“True.” Drio took my glass, holding it up in question. I shook my head. “Doing what we do, it’s easy to get caught up in the rush and charge forward into danger. It’s fun and hell, the Brotherhood encourages it.” He rubbed his finger over his glamoured up Rasha ring. “Battling darkness, we become convinced that light shines out our ass.” He tapped his head. “It fucks with us because if our big heroic quest is the only thing that matters, failure stops being an option. Any action, any emotion not related to the cause pales in comparison. Then one day we get a harsh reality check and understand what failure really is.”
I barely dared to breathe, more curious than ever about his story.
His cell went off, ending sharing time. Drio glanced at the screen, then tapped it a couple of times. “Hey Ro, you’re on speakerphone.”
“Lolita there?” In addition to voices in the background, I heard snatches of musical instruments.
I pressed my palms into the tops of my thighs with a brief irrational fear that he’d forgotten my real name. “Yeah. I didn’t get the meeting. I’m sorry.”
There was silence on the other end. “We’ll Plan B it.”
“Ro, I got you some water.” Lily was with him.
“Gotta run. See you both later.” Rohan disconnected.
Drio nudged me with his shoulder. “Put this out of your mind. Go pretty up. Ro performing?” He whistled. “A lot of women wanting a piece of that. You’ll want to look good.”
“He can do what he likes.”
“Yeah, sure. You’re both free agents.” He snorted.
I shot him the finger and went to get my glam on.
The production had rented out a large, stylish art deco lounge with a plush interior for the wrap party. Everyone glittered, ready and willing to have a good time.
I wore a midnight blue sheath dress that hit below my knees and hugged my curves–very pin-up girl. Mesh connected the sweetheart neckline to sequined blue fabric around my throat and arms. I’d paired it with what I termed my dominatrix heels: four-inch red stilettos lacing up the front that I’d found in an exclusive shop near the hotel. My hair was pulled back into a sleek bun at the nape of my neck and I had on very little make-up other than mascara and red lips.
I looked chic and confident, a taste-maker. Exactly how Samson needed to see me tonight. Just Samson? I ignored my bitch of an inner voice. The wrap party was my only chance to get the demon to agree to meet me tomorrow and I wasn’t about to blow it with self-doubt. Rohan would be busy performing, which probably wouldn’t endear him to Samson, and it would be odd for Drio to ask Samson for a meeting, which meant this was all on me.
I wandered through the space, taking in the curved built-in booths and tin ceiling, and making it all the way to where a DJ spun tunes on a low stage without any sign of my team. For a while I was content to hang out by the bar, people watching, letting the music and loud chatter wash over me. Watching Samson’s group with particular interest.
Decked out in a flashy suit, the demon held court, standing in the middle of a group wanting to bask in his magnificence. That wasn’t sarcasm, most of the people around him wore expressions of slight desperation, smiling too broadly at whatever he said. Jostling each other to stand next to him.
Samson put his drink on the high bar table beside him but when he reached for it again, it was gone. I hadn’t seen a waiter take it away. He frowned, studying everyone in his vicinity but they all held wineglasses as opposed to his highball.
Samson excused himself, headed toward me. Well, toward the bar, his progress hampered by everyone wanting a word. I finally intercepted him, holding out the drink I’d procured. “This is me saying sorry, and hoping you’ll let me bribe you into forgiving me for acting like a complete weirdo earlier.”
He didn’t answer me or take the drink, so I placed it on the bar. “When I kissed you?” I shivered. “You made me feel things and I freaked. Forgive me?” I tilted my head, my eyes wide.
“You’re not in the clear yet.” He looked down for the drink but once again, it was gone. His lips compressed into thin white lines.
Wanting his attention on me instead of some overly enthusiastic server who was removing glasses with invisible aplomb, I ran a hand over his arm. “I want to make it up to you.” I looked at him through my lashes, running my finger along his chest. “I know you’re busy tonight and everyone is gonna want a piece of you. Tomorrow. Meet me.”
