by G. R. Lyons
Vic, in one of his ever-present three-piece suits, shook Zac's hand, then gestured at the other man at the table. “Zac, this is Mr. Gordyn.”
Zac shook the man's hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” Mr. Gordyn said, giving Zac a once-over, his expression carefully neutral. Then the man put on a professional smile and gestured at the remaining empty chair. Zac took it, and they all sat down. “Well, I'll get right to the point,” Mr. Gordyn went on, switching on a tablet and flipping through a few screens. “My employer, Frost Investments, is hosting their annual gala this weekend–”
Frost Investments? Zac blinked. Holy shit. He wasn't sure if he felt excitement or dread. Maybe both. Definitely both. Though Zac had never been personally involved, the Frost-Cinder rivalry was still a thing. He'd managed to escape any aspect of it so far in playing at Underground, though the thought always lingered whenever he set foot in that lounge. If Frost found out a Cinder was playing in his building, would he throw Zac out? End Treble's gig? Or would Frost revel in the idea that a Cinder was entertaining his residents and clients—like a court jester to a king—just as Milo had wondered if Frost would enjoy having a Cinder working for him, beneath him?
Zac shook off the thought and focused on the man sitting across from him.
“–and the string quartet we had lined up for the event have fallen through,” the man continued. “So, we would like to hire Treble,” Mr. Gordyn said, gesturing at the three musicians, “to take their place.”
Zac blinked, unable to say a word.
“That's an incredible offer,” Vic said.
Ryley nodded, wide-eyed.
Playing at the Frost company gala? In front of all those rich people? Holy shit. Talk about getting their name and their talent out there. This could be huge. The Underground gig was already doing great things for their prestige and income, but a show like the one Mr. Gordyn was offering? Zac couldn't begin to fathom the doors it would open.
Maybe Treble would actually streak ahead of Inferno, after all.
“I'm prepared to offer you ten thousand for the evening,” Mr. Gordyn added.
Ryley gasped, Vic's eyes widened, and Zac blinked dumbly. Ten thousand? Holy fucking ever-loving shit!
Mr. Gordyn frowned slightly, looking concerned, then slowly said, “Although, my employer did authorize as much as twenty–”
“We'll do it,” Zac blurted out. Holy shit. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Twenty thousand! Split three ways, that was almost seven grand just for him. Almost enough to get his folks out of debt and get Dad on his way to surgery.
Sitting beside him, Vic lifted a hand slightly from his lap, not enough for Mr. Gordyn to see but enough to tell Zac to calm down and wait a moment.
“What's the catch?” Vic asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Who says there's a catch?” Mr. Gordyn asked, looking all innocence.
“You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Gordyn,” Vic went on. “I work in contracts. There's always the fine print to think about.”
Mr. Gordyn studied Vic's face for a moment, then gave a nod. “Very well.” He leaned down and pulled a stack of papers out of a briefcase and laid it on the table, resting a hand on top as though hesitating to slide it over. “We'll need you all to sign a contract, agreeing to the terms, of course. It's a standard hiring contract for one event. I'm sure you've seen it all before,” he said, directing that comment at Vic before turning his gaze from face to face again. “The main condition is that you keep the music strictly classical. None of the…” He waved his hand dismissively toward the stage. “…wild, modified stuff you usually play here.”
“No fusion?” Ryley asked. “But that's what we're known for.”
Mr. Gordyn nodded. “And that's fine. Here. But not at the gala.”
Vic and Ryley both frowned, the former with concern and the latter with disappointment.
Zac shook his head. “That'll ruin the integrity of our sound,” he complained.
Mr. Gordyn spread his hands. “We can't have you at the gala, otherwise. That music in such a setting wouldn't be appropriate.”
Zac's frown matched those of his bandmates as he looked at them in turn, trying to hold a silent conversation with the two men. They all seemed to come to an unspoken agreement.
