Syncopation

by Anna Zabo

  Ray exhaled and pressed his foot against the outside of Zavier’s leg. “You know it’s true. You all know it’s true.”

  None of them spoke. Zavier’s mind danced around the information he’d been given by Nadia and whether he should share it. Ray’s legs were warm against his own. “Carl was in a band.” He recounted the rest of what Nadia had told him, and watched their shifting expressions.

  Ray closed his eyes. “None of this is on the internet.”

  That had been another tidbit Nadia had shared with Zavier. “He used the name Clay Rodham while singing.”

  “And to be fair,” Dom said, “the part about him having been in marketing was there, too.”

  “Yes, but not that he had no experience as a band manager!” Ray rubbed his face. “Fuck.”

  Mish had pulled her red curls back at some point, but now she tugged the clip free and set about pulling her hair back again. “There’s nothing wrong with marketing. I was in marketing. It can be a successful jumping-off point for a lot of careers. You learn people skills.”

  All true. “Depends on how good he was. And what his goal is now,” Zavier said.

  “That’s easy. Keeping me under his thumb.” Ray opened his eyes. “I do appreciate you digging for intel, though.”

  Zavier poked him with his toes. “It’s the why I’m interested in. Jealousy seems so—” he waved his hand “—banal.”

  “Seems human to me.” Ray shrugged, but there was an edge to it. “I want it to stop.”

  So did Zavier. But how to get Carl to ease up greatly depended on his motivation. However, he knew better than to keep this conversation going, so he let that part drop.

  Still, he was curious about Carl’s former band. Didn’t take that much searching to pull up some videos of Tenacious Dreams in concert. Fuck if the younger version of Carl didn’t look slightly like Ray. Long-limbed and blond. Torn jeans with an edge of punk. Ray wore it so much better, though.

  “Well, would you look at this?” He held up his tablet. A moment later, they were all crowded around, and he tapped Play.

  The clip was almost embarrassing to watch. Yeah, there was a reason Carl’s band never made it past one song. The fire, the flare, wasn’t there.

  When the video ended, Dom leaned back and scratched his head. “That was...okay. I guess.”

  That pretty much summed it up. Band wasn’t horrible. Rhythms were serviceable and they hit most of the notes right. But even in the good videos, there was a tinny quality to Carl’s singing, a strain that scraped against the melody he tried to belt out.

  They played a few others, and they were the same. Their one song was catchy enough, but in concert it fell flat.

  Ray kept staring at the tablet screen. “I’m not... I don’t look like that, do I?”

  Mish’s bark of laughter rang out loud and joyful. “Oh, Ray, honey.” She ruffled his hair. “You look nothing like that. Night and day, kiddo.”

  That seemed to appease Ray, given his chuckle and red cheeks.

  After they passed the tablet around again to get their fill of the spectacle, they all settled back down into quiet pursuits, but nothing on his tablet interested Zavier until an email from Nadia appeared in his inbox.

  Here you go, darling boy.

  Links. Many links that took him to an article about Twisted Wishes and their recent concerts. How there’d been such a huge turnaround in sound. Many people speculated it was Ray sobering up, but many also pointed to the hot new drummer.

  Zavier’s cheeks warmed. He was well aware of his looks and often used them to his advantage, including to bed people who caught his attention. But praise of those same attributes in the press made him squirm, as if he were walking naked in public.

  There was, of course, various speculations about his sexuality, including a mention of his alleged “closeness” with Maestro Ferbran from Gabriel McGinness, the reporter they’d met at the festival. Dimitri, for what it was worth, had no comment about Zavier.

  Then again, he had begged and pleaded, then screamed and yelled enough to last Zavier a lifetime.

  When he got to the photos of the concerts, they were everything that Nadia had said they were. Tantalizing. Sexy. Almost erotic. The camera seemed to capture every line and passionate expression—and expose expressions he thought were subtle as anything but.

