by Cari Quinn
As if she could read his increasingly dirty thoughts, she didn’t move, and neither did he. Part of him was sorely tempted to tell her to lose her bodyguard and meet him somewhere after the show, where they could get to know each other way better.
Without the BS. Without their clothes.
The rest of him knew she was a mistake wrapped up in fluff and glitter, and he didn’t need the aggravation. He could fuck his fist and get rid of the burn in his belly that had her name all over it without the consequences of sinking between those pretty thighs.
Nick gave her a light shove forward. His heart was hammering just from her nearness, and man, that pissed him off. “Your man’s waiting, Jazz.” Not Jasmine. She wasn’t anything special to him.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” She looked over her shoulder, her lips glossy and soft, and his cock went from hard to on the verge of drilling through his pants. “It’s Jasm—”
He couldn’t listen to her teasing, not right now. In a second he was going to rub his dick against her ass and let her feel what she was playing with. “Go,” he gritted out.
She went. And she didn’t look back.
When he could breathe without feeling the glass shards sticking between his ribs at her retreat, Nick followed.
They had a damn show to do.
Four
Simon: The Becoming
I own your soul,
the night has just begun the becoming claims with a whisper and ends in a scream
Simon bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to get a good look at the crowd. He swung his guitar around to his back and jerked at the red button-down shirt trying to strangle him. Finally he popped all the snaps open, letting the humid, smoky air cling to his bare skin. Damn smoke machine was working overtime.
Deacon’s deep voice teased at the fringes of Simon’s consciousness. He was in herding mode again. They weren’t two-year-olds.
Simon slicked a layer of sweat off his neck. He’d done his warm-up in the stank-hole closet that the Rhino called a bathroom. Lyrics packed his brain like Styrofoam peanuts waiting to explode. He just hoped the explosion didn’t come with a gullet full of the coffee and hash browns from lunch.
Rehearsals had gone well. There was no reason to be nervous. Except for the fact that Nick had only shown up to one goddamn practice since first meeting Jazz and Gray. No big deal.
Jesus fuck.
Simon shook out his fingers, the tingle of unease slammed into excitement like thunder. Though the room was half empty, a six pack of college kids were getting rowdy at the back of the room. Little groups of women in various stages of teased hair and skimpy clothes dotted the general admission area. The bar was a bottleneck of patrons looking for cheap beer and watered down well drinks.
Deacon swiped the black sheet fronting the stage closed and jerked a thumb at Simon, motioning for him to join the rest of the group.
Simon jogged over to the band. “What now, Deak?”
He handed Simon a bottle of water. “We’re discussing the setlist.”
Simon flung out his arm to show off the six songs that were scrawled on the inside of his forearm. “We already figured out the setlist.”
“We’re taking out ‘Demolition Man’ and putting in ‘Ripcord’ instead.”
Simon’s eyes widened as Deak walked away. “Ripcord” was the last song he and Nick had written before the great lyrical drought. They’d only practiced it a handful of times. “Demolition” was a tried and true song. Why didn’t they go with that one?
He glanced over at Nick. His eyes were glassy with the typical terror they were used to seeing. Nick thought he was fooling all of them, but Simon knew him better than anyone. Besides, his tells were getting easier to spot. Like the way he kept stomping his feet as if he were cold, when the temperature in the club was hovering close to the desert at noon. Then there was that furtive glances he kept shooting him, looking away before Simon had a chance to do anything but groan under his breath.
They really did not need this crap tonight. Simon uncapped the water and glugged down half. It helped with the cotton mouth he got before a show. Deak always knew what they needed.
Too bad he couldn’t magically fix Nick’s issues. Instead Nick was on asshole patrol. If he’d shut his goddamn mouth maybe, just maybe, they’d make it through this show with everyone intact. But no. In between mental freakouts, Nick kept picking at the scabs of each of his verbal lances into Gray. The guy was a damn saint for putting up with Nick. Especially with whatever was going on between Nick and Jazz. Nick kept watching their little Minnie Mouse drummer as if he expected her to swipe his jacket or something.
