by Anna Zabo
Was that...embarrassment? “Promise I won’t.”
Zavier rolled his eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Ray shrugged. “Come on. I can’t think of any song that—” Oh. Oh. He sucked in a breath because he was about to burst out laughing, despite what he’d said.
They’d been joking around one night, Mish, Dom, and him—Kevin had been out somewhere—and they’d written a pop song: “Sprinkles on Top.” It was kitschy and came complete with an upbeat but utterly metronomic rhythm and cute lyrics about ice cream. Kevin had hated it. Refused to play it, and really Ray couldn’t blame him for that.
The rest of the band had only recorded it on a whim and it was one of the infamous session songs that maybe a dozen people had heard before someone—they never found out who—had put it out on the internet.
They’d never played it in public. Hell, they hadn’t practiced in ages.
“You are completely messed up, Demos.” Mish shook her head. “Fucking hell. That song?”
Zavier leaned forward. “It’s fun. And frivolous. And there’s so many interesting things you could do with it.” He tapped out the bass rhythm. Then another rhythm, then another that wasn’t at all 4/4 that somehow worked. Then a couple more. “Or slow it down and put a kind of swing beat to it.” He hummed the melody to a new time signature. “Would be a fun acoustical piece.”
Ray stared at Zavier, his brain already whirling. The fog he’d been carrying around all day lifted, but caution niggled at his wild heart. “We haven’t practiced it.”
Dom had set aside his book. “That’s what sound checks are for.” Yeah, he was eager and all smiles. Mish, too.
He could see the notes and the beats Zavier still tapped out like a pulse, or the swing and rhythm of bodies moving together. Dancing. Fucking.
Yeah, he wanted this, but for one problem. “Carl will have a fit.”
“Does he need to know?” God, Zavier’s voice could make stone do his bidding. “We can put down TBD for one of the acoustical songs, fuck around at sound check, and go for it.”
Carl would still have a fit. It was so not walking the line he wanted Ray to walk. Instinct told Ray that, but his soul told him Zavier’s idea would be a fucking massive hit.
“Okay. Let’s do it.” He’d take the lumps that came with his decision. Guess it had been meeting time after all. He jotted down some notes and the proposed set list—and the words Zavier Demos is too fucking perfect. Felt a little like high school. He’d probably written something similar in a spiral-bound notebook back in the day, not his pretentious but well-loved Moleskin.
Zavier stretched out his legs and bumped Ray’s thigh with his toes. “I believe in you,” he murmured.
Fuck, the sparks and light went up his spine and down into his dick. Nothing like that ever happened back in school, mostly because Zavier was hardly ever within ten feet of Ray, let alone sharing a couch.
Whatever else, it did push away the fear. He pulled out his phone and typed an email to send to the record label requesting a copy of his contract.
Yeah, maybe they’d been screwed by Carl, but contracts went two ways. Perhaps the band could do some screwing of their own—if they had more leverage. If they made a name for themselves and more money for the label, Carl would have less hold over them.
Ray drew a little picture of an ice cream cone with sprinkles right under Zavier’s name, then closed his book. Maybe it was also time to open up to everyone, not just Zavier. “I’m sorry I was so out of it last night. Zavier was right—it was Carl, and I want to tell you what he said.”
They all looked at him. Mish and Dom wore worry, but Zavier was nodding in encouragement. Well, okay then. Ray took a breath and started talking.
* * *
Zavier couldn’t help watching Ray’s lips as he explained the run-in he’d had with Carl. The news that the band might owe the label a shit-ton of royalties wasn’t the most upbeat thing, and both Mish and Dom reacted as Zavier expected them to. They were dismayed, then angry, then skeptical that Carl was even telling the truth. They both reminded Ray that they’d signed too, so he couldn’t take all the blame. Of course, Ray did anyway.
“I emailed the label to ask for a copy of our contract.” Ray leaned back. “Maybe if we put our heads together, we can figure this out.”
Heads. Bodies. His and Ray’s. Zavier indulged in those thoughts before setting them aside. No more crawling into bed on the job, even when the job didn’t feel like one.
