by Cari Quinn
So…yeah, he had his own peasant roots. But at least he tried different shit, unlike some of his friends who preferred a world full of jarred sauce and dehydrated pasta. Or whatever food truck happened to be in the area. He got most of his satisfaction from work, but sometimes he wanted to just cook for the joy of it. Not worry if a reviewer was in the restaurant, or if someone tweeted that their food wasn’t perfect. Just cook because he loved getting his hands into the acidy fruit of a tomato, or the fresh snap of a pepper.
“It’s good,” Randy decided. “Better than that dry shit you had me try last month. Fuck, I’d rather drink Bud.”
“Get out of my kitchen.”
Randy grinned and took another sip. “Really good, actually. You can buy more of this.” He moved to perch on the barstool in the corner of the room.
“Nice to know.” Especially at forty bucks a bottle.
He diced an onion and put it in a pan with some olive oil, herbs, and garlic. “Where’d you get off to this week?”
“Went out to San Fran to do a gig for some friends. Their lighting guy came down with a case of fatherhood.”
“Man. Sorry.”
Randy grinned. “Yeah, no thanks. Kids aren’t really my bag. At least not now. Being the favorite uncle is just fine with me. I see the munchkin at family shit and then hand her back.”
Tris grinned. “All you, man.” One of the few perks of being an only child to a miserable old man who couldn’t pay a woman to pump out another kid.
He moved the blanched tomatoes into the food processor for a pulse, then transferred the chunks into the pan. Simmer for a bit and it’d be great for a pizza.
He leaned on the island and took a sip of his wine. “I’m going to invite Jules over.”
Rand sat up straight. “Oh, sure. I’ll get out of your way.”
“Dude, it’s not just for me.”
Rand stared at the floor. “I thought it was just a one-night thing.”
Tris shrugged. “What if I don’t want it to be?”
Rand’s eyebrows furrowed, and then he took another big swallow of wine. For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t soda.
But Tristan managed not to snarl at him. Barely.
“More her call than mine.” Rand huffed out a breath. “Or ours, even.”
Tristan dug his phone out of his back pocket and dashed off a quick text. “Guess we’ll see then, won’t we?”
Randy slid off the chair. “What did you do?”
“Texted her. Asked her to come over for pizza. I told you I wanted her to come over.”
Rand stalked across the kitchen to the bottle and refilled his glass. “I’m not into games.”
“It’s not a game. It’s having fun. I know you must have learned the definition sometime during your lifetime.”
“Fuck off.”
Tris set down his glass. “Seriously, you need to calm down. It’s just three single people having fun. I know you were into it.”
“That’s not the point. One night is cool.”
“Dude, you wouldn’t know cool if it bit you on the tip of your dick.”
Rand’s hands fisted. “I’m not the one who came up with the bright idea.”
“But you were sure as shit in there when you were invited.”
“I had to be invited. She doesn’t think of me that way.”
Tristan lifted his glass again. And there was the problem. Idiot was so into her, he couldn’t see straight. Maybe this would get him over the hump.
Tris grinned. “She does now. She wasn’t interested in playing the next morning without you, bud.”
Rand frowned and his fingers loosened. “What?”
“Yup.” Tris took a longer sip, the hint of spice remaining on his tongue. Much like a certain woman he couldn’t seem to forget. “So let’s not screw it up by being all thinky. She’s a great chick who is open minded and fun to be around.”
Rand gripped the edge of the island.
“Unless you have a problem with me being in the picture.” Tris tried to keep his tone level. “Is that the issue?
Rand’s gaze snapped up to Tristan’s. “No. I mean, I’m not looking to hook up with you so much as I’m okay with sharing her. I just didn’t think I’d ever say those words, that’s all.”
“I’ve played around before, but nothing like the other night.” Tris refilled his glass. “I can’t deny I want to see where it could go.”
Randy’s gaze drifted to Tristan’s phone on the counter. “Guess we’ll see now, won’t we?”
Eleven
“Just stop. Stop,” Molly yelled and put both her arms up. Copper bangles jangled and her wild blond hair flew around her shoulders.