Still nothing.
I caught his hand, playing my last card. “Please. I can give you what you want to make Rohan hurt. Who you want. Just don’t let one mistake ruin everything for me.”
Samson nodded. “Text me the details.”
I kept a relieved smile on my face as he moved over to the bartender to place an order. Mission accomplished. My gamble that the one thing that would convince him was Lolita’s burning desire for the spotlight, combined with her insider knowledge of all things Rohan had paid off. The fact everything I’d said was a lie wouldn’t matter so long as he showed.
Speaking of Rohan, I needed to find him. The kiss epiphany had freaked me out to the point of paralysis. In the same way that people who were afraid of spiders were given tarantulas to hold to desensitize them to their fears, I needed to see him and remind myself that there was only one thing I wanted from him.
I spotted Anya standing hand-in-hand with a willowy redhead, so went over to say hello. She introduced me to her girlfriend Fiona, who had a posh British accent.
“Have you seen Rohan?” I asked. “The guy who is supposed to perform tonight.”
Anya shook her head but Fiona lit up. “I saw him. Wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.” Anya stared at her girlfriend incredulously but Fiona simply tossed her hair. “Please. He’s yummy.” She winked at me.
Anya pointed at a door next to the bar. “There’s a small green room for performers. He might be in there.”
I thanked her and headed over. The door was unlocked and no one seemed to care that I was about to enter, so enter I did. It wasn’t much of a green room. There was a lame cut-fruit platter and some bottles of water on the table.
A leather jacket was thrown over a chair. Feeling only moderately stupid, I sniffed it. Iron and musk, the unique pairing of blades and spicy cologne that was Rohan’s signature scent. He’d been here, so where was he now? Another door led off this one. I checked it out, but it was a supply closet.
I was about to close the door when I heard Lily say, “Today has been perfect.”
I slipped inside, keeping the closet door open a crack. Enough to spy on her and Rohan as they entered the room. I couldn’t see him from where I hid, but I heard him teasing her about a cheesy set of souvenir magnets that she’d bought.
Lily, however, was in clear view. Close enough that I could reach out and touch her. She wore a super cool pink cocktail dress that looked as if it had been made from sari material. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“Me too, Lils.”
My hand tightened on the door knob.
“If you’re going to be jet-setting around the world now, the least you could do is come rescue me from my dissertation from time to time.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Her eyes without her glasses seemed huge as she blinked up at him.
“Take you to Paris for dessert?”
She laughed. I might have laughed too at the farfetched suggestion until she said, “You have no idea how much mileage I still get out of that story.”
Excuse me?! He took her to Paris for dessert? From California? I thunked my head against the door but they were too busy chatting to hear me. Too busy engaging in a gentle flirtation that bore no resemblance to any interaction that Rohan and I had ever had.
I think I had late onset claustrophobia. I tugged on my neckline, desperate enough to get away that I considered texting Drio to come for Rohan so I could sneak out. I peered out through the crack.
Lily motioned for him to turn around. “You know the drill.”
>
He chuckled but I’m guessing did as he was told as I still couldn’t see him. “My pre-show check. You realize I haven’t caught my shirt in my zipper in years.”
“I concede that you might know how to dress yourself now.”
“I’m much better at undressing.”
Lily stilled, caught under the weight of his blazing gold stare. I didn’t need to see Rohan to know what made her sway in toward him, her lips softly parting.
My phone hit the tile floor with a loud clatter.
Lily’s head jerked up. I flattened myself back into the shadows and closed my eyes.
There was a loud knock on the green room door. “Rohan, I have some people I want you to meet.” Bless Forrest.
Rohan hesitated before answering and I held my breath, certain I was about to be discovered. “Sure,” he finally said. “Come on, Lils.”
I waited an extra few minutes to make sure they were gone. And because my fist was stuffed in my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. This was so stupid. I was so stupid. Rohan and I weren’t dating. Big deal, I’d lose a fuck buddy. A phenomenal fuck buddy but it wasn’t the end of the world. There was absolutely no reason for my irrational anger and even more irrational yearning and damn it! I yanked my fingers away from my lips.
