A Bleu Streak Christmas Read online

  A Bleu Streak Christmas

  ♫

  T.I. LOWE

  Copyright © 2015 by T.I. LOWE

  All Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Also by T.I. LOWE

  Lulu’s Café

  Goodbyes and Second Chances

  Coming Home Again

  Julia’s Journey

  The Reversal

  Chapter One

  Mave

  The water pelts aggressively against my knotted shoulders, as steam completely obscures me from the world. Well, not really—just in the bathroom, but a guy can pretend, can’t he? Practice was stellar and my hands hold the familiar, gratifying ache from shredding my drums. Three hours of practice, yet it wasn’t nearly enough to release the tension gnawing at me. Unease crawls along my skin, begging for more, but that’s all I’m getting.

  Scrubbing my calloused hands over my jaw, I measure the severity of needing a shave. Only minimal stubble presents itself, so I shrug that task off for another day. Midnight is nearing, so I reluctantly shut the shower off. The crowd is meeting at the dock to sing me and Max our birthday song. The idea of turning thirty-five is totally dizzying and oddly unsatisfying, with my list of life accomplishments seeming meager at best.

  Sure, I get to rock out in my favorite band and make bank by playing my drums. And, yes, I’ve got a standup crowd I’m blessed to call family. There’s just the nagging feeling I can’t shake that there should be more—like I’m missing out on something epic.

  Pushing that depressing thought aside, I step out of the shower and feel around in the thick steam-filled room for the towel rack. My crowd thought it would be funny to lock me out of my bedroom with my private bath attached, so I have to use the guest bath downstairs. I know I brought a dang towel with me, but somehow it’s disappeared right along with the change of clothes I dropped on the counter before climbing in the shower. Kicking around the floor, I’m not surprised to find my pile of dirty clothes gone as well. Great. Dripping wet, I scrounge around in the cabinet and only unearth a flipping washcloth.

  You’ve got to always—and I do mean always—stay on your toes around these jerks. Mischief is the norm.

  Cracking the door open, I yell, “Hey! Bring me my stuff!” I say it real mean, too. Guess it didn’t help my cause. A few beats pass with nothing, so I yell a few more times in a nicer tone before giving up. It’s a lost cause thinking they would actually relent and give me my blame clothes back. I slam the door shut and beat it a few times with my head for good measure, hoping some idea will come to me.

  Doing my best dog impression, I fling off as much water as possible—probably earning a mild whiplash in the process. Luckily, I keep my hair fairly short nowadays, so a few flicks with my hands helps to rid the drips. After blotting—can’t believe I just used such a pansy word—with the small cloth, I use it to shield my junk.

  Taking a deep breath, I brace the doorknob and prepare to make a run for it, only to freeze after slinging the door wide-open.

  “Surprise!”

  The edges of my vision blur a bit, as I take in the roomful of friends and family members with their phones raised. The only option is to stand here and allow them to get the goods as I hold on to that tiny square of cloth for dear life. My Twitter and Instagram accounts are going to be blowing up right about now.

  Standing smugly right in front is my twin brother. He’s wearing that stupid grin and the change of clothes I brought in the bathroom with me earlier.

  “Nice outfit.”

  His smile widens even more. “Yeah. They’re just my size.”

  A snort escapes me. “No, bro. They’re way too baggy for your scrawny body.”

  While we have our standoff, Jewels ushers everyone out. I give her a wink of approval, and she blows me a kiss before she leaves, too. That Dillon is one lucky dude to be able to call that sweet thang his wife.

  Only the band remains to taunt me—Dillon, Max, Logan, and Trace. Well, I’m not taking this lying down. Heck, no! Tossing the damp cloth and popping Max in the face with it, I do a cocky strut around. Spreading my arms wide to offer a better view, ignoring their eye rolls, I rub it in a little more.

  “You got a long way to go before you can fill out my manly pants properly, little guy.”

  The guys bark out in laughter as Dillon tosses me a pair of boxers. “Put that puny ego away, Mave. None of us wants to see your junk.”

