Playing the Pauses (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Book 2)

by Michelle Hazen

  “Yeah, so that’s the problem with Jax. He just quit UPS and he’s jonesing for something to organize. To him, the world looks like one big algorithm of moving packages and we’re all just glorified cardboard boxes.”

  I peek over at Jax, who bends to kiss the hand of a blushing redhead while her friend shamelessly takes pictures with her phone. That guy used to work at UPS? Jesus, I’m way overdue to sign up for Amazon Prime if that’s what comes with my two-day free shipping.

  I shrug and turn back to Danny. “I’ve dealt with backseat drivers before.”

  “Not like Jax. He’ll break into your hotel room just to peek at your day planner.” Danny shakes his head and I can’t help but snicker.

  At the sound of my laugh, his vivid eyes flare with pleasure and I have to admit I don’t know if I’ve ever seen irises like his before. They’re a secret, mossy green that melts to caramel at the center, rimmed with something dark and dramatic that makes me want to lean closer to identify the shade.

  “Here’s what you do.” Danny props an ankle across his opposite knee. “Give him schedules, lists, whatever you already have for yourself. Just bury him in triplicate and when he starts asking questions, flirt.”

  “Um, what?”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll stay out of your pants because you’re a tour employee, but if you flirt, it kicks his brain off and turns on his...” A lazy smile crosses his face. “Well, it breaks the cycle.”

  His lips are the most X-rated thing I’ve seen in twenty-five years of pornography, erotica, and a very healthy sex life. What cycle is he talking about again? Krebs? Addiction? Spin?

  Screw it, I couldn’t care less. I want to set my iPhone to silent, drag him into a storage closet and fuck all the languid sprawl out of that lean body of his. By the time I finished with him, his face wouldn’t even remember how to form the irritatingly dismissive expression he greeted me with.

  I wonder what kind of instrument he’s packing behind the fly of those worn jeans.

  My gaze doesn’t dip below his chin but he reacts as if he heard my thoughts loud and clear. His eyes spark and then narrow slightly, his focus pricking my nipples like he just locked them into steel-banded clamps.

  This is so not good. My personal Kryptonite comes in two flavors, and the first and most strictly forbidden is musician. The notes of a rock song slide into my heart faster than any pretty eyes or wide shoulders, but I can’t afford an affair that might turn messy when I’m still trying to build my career. Still, I won’t let this guy think he can use his sex appeal to throw me off my game.

  Instead of backing off, I let the sudden chemistry between us sizzle and allow the silence to grow, the air gaining weight until it feels like a sentence. Danny remains completely still but behind his eyes I can see exactly how fast his mind is moving. Finally, he blinks.

  I don’t.

  “Look. I want you to understand something,” he says.

  I arch one eyebrow and wait.

  “You’re a travel agent,” he says. “And a manager of everything from hours to pennies to roadies.”

  I tick my chin up a fraction of an inch in reply, though I’m a hell of a lot more and if he took off his headphones once in a while, he’d know that.

  “And you’re a babysitter. You work for us, but our label sent you, and it’s the labels that keep you in business when the bands fade away.”

  My attention sharpens but I don’t respond. Apparently, he doesn’t have those headphones on all the time. Most people don’t have a clue about the complex, under-the-table interplay between tour managers and A&R execs.

  “I don’t need a babysitter, and I’ve got no use for a spy,” he says. “I’ll take care of my band. You do the paperwork, forget I exist and we’ll all be very happy.”

  His eyes linger on the line of my throat, and then he’s the first to look away. The leather cuff on his wrist flexes along with the muscle beneath in the first unguarded show of emotion I’ve seen from him.

  A pang of totally unexpected sympathy drops down through me at how protective he is of his band. They’re in foreign territory now, but he still thinks they can do it all on their own.

  “Deal.” I stand, refusing to dwell on his reaction, or mine. Neither are as important as the endless scroll of the to do list waiting on my phone. “You make the music and I’ll make everything else happen.”

