by Cari Quinn
Crickets again.
“Isn’t it over? Nick?” Simon pressed.
“Yeah.” Nick stared at the table and refused to look at Jazz. Her hot gaze bored into his neck but he’d be damned if he let any of this derail his focus. She was a sweet piece of ass and a kickass drummer. They needed her—and maybe they even needed Gray. Temporarily. But that was as far as it went. “It’s over.”
Jazz made a strangled sound in her throat and crossed her bare legs. She’d worn a sundress today, all ruffles and flounce, with a short denim jacket and cowboy boots. The bizarre ensemble fit her somehow. “Whatever.”
With that rousing proclamation, Deacon ran through for Gray and Jazz again how Simon had heard about the video being put up on YouTube from Trevor, the Rhino’s bartender. Which naturally led to the crazy amount of hits, still continuing to climb, and what that meant for their shows that week at the Rhino. Setlist changes, encore material, general chaos. Nick tuned it all out until Deacon shared what he’d saved for last.
“Just before I came down here, I got a call from the GM of Frenzy.”
“You serious?” Simon slapped his hands on the table and weaved forward. Even all messed up, the douchewaffle was still pretty. “We’ve been knocking on their door for years.”
“Tell me about it.” Deak smiled. “They want to book us next Sunday night. There was a cancellation, and they heard about us this morning. They want us. If we nail that show, they’ll give us another in a couple weeks—but only if we’re flawless.” Deak’s smile grew. “So we’re going to be.”
“We’re scheduled at the Rhino Sunday,” Nick muttered, well aware no one was listening. Not that he’d been in on the discussion to set up that show either, but at least Deak had informed him that morning about the wheeling-and-dealing that had gone down with Phil last night.
It was official—Nick had become a third-wheel in his own damn band.
“Not anymore we’re not. I just called Phil and he let us back out of Sunday if we picked up the next two Thursdays instead. So I said yes.” Deak crossed his massive arms and cut a sharp glance at Nick. “Problem?”
When Nick didn’t reply, Deak added in a brutally quiet voice, “We have a new guitarist now, you know. So if you decide you’re expendable…”
“Temporary guitarist,” Nick gritted out. “He’s only here as long as she’s filling in for Snake.” He jerked a thumb at Jazz without looking at her. He didn’t trust himself to. “Don’t forget that.”
“Regardless, he has no problem playing when we need him to. Gray?”
Gray nodded and looked sideways at Jazz, who was studying her manicure with obsessive interest.
“This is our chance. We’re going to take it.” Deacon reclined against the wall and let his gaze rest on each one of them, saving Nick for last. Naturally. “If any of you have something to say about that, now’s your opportunity. If you don’t, we’re starting rehearsal in five minutes and we’re going to kill it at our next show at the Rhino. Then we’re going to do the same thing at Frenzy.”
Silence reigned. Then Simon stood slowly, his hand cupping his ribs. He slipped his Taylor over his neck and settled into one of the bucket chairs. “Let’s do this.”
His guitar was going to strangle him.
After years of playing with the same damn strap, all of a sudden it was too tight. Nick shifted it up and down, trying to find that groove in his neck it settled into all on its own. He rolled his shoulders and tried to block out the murmurs of the growing crowd beyond the curtain. Since last weekend he’d been consumed with this moment—they were at Frenzy, for cripes sake—but he didn’t have to worry about the people out there yet. Maybe ever, if he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t get his guitar on right.
“Need some help?” The throaty question made him jerk off the strap and bang his guitar against his toe. Smooth. Jazz laughed and leaned her head on his arm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”
He grimaced and scrunched his bruised toe in his sneaker. “You didn’t scare me.”
“Right.”
He drew in a breath and cast a quick glance around them. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him and Jazz. A small crowd had formed around Simon—shock and awe there—who was regaling his serfs with tales from the night before. He mentioned something about triple teaming and Nick tuned him out. The last thing he wanted to hear was more reminders of all the pussy he wasn’t getting.