Rohan and I had run our course and as the chic, confident woman I was, I wanted to be the one to end things. I smoothed down my dress, picked up my phone, and stepped back out into the green room.
“Spying?”
I screamed, fumbling my phone at hearing Drio’s voice by my ear. He’d flash stepped to sneak up on me, and now leaned against the wall, looking cool and polished in a deep blue suit, his blond hair slicked back. Very Mad Men.
I shoved at his shoulder. “Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you? Who said I was spying, anyway?”
“You didn’t leave with the rest of them. Where were you hiding?” He glanced around and saw the closet. “Ah. How close were you to getting caught?”
I grimaced. “If I’d breathed out at the wrong time, it would have been a threesome.”
He threw back his head and laughed. I shoved him again, then headed back into the main lounge. Drio caught me around the waist, steering me in a different direction. “They’re at the far end of the bar. Go this way.”
“Will you get me a drink?”
“There’s another bar.” He pushed through the crowd. I lost sight of him for a moment, startling when he appeared at my side, holding a half-drunk highball, a cheeky grin on his face.
“Have you been using your powers to steal Samson’s drinks?”
“All night.”
“That’s so petty of you.” I high-fived him but, of course, he left me hanging. Jerk. I was tempted to make a Speedy Gonzales crack because the comparison turned him a particularly rich shade of “Nava Red” but then I’d have to listen to him go off on the difference between short bursts of super speed and the ridiculousness of anyone racing around the planet at the speed of light.
We arrived at the much smaller bar in the back corner. A handwritten menu propped on a stand listed a number of different absinthe drinks.
“I’ve always wanted to try this stuff.” I pushed close for a better view as the bartender made two drinks for the couple ahead of us and set the alcohol on fire.
“Way to waste booze.” Drio’s American accent was back.
“A good show though.” When it was our turn, I ordered an absinthe mojito.
“No. Old school,” he told the bartender.
The bartender pulled out a green glass bottle from under the bar and showed it to us. Drio read the label, nodding in approval. The bartender poured a generous slug of pale yellow liquid into two glasses, then he placed a slotted spoon with a sugar cube on top of each.
“This is what got all those artists and writers tripping balls, isn’t it?”
Drio rolled his eyes.
The bartender put an old fashioned water fountain with two spigots on the bar. Sliding the glasses under the spigots, he turned them on, water dripping into the absinthe, before dropping dry ice into the fountain at the top. Smoke billowed out, curling around the entire apparatus.
“Unnecessary,” Drio said. I, however, appreciated the theatricality. Our glasses filled with water, turning the absinthe cloudy. The bartender handed them over.
I raised mine to Drio. “L’chaim.”
“Salut.” We clinked. “Sip, don’t chug,” he ordered.
“Mmm. Licorice.”
The music cut out to boos. Forrest stepped onto the stage which I noticed had been outfitted with a drum kit. Also a drummer, a bassist, a guitarist, and a keyboard player. It wasn’t actually Fugue State Five, but it was the same set up.
The director held up his hand for silence but people kept talking until someone in the crowd let out an ear-piercing whistle. “Thank you, Anya,” he said. “Tonight, I have a treat for you. Rohan Mitra, lead singer of Fugue State Five, is here to perform a few numbers for you, including a bit of the theme song for Hard Knock Strife.”
The room erupted into cheers and applause.
I edged my way forward to be closer to the stage, making sure to stay on the opposite side from Lily. I just couldn’t.
“Without further ado, let’s get him out here. Rohan!”
Rohan came out and man-hugged Forrest. Then the director stepped off the stage, leaving Rohan to take the mic.
Hel-lo, rock god.
Chapter 23
Rohan wore a slim-fitting black velvet jacket, cut to precision to show off the broad line of his shoulders. It tapered down the V of his torso over a partially unbuttoned black shirt with Hindi script in metallic silver across the front. A silver chain hung low around his neck, the braided leather and silver circle hanging from it drawing the eye down to his black leather pants. His ass was going to look incredible when he turned.
