by Cari Quinn
Head bent, she strummed and sang a song about a woman on her wedding day. Hope, fear, excitement. Crying tears of joy. He didn’t know the song—folksy type music wasn’t his thing—but he couldn’t stop listening. Or watching the way her perfect pink lips curved around the words she sang so effortlessly that she became one with the melody.
When she finished, she glanced up and flushed. “Oh.”
Her eyes were bright blue, like the sky on a sunny day. Surrounded by blue-flecked lashes, those stunning irises bored into his and left him mute. He couldn’t say a damn thing.
“I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have been playing.” She set the guitar aside and brushed her hands over her skintight white jeans. The denim had been sliced all the way up and down her legs, and through the holes he could see glimpses of color on her skin.
He cleared his throat. “Tattoos?”
Her flush only worsened as she followed his gaze to her legs. “No. Markers.” She pulled open one of the gaps on her knee and a drawn-on daisy appeared in the hole. “When I get bored, I draw on my clothes. And on myself, since I’m easier to wash off.” She gave a little hitching giggle and stood up, sticking out her hand. “I’m Jazz. You must be Gray.”
He clasped her hand, not the least bit surprised when heat flared between their palms. But she didn’t seem to notice. She just kept smiling at him, her huge eyes locked on his.
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “I’m Gray.”
“Nice to meet you. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.” Not for too much longer though. “You?”
“Fourteen. But I feel way older.”
He looked her up and down. “You don’t look older.”
She threw back her shoulders. “Yeah, ’cause I’m little. But I could still grow. It could totally happen. I take my vitamins. I work out.” She flexed her tiny biceps under the pink sleeve of her T-shirt and he couldn’t help grinning.
“Sure. I bet you’ll end up six-feet tall.”
“Nah. That’s as tall as you are. I’d settle for five-two.”
Gray glanced down at her red Chucks. “You could wear heels.”
“No way.” She scrunched up her perky nose. “I’d rather be short.”
He laughed and gestured to her guitar. “So how long have you played?”
“All my life.”
He tried to take a deep breath and realized his lungs were still seized up like he’d just run a mile. God, she was cute and she was into music? And she’d be living in his house? Down, boy.
Talking to chicks wasn’t difficult. Well, before today. He’d never had any trouble acting cool around them in the past. Besides, this one was too young. Fourteen-year-old girls weren’t going to be as easy to coax up into his bedroom, something he did on the regular. He loved girls. The way they smelled. Tasted. Felt under his hands. They were like guitars, all smooth lines and perfect curves. He adored pulling different sounds out of them, just like he did his axe.
But this particular one would be his sister. Sort of. Which made this awkward.
“Me too. I’m in a band,” he said, preening a little.
“You play too?” Her eyes lit. “What instrument?”
The nerves finally disappeared as he slid his hand down the neck of her guitar. The wood felt good under his hands. Like it was meant to fit his grip. He grinned. “Guitar.”
Two
Now
The stage throbbed with the bass. Confetti from the New Year’s Eve celebration littered the stage and colored strobe lights swung back and forth, landing on each member of Oblivion in turn. The lights bounced over the crowd, revealing individual faces caught in various stages of excitement. The first time they’d played at Frenzy, back home in Carson, California, the crowd hadn’t been nearly as enthusiastic, at least at the beginning. They’d had to seduce them into the music.
Tonight they were all ready to fuck.
Gray Duffy closed his eyes and threw back his head, letting the beat take him. His head was spinning, his heart pounding with every crash of the drums behind him. Jazz was killing it. He followed Deacon’s lead as he always did, tracing that heartbeat bass line that led into “Taste of Candy”. The song wasn’t his favorite, but he didn’t care. When the sweat was coursing down his face, the salt burning on his lips and tongue, and his fingers were climbing the frets, so fast he wondered how any skin still covered the muscles and bone, he tasted every note. Became them. Even the dueling guitar played by the guy against his back—Nick—only heightened the experience.