  This time, he offers his hand. My eyes flick over it without reaction.

  He takes it back, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners in something that could be amusement, respect, or possibly anger. And then, quietly, he smiles.

  Every part of my being squeezes and goes totally, wordlessly limp.

  Turning my back on him before he can see my response, I head toward the crew in my best, no-I-don’t-need-to-change-my-panties-I’m-a-professional-woman stride. Whatever he’d like to think, Mr. Sexy Tattooed Fingers will need my particular brand of managerial magic if he wants this tour to get past its first date without devolving into chaos. And I could definitely use his band’s rising popularity to jumpstart my career.

  But I’m not going to convince anyone that I’ve got ten years of experience packed into seven years of resume if I can’t keep my hands off the damned bass player.

  Chapter 2: With the Band

  Backstage, I wind through the seething school of roadies with the ease of an experienced swimmer. My fingers move just as fast, opening the master checklist on my phone so I can make a note to see if tonight’s opening band was scheduled to follow us to the next date. A healthy contrast can be a good set up for the headliners, but they sounded more like the hiccup before a dry heave.

  The screen flickers as I swipe across to reference my venue map, and then I do a little hop-skip to keep my ankle out of a loop of cable and change headings down a hallway.

  You’d think by now I’d have all the major venues memorized, but instead they are just similar enough to mix together in my head. I’ll leave the green room in an Austin venue, start heading for the catering room at the Bellagio, and end up in the men’s restrooms, trying to remember what damned continent I’m on.

  I’ve just located the dressing room when the band bursts out of it, Jera riding on Danny’s shoulders and squealing as she curls down over his head to miss the top of the doorway.

  In normal life, seeing three such attractive people all in one place would be cause for some rubber necking. In the music world, not so much. Nobody gets in the door without being a half-decent musician. But if you’re good-looking and talented? You get a damn doorman.

  “Jesus, is that thing made out of sequins or teeth?” Danny reaches a hand up to swipe at his ear, which just got scoured by her glittering crimson halter top.

  “Oh, stop your crying—it’s not your nipples being sacrificed to the belt sander of fashion,” Jera says.

  I swallow a laugh as I move to intercept them. “Want some medical tape to buffer?” I start to dig in my purse before Jera waves me off. “You go on in five, but we’ve still got time for emergency nipple salvage.”

  “There’s always time for emergency nipple salvage,” Jax says. “Save the tatas!”

  “Hey, you want to make one of your tour stops into a breast cancer fundraising concert?” I fall into step beside them as we head for the stage, Danny’s easy stride burning a hole in my peripheral vision. “You boys would rock the shit out of some pink leather pants.”

  “Ooh, pink guitars.” Jera snickers as she fidgets with her top, trying to stretch it a little wider. It’s a rippling, single curtain that leaves her whole back bare except for two tiny chains, and interestingly, there’s not a tattoo in sight. She holds her arms out. “Down?”

  Jax turns, Danny bends, and they lift her down without missing a step.

  “Leave me out of your Rock Star Barbie fantasies,” Jax says.

  “Unless there are rhinestones involved,” Danny says. “Jax loves a good bedazzling.”

  “Dude, I did not tell you about that girl so I co
uld hear about it for the rest of my life. If you’re going to be my naggy little wife, at least toss me an apology blow job now and then.”

  “Wait wait wait!” Jera elbows Jax so he staggers and all their shoulders bump together as they make their way down the hall. “Which part of the girl was bedazzled?”

  Danny snorts. “What part do you think, Jera?”

  Something empty squeezes behind my ribs. I know “with the band” is a very different animal than “in the band” but with The Red Letters, their easy way with each other reminds me a little more often than usual.

  Jera makes an irritated sound, slowing as she tries to detangle the neck chain of her shirt. “I don’t know what the wardrobe lady was thinking. This thing is eating my hair alive. Kate, can you do anything with this?”

  We’re just offstage now, and I stop and turn her more into the lights just as she gives the hair-choked chain an aggravated yank and her whole shirt falls to her waist.