And so the drama llama turned.
Juliet swung her bass behind her back, then dragged her hair up into a messy bun. If they could just get through a few songs before Mol lost her fucking shit, then maybe they could finish practice this century.
Juliet’s phone pulsed in her back pocket, but she ignored it. There was no way she was fishing it out right now.
“Start at the top of ‘Echo’.” Molly wound her microphone cord around her wrist.
“Of course.” Malachi slapped his high hat into silence. “Wouldn’t want to show anything less than perfection in practice, your highness.”
Molly swung around. “You’re goddamn right. If you don’t like it, you can disappear again.”
Michael stepped forward. He usually took on the peacemaker role, except when he was starting stuff with his brother himself. But after his Vegas wild weekend and subsequent wedding to Chloe, a single mother, earlier in the year, Juliet couldn’t deny that Michael had mellowed.
The rest of them, however? Not so much.
“All right, let’s just start over, huh?” Michael held up a hand to Mal. “We’re all on edge.”
“Stop being such a suck up to your brother. If he’s going to leave, he’s going to leave.”
“Christ, Mol.” Michael lifted his guitar over his head and set it in a stand. “Do you have to be such a bi—”
Molly tipped her head. “What? Don’t cut off on my account.”
Michael was going to saw off his tongue if he kept trying to censor himself. And yes, Molly was being a bitch. She’d been in that mode all week.
The last show hadn’t gone great. It hadn’t been bad by any means, but they were still finding their rhythm. The problem was, Marauding Molly didn’t accept anything less than perfection. She was all business, all the fucking time.
This was supposed to be fun, dammit.
Lately, not so much.
But man, when they were on, they were so freaking on. Simply perfection. Juliet had never known anything like it. Too bad it was only one out of three shows. Mal on the drums had increased it from one out of ten though. They were almost there. So fucking close.
If Molly would just cut them a break.
Juliet crossed to Molly. “All right, enough. Michael’s too polite to call you a bitch, but I’m not. You’re over the line. We’ve done ‘Echo’ eight times now.”
Molly peered down at her—the girl was stupid tall. Even worse with the hooker boots she loved to wear. “We’ll do it another eight, until we get it fucking right.”
“We’re not going to do it right if you keep screaming at everyone. Go fucking chill out.”
Molly’s eyes flashed and her fists tightened.
“Go ahead. I’ll knock you flat on your ass.”
Molly growled, but backed down. They’d gotten into it once already, and she talked a lot, but Molly didn’t know how to throw a punch to save her life.
Unfortunately for her, Juliet did.
Molly was an expert hair-puller though, and Juliet had just gotten a blowout. She really didn’t want to ruin her hair.
Luckily, they hadn’t come to that since the first weeks they’d been together as a band after Malachi had joined. Reluctantly, to say the least, but he’d signed on the dotted line. He was a member of Warning Sign too.
But if Molly didn’t cut the shit, they were going to end up in a fight. And she was pretty sure Michael wouldn’t pull Molly out of harm’s way this time.
“Take five. Actually, take the rest of the day.”
Molly swung around at the voice. “We’re not done.”
“Oh, you’re done.” Lila Crandall, their manager, came out of the shadows of their practice space. Who knew how long she’d been there. She had a habit of sneaking in unannounced.
When Molly opened her mouth, Lila held up a hand. “You’re past doing anything productive, Ms. McIntire. You need to know when to quit.”
“Never,” Molly said through gritted teeth.
Juliet sighed. “It’s not quitting. It’s taking a break. Look around, girl. Ryan unplugged his gear three songs ago. We’re all just going through the motions. We’ve been here since ten this morning.” Jules had no idea how Molly was even still singing. She was a damn machine.
Elle crossed her arms. “I need food.”
“Fine. We only have one of our biggest gigs of our lives next week. No big deal.”
“And we’re going to kill.” Juliet grabbed Molly’s wrist as she tried to walk past her. “Just stop.” She grasped her upper arms. “We’re going to be amazing. You just gotta relax and let us be amazing.”
