. “We were just trying to have your back. You and Mona just broke up and the chick is already out there flaunting a new guy—”

“No, we didn’t! I ended things last year. It’s all on me. Leave her alone!” His rage bellowed out of him, effectively silencing the group. Ashamed over his outburst, Max sucked in several deep breaths of the salty air to calm himself. The guys had his best interest at heart, he knew, and they didn’t deserve him taking his stress out on them.

“The media doesn’t see it that way,” Ben added.

“Well, the media can kiss my—”

“Enough!” Dillon interceded. “Get it together or head on back to Georgia.”

“It’s three gigs. I’ll finish. What else can go wrong in that little bit of time?” Max allowed his shoulder to shrug up in an arrogant twitch, full of attitude. He shoved away from the table and continued doing what he’d been doing all summer—running away from his problems. But this time, his pursuit of escape had him colliding with Kyle in the foyer.

“They done with your scolding already?” Kyle’s green eyes danced in tease as he placed a suitcase beside several other more feminine ones by the door.

“I set those punks straight.”

Kyle smirked. “Yeah, right.”

Sunshine time.
Max looked between his friend and the large black suitcase thoughtfully before heading to his truck. Kyle and the girls were set to fly back to New York the next day, so Max focused on a parting gift for the newlyweds instead of his overwhelming life.

•♫•♫•♫
•

“You should have known better than to say something as stupid as, ‘What else can go wrong?’” Mave growled, throwing the magazine on the driftwood coffee table.

“When are you going to learn that your dumb pranks always backfire?” Dillon muttered while thumbing through another magazine. “Massage oil, lingerie, fury handcuffs… Man, some of this stuff makes me blush too much to say out loud. Were you trying to embarrass Kyle or get him kicked off the flight?” He looked up with an arched brow, his indigo eyes hard.

Max shrugged, realizing he didn’t quite think this one all the way through. He had replaced all of Kyle’s suitcase belongings with a treasure trove of naughty items, thinking about how hilarious it would be to see the look on Kyle’s face when he went through the luggage check at the airport.

Kyle had text him—
Thanks for making me look like a pervert. I’ll get you back for this!

The thought didn’t even cross Max’s mind that someone would find out about his little shopping spree. The clerk at the adult store happily shared a copy of Max’s receipt with several gossip rags. The guy also shared a few fuzzy pictures he snagged with his phone showing the guitarist hiding his face ineffectively under a cowboy hat while strolling down an aisle of inappropriate paraphernalia, causing a full force media explosion, so severe they were still feeling the aftershocks a few days later.

Maxim King from the legendary band Bleu Streak has had one wild week in Southern California. He went on record to profess his faith in God one day after making a mockery of the religious community, and was caught shopping for a gross amount of sleazy lingerie and sex toys the next. Photos have also surfaced of a glassy eyed King entering a bar after causing a scene in a nearby restaurant in Beverly Hills. Is he following in his father and brother’s footsteps? Will Maxim King be heading to rehab next?

“This is very damaging.” Tate shook his head while reading over the story.

Max shrugged again and muttered around chewing on his thumbnail. “I just wanted to have some fun at Kyle’s expense.”

“Well, your shenanigans have been considerably costly.” Ben looked at another headline Blake had just pulled up on his laptop and sighed heavily. It declared Max a drunk like his father. “What were you even doing in a bar in the first place?”

“The paparazzi were hounding me, man! I was trying to get away from them, so I ran in the front door and out the back to hide,” Max snapped.

Ben turned the laptop screen around to show Max the image of himself looking beyond wasted—eyes red and squinting with his cheeks flushed. It was taken at the moment he had been about to drop his basket and cry in front of everyone. If he didn’t know better, Max would believe the story the photo portrayed as well.

“And this is just as lovely,” Tate said, hitting the YouTube video of Max singing a garbled rendition of “Georgia On My Mind.”

“Dude,” Trace mumbled with worry, his face turning pale.

Max cringed with embarrassment, but anger pushed the shame aside and took over. His jaw flexed as the words charged out of his mouth. “If I was drinking, that’s
my
business, but I wasn’t. Truth of the matter, I was about to cry like a baby ‘cause I’m
homesick
.” He sniffed the recurring threat back and blinked several times to get himself in check. “I don’t think I have to explain the hatred I have toward alcohol, since all you punks know what I’ve lived through with my father
and
brother.”