If that wasn’t enough, after Gray and Jazz’s latest furtive conversation, Gray shoved on his hat and prowled to his spot. Then he started drilling holes via his retinas into the back of Nick’s head.
Christ, what had happened now? Simon had obviously missed the latest round of sniping, and for that he was grateful. His name was not Deacon, and he didn’t get his rocks off by pretending he was Mr. Rogers and handing out cookies. Those three could figure out their stuff by themselves. He had his own to deal with.
Simon frowned as Nick took his place on stage and fished his pick out of his jeans. It wasn’t his favorite. This one was a generic silver, not the battered red and black with the worn edge. A single drop of sweat coasted down Simon’s spine. No, he would not give into the asinine superstitions that ruled Nick before a show.
The jerk had only come to practice once and now Nick thought he could change the setlist? That change had come from his best friend, not Deacon, he knew it.
Simon blew out a breath, his heartbeat like a ticking time bomb in his brain. He rolled his shoulders, trying to put the anger in a box. Obviously there was going to be some serious shit going down after the show. If it required him pulling Nick’s head out of his ass for him, then that’s what he’d do.
Jazz drew his gaze and he focused on her instead. Her super short skirt over leggings was bad enough, but the strappy black tank she’d stripped down to showed off perky little tits that made him think about much better ways to get the pounding out of his system. She twirled one of her Day-Glo purple sticks through her fingers up and back, up and back, until it was just a flash of color. The other she tapped slowly against her thigh. Her skin was perfection save for a few dark marks that looked suspiciously like finger digs along her upper arm.
Simon frowned.
Where had those come from? He instantly swung his gaze to Gray. He stood very still. He’d swapped out his usual uniform of khakis and Oxford shirts for black cargos and a long sleeved black t-shirt. In between glowering at Nick, Gray’s dark eyes followed Jazz’s movements as if he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight.
The guy was watchful in a way that made Simon’s shoulder blades itch. He wasn’t sure what to make of him and Jazz. They were too pent-up to be banging on a regular basis. Maybe that’s exactly what they needed to do.
All of them. Separately. Though, seriously, hello possibilities. Having a chick in the band added an all new angle.
Then again the bowstring-tight tension they were all carrying around had come with a side benefit of renewed creativity for the last five days. Everyone had been trying to outdo the other. Simon had woken with finger cramps every morning from playing for five and six hours a night.
He’d been so tired he hadn’t had more than a soda or water in his hands or a chick under him in days. Maybe those sports idiots were right about holding your load before a big game. After tonight, he was damn well going to find a girl to fuck until he was unconscious.
A smile ghosted his lips. Until she was too.
Simon adjusted the strap of his battered white Fender. His baby wasn’t really needed for the show—they were guitar heavy now, but he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands without his axe. The familiar weight pulling on his neck eased some of the boiling acid in his gut.
Deacon wandered back over to him,
swapping out Simon’s empty water bottle for another. “We’re going to start with ‘Torn’ and hopefully Gray and Nick will be able to figure out a way to share the solo.”
“It’s my solo,” Nick chimed in from his corner of the stage.
“Not everything is yours.”
Nick nodded to Gray. “He can have Simon’s parts. I thought that’s why Pretty Boy is wearing Cherry as an accessory instead of her intended purpose.”
Simon’s eyebrow rose, and he dragged his guitar around until the fat, hand-drawn rockabilly cherries were visible. He’d had her almost as long as he’d had the Taylor. He wouldn’t deny it was killing him to turn off the solos and let someone else lead, but he’d do it for the good of the band and the new magic that had infused them. “Leave Cherry alone. She’s used to being against this fine chest or my superb ass. It doesn’t matter to her if she’s plugged in or not.”
Jazz’s lips quirked, but she didn’t quite crack a smile.