“If it's just for one night,” Vic said, “that'll be fine. We can play strictly classical, though it's not our usual.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Gordyn said, spinning the contract around and shoving it toward Vic first. “If you'll look that over and then sign the last page, we'll be all set.”
Vic took the contract and scrutinized every line. Zac bounced his leg, watching the man. Vic was the contracts expert, after all. He'd trust his judgment.
Still, the wait was agonizing.
Twenty thousand. Holy shit. Zac wrung his hands under the table. He hated the idea of taming their sound, but it might be worth it for the money. Hells, who was he kidding? It was worth it for the money, though he'd hate every minute of it. Treble were known for a reason. Their sound was unique, and Zac liked it that way.
It wasn't right having to squeeze themselves into a box that someone else had defined.
Still, the money…
Zac tried to focus on that. His folks needed the money. They'd never had insurance for themselves, but as soon as Fane was conceived, they'd taken out a policy for him, making sure he was covered for any medical emergency. But then came Kaelie, and Niko, and the twins, and so on. With each new child, Zac's parents had bought policies for each one, protecting them against every imaginable financial difficulty. With eight kids, they'd had to take out loans to pay for the policies, driving them deeper into debt.
Each of the kids had taken over their own policies as they'd reached adulthood, so his parents were no longer paying for them, but they were still paying down the debt that had funded them in the first place. And until those loans were repaid, Mom and Dad refused to spend the money to get insurance for themselves.
Hence, Dad's delayed surgery.
Zac stared at the contract, still under Vic's scrutiny. Gods, it just felt so damned wrong to betray the integrity of their sound.
But the money…
“Huh,” Vic muttered.
“What?” Ryley asked.
Instead of answering Ryley directly, Vic looked at Zac. “They have a dress code.”
Mr. Gordyn gave a sharp nod. “It's a company function, so anyone hired for the event is required to adhere to the Frost Investments company dress code.”
Zac frowned, not getting it. “So…”
Vic deliberately glanced down at Zac's clothes before meeting his eyes again.
“Oh.” Zac grimaced, then shrugged. “So I'll dress like I do here. Big deal.”
Vic slowly shook his head. “Your hair.”
Zac blinked. “What?”
Mr. Gordyn nodded rapidly, drawing Zac's attention back to him. “It's not appropriate for the setting,” the man said, a look of barely-masked distaste on his face. “And the…makeup,” he said, almost spitting the word, “will not be tolerated.”
Zac blinked, thinking of the smudged eyeliner he was wearing, that he almost always wore, no matter the occasion. Sure, he didn't do it quite so drastically for Underground shows as he did when playing for Inferno, but the smoky eyes looked good no matter what he was wearing, no matter what he was doing. It was part of him.
And his hair? Was the man serious? Zac was going to have to cut off all his hair?
“That…” Mr. Gordyn wagged a finger at Zac's head. “That red will have to go, too. It's hardly respectable.” He slid his gaze over to Ryley, scrutinizing him and the lazy man-bun type of thing he had going on at the moment. “Your hair, too, for that matter. It'll have to be cut.”
Ryley squawked, then snapped his mouth shut and took a slow, deep breath.
Zac narrowed his eyes at Mr. Gordyn. “You're asking me to change clothes, cut and dye my hair, butcher my music—since, apparently, none of it is
respectable—basically erase my entire identity,” he growled, “and all at the last minute because you're in a bind?”
Mr. Gordyn blinked at him. “I…Well…”
Twenty grand, twenty grand, twenty grand–
Zac shook his head. No amount of money was worth playing Mr. Frost's personal puppet. He wouldn't let that man own him, even for one night.
Zac shoved back his chair and walked away.
“Zac!” Ryley called.
Zac heard Vic mutter something to Mr. Gordyn, thanking him for the opportunity, but stepped into the elevator before he could hear the end of it. The doors closed, blocking out the room.
He closed his eyes, bouncing a leg as he waited. The doors opened, and Zac stepped out of the elevator, walking with measured steps, his head held high. He moved slowly enough that, by the time he reached his car, Vic and Ryley had managed to catch up.