Especially when the woman he wanted was smiling up at him like he’d just shoved a sparkler up his ass and set the world aglow.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nick muttered, taking a step back.
She followed, that secret smile of hers widening. She lifted up on her tiptoes—sans her shoes, since she’d already lost them in preparation for the show—and whispered against his chest, “Let’s go somewhere.”
Oh fuck no. Was she insane? Gray was right there. Nick glanced around the insanity that was backstage before a show. He was around somewhere.
“Come on.” She shifted in front of him and cupped his cock through his jeans. “I still owe you one, babe.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” He fought to put steel in his refusal but it was sorta hard. Forget sorta. It was harder than the concrete supports that held up the stage. “Look, that was a mistake. We gotta focus on the show.”
“No, you have to focus on me, so you can get through the show.”
“What?” he asked, sure he’d misheard her.
“You can’t freeze again tonight. And I want to help you if I can.” She tossed a quick glance over her shoulder then glanced back at him, her big eyes bright and steady. If this was about anything but lust and helping out a friend—were they friends?—he couldn’t tell. The glaze of desire in her expression sure didn’t look like pity. “I know I can, if you let me.”
Swallowing hard, he reached down to grip her hand, knowing he was going to hell. Hoping that at least he’d get to come first. “So what will I owe you then?”
She shrugged and gave him her usual mega-watt grin. Her miniature drum-and-cymbals earrings clinked together as she tilted her head. “To play your ass off. No more. No less.”
Some part of him still wanted to explain about the stage thing, to dismiss what she’d seen. What she just might see again tonight. He wasn’t going to let anyone feel sorry for him. But he glimpsed the way out on her face, and he had to take it.
She’d figured out his secret. She understood. And he wasn’t strong enough to say no.
Wordlessly, he set down his guitar and dragged her across the stage as fast as he could considering he was still healing from last weekend’s brawl. They ended up in some random storage closet. It wasn’t smart, because the guys would start tuning up soon, and he and Jazz wouldn’t be able to hide their exit from the closet. But he couldn’t wait. Couldn’t think. He was shaking with the need for her, for another chance. His body still ached from the beating he and Simon had put on each other, but he could barely feel the residual pains through his urgency.
If anyone could heal him, it was Jazz and her supersonic mouth.
The instant the door opened, she dragged him into the forgiving dark. Where they were all alone with the hunger that made their mouths clash together with enough ferocity to light up the night.
He stabbed his fingers into the mile-high bun she’d fixed on top of her head, wrecking the orderly curls, tearing them down while his tongue plunged between her lips. She moaned, loud and sharp, not tempering the sound. And he feasted on it, on her, sucking on her tongue, nipping her lips, swallowing that same grape-sweet taste she’d tormented him with before.
“Want me to go down on you?” he whispered between kisses. It wasn’t an offer he made often, though he had a feeling she’d be the exception to all of his rules.
She shook her head, hard and definite. “No. Just fingers. Please. Like last time.”
They didn’t speak after that. Didn’t do a damn thing except kiss a
nd touch and pant hotly into each other’s mouths. Just like last time, she stroked his cock like she was manipulating her drumsticks. Up, down, up, down, squeezing, letting go. Over and over until he shoved her back against the wall and pushed his hand under her skirt. All he could think about was getting into her slick pussy.
She wore panties tonight, tiny frilly ones, and he ripped them aside and surged his fingers deep. She threw her head back, banging her skull. He pulled out and rubbed her piercing, amazed all over again that such perfection existed in his world. The memory of those pink crystals around her taut little clit could take him straight to heaven. But he wouldn’t go alone.
He spent extra time toying with the studs, testing her reactions to each flick and flutter. Building the urgency between them until they both trembled like plucked strings. Then he was playing her flesh like she’d played him and all he could hear were her ragged gasps, each of them ending on a single plea.
More.
More.
God, give me more.
