by MV Ellis
“Apart from the fact that listening to you crawl up her ass is making me feel sick? Jesus fuck. If you got any farther up it, you could floss her fucking teeth. Let’s just run the song again, then record it to send back to management, or whatever the hell we’re supposed to be doing, and wrap this shit up. I need a fucking drink.”
Chapter 24
Rome
Three weeks later
* * *
“No!” I slammed my hand down on the table at Doubting Thomas, and, as we drew attention from people around the room, even I was surprised at the ferocity of my response.
“Jesus! What the fuck man? Just calm your fucking farm.” King had a point.
I sucked in a few deep breaths. “I’m not going on tour with this thing. Literally, this is happening over my cold, dead body.”
“Listen, at this rate, the label would happily kill you and prop your rotting corpse up on stage if they thought they could still sell tickets to the gigs.” James had been our manager long enough not to be too fazed by my temper.
“They are just about soiling their underwear for the demos you’ve sent through so far.”
Fuck. The whole thing was a double-edged sword. We’d all been convinced that it was doomed to fail from the get-go, which was a safe assumption under the circumstances, yet now I was kind of pissed that it wasn’t a total disaster.
After that first song, the words and notes had just seemed to flow out of us. Despite the initial cryptic vibe and weird energy, something about the three of us just clicked together musically. Far from being the third wheel on the bicycle, it was almost as though Quincy was the missing cog in the machine, and we’d needed her without even realizing.
Definitely a case of not knowing it was broken until we fixed it. Or, in this instance, until Quincy fixed it. Still, a tour was the last thing I wanted—just beneath having my toenails forcibly extracted by pliers while having pins stuck into my eyes.
“You must know that what you’ve done is phenomenal. I mean, you guys have always been the sexiest thing to happen to classical music, like…ever. But add Quincy into the mix, and even just to listen to the three of you play, with her voice weaving the whole thing together, is next level.” He wasn’t wrong.
“And that’s just on the rough demos. Witnessing you perform these songs live is so damned hot, you almost had me wishing I was gay. Almost.” He looked between us as though checking we were still with him. I blanked him in return.
“I hate to agree with them—you know I don’t think they have a redeemable braincell among the bunch—but I have to say, I think the label is making the right call on this. The world needs to see the sexiness up close and personal, and, more to the point, will pay good money to do exactly that. You’ll have people getting off just watching the three of you. The chemistry between you is off the charts—”
“And that’s the fucking problem.”
James shot me a quizzical look. “I’m not following.”
“I don’t want to spend months on the road third-wheeling those two, with nowhere to run or hide when they’re making eyes at each other like high school kids. It’s too sickening to bear.”
Now it was time for James to look at King in shock. “What am I missing here? Is there something I should know?”
King stared me down, and I read his unasked question. I stared back. Keep your mouth shut. No, James didn’t need to know that we’d had a three-way in the hot tub the day before we’d gone into the studio and created musical magic together, or that ever since, the vibe had been weird in a way that I still couldn’t define.
“I guess you could say that Quincy and I have been getting closer as the weeks have worn on. We’ve been spending some time together outside the studio, also. Meals. Movies. Y’know. Nothing too wild,” King addressed the floor, rather than meeting James’s gaze.
“Dating, you mean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it that.”
“Wouldn’t you?” James was looking at King like he’d lost his mind, which probably wasn’t too far from the truth.
King shook his head slowly. “Nope.”
“Well, what would you call it then?”
“Hanging out, I guess.”
“Uh-huh. And in the time you’ve been ‘hanging out’ with Quincy, have you also been hanging out with anyone else? In any capacity.”
“No. Not really. I guess not.”
What? That part was news, even to me. For some dumb reason, I’d assumed he’d carried on business as usual, even while cozying up to Quincy.
“Okay, so what you’re doing is what the rest of the world refers to as dating.”
Shit.
“And now you see my issue,” I chimed in.
He’d never dated anyone. Ever. Neither of us had, in fact, and I for one had no intention of breaking my track record. King, on the other hand, was oblivious to the point where he didn’t even recognize it while he was in the process of doing it. Either that, or he was a big fat ball of denial. It was hard to tell which.
King looked to me sharply. “What the fuck? You said you didn’t have a problem with us spending time together, just the two of us.”
“And I don’t.” Not that I’m going to tell you, anyway. “But going on tour is a whole different thing. You know that. It’s not like there’s any way to avoid the two of you. We’re in each other’s pockets, and in each other’s business.” And in each other’s beds. “I don’t want to hang around like a dildo at a wedding while the two of you fall in love.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Nobody’s falling in love. We haven’t even slept together.”
“Exactly. I rest my case.”
“What do you mean you rest your case? You have no fucking case.”
“I beg to differ. The two of you have been on dates, and you haven’t had anyone in your bed. including her, since you met. What the hell else are you doing, if not falling for each other? Sitting there watching you make googly eyes together while we work is bad enough in the studio, but at least I can flush my mind out with brain bleach—aka vodka—afterward, and then find a ‘friend’ to help me forget I even know the two of you. There’s no doing that when we have a 3 a.m. lobby call, and a plane to catch to head to the next city. No thanks.”