  Dillon and these guys are my brothers. We’ve earned our right to harass one another, so I let his comment slide.

  “Then y’all shouldn’t be stealing my clothes,” I grouch out alone with a chuckle, turning around to give them a full moon view, while I shove the boxers on. “Just wanted to make sure you girls got your fill of what a real man looks like.”

  More laughter.

  And for the record, there’s nothing puny about me anymore. I’m the first to admit, I have a problem with addiction. It near about killed me. That wakeup call landed me in rehab and cured my taste for drugs. Nowadays, I focus my addictive behavior for my betterment, which includes weight training. Since going this route, I’ve managed to pack on fifty pounds of lean muscle—a far cry from the twig I use to resemble. Max is also trying to put weight on now, so everyone will stop referring to him as the scrawny twin. That’s hilarious to me. He can still out-eat me, though.

  Speaking of eating…

  “Let’s go. I’m ready for cake,” I say as I finish dressing and shoving on some boots.

  •♫•♫•♫•

  The lake twinkles with glowing colors—red, blue, orange, yellow, and green—giving this October night an early Christmas vibe. It’s one of those pitch-black nights with nothing to take away from the luminosity, and I just bet it would be a spectacular sight from a plane.

  “Fore!”

  We all watch Trace’s green ball land way outside the glowing floating ring in the midst of the lake. The little glowing ball looks lonely way over there by itself. Yeah, not teaming with him for the celebrity golf tournament coming up next spring—duly noted.

  “Trace, you can’t hit for crap, dude.” Tate grabs the club out of his hand and positions his glow-in-the-dark golf ball on the dock. “I land this shot in the ring, and then we’ve got to talk some business.”

  I watch from my lawn chair while shoving in a big bite of caramel birthday cake. Max sits beside me, devouring his dark chocolate cake. Jewels was a sweetheart. She gave us each our own cake and divvied cupcakes out to the rest. Now it’s a race to see who can polish off the quarter sheet cake first. I’m over halfway through mine already, but I notice Wormy is only a few bites away from done.

  It’s rolling close to three in the morning, so all that remains is the band, our two managers, Tate and Ben, and our assistant, Blake. Everyone is propped up in their own chair on the dock, just hanging. Nights like this are hands down my favorite, with performing on stage a close second. My spoon taps out a beat on the cake board absently with these thoughts.

  With a swift whack, Tate’s orange ball lands perfectly in the middle of the ring, as he predicted. I’ll keep him in mind for a teammate.

  “This is a cool gift, Dillon,” Logan drawls out as he takes Tate’s position at the end of the dock.

  The dude can pluck a bass string like nobody’s business. Too bad he has no golf skills. His ball lands nowhere near the glowing ring—marking Logan off the golf buddy list.

  Nothing much has changed over the years, except the toys are much better and don’t come secondhand anymore.

  “Yeah, dude. Thanks for the golf stuff,” I say to Dillon, who’s balancing his
blue golf ball on the end of his six iron.

  He chin-jerks with a grin. “No problem. We can’t lose the tournament this year. The whole crowd of us looked like idiots last year.”

  “Ah. A gift with an ulterior motive,” Max says around a mouthful of cake. He has yet to hit one ball. He’s too consumed with consuming his cake. Looks like I will be forking over a hundred bucks to him.

  “Straight up,” Dillon agrees. Dude has a competitive streak to go along with all of his other streaks—mischievous streak, funny streak, talented streak, bossy streak, but never a mean streak. We used to call him Saint Bleu. The man is solid and I’m not talking about his too-tall stature. He makes the rest of us look like dwarves, even though we all linger around the six foot mark.

  Dillon takes his turn and lands the ball in the ring. “All right, looks like there’s more green balls outside the circle than not, so Trace gets to go round up all the balls.”