She came in a pulsing gush against his palm, and he groaned as he dropped his forehead into the crook of her neck. Her brown sugar scent and the smell of her arousal wrapped around him, constricting his lungs, blocking his airflow. Then she dropped to her knees again and pulled down his zipper, taking him out so fast he couldn’t do more than pant his gratitude. Her lips closed around the head of his dick and he fisted his hands against the wall, one of them still soaked from her, lost to the sensation of her wet silky mouth riding up and down his length.
It didn’t take long. She remembered what he liked, and he’d been primed for the past week. He hadn’t let himself come on his own, knowing he’d see her behind his eyes. She’d be the cause of his orgasm even if he was all alone. So he’d held back, held off, somehow knowing they’d end up in this place again. His own touch would never be a decent substitute when he could have her.
At least he had her right now.
When the door opened, they’d take their places on stage and it would be all over. But in here, in the dark, they were the only witnesses to their crime that wasn’t.
He came deep in her throat and she didn’t balk at taking him that way. If anything, she drew on him more strongly, coaxing out every drop as he shuddered and gasped. He ground his hips into her face and she didn’t do anything but invite him to do more.
More.
Fucking give me more.
Still shaking, he didn’t move when she sidled up his body to press her lips to his chest. Somehow he felt their dampness even through his cotton T-shirt.
The room stank of sweat and sex and he couldn’t even be sure it was just theirs. Didn’t want to know. Words failed him. Utterly. All he could think to say was, “thank you.” Over and over, like a prayer.
“You’re welcome. Now you’re going to pay me back, right?”
His deflated ego started coming back to life just from her breathless question. She chuckled, then he did too.
At least one part of him didn’t get stage fright.
“You know it.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheek and she released a soft sigh. “Every song tonight, Jazz,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly thick. “Every one I play, it’ll be for you.”
Though he couldn’t be sure in the crack of light coming under the door, he thought she shut her eyes. He slid up his hand to check and her tangled lashes fluttered under the pad of his thumb. Like a butterfly kiss.
“Then you better not mess up, Crandall.”
He dropped his head back and laughed, more relaxed before a show than he’d been since—
Ever.
He’d never felt like this before he took the stage. Relaxed, loose-limbed. Ready to rock. To blast the rafters off the joint.
And it was all due to her.
“I won’t, baby.” Using a handful of her ass as a lever, he edged her to the door in front of him. He couldn’t stop his sigh. What he could do with her if he had more time. “I’ll be too busy thinking about removing your piercing with my tongue.”
Laughing softly, she opened the door and stepped out. He grinned and reluctantly pulled his hand from the sexy curve of her hip. So not fair.
Then he glanced at the stage.
Gray was standing directly across from them, his axe across his chest like a shield. His eyes accusing.
Jazz tightened like a bow before she launched herself toward the man who loved her. Maybe hated her now, if the look Gray wore meant anything. Her small hand crept up Gray’s chest as she whispered to him. Whether she offered an explanation or an apology, it didn’t have much visible effect. Gray’s face had turned to granite, incapable of showing any emotion but the fury that burned in his eyes like a smoke signal.
When Gray turned away and stalked off the stage, she chased after him without looking back.
Nick walked over to grab his guitar, his eyes shutting the instant his fingers brushed the smooth wood. That brief high was fading, dwindling to nothing, but he clutched it with both hands. No. Fuck, no. She’d given him something he wouldn’t waste.
He just hoped like hell she didn’t pay a price she hadn’t anticipated.
Fifteen minutes later, the curtain came up. Simon pranced forward, his bruises and pain forgotten in favor of the showmanship that was as much a part of him as his skin. He catcalled to the audience, getting them riled up. Making them want it. Him.
They strummed their way into “The Becoming”, the song that had ripped everything open last weekend. Nick breathed in and out, letting the muscle memory take over. He had one thing to do tonight, and that was to play. Nothing else existed.