Ray’s mouth showed the emotions he so desperately tried to hide. There was a quiver of fear and the angry press of his lips and the way his jaw rocked back and forth when he wasn’t talking.
Oh, to take those lips and soothe them with his own. Ray reacted to touch. To heartfelt praise. Most of all, Ray reacted to friendship and trust and that was, admittedly, catnip to Zavier.
There was a bond between Ray, Dom, and Mish. They were a family, that was easy enough to see. They’d embraced Zavier, too—at least Dom and Mish had. Sometimes he wondered if Ray would ever consider him a friend or if he’d always be on his guard against Zavier.
The three of them talked strategy and ideas for a while until Ray looked over. “Your contract’s different, isn’t it?”
Zavier nodded. “I’m here for the tour, as a session musician. I’m not actually a part of Twisted Wishes.”
“Like hell you aren’t,” Dom muttered.
“Not contractually.” Zavier was improving the drumming, but he hadn’t contributed artistically to the group. But he wasn’t going to argue with Dom.
“You’re part of the band,” Ray said. “End of story.”
Heat and joy danced along Zavier’s nerves. He certainly wasn’t going to argue with Ray, either. “Thank you.”
Ray clapped him on the leg, and that touch was far too enjoyable. Zavier had been missing that sharp, lovely contact that came with having sex. He didn’t particularly understand holding hands or staring dreamily into someone’s eyes or whatever people in love were supposed to do. But he liked touching. Holding another. Being held. Curling up on a couch. Watching someone sleep.
Living as close as he had with these three for the weeks of practice and now crammed into a bus—it made him itch for those things again. He craved skin-to-skin contact.
In the end, he even got some. After their meeting, Ray put his journal away and pulled an ereader out of his bag. He shifted again and again on the couch while Zavier had his legs stretched out, his toes occasionally brushing Ray’s thighs. Eventually, Ray sighed. “Do you mind if I stretch out?” He waved at the section of couch Zavier’s legs occupied.
He shifted his over a bit. “No, of course not.”
When Ray was done maneuvering, their legs were practically entwined on the couch.
Delightful. Perfect. Zavier didn’t stroke his foot along Ray’s calf, though the desire to do so was so very high. He glanced at the ereader. “Anything interesting?”
A little color on Ray’s cheeks. “It’s a biography of John Adams. I’ve been meaning to read it for years and years.”
“You’re into American history?” Not a subject Zavier would have pinned on him.
The color darkened, and Ray tensed. “I do actually have a brain, despite my vapid looks.”
Hardly vapid. Sexy as hell, more like it. But he didn’t comment on Ray’s looks, not with Dom and Mish watching from the other couch. “I’ve never doubted your intelligence. History is so—dry.”
Ray stared at him. “Then you’ve obviously been reading the wrong history books.” A grin there and a shrug, then he focused back on his book.
Zavier grunted and shifted, and maybe his toes did graze Ray’s leg purely by accident, and maybe he did relish in his slight hiss of breath.
Perhaps Ray was right—Zavier had been reading the wrong books. For now, he clicked o
ut of his game, closed his tablet, and enjoyed the tiny bit of contact he had with Ray. Soothing and comforting. He could get used to this.
It wasn’t until the tour bus lurched to a stop that Zavier realized he’d fallen asleep. The change in motion startled and had him blinking against the light streaming through the window. “What the fuck?”
“Easy there.” Ray patted his shin. “We’re just coming into a rest stop. Probably changing drivers. Getting gas. That kind of thing.”
Of course. Zavier blew out a breath and then another as he sought to center himself. Didn’t help that Ray hadn’t moved his hand off his shin. He met Ray’s watchful gaze. “How long was I out?”
“An hour, maybe? Not that long.” Ray gave him another squeeze. “I’d have woken you up sooner or later.”
“Really?”
Dom chuckled. “He knows how awful screwing up your sleep schedule can be on tour.”
That seemed a bit much for a bandleader. On the other hand, it was good to see Ray relaxed. And honestly, he didn’t mind the physical contact at all. “Hard lesson learned?”
