by Cari Quinn
Triple Trouble
Found in Oblivion #2
To all the women strong enough to reach for what they need, not just what the world expects.
To Dave Grohl for being the ultimate rock fan. You give us more inspiration than we can handle in one series.
One
His best friend was dancing with his girl.
Actually, since they were attending the Halloween wedding of Owen Blackwell and Callie Templeton, Superman and Wonder Woman were actually the ones getting their grind on. But their costumes didn’t disguise the long rippling dark hair that flowed down Juliet Reece’s back or the way Tristan Eves flashed that smile meant to detonate panties.
Randy Pruitt gripped the neck of his beer that much tighter. Besides, Juliet wasn’t his girl, whether she was in the persona of Wonder Woman or just herself. Juliet didn’t even like him. Tolerating him was a big step on most days. But in his head, he’d claimed her.
Now, evidently, Tristan was claiming her in reality. Or he would soon.
It wasn’t as if Randy had missed the vibe between Juliet and Tristan every time they’d been in each other’s orbits recently. They were both huge flirts, the types to smile as easily as they breathed, but theirs was more than a casual seduction. They weren’t just dancing. What Randy was witnessing was the prelude to a fuck, and he was no goddamn voyeur.
The time had come for him to get some air. Away from this room. Away from them.
Randy had made it halfway down the hall, pushing through crowds of scantily dressed fairies and way too many pseudo presidential candidates, when he stopped and threw back the rest of his beer. Stupid. What was he running from? So what if Juliet and Tris hooked up?
They were both single, as he was. It wasn’t as if Randy had ever verbalized his interest in Juliet to his buddy. Tris wasn’t a mind reader.
As for Juliet, she didn’t give him the time of day, night or any time, period. When she bothered to acknowledge him, it was usually something work-related and as brief as possible. Rockstars didn’t mingle with the crew. At least one as perfect as Juliet wouldn’t. Not that she’d ever indicated that to him, he’d just been a roadie long enough to know.
Sure, there were the occasional fumbles in the dark when the talent grabbed whomever was handy, but in the sunshine, nope. They kept to their assigned areas and that was that.
He liked rules and delineations. Normally, he even preferred them. But everything was starting to feel itchy lately, including the boxes he’d drawn around his life. His older sister, Harper, was happily settled in her life with her own rockstar husband, Deacon McCoy of Oblivion. Between their young daughter Alexa, her catering business, and feeding her hungry menagerie of rockers as Oblivion’s resident chef, she never had a spare moment to think—and that seemed to be exactly what she wanted.
She’d grown up in that vagabond lifestyle just as he had, thanks to their roadie parents. The senior Pruitts were currently on tour with the Raging Eleanors, and not the least bit concerned about hanging it up and retiring. Why would they? They were as happy as could be.
Just as Harper was. She’d been as aware as Randy was of the unspoken boundaries between the crew and the musicians, and yet she hadn’t let it hold her back from falling for her husband. Deacon sure hadn’t seen her as anything less either.
Randy traded his empty beer bottle for a new one off a passing tray and slipped back into the crowd. Not that he had any reason to be thinking about the differences between his brethren and those in the spotlight. His role was to support, to give them room to shine—literally, since he was the head lighting tech on the abbreviated West Coast leg of Warning Sign’s “Spark It Off” tour.
Fitting, since Juliet had called him “Sparks” with no small amount of derision since the night they’d met, just before the lighting disaster during Warning Sign’s concert at the Blue Rhino. It just happened to be a disaster he’d been indirectly responsible for. He’d rushed through some of his usual checks, and he’d paid the price afterward.
The club and the record company hadn’t bruised his ass. No, he’d done that himself, over and over again in the months since. Closing in on a year later, and he still hadn’t decreased his pre-show checks back to pre-Rhino levels. He’d gone from precise to militant. Almost obsessive.
Just like he was obsessive over one Juliet Reece, and her stupidly huge dark eyes and smart mouth.