“Zac!” Ryley called, then slowed to catch his breath. “Wait up.”
Zac turned to face them, fiddling with his keys in his hand. He wanted to get out of there. He wanted to be as far away from anything to do with King Frost and his snobbery as Zac could possibly get.
“I'm sorry–” Zac started to apologize.
“No,” Vic cut him off, holding up his hands. “It's alright. I don't blame you one bit.”
“He was going to ruin our music,” Ryley said, giving Zac a supportive smile and a sharp nod. “He doesn't deserve us.”
“Damned right,” Zac growled. Still, twenty grand…
“Look, there'll be other gigs,” Vic said. “Yeah?”
Zac took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yeah.”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of Vic's mouth. “I suggested he try Toni's group instead.”
Zac stared at Vic, then barked out a laugh. “Oh, that's cruel!” Toni was a half-decent musician that they'd all known for years, but his group was made up of posers at best. Sure, they could play classical, but it was all technically correct and lifeless. No passion or energy to it whatsoever.
The gala attendees were sure to be bored out of their minds by the evening's end.
“Serves them right,” Zac chuckled. “They wanted strict–”
“And they'll get strict,” Ryley said, laughing. “Very strict.”
Their laughter trailed off, and Vic looked at Zac with a concerned frown. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” Zac nodded slowly. “Could have really used that money, but…yeah.” He frowned. “Maybe we should–”
“No,” Vic said. “We're not compromising our sound.”
“I second that–” Ryley started to say, breaking off when his phone chimed a notification. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked the screen, and grinned. “Oooh. Gotta run. See ya!” He darted off without another word.
Vic sighed.
Zac looked at him, seeing something like exhaustion and resignation written on his features. “Vic?”
Vic opened his eyes and looked at Zac. “Ryley's cheating on me,” he said with a shrug.
Zac's eyes went wide. “What?”
Vic shrugged again.
“What the hells, Vic?”
Vic shook his head. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything.” He took a deep breath and put on a forced smile. “I think we made the right decision,” he said, clearly steering the conversation back to the gig offer. “No sense in performing if they're going to make us into something we're not.”
Zac stared at him. How could Vic drop that kind of revelation on him and expect him not to ask about it? Hells, Vic and Ryley had been together for something like five years. A solid couple, as far as Zac knew. But Ryley was cheating?
Vic raised an eyebrow in question.
Zac shook his head, trying hard not to ask how long Vic had known, why they were still together if he knew, whether Ryley knew that Vic knew.
And what was all that going to mean for the band? If Vic and Ryley broke up, would Treble be over?
Well, Zac thought as he drove home, at least I'll have a story for brunch this weekend.
Assuming his family didn't kill him for turning down so much money.
Chapter 6
ADRIAN SWALLOWED down an extra pill and waited for the effects to hit. Thank gods it didn't take long. A sense of flatline emptiness took over, making him incapable of feeling anything whatsoever. His ears rang slightly and his vision was a touch hazy around the edges, but at least he'd be functional.
He'd be able to survive the evening.
Impassively, he stood before the full-length mirror and checked his appearance. The tailored suit fit well, as usual. His shoes were shined. His bowtie was perfect. His hair was neat. He straightened to his full height and stood perfectly still, picturing the hells to which he was about to be subjected. Not a thread of anxiety stirred within him. His eyes looked empty, a blank expression on his face that was part boredom and part drugged haze.
He'd fit right in.
Adrian gave up trying to find even a hint of life in his eyes, and turned away from the mirror. At least he wasn't desperate for his razor.
Then again, he'd probably be begging for it by the end of the night, depending on how well the meds held up.
In the meantime, there was no getting out of his father's stupid gala, so Adrian sat in the living room to wait for the call that the car had arrived. He was perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his hands resting heavily on his thighs. All around him, the apartment was eerily silent. There wasn't so much as a hum of electricity nor the ticking of a clock. The kitchen appliances—being the most expensive money could by—ran without making a sound. Even the ventilation system made hardly any noise when it came on.
