Crazy Love (The Bad Boys of Brit Pop Book 1)

by Madelynne Ellis

  Whatever happens come dawn, I’m not done with Nathaniel Darke yet. I want to know what his mouth feels like against my sex. I just pray that come six thirty, he’s not done with me.

  Jessie is sitting in the bar exactly where I left her, still clasping the same Dirty Martini. I’m not sure she even likes the stuff, she just likes the sound of it, and making the bar staff hunt around for olives.

  “What are they doing?” she demands when I slip onto the bar stool next to hers. She turns and grabs hold of both my hands. “Please tell me they’re as rattled as we hoped.”

  Meaning twice as panicked as she is. Nope—no can do. The only member of Paradise Kiss I stumbled on was Darke, and while he was definitely a little on edge, he’s Mr. Cool next to Jessie.

  “Well?” Jessie prompts releasing her grip on me in order to engage in some hand flapping. Patience isn’t something she’s ever had in abundance. “What did you see? What did they say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” She screws up her pretty face, so that her eyebrows and pout are almost touching.

  “I didn’t see anyone, Jess.” I’m not precisely sure why I decide to outright lie, maybe it’s simply to protect myself from a verbal onslaught. Jessie in a rage is never fun. Or maybe I’m still trying to process what the hell happened between Darke and me, beyond it being a whole lot of awesome. I mean jamming and then shagging him really wasn’t the plan. Not that I had an actual plan, just orders to do some reconnaissance.

  “Fuck it! We need to know what they’re planning.”

  I don’t see why. Knowing what track they’re playing isn’t going to make any difference, but Jessie needs to feel as if she’s doing something, primarily because she can’t bear the thought of Dane beating her at anything. Me, I think we’ve bigger problems to focus on.

  “Where’s Ivy?”

  “Upstairs, sulking. Probably on the phone to Nightshift.” Jessie cradles her drink closer to her chest. I suddenly wish I had a glass to hold and some cheap oblivion to pour down my throat. “I can’t believe she’s being so difficult about this. It’s our shot at the big time. Most people have to work for years and years to even get a crack at something like this, and all she can do is whine about the fact it’ll take her away from her boyfriend.”

  “She’ll play, though,” I say. Ives will, she might be flaky, but she’s not pond scum. She won’t leave us in the lurch when it really matters.

  “And afterwards?”

  “Maybe it’s best not to think too far ahead. Could be Graham Callahan knows a stupendous keyboardist who just happens not to be attached to a group right now.”

  “Yeah, and it could be that he’s only after us because he thinks Black Halo fans will love Ivy flashing her muff.”

  “Dunno.” I scratch my head, because I’d hate to think the only reason we’re in the running was because our exhibitionist mate doesn’t wax. “Maybe there’s no sense in dwelling on it, and we just have to see what tomorrow brings.”

  “You’re being awfully philosophical.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t get punched in the face earlier tonight.”

  Jessie sighs and rubs her jaw where a bruise is forming. We sit a moment in companionable silence.

  “Did Dane ever hit you when you were together?”

  She shakes her head, then leans over her drink with her fingers threaded through the front of her hair. “Leastways, only on the arse.” She peeps at me from beneath her heavy eyelashes and smiles. “We have to win, Loveday. No way am I letting that dickhead think he’s better than me.”

  “Then we’d better get some shut eye.” That’ll put us ahead of Paradise Kiss, because I’m not sure any of them are planning on hitting the sack.

  -8-

  Nathaniel Darke

  After Loveday leaves, I spend two minutes checking over Knox’s bass and my Gretsch for damage. Both instruments appear to have survived our rampaging libidos unscathed. However, I don’t attempt to settle down and resume what I was doing. I was getting nowhere even with the rest of the song playing on endless repeat. Instead, I decide it’s time to track down Knox.

  I swear if I find him crashed out in bed, I’m going to give him such a kicking.

