Counterpoint
Page 31
Zavier nodded his approval, as did Ray.
“You look stunning, babe.” Adrian’s comment was soft. “Always do, no matter what you wear.”
Sometimes all he wore was Adrian’s ropes, in all the new and interesting ways they’d learned from Janelle. Not as much on the road, but at every hotel stop, Dom asked to be tied up, and Adrian happily obliged. That was Dom’s true privacy. Those moments when it was only them and their skin and rope and kisses and moans. Dominic and Adrian.
In public on tour, the line between Dom and Domino had blended somewhat. He always dressed up to the teeth onstage, but he’d let more of his twink self come through otherwise. Less makeup sometimes. Wearing his glasses rather than his contacts from time to time, or short-sleeved shirts and tanks to showed off his ink.
Therapy had given him new ways to handle the fear and anxiety that still lingered, that horrible imposter syndrome voice that lurked in his mind. But nothing bad had come from fans or even critics since his legal name had been spilled out all over the media. Plus, Adrian was here, and while he wasn’t a therapist, he did create the calm Dom so needed for his whirling mind sometimes.
His gaze slid to the cuff on Adrian’s wrist. Rumor among fans was that it signified how Domino had claimed Adrian, except in so many ways, it was the other way around. Adrian had sat down next to him, all those months ago. Had made his wishes known and respected Dom’s, too, and had never given up on Dom, even when Dom had just about given up on himself.
Marcella marched into the dressing rooms. “Are we ready?”
Beyond the open door, the sound of the audience pulsed.
Ray got that look, the one that meant they would fucking eat this show alive. “Yeah, we’re ready.”
Yeah. They would take over that stage and make it theirs. Give the audience exactly what they came here for: the best concert of their lives.
“Let’s go fucking do it,” Dom said.
Adrian caught his arm before he marched out after the rest of the band, and that sexy grin flipped Dom’s insides out. He kissed Dom’s cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Go rock them dead.”
Every night. Each night. Same words. “I love you.”
Adrian’s smile widened. “You know, it’s fucking awesome being Domino Grinder’s lover.”
“And being yours.” He grabbed Adrian’s hand, gave it a squeeze, then followed his bandmates out to the stage.
With a crowd in front of him, the band around him, a guitar in his hands, and Adrian waiting in the wings, there wasn’t anywhere else Dominic Bradley wanted to be.
Twisted Wishes was his life, Adrian was his heart, and he was himself, at long last.
* * * * *
To purchase and read more books by Anna Zabo, please visit Anna’s website at annazabo.com/books.
Acknowledgments
I owe a good bit of thanks to Layla Reyne for all the writing sprints during the final push to complete this book. Also, as always, thanks to Mackenzie Walton for doing a yeoman’s work with her editing and making me work hard to write the best book I can. Thanks as well to my agent, Jennifer Udden, for all her advice, and to Judith at A Novel Take for her help.
My eternal gratitude to readers and reviewers for taking a chance on my books and giving my characters a few hours of your life. I hope you enjoy reading these books as much as I enjoy writing them.
And once more, I want to thank Lori Witt for her constant love, support, and friendship.
Now Available from Carina Press and Anna Zabo
There’s no resisting the thrum of temptation when Ray Van Zeller meets Zavier Demos. Again.
Read on for an excerpt from Syncopation.
Chapter One
Ray Van Zeller stared at the tabloid website headline on the tablet their band manager held out for him. “What the fuck is this?”
DRUNKEN VAN ZELLER ATTACKS SCHMIDT AS TWISTED WISHES IMPLODES!
“What does it look like, Ray?” A sigh and a hint of a sneer, but then Carl always assumed Ray needed to be spoken to using small words, the prick.
Ray wasn’t stupid. He was, however, too pissed to see straight. The text on the screen blurred and tumbled, just like his gut. Just like his life. “It looks like a shitty, lying headline.” He hadn’t been drunk at all. And he hadn’t attacked Kevin, their drummer—ex-drummer now.
Carl heaved another sigh. “They have a video of you.” He set the tablet down on the coffee table between them.
Of course they did. Fucking paparazzi. Ray clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.
“Ray wasn’t the one who was drinking,” Domino said. He was dressed casually—looked more twink in his button-down and glasses than guitar rock god—but that was Dom. Out of sight, like in this fuckhole of a hotel, he stripped his persona off. “Kevin started in on that bottle before the encore. Ray didn’t touch a drop!”