All Adrian could hear was the gentle sound of waves outside, several feet below his apartment. If he'd gone to stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could have watched the waves crash against the cliff face on which the apartment building was constructed. But that would require getting up.
And the meds demanded as little movement as possible.
Just about the moment the waves had lulled Adrian into a sense of peace—despite the deadening force of the medication—the silence of the apartment was interrupted by the chirp of the intercom.
Adrian slowly stood and walked with precise steps over to the panel by the front door.
He pressed a button. “Yes?” he asked, his own voice sounding dead to his ears.
“Good evening, Mr. Frost,” the building's front desk clerk greeted him. “Your car has arrived.”
Adrian languidly pressed the button again. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Adrian was tempted to scoff at the sir, but couldn't quite drum up the motivation to do so. Instead, he carefully wrapped his fingers around the door handle and eased it down. The latch clicked open, and Adrian slowly pulled the door back, just enough for him to slip through, and watched as it swung back shut again, the click of the latch oddly satisfying. Adrian reached for the handle, pushed the door open a few inches, and let it shut again, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he listened to the latch click again.
He locked the door, then pulled himself away and got into the elevator, staring blankly at the wall as it rose up to ground level, imagining the sound of the latch over and over, taking comfort in the sound. The fact that he could appreciate even such a simple thing meant he wasn't as entirely dead as he felt.
Then the elevator doors opened, and the cacophony of footsteps and conversations assaulted his ears. He stood there for a moment before he managed to take just enough steps to get out of the elevator car. Adrian paused there, looking around, feeling incapable of expression as he watched all the activity.
None of it bothered him. None of it was enough to send him screaming and running back to the safety of his apartment.
Click. Click. Click. He focused on the memory of that sound. You're not dead. It's just the meds. You're not dead.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Adrian took one step, then
another, then another, and finally managed to keep up a steady pace until he was out on the curb where a limousine was waiting for him, the driver hurrying to open the door and then stand at attention as he approached.
“Good evening, Mr. Frost,” the driver greeted him.
Adrian managed to incline his head in a nod. “Good evening, Rob.” He slid carefully into the car, and Rob shut the door before hurrying around to the driver's seat. The whole thing struck Adrian as ridiculous since the car was capable of driving itself, leaving Rob with little to do but occupy the driver's seat, but Sebastian Frost insisted on the expense of a driver simply as a matter of show. A Frost seen opening his own door? Especially when wearing evening clothes? Unthinkable.
The car pulled out onto the street, and Adrian folded his hands carefully in his lap while the city went by, unnoticed.
“Your father has instructed me to stop for Miss Dawsen along the way, sir,” Rob called from the driver's seat.
Adrian frowned slightly. “Who?”
Rob paused before he said, “Your date for the evening, sir.”
“Oh.” Adrian stared blankly at the carpet. His date. Of course. That was another thing. A Frost would never be seen at a public function without an elegant woman on his arm. It just wasn't done.
Adrian had almost forgotten that particular aspect of the evening. Bad enough that he had to look forward to crowds and strangers and all sorts of boring financial talk. There hadn't been room left in his head to contemplate the added agony of having to entertain a strange woman all night.
Not to mention having to pretend to be interested in her.
His hands tightened slightly in his lap despite the calming effect of his medication. He had a sudden urge to grab a razor and drag it across his skin. Adrian stifled a moan. Gods, that sounded good. The initial, almost shocking bite as the blade first pierced his skin. The growling sound it made as it dragged through his flesh. The stark colors—red oozing over white—as the first drops of blood showed themselves.
Then the relief, the calm, the contented sigh that would escape him, his shoulders sagging heavily as he watched the blood drip down his leg, only to repeat the process again and again, leaving a row of perfect, parallel lines, all dripping, the same yet different. Something like an abstract painter's canvas.