  We’re bunked up in twin rooms. It’s all the hotel was prepared to offer, eight rooms to split between the five bands that were on tonight’s roster. I’ve heard that Bulldozer are all packed into one room consisting of two doubles and a dodgy sofa, so the fact that I’m ostensibly sharing with either Knox or Joel, I chalk up as a minor inconvenience. It beats sharing with my brother, which I point blank refuse to do. We spent enough nights as kids listening to one another snivel and heavy breathe. That, and he inevitably has company.

  The guys aren’t in either of our assigned berths. Dane’s obviously gone to her place, whoever the lady in question is. Joel, fuck knows, I guess he’s off somewhere being pissed at me, but Knox…Knox isn’t allowed to be AWOL. I fucking well need him to be here.

  I check in the closet and under the beds, but no joy.

  Fuck!

  I pick up my phone, and try calling him, but Teddy is obviously off having a picnic somewhere and doesn’t pick up. Another scope of the adjoining room reveals his smartphone on the bed stand chirping merrily to itself. He’s not been back here. If he had, the device would be gone, as Dane and Joel’s are. We all left them up here rather than risk stowing them in the dressing room—too many thieving bastards about. No, I do not trust the venue staff, the other bands, or their groupies. Most of them don’t have a decent bone in their bodies, and labour under the misinformed impression that because Paradise Kiss are more popular, and frankly better than they are, that we’re raking it in. I wish…But getting back to my quest for Knox, I head out into the corridor again.

  I doubt he’s in the bar, it was all shut up, and what’s the point of hanging there if you can’t procure hard liquor? If he’s found his way into one of the other bands’ rooms, I’m stuffed, because I have no idea what their room numbers are, and the desk staff won’t hand them out, especially at this hour of the night. I’m pretty certain I’m not going to find him in the gym, but that could be where Joel’s lurking, given he fancies himself as a sprinter.

  I plod in that direction anyway, because even though it’s going to necessitate another round of snarky comments and arm-twisting, two of us conducting a search and rescue should theoretically double the odds of locating Knox.

  Only the gym’s locked up tighter than a virgin’s snatch.

  I’m about ready to admit defeat and wind my way back to the function room, when a clatter from the direction of the emergency exit makes me pause. Who the hell uses the stairs in a hotel? Seriously, it’s the lift or nothing. I mean, most hotels don’t even bother to prettify the alternative. It’s purely functional magnolia on the walls and heavy duty lino under foot.

  I head through the door, this place entirely lives up to my expectations, bar some fancy fleur-de-lys shit above the dado rail. I find Knox slumped against the wall part way between the second and third floors. It takes approximately three milliseconds to realise he’s utterly wasted. There’s not a hope in hell’s chance that I’m going to get anything useful out of him tonight. Actually, I’m not sure he’s even going to be in a fit state at six ‘o clock.

  My priorities adjust accordingly, to get Knox straightened out, and then give him the bollocking of the century.

  “Iz’at you, Nate?” Knox tilts his head to one side, so that it hits his shoulder and squints up at the dazzling overhead light.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Finding you.” His mouth forms a slack grin that fails to contain the drool which leaks from one corner. “Guess I did it.”

  “Nope, this is me finding you. I was where we played the gig. All you needed to do was meet me there.”

  “Yeah…guess,” he slurs. “But I got switched around in all the corridors. It’s like a maze.”

  Seriously, the average lab rat woul
d mind map this hotel in about fifteen seconds. The problem isn’t the lay out of the building, but that Teddy-boy here has no control over his addictions, the memory of a sea cucumber and an idiot mate that’s prepared to put up with him. The latter being me.

  I hunch down beside him and take proper stock of what I’m dealing with—a cocktail of alcohol and hash, based on the smell, and most likely something else too, given that when I practically kneel on him, he neither murmurs in pain or attempts to move.

  “Have you been dropping tabs?”

  “Nah,” he sighs, still grinning like a village idiot, and giving his chin a slow wash.

  I’m not sure I trust his memory, but hey, maybe we’ve progressed to something worse. I push up his sleeves to look for needle marks. Nothing and nothing, but it’s not just weed that’s got him in this state. “What the hell have you taken, Knox?”

  He flaps a hand before me. “It’s all good, Nate.” He simulates inhaling. “The stuff was seriously smooth. You should try it.”