He’d forgone spikes for his natural curl, messed enough that he’d been raking his fingers through his locks. He looked like he’d rolled out of bed, and given the dreamy stares cast up at him, plenty of people here would be very happy to roll back into it with him. His eyes burned deep amber, his smoky eyeliner causing them to pop with a fiery intensity.
I was really going to miss getting a piece of that. I sagged against the wall, the movement putting Lily directly in my eyeline, my slug of absinthe bracing me as much as my hip. I rubbed the heel of my palm against my chest. Seems I wasn’t the only one watching Lily. Poppy stood off to her left, glaring daggers.
Rohan’s leather strap and silver bracelet slid up his arm as he adjusted the mic stand, his rings glinting off the stage lights. “For my first song, I thought I’d sing something I wrote here in this incredible city.” The crowd loved that.
The music kicked in, my pulse kicked up, and Rohan kicked off “Slumber.” He started off slow, working the crowd up to the chorus. A lot of people sang along. There was something intensely compelling about him. Stage presence on steroids. I’d never seen Fugue State Five live in concert and as good as he must have been then, this was cult-leader charismatic.
His next number “Falling Sideways” was more upbeat. A bass-heavy number.
Rohan slunk across the stage like a panther. Jim Morrison was a toddler compared to the sinuous sexuality that Rohan exuded. He revved the audience into a frenzy with small ass shakes and hip shimmies, like the music lived inside him. The melody poured out of his blood and his heart.
All around me people danced, rapt looks of delight on their faces as they watched him. With one pissed off exception. Samson.
“Told you he was something,” Drio said.
Rohan posed, hip popped out, arrogant smirk on his face.
I swooned.
He gripped the mic stand, swinging it in toward him as he stretched out a hand. “Falling sideways, help me land,” he sang.
The audience roared in approval, reaching out for him. Lily practically glowed with adoration.
I tipped back my glass only to find tha
t I’d already finished my drink.
Rohan tossed his jacket off to the side, his biceps flexing as he grabbed the mic stand. For the third and final Fugue State Five song, he announced he’d be singing their last number one hit, “Trainwreck of Lost Saturdays.” He hit the ground running, jumping up and down, the audience moshing along with him.
I threw myself into dancing with as much abandon as everyone else. I flung my arms up to the ceiling, the absinthe seeping through me like a languid high. Colors were sharper, more intense, from the flash of a woman’s silver sequins to the pop of Drio’s green eyes. He was one of the few people who didn’t dance but even he looked captivated.
Watching Rohan on stage, it was clear that he ruled this room. He told us to jump, we shook the floor when we thudded back to earth. He held the mic out to us and we sang his words back to him with fervor. He was mesmerizing.
Magnetic.
Mine.
My arms dropped to my side. He wasn’t though, was he?
The song ended and the cast and crew went nuts. Rohan grinned at us, king of all he surveyed. Then he held up his hands for quiet. Unlike when Forrest had tried the same thing, for Rohan, it went from frenzy to could-hear-a-pin-drop in seconds.
“Thank you. It’s been a while and well,” he ducked his head, “I was nervous.”
I snorted. If the room could have group hugged the boy, they would have. Rohan grabbed a stool that he put in the middle of the stage, moving aside the mic stand. He went over to the guitarist and spoke a few words to him. The guitarist nodded and handed over an acoustic guitar propped on the stage behind him.
Rohan sat down on the stool, adjusting the guitar strap around his neck. He blinked coyly at us. “Do you want to hear the theme song?”
I put my hands over my ears against the deafening roar.
That earned us a Cheshire Cat smile. Foregoing the microphone, he rested his hands on top of his guitar. The lights dimmed, an expectant hush falling over the room. Even the club’s staff had stopped working, with nary a tinkle of glass daring to break the moment. I waited for the band to start up but he sang a capella.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 49