“Which would be fine, if there was any truth to what you’re saying. But there isn’t. Yes, she’s pretty much the hottest thing on two legs. Yes, every time she opens her mouth to sing it tears right through me like a runaway bullet. Yes, each time I see her, I’d like nothing more than to fuck her raw where she stands. No, I’m not in love with her.”
“Whatever, dude.” I stared him down, and he held my gaze defiantly in return.
“Whatever yourself. You know very well that you can say yes to all of those things, too, and nobody is accusing you of being in love.”
“Because I’m not you, and anybody who’d think that of me would need their head looked at.”
Chapter 25
Quincy
Three months later
* * *
Deone paced the living area of my opulent hotel suite, brandishing my iPad as though it was the Rosetta Stone, as she read one of the many reviews of the previous night’s gig.
As the house and stage lights dimmed in the iconic Zénith de Paris, an anticipatory hush descended over the room. I didn’t know if it was just me, but a sense of excitement spread through my body, in a rash of goosebumps. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, but again, maybe that was just me.
“A single spotlight illuminated the far-right corner of the stage, and into it walked just about the hottest thing to grace the floor in decades. Quincy Copeland—aptly named after the legendary soul producer, Quincy Jones—was a sight for sore eyes. Resplendent in a black sequined jumpsuit that left little to the imagination, Copeland, normally known by her stage name, Que Violin, had the audience eating from the palm of her hand from the moment we saw her.
“As she played the opening
strains of the first track on her priceless Stradivarius, the rest of the stage was lit, and Copeland, best known for her classical renditions and mashups of popular soul and RnB tracks, was joined by Anthony “King” Kingston, and Roman “Rome” Ivanenko. Together, the genetically blessed duo make up classical music’s hottest property, Bowed & Dangerous.
“Gripping their instruments between their toned thighs, the topless, leather-panted duo were nothing short of sex on legs, owning the stage, and, no doubt, the libido of every woman—and a good number of the men— in the room.
“Just as famous for their antics off-stage, and in bed—together or apart—the ripplingly toned pair have been gifting audiences with their unique brand of frenetic, sex-infused cello renditions of well-known rock songs, as well as some of their own original songs, since graduating from the world famous Conservatorium of Music five years ago.
“However, the trio, together known as Thoroughly Plucked, is something else again. The group—which materialized out of a repertoire consolidation brought on by the merger of Sonic Bully Records and Audio Dissonance Records—seems to be more than the sum of its constituent parts.
“Bringing in the best of Copeland’s soulful vocals and sexily sultry violin, and combining it with Kingsley and Ivanenko’s testosterone-charged cellos, Ivanenko’s virtuosic piano, and more raw sex appeal than is decent even in a full rock band, the trio’s chemistry-laden performance screamed ‘Will they, won’t they? Have they, haven’t they?’”
“Holy fuck, Dee. Tell me it doesn’t say that.”
“It does.”
“Ugh.”
“They’re not wrong, either. It’s like eight parts amazing music and talented performers, two parts sex show. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it, and so did everyone else, but if you wanted to keep whatever the hell is going on between the three of you a secret, then eye-fucking—and practically dry-humping—them on stage, in front of thousands of people, really wasn’t the best way to go about it.”
“Stop. That’s not what went down.”
“Interesting choice of words there, girl.” She grinned, showing off the deep dimple gracing her cheek.
“Oh my God! You know what I mean.”
“I do. I also know that’s exactly what went down, and so does everyone else who witnessed it. Anyways, don’t take my word for it, let’s carry on and see what the journalist has to say.” She continued reading.
“Everything about the trio was mesmerizing, not just the way they played. While the two guys remained seated, or standing, but mostly stationary, Copeland glided about the stage, flitting between them, the entrancing strains of her violin and the dulcet tones of her earthy voice drawing their hungry eyes to her like a siren’s song.
“They were so lost in her that we, the audience, somehow felt like voyeurs, watching on as their torrid affair played out on stage before us. ‘Will they won’t they? Have they, haven’t they?’ As we were driven mad by this ever-present question, the music they created together took us on a complex journey of longing, lust, and love.
“And when they launched into Thunder, the title track from their new live studio album, we finally got what we’d waited so patiently for. They did. The show ended with a bang, both literally and figuratively, as Copeland slid from her perch on the top of the white grand piano. [Side note: who knew Ivanenko played keys like a maestro? It’s a talent he’s hidden from the world until now.] Copeland landed loudly on the keys, then slipped into Ivanenko’s lap, long lean legs astride him, rodeo style, before arching her spine, leaning back and kissing Kingston square on the lips.
“It seems clear the trio are making sweet music on—and off—stage. Now, that’s a three-way I’d happily pay way more than the concert ticket price to see!”
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”
“I really don’t get what the problem is,” Deone deadpanned. Was she fucking serious?
“What’s not to get? The entire world now thinks I’m fucking King and Rome.”
“Which is an accurate summation of the situation.”
“No it isn’t. I’ve fucked Rome. I’ve never slept with King.”