  Smooth? I’ll accept it might have taken him halfway to paradise while he was inhaling, but it’s shit, whatever the laced weed has done to him. “Knox, your frickin’ legs aren’t working.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  Sweet baby Jesus, he doesn’t know? How can you not know if your legs are working?

  Knox screws up his mellow face a little, in what I assume is concentration, but if what he’s doing is attempting lower-limb engagement, then it’s a complete and utter failure.

  “Okay,” he admits, slurring even those two syllables. “They might not be wholly under my control right now.”

  No kidding?

  “Knox, I’m not sure any of you is under central control right now. What the fuck were you thinking? We have to impress Graham Callahan tomorrow morning. Weren’t you listening? Didn’t that little nugget sink in?” I shouldn’t say this stuff, because I know he has a genuine issue that he can’t do a damned thing about, but smoking himself into oblivion sure as hell ain’t helping any.

  “Graham who?” he asks.

  I slap my forehead, because if I slap his, I might do some actual damage.

  “Oh right, the suit. He got me rattled, Nate. I needed to take the edge off. I was going to hang with the boys, but Joel stormed off and Dane…” He shrugs, because neither of us need him to finish that sentence. I can imagine all too vividly where my brother is right now, and what he’s up to. I’m going to bang his and Joel’s heads together later.

  “I get it.” There’s zero point in tearing a strip off Knox. He’s not going to recall a damn word of it come tomorrow a.m. Right now, I’m better off lending my energy to getting him moved to somewhere he’s not going to cause us trouble.

  Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.

  “Let’s get you to our room.”

  “OK,” he agrees.

  Yeah, as to how the fuck I’m achieving this miracle of locomotion is another matter. I start by grabbing his feet and sliding them towards his butt, so that his knees are bent. Then I grab hold of his hands.

  “Up,” I command, but no joy. I go in closer, lifting under his stinky pits this time, but there’s still no obvious upward motion. The man’s like a ton weight jellyfish, no rigidity to him anywhere. “Give me a bit of a hand here, Knox, please.” It takes me everything I’ve got to get him something approximating vertical. And he only stays that way because I’m knee to shoulder with him, and his back is flat against the wall.

  “I love this wallpaper,” he says.

  Really? I can’t believe he’s admiring the damn flock fleur-de-lys nonsense, but then I don’t really believe the heaving noises he springs on me either as he splatters the contents of his stomach right over my shoulder and down my back.

  “Christ, Teddy!”

  “Sorry,” he gargles, before spewing up another gallon of carroty goodness.

  For a moment, my concentration lapses as I screw up my face as the stench of alcohol, curdled cream and stomach acid burns the inside of my nostrils. Knox drops immediately with nothing to support him. His legs fold beneath his body, and his head hits the skirting board with an almighty thud. If nothing else proves exactly how far gone he is, that bump does it. He doesn’t even moan. Doesn’t whimper. I have to double check to make sure he’s still alive, but he’s definitely breathing. The tears that well in the corners of his eyes, crack open my heart for the umpteenth time this evening, but at least they’re an indicator that on some level he registered the pain, and not all his neural pathways are fucked. What it doesn’t do, is help with getting him upstairs and out of sight before he’s seen or smelled. That vomit is seriously putrid. I mean, vomit’s never good, but this…This is enough to make even a mother’s eyes water.

  With that in mind, I strip off my shirt, and use the clean bits of it to wipe Knox’s face. Never mind that it’s my original Stone Roses Waterfall shirt. It obviously doesn’t work as a lucky charm, given how tonight’s going down. And Loveday already used the front of it to dry her hands.

  “Something up, Nate?” Knox asks, giving me a lethargic side-eye.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  “You, Teddy are what’s up. You. You’re a headache I really don’t need. I don’t. The band doesn’t. You’ve got to stop this, or you’re going to prove Joel right. Believe me, you don’t want to do that.”

  “We’ll go upstairs. I’ll go to bed,” he says like he’s some sort of Confucius clone. Getting him to either of those places would certainly be wise right now, but I’ve given that a shot already and I know he’s not going anywhere if I’m doing this alone.