He had a smart mouth too, but he just never managed to use it when she was aiming her zingers at him. Somehow he went mute whenever she glanced his way, whether it was to make a request or to gripe.
“Can you lessen the blue light tonight during ‘Carried Away’? It’s blinding me when I turn toward Michael.”
“Is there any way that the pink and the yellow lights can be aimed away from me during the bridge of ‘All Night Long’? I get so hot and they only make it worse.”
He’d simply nod and work on whatever she asked. She never made unreasonable demands, and she almost always said “please” and “thank you”. If anything, she was pleasant to a fault. But every now and then, something would go wrong, and she’d blow up—always at him, as if he held the universe in his hands.
“Goddammit, Sparks, if that beam swung any lower, I’d be decapitated. There has to be a way to fix that.”
Her reaction was so over the top sometimes that he’d been tempted to ask her if she was just a diva or if there was more to it. If something had happened in her past to put that fear in her eyes when the lights came too close or something sparked into flame. Granted, anyone with any sense was cautious around fire. But Juliet was always polite until those moments, and he suspected there was a reason.
Would he ever find out? Probably not. He couldn’t ask, and she wouldn’t confide in him. She didn’t confide in anyone, from what he’d seen.
Maybe Tristan. Perhaps he would be the one to unlock her secrets.
“Fuck,” Randy said under his breath, tossing back some of his beer before diverting left and up the winding staircase to the second level. On the way, he pulled off the mask that had made him hot all damn night.
Freaking Batman. As if he was a superhero of any sort. Unfortunately, “geek in a corner” had sold out before he arrived at the masquerade shop.
It was probably breaking Halloween wedding protocol to remove part of his costume before the end of the night, but he needed space. Room to breathe. There was a reason he’d gravitated toward the crew, particularly working as a light engineer. While others were illuminated, he was left in shadow. The way he preferred to be.
Taking the steps two at a time, he found himself in a darkened hallway. Voices were sparser up there, the crowd thinner. He might even get a chance to shed the cape and actually work the kinks out of his shoulders for the first time that night.
At one end of the hallway, a door stood open. As he approached, he glimpsed the balcony beyond a pair of French doors. Wavering, watery blue stripes of light bisected the far side of the room. Pool outside, probably. He could hear the splashing and laughter.
If anyone else had come to the wedding stag, he hadn’t seen them.
Technically, he hadn’t either. He and Tristan had driven together. In Tris’s case, it hadn’t been because of a lack of female company. More like he preferred to arrive single, so he could meet and mingle without impunity.
“Weddings are the best place to meet a babe, Rand. All the singletons are lonely and looking, wondering if their true love is out there somewhere. Ripe for the plucking, and we swoop in.”
Right. Tris had swooped, or Juliet had swooped. Mutual swooping, from what he could tell when they’d been up against each other on the dance floor. Even with Tristan’s Superman cape blocking some of the view, Randy hadn’t had a problem making out Juliet’s flirty smile or the way she kept slipping so naturally into Tris’s space, angling those corseted breasts so they brushed his buddy’s chest with every movement. Her Wonder Woman costume left little to Randy’s unfortunately vivid imagination, a
nd neither did the intent in her large dark eyes. Every emotion she felt was mirrored there, and hers for Tristan was pure want.
Not your problem, dude.
Randy sucked down another gulp of beer and moved toward the balcony. Fresh air, finally. It felt like he’d been in this house—gorgeous as it might’ve been—for a lifetime. Houdini’s estate was a popular place for events, and the happily married couple had apparently met there the previous year at yet another shindig. Since the place was special for them, it made sense they’d get married there.
As for him, he wasn’t feeling too special about any-damn-thing at the moment.
The guitar on a chair in the corner caught his eye as he reached for the handle of the balcony door. He didn’t know who it belonged to, or if it was a prop. He just had to feel that smooth black wood under his hands.