  Oh yes, there was no mistaking how he looked at Ray Van Zeller. Nor anything hidden about how Ray watched him.

  Damn. Lust trickled down his body and settled in his core, with predictable results. Luckily his clothes were loose and his underwear tight. He could hide his hard-on well enough.

  It wasn’t just lust—and that made his arousal fade, because he could see it in the photos of himself when he bottled up his emotional reaction. What Nadia had read as more than lust was adoration. Ray’s talent. His voice and body and movements. He’d admired Ray’s career for a while. It was breathtaking to see it up close and personal.

  Maybe he needed to admit he was more into Ray than he’d thought, which was highly problematic, given how much he’d like to press against more than Ray’s legs. So rather than remain where he felt comfortable and content, he slung his legs out and rose. “Anyone interested in coffee?”

  Zavier didn’t wait for an answer before fixing a pot. He needed a little more distance from Ray Van Zeller—or they’d both be in a world of hurt.

  Chapter Eleven

  Life was chaos, and Ray knew that for a fact. He’d always lived in the whirlwind. The only thing that changed was how fast things moved at any given time. Push one way and things flew off in another direction. He received a copy of their contract from the record label and in return, Carl shoved reporter after shitty reporter at the band in St. Louis. None of them wanted to talk about Twisted Wishes’s sound or the tour or any of that—they all wanted to know about Kevin and about Ray’s “drinking problem.”

  By the third reporter, he snapped and slapped a hand down on his thigh. “I don’t have a fucking drinking problem!” He rose from his chair in the green room. “I have a fucking dirt-digging-rats-who-are-only-interested-in-controversy problem.”

  “Ray.” Zavier’s voice, low and either soothing or condescending, Ray couldn’t tell anymore.

  “Back off, Demos.” He hadn’t known what had happened between them, only that one moment Zavier had been sharing a couch with him all friendly like, and the next, he was giving Ray the cold shoulder and curling up in his berth to play fucking games on that goddamned tablet of his. “Here, a parting gift for each of you.” He flipped both Zavier and the reporter the finger and marched out of the room, his heart in his throat and his stomach a mess.

  He shouldn’t let any of it get to him. But everything was chip, chip, chipping away at him, and he was done. When he made it to the dressing room, he looked at himself in the mirror. The face of a fool.

  He’d spent too many hours overnight reading and rereading their contract, then searching terms on the internet. Panic clawed its way into his soul. He didn’t understand everything he’d read, but he did suss out enough to know that the label had them over a barrel. Maybe not in the way Carl had said, but they were beholden to them.

  And Carl, who was supposed to be their biggest asset, connection, and promoter to the label, hated him. Ray didn’t understand any of it, and between the lack of sleep, the fear, the fucking reporters, and Zavier Demos, he couldn’t think straight.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Ray braced himself for whoever it was. He expected Carl or Zavier, but it was Mish who appeared in the reflection of the vanity. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  Everything. He shook his head.

  She sighed and walked into the room. “I haven’t seen you this upset since Kevin...”

  There was the other part he hadn’t wanted to think about, but the reporters kept dragging it up. “How do you feel abou
t Kevin Schmidt being destitute while you’re touring the US with your new drummer?”

  Like fucking shit. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Did you know about Kevin?” He hadn’t heard a damn thing from anyone, and as far as he knew, no one else had, either.

  Mish turned him around and pulled him into a hug. “He’s not out on the street or anything. He’s living with his mom while he gets back on his feet.”

  Ray tried to keep the anger in, tried to keep the pain from spilling out of his mouth. “You knew what happened to Kevin!”

  She didn’t let him go. Not that he wanted that anyway. Someone caring about him felt nice, and Mish always had his back. She rocked him slightly. “He emailed me back when we were getting ready for the tour. Wanted me to know he was okay and getting help and that he appreciated your letter.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” His head and heart hurt. Couldn’t he trust anyone anymore?

