by Tracy Wolff
Sure, the guy wasn’t a rock star—he played country/rock light, but his fingerings were fucking legendary. Then again, so was his temper.
As the other guys introduced themselves to Drew and got his story, Wyatt wrapped an arm around Poppy’s waist and pulled her to him. She looked up at him with a grin, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, which made him relax even though he still wasn’t sure if what was happening here was a good thing or a bad one.
“You brought us Drew Fitzpatrick.”
“I did,” she said with a smile. “I mean, he’s no box of rare, first edition vinyl, but I’m hoping he’ll do.”
He grinned and shook his head. “You liked the records?”
“I told you last night, I loved the records.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “But thank you again. So much.”
“Hey, lover boy.” Ryder elbowed him in the ribs. “Wanna join the conversation at the grown-ups table?”
“Absolutely. Any idea where I can find it?”
It was Ryder’s turn to flip him off, and Jared just rolled his eyes, but Quinn and Drew laughed. He shot a look at the bass player, who seemed pretty relaxed considering he was about to go on stage and play in a music genre he had no professional experience with. Wyatt didn’t know if that made him ballsy or suicidal, but he felt a reluctant respect for the guy, whichever it was.
“Seriously, though,” Quinn said when everyone was paying attention again. “How many of our songs do you know?”
“I know the last album really well—I practiced it most of the way here. I’m pretty sure I can keep up with any of those songs. I can probably fake my way through the first half of the second album, but the only song I feel comfortable playing off the first one is ‘Closer.’”
“‘Closer’ it is, then,” Ryder told him before listing off a bunch of songs from their most recent album. “Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Drew answered. “When are we on?”
“Ten minutes ago.” Jared clapped him on the back before heading for the door. “Come on. Let’s go fuck this place up.”
“Not my favorite thing to fuck,” Drew said as he followed him through the door. “But it’s a close second.”
Quinn was cackling by the time he hit the hallway, and Wyatt was left staring at Poppy, his brow quirked meaningfully.
She shrugged, shooting him a grin that made his dick stand up and the blood rush from his brain even as he tried to get his head in the right space to go out on stage.
“Think of it this way,” she whispered against his lips as she pulled him down for a kiss. “How badly could it go?”
“You didn’t just say that.” He shot her the darkest look he could muster, considering all he really wanted to do was drop down on his knees in front of her and make her come. “Now it’s guaranteed to be completely fucked.”
She reached for his hand, held it tight as she brought it to her lips and kissed his palm. “It won’t. I promise.”
“It really will. Don’t you know anything about backstage superstitions at all?”
“I don’t, no.”
“Well, take it from one who does. Once you tempt fate like that, it’s guaranteed to be an absolute, unmitigated disaster.”
She shook her head with a laugh. “It really won’t.”
“It really will. Mark my words.”
He bent to kiss her but before he could do much more than brush his lips against hers, Jared was sticking his head back through the door. “Pretty fucking hard to be a rock band without a drummer, man.”
“That’s what I keep telling him.” Poppy kissed him, hard, then shoved him toward the stage.
…
It wasn’t a disaster. Wasn’t even close to being a disaster.
Poppy couldn’t wait to tease Wyatt, considering all his doom and gloom prophecies and superstitions.
For now she settled for lifting her glass of club soda to her lips and taking a long sip as Shaken Dirty, along with special guest Drew Fitzpatrick, brought down the fucking roof. They were brilliant, absolutely brilliant—every single one of them completely on their game. And Drew…Drew fit in like he’d been playing with the band for years. Decades.
With him on bass, the songs sounded better than they ever had with Micah.
Not that Micah wasn’t good, because he was. One of the best. But he was smooth as silk and his sound blended seamlessly into the band, so much a part of the music that you didn’t even notice it.
A lot of people would say that was the mark of a good bass player—and it was. But now, after hearing Drew play the same songs, she realized it also wasn’t enough. Drew’s style was much more jagged, much more raw. He tangled his notes up with Jared’s, let them duke it out a little bit for supremacy, and the results were incredibly powerful, roughed up versions of Shaken Dirty’s most celebrated songs.
It was magic, pure magic, and she was standing right in the epicenter of it all, completely spellbound. Just like the rest of the audience, who were so caught up in what was happening on stage that they almost forgot to cheer at the end of a few songs. Almost.
Ryder—in full lead singer mode—was eating up the attention. He was hamming it up with Jared, with the crowd, even with Drew. Laughing, joking, snarling, singing—she could tell he was having the time of his life.
Jared was a little more subdued, but not by much. He was playing off every member of the band, engaging Drew, Quinn, and Wyatt in playing duels that had everyone in the audience—including her—in awe of what they could do.
Quinn was grinning from ear to ear, delivering zingers every once in a while at Ryder and Jared that had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand.
Drew looked like he was having the time of his life, singing, playing, flirting with the audience… His playing was amazing—dirty, sexy, raw—and he was leaving it all on stage tonight, everything he hadn’t been able to do with Smoke and Mirrors holding him back.