  We laugh as Trace grumbles. He hops on the Jet Ski, manning a dip net, and goes to retrieve the glowing balls illuminating the lake’s surface. I snag a pic before he makes to the bounty for my media pages and caption it—I’m dreaming of a Bleu Streak Christmas.

  “What a tease,” Max says as he peeps over.

  “Yeah, and they will eat it up.” Sure enough, they do. My phone is already flashing with notifications blazing in.

  The crowd is pushing the chairs to form a loosely based circle, so I guess we’ve reached the business portion of the night—or morning. Ben grabs a chunk of my cake as I place it back in the box. Yes, I’m throwing in the towel. Three-fourths of a cake is enough. My pulse is hammering away in the side of my neck from the sugar rush. I’m so wired there’s no doubt sleep will remain elusive until probably tomorrow night around this time.

  Tate hands out the concert agenda once Trace makes it back. I’m pretty stoked. We’ve only done a minimum of tours in the last few years with some of the crowd popping out kids and needing to raise them. I’m good with that, but I’m looking forward to hitting the road. There’s a surplus of creative energy I gotta get burned off. I’ve taken up writing and composing songs, so that’s helped. But nothing compares to performing them in front of live audiences, where fans take a part of you and make it their own.

  “The children will be out of school on the fifteenth of December. We fly out that night to California. Concerts start the following night and conclude on the third of January. We have close to three weeks to pull off thirteen shows.” Ben looks up from the paper.

  “Is that all?” Logan asks with sarcasm thickly laced in his words. We all chuckle.

  “Actually, no. There are a few interviews and some charity events mixed in there. Nothing you guys can’t handle,” Tate pipes in.

  “And Jillian has a new assistant in mind to help you guys out during the tour,” Ben says. He’s the only one who calls Jillian by her given name. She’s Jewels to the rest of us. We have a hit song with her name in the title, so yeah, she’s Jewels to all of us and not just Dillon.

  “Both tour buses are being serviced and will join us in Louisiana for the last leg of the tour,” Blake says. “I’ve even got the guy to custom fit blue Christmas lights along the top.” That grin shows off how proud he is of himself on that detail. The kids will like it, for sure.

  “Back to the new assistant. Who is he?” I ask no one in particular.

  “A she and her name is Elizabeth,” Tate answers.

  “Hot dang! We’ve never had a lady assistant before. Is she a birthday gift, too?” Max asks all excited, like he doesn’t already have a steady girlfriend.

  “I’m sure Mona would love to hear you say that.” I huff.

  “Doesn’t hurt to keep my options open. Seriously, though, not for me, grouch, but for you!” Max barks out in laughter with the other guys joining in.

  “Why me?” My brows pinch severely, not liking this.

  “We worry you’re auditioning for the part of the Grinch for our tour, dude,” Logan pipes in. “Maybe a hot mama will chill you out.”

  “No hot mama for Mave or any of the rest of you. This is a serious job she’s needed for. Remember our side agenda?” Dillon gives us pointed looks.

  “That’s the main agenda,” Trace says and we all agree.

  Christmas isn’t about taking advantage of the season to cash in. Not for us, anyway. It’s about much more than that—way beyond.

  Blake leans in toward me and whispers, “I got dibs.”

  I shrug my shoulder, because I really don’t care. I’m hitting the road to do some important giving back and to rock out. There’s no room for female drama in there anywhere. That’s for dang sure.

  Women, according to my history with them, are nothing but trouble. All they’ve cared about are the status and material possessions my fame can give them. Most of them have been delusional enough to think they actually deserve it simply for keeping me company. Nope. Not worth it. Don’t dare get heated with one of those plastic chicks, because you gonna find yourself dealing with a melted inconvenient mess. Babes can flake out in a blink of an eye. I think it’s because they’re hungry, but I’ll be danged if I can’t get most of them to eat more than a leaf of lettuce. They start mouthing off and I just want to cram a cookie in those whiny mouths. What in the heck happened to real, wholesome belles? Ones that have actual curves, and sturdy enough not to break on contact.