  A sigh. “He asked me not to. Knew it would upset you. Wanted you to focus on the band, not him.”

  He muttered his words into Mish’s shoulder. “I’m supposed to be protecting you guys, not the other way around.”

  A soft chuckle. “Hon, we’re here for each other.”

  Typical wonderful Mish, always watching out for them. When Ray had started fucking members of the crew, Mish had pulled him aside. “Be good to them, Ray, ’cause they’re giving you a lot by saying yes. And for god’s sake, tell me you’re on PrEP and using condoms.” He was and did, and he had taken her advice to heart.

  She opened space between them. “You gotta let this shit roll off you.”

  He wanted to. Desperately. But every time his head cleared a bit and he could breathe and see, something else came to shove him back into the chaos surrounding him. Too bad the crew was totally different this tour—and as far as he could tell, not a single guy was even the least bit interested in him, or he’d have the stress relief he needed and stop taking it out on everyone else. “That reporter’s gonna have quite a story.”

  “Maybe.” There was resignation in her tone. “I’m not worried about the reporter.”

  He hadn’t just flipped off that asshole. Ray leaned his ass against the vanity. “I take it Zavier is pissed.”

  Mish pulled a chair out and sat down. “Don’t know. Sometimes he’s hard to read.”

  Too hard, lately. “What happened after I left?”

  She filled him in. His outburst had ended the interview, and the reporter packed up his shit and left. Zavier had sat for a while, then stood and walked out of the room without saying a word.

  “He didn’t look angry. More...concerned, I guess.” She paused. “Is there something going on between you two?”

  Other than years of resentment and desire? “No.”

  Mish was a shrewd, shrewd woman, and that one raised eyebrow told Ray she didn’t believe him.

  “There’s nothing going on. I’m not even sure he likes me.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not even sure he likes you? Fucking hell, Ray.” She threw up her hands and rose from the chair. “I can’t help you with what’s right under your nose.” With that, she left the dressing room.

  Great. Zavier pissed. Mish pissed. Maybe he should hunt down Dom and make sure all of his bandmates were mad at him, just to keep things even. But before he could even push himself off the edge of the vanity, Carl stood in the doorway.

  Great. Fucking stellar.

  “Do we need to have another discussion, Ray?”

  Carl’s voice scraped along every last one of Ray’s nerves. “No.”

  “Because I’m pretty sure you just told a reporter to go to hell.”

  “Actually, I gave him the finger.” If Carl was going to scold him, he could at least get the details right. “He was a prick and piece of shit.”

  “He’s going to roast you and the band alive.”

  He’d had enough of Carl’s false concern. “Like you give a fuck. You want me to be the drunken asshole singer. Am I not performing well enough for you?”

  Carl stormed in, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him up. “I want you to be a goddamned professional, you little shit.”

  Every inch of Ray wanted to punch him in the face. He was too close and reeked of crappy aftershave. It was a struggle not to fight, not to lash out. One thing Ray knew about bullies, though—you hit them, they’ll hit you back harder.

  “Let me go.”

  Carl shook him once, rattling Ray’s teeth, then let go and stepped back. “You damn well better give this show your all, or I’m pulling the plug.” He spun and stormed out.

  Ray collapsed back on the vanity, then lowered himself into a nearby chair. They were fucked.

  He was still sitting, staring at the floor and trying to remember how to breathe when the rest of the band walked in. None of them said anything to him, just went about getting ready. He should do that too, so he did.

  In the end, it was the rhythm and the murmur of preparing and dressing that finally shoved enough of the churning tumult from Ray’s head. If Carl wanted their best, they’d give it to them. He’d do it for the fans, since it might well be their last show.