Setting aside his barely touched beer, he reached for another kind of mood booster, one he rarely turned to because he didn’t want the lines to blur. Looking for more than he was meant for led to problems. Discontent.
He wasn’t that guy. He was happy for the most part. Brooding wasn’t part of his MO under normal circumstances.
At least until his best friend moved in on the girl he’d never had the courage to admit he had a thing for.
Right in front of his goddamn face.
The song flowed out of him, traveling from his head to his fingertips before he knew which one he intended to play. “Best of You” by the Foo Fighters fit the night somehow.
He was good at his job, and he loved it. He had family and friends, and a decent place to live with his best friend until he moved on to the next place. For now, Tris’s spacious loft worked.
Imagining whom his buddy might bring home at the end of the night wasn’t productive. There were always other places to go. Another bed to crash in.
Surely there had to be an escape from the shitstorm his thoughts had become.
Swallowing hard, Randy strummed through the opening chords while he fought to let his mind empty. It was beyond ridiculous to be focused on Tristan and Juliet when neither one knew he’d even so much as given Jules a second look.
Or a fiftieth.
Tristan probably wouldn’t have ever guessed that when Randy dreamed, she was there. Always ghosting around the edges of his consciousness, like a whisper of lyrics he could never quite catch. In reality, the woman was a vibrant red. Almost virulent. In his mind, she was a wisp of scent, a flash of dark eyes, a caress of soft, silky hair.
“So this is where you’re hiding away?”
Randy’s shoulders stiffened at the familiar deep voice behind him but his fingers continued on their predestined path. He’d reached the point where he didn’t have to think about the correct chord progression. Now, it had become a matter of setting the train on its figure-eight loop and standing back as it charged over the tracks.
“Huh?” Heavy footsteps thudded over the tiled floor. Something Italian and expensive no doubt, like so much of the architecture in that area. “Can’t speak?”
Randy forced his shoulders to relax. Better, easier, to have something in his hands so he didn’t have to turn and face his friend. He wasn’t entirely sure he could stomach Tristan’s slow grin right now.
Tristan was the head chef at Ace Hotel’s restaurant, The Hollow, and he was every inch the cocky, talented wizard with food—and women—that he seemed. If Tris ever doubted himself, Randy had never borne witness to it. His friend was self-assured in every damn way.
Randy only envied that about a third of the time.
He also needed to speak the hell up before his silence said more than his words ever could.
“Not hiding,” he replied, and he didn’t even sound gruff. He was just focused on the music he usually only sought when he was pissed or happy, but rarely in between.
“No? Is that why your phone’s off?”
Shit, was it? He forgot the damn thing existed as often as he remembered to turn it on. More, because he wanted to be tethered to technology about as much as he wanted to be having this conversation with Tris.
So he played. Like the musicians on the goddamn Titanic, he’d just keep on keeping on while the ship tipped onto its axis and water crept over the sides.
“Forgot,” he said, jerking up his head when Tris laid his hand over the strings and rendered them silent. “What the fuck, man?”
“Yeah, what the fuck, man? Good question. Answer mine and I’ll answer yours.”
Before Randy could respond, Tristan stepped back with a swish of his stupid Superman cape. Intentional or not, the movement made Randy’s lips twitch with amusement in spite of everything.
He really wasn’t built to have temper tantrums. His mom would’ve skinned his hide if she’d known how he was acting, and especially over what. The Pruitt family made a habit of going after what they wanted. For that matter, so did he. He’d worked his way up from the backend of the crew, doing whatever shit jobs were dumped on his plate, to become the head lighting engineer on what just might end up a tour across the United States. Eventually, maybe even the world.
The moon was the limit for Warning Sign. And for Juliet.
“I didn’t hear a question. Just some general grumbling about my etiquette. Here’s my opinion on that.” He flipped off Tristan and set the guitar between his feet.
Tristan grunted and shook his head. “Asshole. Here I was being all considerate and shit by even coming to find you.”