And Wyatt—for her, it always came back to Wyatt. Though, to be fair, for a lot of the crowd tonight, it came back to him, too. He was on fire, totally in the zone as he wailed away on the drums so fast that at times his hands were an actual blur. She’d been worried about him playing, considering the mess he’d made of those hands yesterday, but when she’d brought it up that morning he had just smiled at her and told her it was part of the job, and that once he was up there, he wouldn’t even notice.
She didn’t know if that was true, didn’t know if he was hurting or not. All she knew was that he’d never sounded better—or looked hotter. Sweat was pouring off of him, had his hair clinging to his face and rivulets of water streaming down his glistening, inked up chest—he’d lost his shirt somewhere in the middle of the set, and she didn’t think anyone missed it. God knew, she didn’t.
He was gorgeous, so gorgeous, like this. His skin gleaming in the stage lights, his arm and chest and stomach muscles bunching, rippling, with every move he made. His smile was huge, his eyes clear, and he looked like he was having a ball. Like this, right here, was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Just the thought had her closing her eyes, had her wrapping her arms around her middle as she gave thanks to the universe and whatever spiritual being ruled it, that he had this opportunity. That after all the drug abuse and all the pain, that he was here, right here, on this stage. Exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was always meant to do.
It was amazing what a week could do.
They had just launched into “Pieces of You,” the crowd quieting as the first strains of the poignant, desperate love song filled the club, when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She almost ignored it—she really didn’t want to miss this—but at the same time, she had a feeling she knew exactly who was calling her.
Pulling out her phone, she glanced at the caller ID—and sure enough, it was her father. Deciding she’d rather deal with the bitching out now instead of later, she swiped to answer, holding the phone up to her ear and telling him, “Hold on. I’m g
oing outside.”
She quickly made her way out the front of the club, grabbing a with-the-band pass from the manager on her way out so she could get back in without a hassle. And then she was taking a deep breath, bracing herself for this latest battle in her on-going war with her father.
“Okay, Dad. I’m here.”
She expected him to yell like he always did, to demand to know who she thought she was. Instead he was cold, ice cold, without an ounce of condescension when he said, “You’re fired.”
“What did you say?” she asked, certain she had heard him wrong.
“I said, you’re fired. I’ve put up with a lot of things from you through the years, young lady, but this is the last straw. Get back to New York and pack your things. You’re done.”
“But, Dad, if you could only see how well Drew works with Shaken Dirty—”
“I don’t care how well the sound works. I don’t care if he’s that band’s second coming, you had no business doing what you did and you know it. You’re lucky I don’t fire your brother, too, just for putting the label in this position.”
“Don’t fire him. He tried to stop me—”
“Believe me, I am aware of that. The fact that he failed does not particularly impress me, but I will deal with him separately. You, however, are locked out of the company’s systems as of ten p.m. tonight. There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the apartment. I’ll expect you to be on that plane to New York tomorrow morning and to return your laptop and your cell phone once you get back to town.”
“And if I don’t take that plane?” she asked, her voice steady, despite the way her hands were shaking and her knees were suddenly knocking together.
“You’ll be removed from the apartment at nine tomorrow morning either way. Take the plane, don’t take the plane. Either way, it’s up to you. But as of right now, you’re done working for me. Forever.”
He hung up before she could even think of a response, and she was left standing in the middle of Fifth Street staring at her phone and wondering what the hell she was supposed to do now.
She’d known this was a possibility—of course she had. Her father didn’t take lightly people who crossed him. But at the same time, locking her out of her computer? Out of the apartment? Turning off her cell phone when she was in Austin? That was cold, even for him. She was his daughter. What did he think she was going to do to company property for God’s sake?
Then again, this wasn’t about company property. This was about teaching her a lesson. It was a lesson she got loud and clear. She’d taken the risk, chosen Wyatt, and it had cost her everything she’d been working for for so long.
But as she wandered back into Antone’s, holding up her backstage pass as she went, she looked at the band on stage and knew she wouldn’t have done anything differently. This was the band Shaken Dirty was supposed to be, the band that was going to turn them from stars into legends. The band that would give Wyatt all the stability and accolades he so deserved. She was proud of the small part she’d played in making that possible.
Did her professional life suck right now? No doubt. Was she freaking out deep inside, trying to figure out what to do? Absolutely. But looking at Wyatt and the others—hearing the music they were playing, knowing they’d found the solution they needed—she knew it was worth it. This was why she’d gotten into this industry, after all. For the music. As long as she remembered that, and the smile on Wyatt’s face as he played such amazing music, everything else was secondary.
She’d go back to the apartment after the show and pack up her stuff. Then she’d move to a hotel for a few days while she and Wyatt figured out what the next step for them was. If there was even going to be a next step once she told him the truth about what she’d been doing in Austin.