“He went down on you while you came in his best friend’s hand, then said best friend screwed you while you jerked King off in a hot tub. I think claiming you haven’t been with him is semantics—a minor technicality.”
“Whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t take away from the fact that we haven’t slept together, and the three of us aren’t a thing.”
“Then what in the living fuck is going on between you all? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re a thruple. Three people don’t have that kind of fire between them—it was so obvious, it was like a fourth person on stage—and not be bumping ugly behind the scenes.”
“Well we’re not. But I think I’m falling for him.”
“Rome?”
“No, King. Rome’s a loose cannon. Pretty much everything you’ve ever read about him is true, and then some. Sex is a commodity to him. Actually, no, it’s not even as meaningful as a commodity. It’s just a bodily function, like breathing, or blinking. It’s not something he gives a second thought to after it’s done.
“King is different. I mean, it’s weird, actually, because in many ways, they’re very similar. They’re both headstrong, stubborn and alpha to the core, but King is the thinker of the two of them. He’s calm, measured, and reasonable; whereas Rome’s all ‘act now, deal with the repercussions later,’ if at all.
“Anyway, King and I have been getting on really well, throughout the process, and have even gone on a few...dates, I guess you could call them. He’s sweet, and charming, and funny. Also—despite his reputation—a total gentleman. He hasn’t tried to get into my panties since that night in the hot tub, even though I get the sense he wants to.”
“Ya think? Whatever gave you that idea?” Sarcasm was Deone’s Love Language. “Could it be something to do with the raging boner straining against his tight leather pants the entire two hours he was on stage with you? Or how about the way the burning heat in his eyes when he looked at you could have set fire to an entire rainforest? ”
“Ugh. This can’t end well. I’m so fucking fucked.”
“You will be, if you’re lucky.” She burst into laughter at her own stupid double entendre.
A knock on my hotel-suite door startled us both, and Deone scooted to answer it before I could tell her not to.
Moments later, the room that had previously been airy and minimalist suddenly felt small and cluttered. King seemed to fill every available space, making me feel crowded in and flustered.
Chapter 26
King
* * *
I charged into the room like the devil was on my back—which it had been ever since I’d met Quincy—urging me to push forward with her and take what I’d wanted, since the moment I’d laid eyes on her. I registered the shocked looks on the girls’ faces as I filled the space, my gaze seeking out Quincy’s like always, and finding hers seeking out mine in return.
As well as surprise and confusion, I read the same heat that was always there when she looked at me. The same desire I knew was reflected in my own eyes whenever she was near.
A small shuffling sound reminded me of her best friend’s presence—as ever, when I was focused on Quincy, everything else around me receded into the background. I shot Deone a look that I was sure conveyed my thoughts, What the fuck are you still doing here?
“Oh, yeah. Ahh… I should get going, I just need to umm… sort out… yeah… anyway. Buzz me, Q.”
I’d already turned my attention back to Quincy, who’d never withdrawn hers from me.
“Yeah, okay…” She didn’t even pretend to give her friend her full attention. Or any, for that matter. Before I heard the door click shut, I closed the gap between the two of us, keeping my gaze unwaveringly locked with hers.
“I can’t fucking do this.” The sound of my voice surprised me. It was so heavy, a
nd charged with emotion.
“Wha—”
“I can’t sit around playing Mr. Nice Guy any more, pretending I don’t want to nail you to the wall every time I see you. I can’t act like I’m okay with the fact that Rome has been with you fully, twice, while I haven’t. The truth is, that knowledge is eating me alive with jealousy. I know it’s stupid and wrong to feel so torn up about you—it’s not like you’re the first woman we’ve… but with you, it’s different. It’s fucking killing me.”
“But I thought you wanted to take things slow.”
“Hell no! I wanted you the moment I saw you at that meeting, but I knew I needed to give you time to get to know me, and to think of me as something other than what you’d read in the press. But I swear to God, seeing you in Rome’s lap like that tonight was the last fucking straw.”
I’d never been possessive of a woman before now, and it was a feeling I hated. God damn. I wanted to junk punch myself. In what parallel universe was blurting out all that lame shit even remotely okay? Way to fuck up a good thing K. Any sane woman would throw herself out of the fiftieth floor window of her hotel room rather than be stuck inside with that level of lameness.
“What do you mean?” Quincy asked.
“I mean this.” I pulled her hard into my body, noting the surprised look on her face as she registered what I was doing. As her lips parted into a startled “O”, I crashed my mouth to hers. She stiffened momentarily, before melting into me, her body instantly molding to mine.
I marveled at the way we seemed to fit together, as though we’d been created for one another. I couldn’t remember what it was like with other women, I just knew that nobody had ever felt as right as Quincy did, and I didn’t want to try anyone else for size, ever again.
The thought sent a tidal wave of arousal and adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I lowered my head at the same time as I slipped one arm around Quincy’s waist and pulled her into my throbbing erection. I slid the other hand into her mess of thick curls, already disheveled—I guessed from a recent shower—and about to become a lot more so if I had my way, which I fully intended to.