“Let’s get this over with.” Nick stormed forward and through the curtain, starting the show whether they were ready or not.
“Eager much?” Simon muttered to Gray, who only shrugged. He didn’t know that Nick never charged through the curtain first and also usually bulleted off the stage the second the last chord rang out.
Deacon tipped his head back and dragged a huge breath into his massive lungs. His bass looked tiny against his ginormous frame, but those huge hands knew just how to manipulate a bass line that kept them all in time with each other.
The house lights went down and the driving chords of Nick’s Epiphone buzzed into the dark. Jazz shed her shoes and jumped behind her kit. Her sticks slapped so hard he was sure the skins would split. She followed Nick’s lead like he’d been at every practice.
She knew him already. Instinctively knew where to change the beat and how to make it complement Nick’s gritty guitar.
Deacon slipped out, taking his spot on the left side of the stage. His bass held a rich and throaty growl. He wasn’t a typical bassist that kept to the back of the sound. Nothing about Deacon was a weak link. He was a demon on his instrument and yet at the same time he was their compass. As true and steady as breathing. Deacon would be on his left and Nick would be on his right.
Gray walked onto the stage and took his place beside Deacon. Simon could feel the lighter touch. Even with crappy amps, the new guy gave them another layer that Simon simply hadn’t brought to their dynamic before. Gray’s seamless transitions made for a soulful energy under the gnashing power of Nick’s guitar.
Simon quieted the tension, let the anticipation simmer, and slowly walked out, his eyes focusing on the tips of his black and red boots. No, the potato paste that coated his gut was not going to make an appearance. Just words. His words, his persona, his part to play. The lyrics ripped out of his throat as he finally stared into the crowd.
People were so busy chatting, they barely looked up at the stage. He glanced over at Deacon, and the furrow between his dark brows drew out nerves. His voice warbled.
No.
Hell no.
He stalked across the stage as the song became more guttural and he drew the crowd’s attention front and center. A few were fans already. They’d been on the circuit long enough to have a few followers. He focused on a trashy blonde that came to all of their Rhino shows.
She licked her lips and swayed. Her black corset top overflowed with fleshy breasts. He’d hooked up with her once and she’d hung around ever since. He winked as he hit the end of the stage and hiked up the half dozen stairs that led to the lighting system.
Simon was just high enough to draw the attention of some of the stragglers as their first song bled into the next. Jazz’s pounding beat kept him in time. He was too far away from Deacon’s bass. They didn’t have money for inner ear monitors, so he usually used Deacon to keep his rhythm.
His guitar bounced against his ass, the knobs biting into his lower back twisting the loose material of his shirt. With impatient fingers, he struggled, tossing the shirt over the scaffolding. The steamy air coated his back and the strap chafed, but the freedom was worth it. Clothes left him feeling hemmed in.
He bounded back down the stairs, his voice growing stronger with every step closer to the stage. Deacon’s face relaxed and his smile widened as he swayed forward and back in that metronome way of his. The constancy he needed. Simon slung an arm over Deacon’s shoulder—he damn well couldn’t reach his neck—as they both sang the chorus.
He spun away and landed in the center of the stage, his knees singing with the impact against the floor as he drowned out the guitars, the drums, and the bass with a wail that left it open for Nick to take center stage with a guitar solo.
Heaving in breaths of oxygen and focused on his burning desire for a shot, he gathered his energy while Nick gave him a four minute break. He looked up to find Gray beside him, just to the left of Deak. Gray quirked a brow at him and Simon winked before he popped back to his feet and stalked over to circle Nick.
Nick’s bare arms were slick with sweat. The lighting rig was like the sun at noon and the smoke machine pumped out wispy gray plumes that teased around their feet like a specter. They looked frigging cool.
Who cared if the smoke singed the inside of his nose? They could breathe later.
When Gray came up beside them and leaned into Simon’s back, Nick stopped. Just stopped.
Gray peered at Simon, his brow arched in confusion as he continued through another key change and repeated the next verse’s chords to give Nick time to catch up. Simon pulled the mic away from his mouth and swore.