A shrug from Ray. “Mish gets it, but Dom used to sleep every time the bus started moving.”
“It’s true.” Dom stretched out his legs into the aisle. “I’d conk out for hours on end, then be so groggy by showtime. I’d hop myself up on caffeine and be so damn wired after the show, I’d drive everyone nuts.” He paused. “Especially Mish.”
“That’s because I can’t nap to save my life,” Mish said. “Not like you gentlemen.” She winked at Zavier, and a strange sense of warmth radiated from where Ray still held his leg.
Gentlemen? Maybe. He wore a tux well enough. The image that flitted through his head was not one he needed: him adjusting his cufflinks while Ray knelt before him, naked, eyes upturned in want.
He shook it off. “I can nap, but I wasn’t intending to.”
The bus pulled into a truck stop. Zavier had no idea where they were. He could check his phone’s GPS, but that meant moving and breaking contact with Ray.
“Kevin was the worst.” Ray’s voice was soft. “He was always sleeping.” He looked out the window. “I guess I should have noticed how hard he was struggling a lot sooner.”
“Sweetheart,” Mish murmured. “You aren’t responsible for his drinking.”
Ray shrugged again, but it belied his pain. “Maybe not. But I could have helped more.”
Zavier was the better drummer. Wasn’t hubris, either, to think it. Ray knew it, too. It dawned on Zavier that Ray’s remorse had nothing to do with replacing Kevin, but was entirely due to the fact that they had made it to that point. That he hadn’t fixed Kevin or changed his personality. “Sometimes all you can do is let go.”
Ray swallowed. “I didn’t want to. He was my friend.”
Finally the bus stopped and the engine cut out. They all shifted, and Ray finally let go of Zavier’s leg. He missed the touch almost immediately.
I like this man. He’d known that, of course, but there was something more visceral there, deeper than the surface lust he felt for beautiful Ray. Maybe the start of a good friendship, if Ray ever let him in.
Ray was a mess and pulled so many ways, and so not the type of person Zavier normally took into his life. But then, Ray had been lurking there on the edges since high school, so why not? Other than the pesky part where they worked together.
So no. Zavier rose off the couch and filed out of the bus with the others. Time to go see what the shop attached to the truck stop had in the way of munchies. As he wandered past the walls of coolers, he checked his email and found a note from Nadia. Finally.
He read the message over, then read it again and grunted.
Your rock band manager isn’t entirely uninteresting. He used to be a musician. You know what to do, darling!
She wanted a phone call. There was the pull and the push and the resistance. But the carrot had been dangled, as it always had been before.
That night, years ago, she’d held out a length of rope. “Darling boy, everything comes with a price. I’ll teach you what you want to know, but you have to decide if you’re willing to pay.” After pacing in front of her for a good fifteen minutes, he’d held out his hands.
Same resentment now. Same resigned sigh. He tapped her number and headed out of the store.
After a few rings, she picked up. “You’re never a disappointment, Zavier.”
He fought against both the flare of anger and the one of pride and let both go. “So how is Carl interesting?”
“He was, at one time, the lead singer for a band very much like your own.”
Curious, indeed. Zavier paced the length of the hot truck stop lot. “Twisted Wishes is hardly my band, Nadia.”
“Mmm, but you’re already putting your stamp on it with your bare chest and your leather pants and the way that lovely boy looks at you.”
He didn’t even have to ask which lovely boy, and if that was what Nadia was seeing, then he really did need to start searching for those stories on the internet. “I didn’t call to hear you sing the praises of my ass.” He let annoyance seep in, with purpose. Even if he had worn the pants exactly to get a rise out of Ray.
“Your drumming, then. You should read some of these articles, Zavier. ‘Demos isn’t just another pretty face, though. With his classical training and unlimited energy, his drumming elevates Twisted Wishes to a new level.’”
She was doing this to needle him. “Nadia, I’m standing in the middle of a truck stop somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis. I’m going to have to climb back onto the bus soon. You can email me all the articles you want and I promise to read them and be embarrassed and grumpy. Please tell me about Carl Roberts.”