Gray wasn’t staring him down with enough hatred to make his guitar spontaneously burst into flame. Jazz wasn’t pounding her way through the song so seductively that he wished he could turn around and take her against the kit. Simon wasn’t parading around like he was the main event at a strip joint—and wearing just as few clothes—and Deacon wasn’t looming behind him, a silent, threatening presence warning him he had no missteps left to make.
It was just him and his guitar. And his band.
His fucking band.
By the time they lined up for their bows after an abbreviated encore, his body was so sore that even walking hurt. Sweat dripped down his back, from his temples. The roar of the crowd rang in his ears, filling his brain until it squeezed out everything. He took his usual position next to Simon and clasped his best friend’s shoulder, sharing a grin with him that might as well have been a fricking kiss. He was so elated he might’ve laid one on his buddy if Jazz hadn’t slipped up beside him and grasped his cheek, turning his face to hers.
“You did it,” she breathed, grinning with him. For him. “I knew you could. You were amazing.”
Then her warm, wet lips were on his and he didn’t give a shit that people were watching, that he’d probably wake up in traction after Gray lit into him.
It was all worth it.
Jazz pressed close as they made their way backstage, laughing and shouting and slapping hands with everyone who crossed their paths. An image of Snake, his bald dome sweaty as he whaled on the drums, popped into Nick’s head and was just as quickly dismissed. Now wasn’t the time.
It didn’t take Nick long to realize Snake wasn’t the only one who was missing. Gray had disappeared.
In the center of the pandemonium backstage, a guy in a trim brown suit cornered Deacon. He was smiling widely and gesturing. All the while, the crowd continued to scream on the other side of the curtain.
They hadn’t filled Madison Square Garden—yet—but they’d done okay. Better than. They’d done amazing.
Deacon turned away from the guy in the suit and motioned to Simon, then to Nick and Jazz. If he or Simon had noticed the way he and Jazz were wrapped around each other, they hadn’t given any indication. Gray still hadn’t reappeared, and Nick didn’t miss the little glances Jazz kept sliding toward the back exit. But she also didn’t leave his side, and for that he was eternally grateful. He nee
ded to hold on to her soft, curvy body just a bit longer.
Especially when Deak introduced them to the guy he’d draped one of his gigantic arms around.
“This is Jackson Miller.” Deak smiled like he’d won the frigging lottery. “He wants to talk to us about recording a song. For a fucking soundtrack.”
Ten
Simon: Ruined
Mistaken hearts choke on sighs of pleasure. She knows my demons, unlocks my secrets, leaves me bare.
Simon paused mid-swig, choking on his water. Surely he didn’t hear that correctly. “I’m sorry?” Bent at the waist, he hissed as his ribs protested the movement. He was still tender. Hanging off the lighting rig during the show had not been the wisest of moves.
Amazing what adrenaline could do for a body.
Nick slapped him on the back, the power behind it dragging a groan out of him. “I hate you,” Simon said on a choked breath.
“I know you do.”
Simon battled back the urge to yak up his toes. Instead, he focused on the chipped vinyl flooring and swallowed down the bile. The busted rib wasn’t going to kill him. He just had to man up. Because there was no way in shit he was putting the ace bandage back on. It was bad enough listening to Nick ask him daily if his ribs were okay.
Like his didn’t hurt just as much.
He and Nick had been poking at each other for days. Their fight had definitely taken most of the sting out of the tension between them, but it was always there at the fringes. Waiting to spring up between them and do more damage.
Hating Nick for closing off was as exhausting as fighting with him. Simon wasn’t sure which one was worse.
But right now the shitstorm brewing between them didn’t matter. Nick had gotten through the show tonight. Now the Slick Mick waiting to pounce needed to be his focus. Simon straightened up, his eyebrow climbing as he got a good look at the guy in the suit—a suit that probably cost more than all of their equipment combined. Including Jazz’s mondo-expensive kit that she only brought to the double F for rehearsals before immediately hauling it back home.