  * * *

  They brought the house down, and Ray breathed a little easier. From opening with “Lightning” to their acoustical swing version of “Sprinkles on Top” to yet another ripping version of “White Hot Midnight” as their last encore, they’d whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Zavier had suggested they change how they finished the song, having the instruments drop out until there was only Ray’s and the audience’s voices belting out the last verse. The screaming and the yelling and clapping kept going, even when the lights went up and the crews ran out to change the stage for Five Asylum. The line for autographs was huge, and they barely made it into the bus in time to have any hope of making it to their next destination when they needed to be there.

  Carl pulled Ray aside before he boarded, his grip painfully tight on Ray’s arm. “I don’t know how you did it.” His voice hissed in Ray’s ear. “But you did, so you get a reprieve. But one more slipup, and I’m not giving you a second chance. You’ll be done, do you understand?”

  “Loud and clear.” He yanked himself free and climbed into the safety of the bus.

  His bandmates were already in their usual places on the front couches. “Maybe we should do one of those VIP experiences.” Mish lolled her head against the leather and clutched her half a glass of wine. “Because if we pull off a show like that again, we’re never gonna make the bus.” Her voice was giddy and higher than normal.

  “How do you even book those?” Dom had his beer and had done a crappy job of taking off his makeup, but his face was bright and youthful, a mix of Dominic and Domino. “I mean—” He waved his hand. “We’re not Five Asylum.”

  They were better than Five Asylum. At least tonight.

  Ray slipped past Zavier’s outstretched legs and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Zavier was lounging on his half of the couch with hot tea, and looked up expectantly at Ray. “You joining us?”

  He should crawl into his bunk and sleep. Exhaustion gnawed at him, as well as his actions from earlier in the day, and Carl’s cloying aftershave. But he owed it to the band to be better than he’d been. “Yeah. For a little. I’m dead on my feet, though.”

  He sat down next to Zavier and cracked open his water. “How can you drink something so fucking hot?” He did before concerts when his throat was bothering him, because the heat loosened things up. But afterward? Nope. And Zavier didn’t even sing. He didn’t need tea.

  Zavier’s lips twitched, but not in amusement. “My throat’s been bugging me.”

  Ray shifted away. “You get me sick, Demos, and I’ll kill you.”

  “Noted.” So neutral. So cool. Zavier shifted his attention away from Ray and spoke. “There are companies that handle
those VIP experiences, but I don’t know how well your label would react to bringing in someone from the outside.”

  Your label? “You work for them, too.”

  “No.” Zavier’s voice was a touch hoarser than normal. “I’m a session musician.” He rose and walked to the back of the bus, vanishing behind the privacy curtain they left to separate that quiet space.

  Fuck. Guilt rose and wrapped its hands around Ray’s throat from the inside. “He’s still mad at me.”

  “Well,” Dom said, his voice soft, “you were kind of an ass to him.”

  Yeah, he had been, but he didn’t need Zavier chiding him, especially in front of shitty reporters. “This is why I should have gone to bed.” He rose and climbed into his bunk. He’d change and piss once everyone else had turned in.

  Texas next. Then New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, California, and Washington. He could do this. They could survive.

  Except every inch of Ray hurt, and everything he did or said was wrong. The only right thing was the music.

  He had to focus on that. There wasn’t anything left he hadn’t ruined.

  Chapter Twelve

  After the intensity of that night’s show, Zavier was glad the band was staying at a hotel tonight. Sleeping on a tour bus had been all right, but the cramped conditions were wearing very thin on him. After yet another incredible concert full of energetic fans and Ray outdoing himself, Zavier was more wired than ever. Yet exhaustion had seeped deep into his bones, along with a growing frustration with the very man making each and every Twisted Wishes concert better than the last.

  He hoped a bed that didn’t vibrate and shake with the movements of a bus and some downtime off the road would help them all, especially Ray. The more Ray pushed himself, the more volatile his emotions became. He was either sullen, an anxious mess, a glorious rock god, or angry as fuck. Zavier missed those few moments when Ray had been relaxed and hopeful and there with the rest of the band.