They were a unit again. They’d sewn the group back together, in spite of the fraying threads. But when they were playing for their fans, especially in their hometown, none of the shit that had transpired the past few months mattered. The grin Nick flashed him as he goaded him into the solo near the end of “Taste” was as genuine as the shoulder nudge Gray gave him when he tried to cut him out too soon. They weren’t friends, exactly, but they weren’t enemies anymore either.
Simon slung an arm around Deacon’s neck and shoved the microphone in their bassist’s face, earning a growl that somehow fit the song. Simon laughed and pranced away, swaying his hips in his best Mick Jagger imitation. He hadn’t even zipped his leather pants. Why bother? He’d be screwing some chick the instant he finished the set. Maybe before, if the brunette in the front row who kept flashing her breasts actually made it up on stage.
Jazz banged her heart out on her kit, her wild multi-colored curls flying, the sticks in her nimble fingers colliding with the skins with a beautiful poetry he never grew tired of watching. Every time she smiled, his chest caught, the breath in his lungs stalling out until he looked away and his heart eventually gave in and started beating again.
The vibration of the stage under his boots brought him back to himself, to the solid reality of the instrument in his hand. The heat climbed up his spine, matching the fiery pressure in his fingers as he raced to keep up with the music inside him. Building, building. As potent as any orgasm, swelling to the point it finally exploded.
And when Simon’s voice sliced through the screams of the fans, the tension inside Gray snapped, forcing him to his knees while he played for his fucking life.
Two hours later they dragged themselves into the back, higher than they’d been in months. Laughing, joking with each other. Deacon grabbed Jazz and swung her up on his shoulders, making her squeal. Gray grinned and tweaked her bare foot, pulling on a candy pink-tipped toe, and she kicked out at him, thrusting her hand in his hair while she struggled closer. He leaned up to meet her mouth, knowing the kiss wouldn’t be anything but a glancing blow. Just friends being friendly. His blessing and his curse. Then his gaze flickered to the woman off to the side, smiling at him with determined promise.
He stumbled back, mumbling an apology to Jazz. He didn’t see her face because he was focused on the woman dressed in the blue tube dress, her blonde corkscrew curls fountaining from the top of her head.
About goddamned time.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked once he was at her side, gripping her arm to pull her close. “I called you five times last night, Cricket.”
“Oooh, such an appetite you have.” She leaned up and spoke against his ear. “Got a new supplier, handsome. You’ll be ready to go tonight.” She reached down and grabbed his cock through his jeans. He gritted his teeth, hating for once in his life that playing always made him hard. “You’re ready to go right now.”
He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it. We’re not about that.”
“But we could be.” She licked her vamp red lips. “You have no idea what I could do to you.”
“Not interested.” He wished he could walk away. But she had something he needed more than he needed his pride. “All I want is what I pay you for.”
“You haven’t paid me for anything in quite a while. Your tab’s getting pretty long.” Her gaze drifted below his waist. “Let me help you settle your debt.”
Christ. It would be so easy to say y
es, to just spread her legs and drill himself inside her until she stopped begging. But he was on the verge of begging himself, and not for the well-used landing strip between her thighs. “You’ll get your money. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”
“Fifteen minutes. Outside.” Cricket looked pointedly over his shoulder. “Just you, handsome.” Turning on her razor-sharp heels, she left him standing there.
He turned, knowing who would be waiting. Goddammit. He needed a hit before he faced those liquid blue eyes, so full of accusation. “Who is she?” Jazz asked, crossing her arms.
“A friend.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
“What kind of friend? A groupie?”
“Does it really matter?” He stabbed his fingers into his eyes. “I need a drink.”
A moment later, a damp bottle bumped his arm. “Here.”
He opened his eyes and accepted Jazz’s offering. Water. He couldn’t help smiling. Simon was guzzling whiskey right out of the bottle, but Jazz was drinking water. So that meant he was too.