  Jax’s eyes widen and he whips an arm around Jera’s back, pulling her in so her bare breasts are shielded by his chest. He spins to put his body between her and the rest of the room as Danny shrugs off his shirt and reaches around Jax to tug it down over Jera’s head.

  From my purse, my phone’s alarm chimes curtain time.

  “Crap, I am so sorry!” I say. “I’ll go through the costumes the label sent, first thing.”

  “Tell ‘em to give her a whole shirt next time,” Danny says.

  “Maybe even one without a breakaway option?” Jera pokes her arms through the sleeves of his red button-down and unclasps the second chain. Her halter top drops away from her waist, chiming metallically as she balls it up and offers it to me.

  I take the ruined top and turn to signal a roadie. “Two minutes, let me get you a backup.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Won’t be the first set I’ve played in one of Danny’s shirts. Besides, after that awful warm-up band, we’ve got to give that crowd something to get excited about.” Jera pinches her bandmate just above his lean hipbone, grinning.

  His designer shirt is too big for her, but the cut is so good, she still looks pixie cute in it. Offstage, he’s all battered jeans and black tees, but for shows, wardrobe does him up like a rocker sex god in blood red and leather.

  I bite just the inside of my lip, shooting for concerned but professional as I turn to look at Danny for the first time.

  “You okay playing without the shirt?”

  Danny simply shrugs.

  I try not to stare at the smooth, tight muscles decorated by understated sweeps of ink, even though the odd curves of his tattoo designs tickle my curiosity. I can’t afford to give him any ground, not after the way he stonewalled me on the plane and all the way through my intro briefing to the rest of the band.

  It’s just hard not to notice a body like that when I’m always surrounded by roadie chic: hard arms and soft bellies from lifting heavy things all day and beers all night.

  He turns and heads for the stage and good God, his back. It’s covered by a tattoo of a tree—gnarled trunk and naked branches sketching out across his defined shoulders, their lines suggesting knuckles for a second, shifting to veins in the next instant, and the crackle of lightning in the third. Working in the music business, I’ve seen a lot of tattoos but that one... Danny’s ink makes me understand how once upon a time, people decided that canvas wasn’t enough, and they needed to wear art on their skin. To wake up with it and sweat with it and bleed through it, and hold it in the moments when they had nothing else.

  I turn away and remind myself to breathe.

  “Don’t worry about Danny. Give him his bass and he’d play a show wearing barbed wire and nettles.” Jera pulls her hair out of the collar of her borrowed shirt and bounces off after her bandmate, Jax jogging a couple steps until he can catch her in a side hug. He whispers something in her ear that makes her smile and pat his back reassuringly before they explode out onto the stage, the audience shrieking its immediate greeting.

  Clearing my throat, I tuck Jera’s shirt into my purse, then fuss at the edges of my leather jacket.

  I glance around. The production manager seems to have everything well in hand, and no one is looking for me. Two steps carry me to a better view of the stage. Automatically, I check for poorly placed cables. The custom-printed scrims look great, and the banner for the drum riser was ordered in the wrong size but we got it patched together okay for now. The lighting array is spectacular. Concerningly good, actually.

  Pulling out my tablet, I add lighting to the list for the meeting I need to have with the band. It’s a shit way to start a tour, but I can’t put it off any longer than tomorrow morning. I knew it would be a headache to take on a project I didn’t plan myself. But as soon as I listened to their first album, I knew any amount of clusterfuck would be worth it.

  At this point in my career, I have to take any band I can get, never mind if they have an odd number of limbs and an even number of personality disorders. But it’s a huge bonus if I sign with one whose songs I can have stuck in my head for a few months without wanting to replace them with a .40 caliber bullet. The Red Letters make the cut and then some, because they play the pauses.