Silence on the other end. “Ah, so this is serious.” A change in her voice from the teasing drawl to the other tone he remembered so well: Nadia the instructor.
Thank god.
“Your manager is the failed lead singer of a group called Tenacious Dreams. They had one single that did moderately well, pushing into the Top 100, but after that, they vanished into obscurity. Unlike your Ray, Carl was not a singer/songwriter. Their guitarist wrote most of their material, though the song that went somewhere was penned by Cynthia and Douglas Harndt.”
Zavier’s fingertips tingled. “They compose blockbuster movie soundtracks now.”
“Indeed. Their skill is tremendous. Carl’s voice, however, left something to be desired. Even with voice lessons, it never improved enough for the big time. Nor did the lyrical skills of their guitarist. The band dissolved and the members went on to other things. Carl ended up working for the various record labels until he landed where he is now.”
Jealousy? But that was such a petty motivation. He glanced back at the bus and saw Ray waving at him. Likely it was time to go. “Did Carl manage any bands before Twisted Wishes?”
“Ah, that’s an interesting thing, too. No. What I heard—and this is from a friend of a friend—is that Carl had been reasonably successful in the marketing department. Someone over there had the brilliant idea that if the label used a marketing manager as a band manager—rather than the band hiring one themselves—they’d have much less friction with bands. Yours is a trial run on that, since Carl had some practical experience.”
Carl was a marketing manager? That explained some things, but not others. “Thank you, Nadia.” He headed back toward the bus, at a slightly slower pace than normal.
“You care about him, your Ray.”
Not a question, which meant Nadia already had an answer. The question was why. Zavier snorted. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, darling, those photos show the way you look at him, too.”
Zavier stopped walking. He was still far enough away from the bus to speak without being overheard. “That’s called lust.”
“Mmmhmm. I’ve seen you in lust, d
ear. This is something other than that.”
Zavier sighed. “I’ve known him since high school and admire his skills and tenacity. They’re all good people, Nadia, not just Ray.”
“So your heart’s getting all tangled up with them.” She chuckled.
He had to laugh. “If you know me as well as you think you do, you’d know my heart never gets tangled up in anything.”
Nadia’s voice was velvet. “Darling boy, I know you better than you know yourself.”
No, no she didn’t. Because he’d kept one thing secret from her. “I suppose we’ll see.”
Ray appeared in the doorway of the bus. “You coming? ’Cause we gotta move and I’d hate to leave your sorry ass behind.”
“Time’s up,” he said into the phone. “Thank you for your help, Nadia.”
“Do keep wearing those pants, Zavier. And I’ll be sending you lots of links very shortly.”
Wonderful. He pulled the phone away from his ear, disconnected, then bounded up into the bus.
“Talking to your mom?” Ray was nestled back against the couch, exactly as he had been before.
A strange sense of euphoria made Zavier lightheaded. He could stretch out again. Have that fine sense of presence against his skin. It clashed with the absurdity that Nadia could be anything like a mother. He swung down onto the couch as the bus shuddered forward. “No. A mentor.”
Ray raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting more.
Zavier toed off his shoes and slid his legs next to Ray’s, with delightful effect. A shiver, both eyebrows into his hairline, and Ray repositioned himself.
But not to move away.
Dom snorted. “You need a mentor?”
He shrugged. “I did. And the connection is useful.” The others stared at him and he remembered Ray’s words. You’re part of the band. “She has a lot of ties in the entertainment world. I’m trying to find out what makes Carl tick.”
“You mean other than his hatred of me?” Ray’s words were thick.
“Sweetheart,” Mish murmured. There was tenderness there. Caring.
Such a contrast from his conversation with Nadia, from her affected “darlings” that were meant to irritate, not soothe. Jealousy was a strange, strange thing, because he rarely got the gut-churning envy that swept through him. So many lovers, not enough friends. Nadia hadn’t been a lover—but he wouldn’t call her a friend, either.