He popped the cap with his thumb and tipped it back, sloshing the water into his mouth while he pulled her against his side with his other arm. He pushed the bottle at her next, holding it up for her as she swallowed. A few drops splashed her bare chest over her sharply V-necked top, but he wouldn’t give in to the urge to study the pattern of droplets on the tops of her breasts.
He’d spent enough time torturing himself over Jazz Edwards.
Before she could question him further, he finished off the water himself and turned away, crushing the bottle in his fist. “Be back later,” he muttered, knowing she’d never hear him over the chaos backstage. Knowing it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing he ever said or did was.
“Gray.” Her abrupt cry cut through the noise and he stopped, expecting her small hand to close over his forearm. She had a crazy intense grip from playing the drums and a thrill of anticipation always buzzed down his spine when her strong fingers pressed into his flesh. Every time he imagined her touching him somewhere else, like she had that one time—
The one time he wouldn’t let himself think about, because it hadn’t been right. In all his fantasies about his first time with Jazz Edwards, there was never another guy there too.
But he hadn’t walked away. Even a saint couldn’t have turned away from those needy blue eyes, and God knows he wouldn’t be fitted for a halo anytime soon. The burn in his nose and muscles jangling under his skin proved that more than anything else.
He pivoted to face her and discovered she hadn’t moved from her spot. Her pale bare feet gleamed against the floor covered in spilled liquor and sweat and who knows what else, those pink-tipped toes speaking of the innocence she still possessed. She was the drummer for a band on their way to superstardom and she had a freaking clit piercing, for God’s sake, but the woman before him would never lose that inner core of sweetness and purity. He wouldn’t allow it.
“Where are you going?” She stepped closer, silently imploring him to stay. “The guys are heading out to Sharkey’s for an after-party in the VIP room.”
Gray snorted. “What VIP room? That place is a dive.”
“They remodeled it, I guess. We’ve been away for a while.”
Talk about an understatement. Their whirlwind tour had ended up getting extended when they switched management and record companies and their new team had wanted them to be seen in a few more key venues before they packed it in for a few months. Not that they’d be on vacation. They had a new album to cut, which meant studio time as well as serious hours spent writing new material. They didn’t have nearly enough to go into the studio with yet. That also meant they’d need to put away the shit between the band members long enough to actually sit still and work on some words and melodies together.
Long meet shot.
“Simon’s got a disguise too,” Jazz went on, clearly oblivious to Gray’s disinterest. He hadn’t been all that fond of hanging out with most of his fellow band members before the big contract mess that Nick and Simon had instigated. Now he definitely couldn’t be bothered.
Especially when there was all that pretty blow, just waiting for him. Maybe. All depended if Cricket really would come through without him having to do her. Some females just had a thing for rock stars, even sweaty, hyper ones who were more interested in powder than pussy.
Still, he had to try to pay attention to this conversation and possibly even show up at the after-party. For Jazz if no one else. “A disguise? What the hell?”
“You know, so he won’t be recognized.” She rolled her eyes. “I think he stole your hat too. I swear he was carrying that around with this freaking curly red wig that makes him look like Carrot Top.”
Gray frowned. “I was wondering where it went.”
She smiled faintly. “I was amazed you could go on without it. In the old days, you would’ve refused to play.”
In the old days, I would’ve refused a lot of things.
He rubbed his hand over the back of his damp neck. “Babe, I need a shower.”
“So? I do too. That doesn’t mean you can’t come to Sharkey’s.”
Rather than stand there and envision things he had no business envisioning—namely his best friend naked and soapy under a stream of hot water—he stepped back. “Why don’t you go ahead? We can connect later.”
She gave him a pleading look that never missed its target. “It’s New Year’s Eve. A fresh start. Please, Gray.”
And those words right there? His undoing.
He sighed. “I’ll meet you there, all right?”