  The breeze picks up, and I let it carry those aggravating notions right along with it. Bringing my focus back to what really matters, I regard this motley crew I’m blessed to call family. They don’t deserve having to deal with my mood swings.

  “Once we get on the road, I can release some of this energy, and I’ll be all smiles for you girls. Promise.”

  “We’re holding you to it,” Max says.

  By the time the sun is peeking around the edge of the lake, we have it all hammered down and head home.

  Chapter Two

  Izzy

  A nervous panic clamors over me as I have a stare-down with this green-eyed firecracker. Wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans again, I try swallowing the anxiety she’s evoked.

  “I’m sorry, Jewels, but the answer is still no. I can’t do this. There’s no way I can pull this off and you know it.” I push the contract back to her side of the table and take another sip of my latte. The sweet coffee is almost bitter on my tongue due to this anxiety.

  I cannot believe Jillian Bleu just offered what she offered. I’ve known her for a little over a year now, so I thought she knew me better than this. We’ve been going round after round for the last few weeks and the results are still the same—not happening.

  “That’s not acceptable.” She crosses her arms and glares.

  “You’re not bullying me into agreeing to this. You know how shy I am.” The words tumble out in awkward stutters.

  “Shy isn’t enough of an excuse to turn this once-in-a-lifetime offer down,” Jen pipes in.

  “Look how long it took for me to open up to you two,” I whisper, averting my gaze away from them and taking in a few deep breaths of the heady scent of fresh-baked bread.

  It took almost six months for me to push enough shyness off to accept their invitation of friendship. Yes, I’m very thankful I did, but agreeing to what lies before me is absolutely overwhelming.

  I bumped into Jillian Bleu on campus where I was finishing up my graduates program in business. She teaches a creative writing class—something I would never consider—and she latched onto me instantly with me trying to run in the other direction. I know who she is and she demands I call her Jewels. Oddly enough, being close friends with a famous songwriter has been the easiest relationship I’ve ever formed. Jen is an energetic hoot, so she has easily grown on me, too. However, both of these friendships took time, and that contract isn’t offering time with it. I’m downright terrified.

  Jen rubs her rounded belly and pouts over at me. “You know I can’t help out this time. You have to do it for me.” She’s nearing her due da
te so the doctor says no traveling.

  “Moving right along from bullying to guilt-tripping.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. These two are tag teaming me—so not fair. “You know how big of a Bleu Streak fan I am. Have you thought about that? What if I go all fan girl?” My eyes pop wide, hoping to scare them off. Both laugh instead. I’m grasping at straws and we all know it.

  “You’ve already met Dillon and Trace a few times. You wouldn’t even breathe in their direction. I think it’s a safe bet you won’t be jumping any of them and ripping their shirts off,” Jillian retorts.

  “Exactly,” I blurt. Both women snort in laughter. I’m doing a lousy job defending myself. “I froze in front of them. How exactly am I going to be of any help, if I do that every time I’m around any of them?”

  “You’ll get comfortable around them after seeing how obnoxious they all are. Trust me. They’re a bunch of man-children,” Jewels says.

  “Girl, you’ve spent the last six years hiding behind a textbook or laptop screen. It’s time you take an adventure,” Jen says with excitement sparkling in her hazel eyes.

  “Jen’s right. And what better way to strike out on an adventure than with me and the band?” Jewels pauses to take a sip of her coffee. “Besides, it’s all behind-the-scenes stuff we need you for. Nothing you can’t handle. Look at it as a break from your monotony, served up with a substantial paycheck. Plus, all of your traveling and personal expenses will be covered during the tour.”

  Anxiety has produced sweat that is now trickling down my back. How can I get out of this? “But Momma—”

  “Nope. Not gonna work, sugar,” Momma says as she joins us at the table.

  She has a dusting of flour trapped in a lock of her brown hair. I reach over and free it, as her light-brown eyes regard me warmly. She gifted me with the same shade of eyes, but not hair—my locks are so blonde she refers to it as angel hair, whatever that means.