There was a part of her that wanted to bury the whole thing. To make up some excuse as for why the label had fired her and then never tell him the real reason she’d started working with Shaken Dirty. But that wasn’t exactly practical—if they did stay together, he was going to find out who her family was eventually. Hell, the jig was up once he actually got around to asking her last name.
Besides, the last thing she wanted to do was start their relationship off with a lie. Especially one of this magnitude. Not when trust was already such an issue for both of them.
No, she was going to have to tell him the truth and hope he cared enough about her to understand. And if he didn’t…well, better to know that now, too. Before she got in too deep.
As she stood there, she couldn’t resist watching Wyatt. He was grinning while he played, his whole face lit up like the Fourth of July. He was scanning the crowd, looking for something—looking for her, she realized as their gazes met. Her heart melted at the look in his eyes and that’s when she knew.
She was already in way too deep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
He looked for Poppy the second he got off stage. He caught a glimpse of her, got a chance to smile at her, but then he was swept into a huddle with the others as they informally formalized what they’d all known five minutes after stepping onto stage with Drew Fitzpatrick—that, despite his country roots and cowboy boots, he was the new bass player for Shaken Dirty. Thankfully, he seemed as excited to join as they were to have him.
Contracts and legalities had to be examined, of course—his manager, who had accompanied him to the gig, had been quick to bring things back to that…and to the fact that Bill Germaine had already reached out and was less than happy about this little development. But Drew didn’t give a shit and neither did the rest of them. When they went on tour in a couple of weeks, he was going to be up on stage with them. That much they were certain of. Everything else could be worked out among the managers, the lawyers, and the label. As Poppy had reminded him a few days ago, that’s what they were there for.
The second Wyatt could slip away, he did. He wanted to see Poppy, wanted to hold her, kiss her, stroke her to orgasm. And then he wanted to thank her for bringing Shaken Dirty the best bass player they ever could have imagined. When she’d told him that music was her life, she hadn’t been kidding. He just wished he’d known days ago how good she was at it—he would have let her deal with the bass player debacle from the beginning instead of wasting time with the names the label had kept tossing out.
He found her in the hallway outside the dressing room where they were meeting. She was leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. She looked exhausted. After the way things had gone down in her bedroom last night, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. He should probably get her home and into bed as soon as possible…just because he was a courteous guy, of course.
Ignoring the way his dick hardened at just the thought of being in bed with Poppy, he called her name softly before reaching out to brush a hand down her shoulder in an effort to avoid startling her.
When she opened her eyes, they were nearly black with weariness and something else he couldn’t quite identify. He started to ask if she was okay, but the moment she registered it was him, her gaze cleared to the soft, rich chocolate color he loved. Then she was squealing and throwing her arms around his neck, pressing enthusiastic kisses all over his face.
He caught her around the waist, tried to hold her a little away from him. “I’m sweaty and gross,” he warned.
She just rolled her eyes as she pressed her body against his. “If you think the words rock and roll sweaty and the word gross belong in the same description, you’ve obviously never seen yourself,” she said as she slid her hands into his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers for a real kiss.
“Oh, yeah?” His dick grew even harder at her words, and the way her body curved so soft and inviting against his own. “Rock and roll sweaty is different than regular sweaty?”
“So, so different.” She nuzzled his jaw. “You look so fucking hot like this that it was all I could do not to climb on stage and rip your clothes off.”
“Just so you know, the
next time you feel that? You should totally go with it.”
She laughed, nipped at the sensitive spot behind his ear. “You don’t think your fans would have a problem with it? Or the other guys?”
“The other guys can bite me. As for the fans, the guys would just be impressed I could land a girl like you.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s what they’d be. Impressed. And the girls would do their best to rip my face off.”
“I’d protect you, sweetheart.”
She snorted. “I’m pretty sure your protection is suspect.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her away from the wall, and started walking her backward down the hall.
The little smirk on her face told him she knew exactly what he was up to. Not that he was exactly aiming to keep it secret…
When they got to the door at the end of the hallway, he raised his brows in silent question. She giggled a little—a totally un-Poppy-like sound—then reached behind her to push the door open.
There were so, so many reasons he was nuts about this woman.
He spun her around so that she was facing forward—he didn’t want her to trip on the small steps leading down to the alley—but kept an arm around her waist because he wasn’t ready to let her go. Then again, there was a part of him that was pretty sure he’d never be ready to let her go, a part of him that was rapidly figuring out that Poppy was it for him.
“I’m crazy about you.” The words were out before he knew he was going to say them.
She whirled back around to face him, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. Which he might have been sweating, except he could see the joy there, too. Even before a huge grin swept across her face.
Then she was throwing her arms around his neck and mashing their mouths together with more enthusiasm than technique. He figured it was just another sign of how far gone he was for her that he liked this kiss just as much as any of the others. Maybe more.
And when she whispered, “I’m crazy about you, too,” against his lips, he felt like the whole world had opened up in front of him. The fact that he was sober to feel this, to experience it, meant more than he ever would have imagined it could.