Nick stood in the same place, but he’d gone somewhere else in his head. His fingers had stopped flying. He’d turned into stone.
No, no, no. Not now.
Nick couldn’t lose it now on their first show as a new band. Even if he didn’t want to see them as a unit. Even if he refused to. Dammit.
Simon slung an arm around Nick’s neck just as he always did and jolted him forward a step. Nick didn’t react. He was still and cool, a marble guitar god and just as useful. Simon slid behind him and slapped his foot on the pedal to reset the amp.
Simon jerked the cord out of Nick’s guitar and plugged it into Cherry. He peered around Nick to the crowd and strummed a few times. He dragged Gray to the forefront of the stage and leaned against him until they were back to back.
Nick’s presence behind him felt like a cold blast of indifference and he tuned it out, unwilling to allow anything to disrupt this moment. He’d deal with his best friend later. If he could salvage tonight, he’d do whatever it took.
Gray was quick. He hammered out an extended solo and Simon followed suit. They’d been playing dueling guitars every night. Gray was leagues past him with technique and original style, but Simon had the showmanship. Adding flair and giving the ladies a show to remember was what he did best.
His entire body flowed into the music as it always did. Gray carried them with his steely concentration and meticulous finger work. Intense and relentless. If Nick dropping out of the song even affected Gray’s playing, it was impossible to tell. The guy did not falter. He barely even seemed to sweat.
Weird.
Simon closed his eyes, unable to focus if he didn’t shut out Nick and his wounded vacant eyes staring out into the crowd. That shell-shocked gaze pulled at him, nearly causing Simon’s fingers to falter and his voice to thin.
Please God, no one notice.
Just think it’s a stage trick. Please.
Gray tipped his head back against Simon’s shoulder and the duel of a solo they both churned out was pure liquid silver. Incredible. Simon’s smoother tones over Gray’s inconsistent constancy blended into a new kind of magic altogether. It was hard to pigeonhole Gray’s style. His uniqueness was a gift from karma’s sweet mouth.
The keen notes of Gray’s solo slowly drifted out until the crowd went crazy. The applause echoed in his head, drowning out everything else. Simon nodded out to the lighti
ng guy on the side-stage and signaled for lights down.
Simon leaned into Gray’s ear, both of them still back to back. He just hoped Gray could hear him. “‘The Becoming.’ Long intro.”
Gray jerked once, but nodded and careened off toward Deacon.
It was Deak’s song—Deak and Gray’s song—and he hoped like hell it would save their ass. They’d been practicing until the song was as ingrained as any that Simon had a hand in writing. He’d been dying to get it out before a crowd. He’d been dying to actually perform something new.
He flicked Cherry behind his back again, unplugged and dragged Nick away from the lights. Simon spared one last look at the stage. The heartbeat-heavy bass filled the dark room. A single blue spotlight caged Deacon as he became the demon that had lent him his name. His deep voice resonated with a conviction he’d never heard from his friend.
Jazz picked up the change in setlist and pounded out her distress call to the room. She and Gray were the newcomers, but they were as at ease as if their names were tattooed on the wall. The song was perfection. And Simon was going to miss it.
The burn of anger and lure of the mic blazed down his spine as he dragged Nick farther back into the small closet and yanked the door shut behind him. He slammed Nick into the steel shelves full of cleaning supplies. “What was that, dude?”
Nick’s hands clenched and unclenched as he turned away.
Simon crowded in on him, his chest pressed to his arm, his mouth against his ear. The anger was so close to the surface he had to speak around a growl. “You clicked off. You haven’t done that since our first show.”
Nick’s turned flat brown eyes on him, cobra still and ready to strike. “Step back.”
Simon shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for coddling. All of them had been tiptoeing around him for the last week. The pansy-ass bitch was going to taste a little reality. “You find a way to put your stuff in a box and get back on that stage and play like a man.”