Silence blanketed the group as they watched him push out of the chair and stalked over to his room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. The bang was so loud, it even made the commotion upstairs hesitate for a few seconds. Soon the children went back to their squeals and laughter while sounding like a stampede. Their jovial demeanor couldn’t have been more opposite of the somber crowd sitting around on the first floor. Each guy sat glaring at the floor while concentrating on how they could help Max out. One by one, they eventually meandered upstairs to get away from the tension.

The day crept by until night took over. Max was a no-show for a radio interview and a scheduled practice with the band, but no one dared to bother him. Mad as he was, his stomach wouldn’t let him stay hidden. As he shuffled out the door to find something to eat, he glanced at the broken iPad and iPhone where both laid crumbled along the bottom of the bedroom wall. Each headline of him being a nympho alcoholic riled him into a bitter rage until both electronic devices became victims of it.

The fact that he had never been drunk irritated the entire situation even further. On his way to the kitchen, he mimicked what he’d witnessed on TV and a few times in person from Martin as well as Mave. Zigzagging and staggering into furniture along the way. His arm even managed to sloppily turn over a lamp. It clanged to the floor in protest, but he didn’t even pause to pick it up since the thing somehow managed to remain in one piece. As he fake-groveled around to grasp the fridge handle, he heard steps come up behind him.

“Tell me you ain’t drunk!” Dillon demanded, his deep voice rumbled out.

Max turned to offer his best intoxicated impression, head bobbing around while wearing a toothy grin so wide it squinted his eyes to slits.

His giant friend dropped to the floor, wrapped his arms around his long drawn-up legs and began rocking dramatically. “Not happening. This is not happening,” he began to chant in time with his rocking.

Max snorted and motioned for him to get up. “You’re too big of a man to pull off that pansy act.”

Dillon stood, towering over him. “Yeah. And you’re too smart of a man to be pretending to be a drunken idiot.”

“Well, I’m being accused of everything under the sun. Figured since we’re in Hollywood I’d go ahead and play the role. Staggering drunk or invalid on my deathbed. Pick one.” Another picture of him leaving a follow-up appointment with his doctor had headlined that he was hiding another, more serious illness and only had a few months to live.

“I pick that you use the good sense God gave ya.”

“I’m just so sick of it, man!” Max threw his hands in the air, exasperated. A single tear rebelled against his demand to stay put and escaped down his bronzed cheek. As he swiped the tear away, he heard his mom’s voice trying to calm him as a young child. It was after she had finally dried her own tears and was trying to convince him to do the same.
Your soul is much too beautiful to continue to cry.
In the present moment, all he felt was ugly. Ugly heart, ugly choices, ugly consequences…

“This is our reality, especially while we’re out here in California.” Dillon pointed to the barstool and took one himself at the kitchen island.

A large coral sculpture rested in the middle of the new granite countertop Leona called Waterland Terra Aqua. It actually looked exactly like the ocean in motion. Both men’s eyes followed the undulating pattern in silence for a few beats.

Dillon continued after a while. “One, we’re celebrities whether we want to admit it or not. Two, our checking accounts tend to spawn enough jealously on their own. Three, we confess to be Christians. Max, that target on our back is so vast, a blind man with no aim could hit it.” He extended his arms wide, filling the space with his wingspan, to make his point.

Max eyed him, making no comment.

Dillon’s eyes gleamed with emotion as he spoke, “Let them say stupid stuff. Let their jealousy push them into taunting us. Let their simplemindedness dismiss our faith.” He clamped his large hand tight to Max’s shoulder. “But don’t let them rob you of your joy and peace. Jesus went through way too much for us to be squandering our freedom. This is a storm in your life. And like all storms, it’ll pass.”

Max shook his head. “I know… I just… This storm didn’t just plow through. It set up shop to stay.” Another tear silently trekked down his face, but he nudged it away with wanting to conceal it from Dillon. “I’m tired of the clouds. When am I ever going to feel the sun again?”