Randy’s ears pricked at the same time as the rest of his body hunched. He didn’t even need to hear the rest. Didn’t want to.
Apparently, however, his tongue worked independently of his brain.
“Considerate? You? C’mon, man, it’s Halloween, but we both know costumes only run skin deep.”
Even in the low light coming from the strobe lights near the pool and the sconces in the hallway, Randy saw Tris’s eyes flash. “You have a problem with me? One that only showed up after we walked in the doors of this frigging wedding?”
He didn’t have anything to say. Anything that didn’t make him sound like a whiny asshole.
And yeah, he was being one right now. He could own that. Tomorrow he’d probably feel bad for it and offer to do Tristan’s side of the chore chart Randy had put up on the fridge door shortly after moving in.
Hey, stuff had to get done. Might as well make certain they didn’t live in a typical bachelor pad, bachelors or not. Tristan made sure the fridge stayed stocked. Randy handled a lot of the rest.
Right now? He was going to split before he said more and made things worse.
“Look, I’ve just decided weddings aren’t my scene. Not to mention this fucking costume.” Randy ran a finger along the collar of the damn near wet suit that clung to his body. Batman must be a fucking masochist. “I’ll just take the car back and you can get a ride with her.”
He tried to keep his voice even on the last word. He nearly succeeded.
Minus that little telling hitch at the end. The hitch that betrayed him as a horny idiot without the sense to get out of his own way.
“I knew it.” The steely glint in Tris’s eyes only intensified as his best friend got in his face. “You fucking want Juliet Reece.”
Two
Tristan Eves twitched his cape over his shoulder and dropped onto the couch near the study’s French doors. “Well, fuck.”
When Randy didn’t reply right away, he knew he was right. Tristan couldn’t even feign surprise.
His gut was always right. When building a recipe, when dealing with a woman—though they surprised him on occasion—and most assuredly with his friends.
No dude bitched about a woman unless she got under his skin.
Occasional griping was one thing. Kitchen talk was full of it, thanks to most of his staff being male. And the one woman—his sous chef, Kendra—was gay. She bitched about women even more than they did.
Regardless, it had been a tell and Tristan had ignored it. Especially since his dick had been
engaged from the first time he’d met Juliet Reece. Tonight hadn’t helped one bit. He’d spotted her across the room with that damn costume on and his cock had turned into a friggin’ heat seeking missile.
The incestuous life of the rockstars who were currently in his sphere made things very interesting. He’d known Hunter for what felt like forever, but the minute Kennedy McManus had laid him out on the marble floor of the Ace Hotel, everything had changed. Including their friendship. Not necessarily for the bad, just different.
Now Tristan had musicians spilling out of the woodwork. Whether it was at the hotel where he worked as head chef at The Hollow, or the various parties he ended up at, his life had definitely changed. A year ago, he never would have imagined he’d be surrounded by so many celebrities.
Sure, they came into the Ace Hotel, but he was a behind the scenes guy. They didn’t care about the chef who put together the menu. The fame hungry and famous just wanted to be seen at the hotel built from the ashes of old Hollywood.
Retro was the “in” thing these days and the hotel was filled to the brim with drama. Add in a few mentions in the foodie magazines, and the novelty of his unconventional style in the kitchen—fuck white chef jackets, he loved color—and he got a little more play on social media.
It was all about buzz. His fusion style of California fresh and hints of New York elegance made for an eclectic menu that brought people in as well. He’d worked his ass off to get his own kitchen, but he’d balanced it by playing just as hard.
Juliet Reece was definitely the kind of woman a man played hard with. It really wasn’t surprising that his sometimes roommate and one of his best friends had a similar affliction. Not to mention that Juliet was in Rand’s sphere far more than Tristan’s.
He should be backing off, but he’d never been much for the rules of bro code. Especially when it came to a woman like Juliet. It was truly every man for himself.
“Tell me, were you ever going to make a move?”