Mish grunted her agreement.
Their no-good band manager knew that, too. They’d been excited to get a manager when the record label had sent Carl. Not so much now. Didn’t know why, but Carl’s animosity rose damn quick, like the band, and Ray in particular, was wasting his time.
Fucking thing was that Carl knew Kevin had been drinking on their tour. Hell, Ray had even approached Carl and asked for help, but no—he’d blown Ray off.
You’re the leader, Ray, Carl had said.
He was. That night, he’d been the bandleader when he’d stalked after Kevin, off the tour bus, a two-thirds-empty fifth of Jack in his hand. It had been full before the concert. There’d been yelling—Ray at Kevin to get his act together, Kevin back at Ray, all about how he didn’t give a fuck about the band anymore and a trained monkey could play his sets.
Wasn’t true. Kevin had been a fantastic drummer back when they’d started the band, his rhythms complex and stunning. Then he’d started celebrating a little too hard and never stopped. Maybe it was a way to cope with the pressure they all felt after “Dark Dreams” had hit the top five, but it didn’t matter.
His playing had gone to shit. Kevin now drummed out simple patterns that barely matched the songs they’d built around his original complex drumming. The more he drank, the worse they sounded.
The small tour they were on was supposed to show the label that Twisted Wishes could hack a major one. It had only proved they couldn’t play in a fucking Walmart parking lot.
Yeah, Ray had taken that mostly empty bottle of Jack and thrown it at the wall behind Kevin. Felt so good, the crash and splash, the shimmer as glass and golden liquid burst against the concrete wall. Like razor-edged confetti. Kevin had gotten quiet then. Told Ray to go to hell. He’d replied that it was rehab or leave the band. Kevin marched back into the bus, packed his bag, and left that night.
Ray scrubbed his face. The tablet had gone dark, but the headline still swam in his vision. “How bad is the video?”
The snort that came from Carl set Ray’s teeth on edge, and he ground them together while Carl woke the tablet, scrolled, and clicked the video clip.
After one of the most excruciating forty-five seconds of Ray’s life, the clip ended and he didn’t look up. Couldn’t, especially since he knew Carl wore that fucking smirk of his. Yeah, the video was that bad. Whoever had shot it had been far enough away, but the yelling, the anger, those had carried even if the words hadn’t. And from the angle, it did look like he’d thrown the bottle at Kevin.
“Fuck.” It came out like a mantra, slow and long, and the word echoed in his aching head. So much for being in control. Being a leader.
“And now you have no drummer,” Carl said. “Whatever will you do?”
Ray lifted his chin and met Carl’s gaze, and lo and behold, the fucker flinched. Guess Ray still had that I’m going to murder you look down. “Hire a new one.” Ray didn’t look away from Carl’s dark eyes. “I would think a manager of your c
aliber would know that.”
Silence in the room until Carl cleared his throat. “Of course. And there’ll have to be some other changes as well, to smooth things over in the press.”
Dom shifted next to Ray, and Mish muttered something low that was probably profanity. She had a mouth worse than his and Dom’s put together.
“What changes?” Ray ground the words out.
“No more drinking for you,” Carl said. “And you’ll make some kind of statement about getting help for your problem.”
The hell he would. He opened his mouth, but Mish beat him there.
“That’s some fucking bullshit and you know it.” She rose from her seat at the edge of the bed, and all six foot one of her towered over Carl. “Why the fuck are you punishing Ray for Kevin being a drunken piece of shit?”
Carl craned his neck back to take in Mish, his immaculately styled blond hair shifting into imperfection. “Because without a fucking drummer and with this—” he waved at the tablet “—making the rounds, we have to control the damage.”
We meant the record label. It never meant the band.
God, the band. They needed the tour the label dangled in front of them, needed it far more than Ray needed his dignity or ego. “Fine. I’ll do it.” He rarely drank anyway, and he did need help—some way to keep from destroying the chances they’d been given.
Silence. Carl sat back against the ugly hotel chair and stared at him. Mish sank down to the bed. “Ray, honey, are you sure?”
He nodded and locked eyes with Carl. “But I’m not admitting I’m an alcoholic when I’m not. I’ll—say something about anger management. Or stress therapy or something.”
Carl raised his chin. “That would be an acceptable alternative.”