  The lyrics are catchy enough and Jera is decent on the drums, though she only rarely pulls out something outstanding. Jax’s voice sounds better than most, and he’s a hell of a lot more creative with a guitar than I expected from someone that pretty. Danny’s unique and he’s already had a few articles call him the Jimi Hendrix of the bass guitar, but that’s not the secret of their success.

  It’s the way they set off their lyrics with tiny breaks or more complex pull backs of the other vocals and instruments. It’s not music you can just pipe into a Dillard’s and forget about. It re-grabs your attention three or four times in a song so you stop what you are doing and just listen.

  Jera writes the songs, and I read that she had a degree in Music Composition from one of the few programs in the country that allows a modern specialization instead of classical. Maybe they’re actually earning the ink on their degrees over there, I don’t know. Either way, I wouldn’t mind putting in for these guys’ second tour, because there is going to be one.

  If Jax doesn’t flame out, that is. This early, it’s hard to say: his chips could fall on either side of the line. Jera and Danny, though, they’re lifers. From what I’ve seen, they might even end up married to each other once they each have a divorce under their belts for ballast.

  I turn away from the stage and shrug my purse and jacket off so I can find a place to lock them up. There are about a hundred and thirty-five things still waiting for my attention, but for now, it’s time for my favorite moment on every job: opening night in the mosh pit. Drumbeats hitting the soles of my shoes while my hands stretch for the sky, bathing in the heat of all the people around me, who are soaking in the exact same thing.

  Down in the pit, you can sing along no matter how you sound because the only voice we can hear is the roar of something beautiful that for a single moment, is made of all of us.

  Tonight, we are all part of the band.

  THE HOTEL CONFERENCE room smells like stale curry and lemon-scented Pledge. I already miss the bottle of Febreze I carried everywhere with me last season. The door bangs open as Jera slides inside, the final person to arrive to my tour reorganization meeting. Her eyes aren’t the hangover red of Jax’s, which is surprising considering it’s the morning after their first show as headliners.

  She clutches a paper cup of coffee and sends a little apologetic smile at me while she hurries to find a spot with the men of her band. I wave my welcome and save the spreadsheet I’m making on my tablet.

  Nerves flutter in my stomach. This conference table is my stage, and everything depends on the audience feeling friendly. Probably best to start with a compliment.

  “First, congratulations on an incredible opening night.”

  Jax grins at me as Jera drops into the last seat on the opposite side of the ta
ble, leaving me wishing I had some backup for my side.

  “It wasn’t bad considering I started it out with a little peep show action.”

  “Hey, if you had brought in a pole, we might have sold out those last few seats.” Danny nudges her with his elbow.

  “I checked on your wardrobe,” I break in. “I think we can tweak the costumes the label rep sent to be closer to your own personal style. Little more Stefani, little less Britney, hmm?”

  “Thanks for that. And just between us girls, I could use a touch more coverage and containment if you want me to play something with a faster beat than ‘Three Blind Mice.’”

  “Understood.” My lips twitch with amusement, and I give her a mock-grave nod as I position my iPhone in the center of the table. “We ready to patch in your manager?”

  Danny reaches to stop me before I dial, and I freeze at the heat of his palm over my knuckles. “You care to tell us what this is about before we bother Hank at work?” he asks.

  “Actually, the fact that your band manager has a day job is on the list of things we should discuss.” Aaand crap, I could have said that more tactfully. I pull my hand from beneath his and then smooth my hair to cover the speed of that movement.

  “That’s my fault, not Dad’s,” Jera says. “He’s our general manager and my mom’s been acting as part-time business manager, but I’d rather my family’s financial future not be entirely tied to our band’s success. That’s why I asked Dad to keep his job as a realtor and not quit to tour with us. Unfortunately, so far that just means he runs himself even more ragged.”

  I take a second to choose my words. Honest, but diplomatic: the balance is even more important when we’re talking business partners who are also relatives. “He’s doing a pretty impressive job, especially considering you’re the first band he’s handled. But he may have put too much faith in your tour manager.”

  Jax shifts in his seat, fingers flicking as he starts to press at his cuticles. “What does that mean?”