  I try Joel first, but the bugger doesn’t answer his phone. I guess he’s still pissed at me for not listening to him earlier. I shoot off a text to him instead, begging him for assistance. After that, I try Dane, but his number goes straight to voicemail.

  So sorry, I’m screwing right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you if I haven’t already screwed you before.

  Useless goddamned brother.

  And I don’t get a reply from Joel either, which might mean he’s turned his phone off, or that he’s officially washing his hands of Knox, which rather leaves me stuck.

  I have no choice. I do the unthinkable, and call the only other person on hand whose number I have.

  -9-

  Loveday Trevaskis

  “It’s the zombie apocalypse. Do you have my back?”

  I’m stripped down to my undies, getting ready to dive into my side of the bed I’m sharing with Jessie—Ivy claimed the single—when my phone rings and I answer to find Nathaniel Darke murmuring in my ear. My whole body goes rigid. I never expected him to call, especially not tonight…this morning…whichever it is. “Hold on.” I make an immediate detour towards the bathroom, my mouth going dry, and my skin tingling like I’ve just been zapped with an electric charge.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Can’t we have the lights out yet?” Jessie hollers. “And don’t turn the bathroom one on, it buzzes like crazy and is wired to the extractor fan.”

  I snatch up a complimentary bathrobe, hammer my fist against the light switch, then slam headlong into the external corridor instead.

  “Darke,” I breathe into the phone, my voice an excited whisper. “Where are you?”

  “Doing reconnaissance. I’m in stairwell B, with a wounded comrade, so far we’ve managed to avoid being seen, but it’s desperate and there’s no shotgun in sight.”

  I move along the corridor in the direction of the emergency exit plan I noticed earlier. That ought to tell me where stairwell B is.

  “Can you help?”

  “Need me to bring green herbs?” I ask, thinking of my favourite game. I tiptoe along the empty hallway, even though my bare feet don’t make a sound on the carpet. The map shows that stairwell B is just ahead on the turn before the bank of lifts.

  “No. Blue ones. Just get here fast.”

  Guess Darke’s a Resident Evil fan too.


  “On my way.”

  I hit the door to the stairs. The light here is blinding compared with the dimness of the corridor. I blink, clutch the bannister and lean over to look up and down the central well. Darke is a couple of flights down, crouched with his bare, ink emblazoned, back to me, and one hand clutched to the side of his head.

  “Up here.”

  He turns, sees where I am, and finishes the call. He doesn’t come to meet me. Instead, I pad down the steps, curling my toes because the surface is freezing.

  “You play too many video games,” I say, once I’m within four paces of him. He’s bared down to the waist, giving me a splendid view of his inked torso. He’s no gym bunny, but pleasantly ripped, with nice strong arms and enough dark fuzz on him to make my lady parts get antsy. It’s hard not to stare at the few tufts that are peeping over the top of his low-rise jeans and not contemplate the package below that they’re signposting. I’ve already had him in my mouth tonight and lied outrageously to one of my best mates to avoid a having a serious ding-dong over it, meeting him here now is going to cause a Jessie supernova if she finds out.

  “It got you here, didn’t it? And if I play too many games, you do too, because you never once asked me what the hell I was talking about.”

  “Yeah.” He has me there, because not only am I here, I’m here wearing a borrowed bathrobe and my undies. Then again, I reckon if he put his mind to it, Nathaniel Darke could relieve me of both those items in the time it takes me to blink. “I’m not seeing a zombie hoard.”

  He bites his lips, in an attempt to hide the smile spreading across his face. “I’m not seeing any blue herbs.”

  Touché.

  “It’s not as if you need any.”

  “They weren’t for me. They were for him.” He takes a pace to the left, so that I can see around him. One of his band mates is slumped in the corner, with his head bent at an alarming angle. At a guess I’d say he fell down the stairs, but the puddles of corrosive-looking goo splattered around him hint otherwise. The smell once I get on a level with Darke is eye-watering—an acidic mix of curdled milk, beer and…is that urine?