“And we need to put out a call for a drummer. Schedule auditions.” God, where they would find someone who could play as well as sober Kevin, Ray didn’t know. But they had to.
“We’ll have that ready to go, once you make your statement.”
Wonderful. Ray swallowed bile and the urge to throttle the man across the table. “Guess I better go write one, then.” He rose, put his back to Carl, and marched out of the room.
Outside the run-down hotel, the air was hot and dry. Scrub and dust and too much sky as far as the eye could see, plus the ever-present roar of the nearby highway. They were somewhere in the middle of nowhere. He wasn’t even sure what state they were in—only that it was off the beaten path so they could avoid the press.
He hoped, anyway. Because he probably looked like shit. Felt like it. Wanted to scream or curse or cry. They’d made it this far, the strange little band he’d put together. Dom, his best buddy from high school. Mish, the red-haired, bass-playing crooner he couldn’t stop watching at a bar because her performance had been so exquisite, and Kevin, the kid on YouTube who’d rapped sticks against whatever he could to beat out such intricate patterns.
He’d brought them all together and they’d done the impossible.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and stared at the wavering heat mirage in the road. Kevin hadn’t survived the pressure of a surprise hit, all the publicity and touring. Maybe that was Ray’s fault—he’d gone on and on about practices and looking and sounding their best. They hadn’t had a break in months. Hell, it wore him down.
Like Kevin, he’d turned to his favorite vice after too many sleepless nights. Once he’d discovered which of the men in the road crew didn’t mind being drilled down into a mattress, meaningless sex had become his escape from the stress of being in the spotlight nonstop. He didn’t worry too much about being caught. The gossip sites expected gratuitous sexual exploits from rock stars, and he’d been open about his sexuality from day one. The crew had kept silent about it, though.
On the nights he’d fucked the stress out of his nerves, he slept.
Ray wiped the sweat from his brow and paced.
He didn’t know what to write. I’m sorry I’m such a shitty bandleader. I didn’t ask for this. It’s hard. That wasn’t any good. Sounded like a whiner, and he could just imagine the responses. Oh yes, you poor thing, becoming famous is so very difficult.
He kicked a stone across the parking lot, and much like with lyrics, the right words began to form and merge and break apart and connect. He whipped out his cell phone, opened the note app, and started typing.
He didn’t know how long it took to write the damn thing, only that the door to his hotel room opened and closed twice. The second time, boots scuffed against the pavement, and Mish’s Doc Martens came into view underneath his phone.
“Honey, you’re going to fry to a crisp or drop from heat exhaustion if you stay out here any longer.”
He typed the last words and looked up. “I’m done.”
Fleeting horror shimmered like heat across her features. “The band?”
“God no.” He rocked back, and maybe she was right about the heat. Or it was the stress that had his head spinning. “My apology to give to the press.” He handed the phone over to her.
It took her far less time to read it than he’d taken to write it. When she finished, her shoulders dropped. “You sure you want to do this? It’s bullshit.”
“It’s bullshit that will allow us to get a drummer and keep going. This is...a little thing.”
Something in his voice must have given him away, because Mish stepped forward and wrapped him in a hug. “Oh, hon. Don’t do this for us.”
At five foot nine, he could press his eyes against her shoulder, so he did. “But I am sorry.” Sorry he couldn’t keep them together. Sorry he couldn’t keep himself together.
The words might be bullshit, but the feelings behind them weren’t.
Don’t miss Syncopation by Anna Zabo.
Available now wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.
www.CarinaPress.com
Copyright © 2018 by Anna Zabo
About the Author
Anna Zabo writes contemporary and paranormal romance for all colors of the rainbow and lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, which isn’t nearly as boring as most people think.
Anna has an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University, where they fell in with a roving band of romance writers and never looked back. They also have a BA in Creative Writing from Carnegie Mellon University.
You can find Anna online at www.annazabo.com, on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/annazabo, or on Twitter as @amergina.
Also available from Anna Zabo and Carina Press
The Twisted Wishes Series
Syncopation
Also available from Anna Zabo
Outside the Lines
The Close Quarter Series
Suggested reading order
Close Quarter
No Quarter Given
The Takeover Series
Suggested reading order
Takeover
Just Business
Due Diligence
Daily Grind
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ISBN-13: 9781488089374
Counterpoint
Copyright © 2018 by Anna Zabo
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