“No. Not all right.” Eyes narrowed, she closed the distance between them again. Apparently she had no intention of giving up easily. “Who is that woman? I don’t like the looks of her.”
“You don’t like the looks of anyone.” He couldn’t resist tapping the side of her head, right above one of her bedraggled rainbow ponytails. “Very suspicious mind you have in there, young lady.”
“Someone has to watch out for you.”
“Oh really?” He cocked a brow, still a little sore from the ring he’d had put in yesterday. Pain was his new thing. At the rate he was going, he’d have tattoos and piercings all over his body. “I think that’s my job.”
“No, it’s mine.” She wet her lips and grabbed the lapels of the leather vest he’d worn over skin onstage. That skin was currently soaked to the bone from their crazy-ass set under the lights, but she didn’t seem to mind. Why would she? Her bangs stuck to her forehead in a thick clump. Even her lashes had tangled in the heat.
And that wet look only brought him right back to thoughts of her in the shower, her body pressed tightly to his from the tips of her full breasts to her shapely thighs and everywhere in between.
His dick veered against his zipper. Christ. He needed to get his head straight or else he’d make some serious mistakes while he was waiting for his fix.
Like indulging in an even darker, more dangerous one.
“I’ve been watching out for you since I was fourteen, Grayson Duffy.” Her fingers tightened on his vest, as if she suspected he was on the verge of pulling away. “Nothing and no one will make me stop now. So get your ass into that shower, get cleaned up and presentable, and come with us to Sharkey’s.”
The devil on his shoulder—or in his pants—made him lean close to speak against her ear. No less than six miniature hoops cupped the curve of her lobe. “What, you don’t think I look presentable now? I think there are some ladies here who might disagree with you.”
She sucked in an audible breath before releasing him and taking an obvious step back. “Like that chick who was groping your dick in front of everyone?” Her eyes flashed. “I bet you didn’t think I saw that.”
“No. I didn’t.” Wished she hadn’t.
He didn’t have any reason to tread gently around Jazz, other than how much of a worrywart she was. They weren’t a couple nor had they ever been. Deep down, he still had a niggle of hope that things could change. T
hat one day she’d stop looking at him as her best friend and see him as more.
Or at least he had hoped that, before. Now he didn’t want her anywhere near him. He loved her enough to know she deserved better.
His gaze darted to Nick, his arm slung around some random redhead wearing shorts that almost exposed her crotch. Jazz deserved way better than that jerk too. He knew all about the backstage blowjobs she used to give Nick before shows. Hell, he’d practically walked in on one once. What they had done after them was more than he wanted to think about.
It was bad enough that he’d never be able to scour the image of her riding Nick from his brain. Lord knows he tried every time he lined up coke on a mirror and shut his eyes. But nothing made the picture disappear.
“I see more than you think.” Jazz reached up to let down her hair. Tumbled, wavy rainbow strands fell down around her shoulders, making her look even younger than usual. “I’m heading back to the bus to get ready. If you’re not at Sharkey’s by eleven, I’m hunting your ass down. And you can tell that skank that I’m not afraid to use my drumsticks.”
He couldn’t help grinning. “I’ll be along soon. I promise.”
“You better.” She bounced from foot to foot, seeming to hesitate, then arched up on her tiptoes to kiss his jaw. The contact seared him straight to the bone as it always did. “It’s hard for me too,” she whispered.
For a second, that same stupid hope surged. That perhaps this was it. The moment he’d been waiting for since he’d realized he had fallen for the one woman he would never allow himself to have.
“Is it?”
“Yes. They hurt both of us. Deacon too.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes, her exhaustion evident in even that simple gesture. “I don’t think Simon and Nick understand how much they fractured the band when they accepted that agreement. To them it was just about percentages. They don’t get that they hurt us by not trusting us enough to make us full partners.”
Of course. She hadn’t been talking about them. She was referring to Oblivion.