She was fighting against showing the fear, but Juliet could see it in her eyes. She understood, because the drive lived inside of her as well. This band was the only thing she’d ever been good at. School had sucked overall, except her music studies. It had come to her so damn easily—too easily at first. She’d known how to play ten instruments before she left high school, for God’s sake. She couldn’t even remember how many she’d learned—and ultimately discarded—over the years.
It had always been music that calmed her.
And now it completed her. This band had become more than she’d ever expected. So yeah, she understood the fear, but if Molly didn’t cool her jets, someone was going to kill her.
No matter how amazing her voice was.
Molly pressed her lips together so tight they went white around the edges, then she nodded. She stalked away, grabbing her jacket before pushing out the door.
Elle Crandall, their co-lead guitarist, dropped into the battered leather couch at the back of the room. “I’m wrecked.”
West crossed to her and sat down beside her. “I say we order a pie.”
“Oh, yeah. Greasy pepperoni.” Elle closed her eyes, a smile lighting her face. “Pizza.”
Mal stood from the back of his kit and shoved his sticks into his back pocket. “I’m out. See ya tomorrow.”
“Mal, wait up.” Michael jogged after him.
Juliet pulled her phone out of her back pocket. Her blood pounded and her ears started ringing when she saw the name.
Tristan.
Finally.
Damn him. She’d finally managed to put him out of her mind, and there he was again.
Interested in pizza and an orgasm? Or maybe three orgasms? Okay, at least two, but that’s my final offer.
Holy crap.
She swallowed hard as her mouth went dry. The quick flash of memory left goosebumps down her arms and tightened her nipples.
“Juliet?”
Her gaze snapped to Lila as she pressed the face of her phone against her breast. Cripes, it wasn’t like Lila could see the screen.
Lila waved to her. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Her stomach dropped. “Sure.” She shoved her hands into her pockets, her fingers still wrapped around her phone. It was just her imagination that it was scalding her thigh.
She met Lila at the edge of the area rugs they had arranged for their rehearsal space. They used an old storefront on the Strip that had been in foreclosure. Ripper Records had picked it up cheap and let their bands practice there, if they didn’t have somewhere else to rehearse.
Warning Sign was definitely in that category. They’d scraped enough money together from the first tour to live on. She and Molly lived in the same shitty apartment building. They’d tried to live together to save money, but Molly wasn’t exactly the easiest person to live with.
Not because she partied. Try the opposite. Warning Sign was her world. She lived and breathed it, and her obsession was hard to relax around. If she wasn’t practicing, she was researching, pushing for venues, and writing. She was determined to make them a success all on her own.
Juliet needed down time. And she needed the quiet.
Nothing was quiet around Molly McIntire.
“What’s up?” Juliet asked Lila.
“How long have you been here today?”
Juliet bit her lower lip. Wariness crawled up between her shoulder blades and tightened her muscles. “You know how long. We checked in with the studio.”
“Regardless of what you think, I don’t check up on the band twenty-four-seven.”
Then why did it feel like she was talking behind everyone’s back? “Ten.”
Lila’s eyebrows shot up, then she glanced at her watch. “I appreciate the assist then. You’re one of the few people Molly listens to.”
“She just wants it perfect.”
“Yes, I know a thing or two about perfectionists.”
Juliet relaxed a little. Yeah, she guessed that was the truth. Lila’s husband, Nick, was a bit of a taskmaster with her sister’s band, Oblivion. “We nailed the song the third time through. I don’t know what her problem was.”
“I see.”
“We’ll get there. We’re almost there.” She almost said more, but she felt like she was being disloyal.
Lila wasn’t the enemy, but she had a job to do. Warning Sign didn’t need any other problems with management. They were due back in the studio in early January to cut an EP. Between that and their first album, they should have enough to get on the road for a full tour in a few months. This mini “Spark It Off” tour had been fun, but she wanted the real deal.
She was itching for it.
She didn’t mind the studio. She loved writing songs, and jamming with her friends, but the stage was where it was at. The stage was where they shined. They just needed a real tour, not these piddly little one off shows.
“Take the rest of the night off, and tomorrow.”
Juliet whistled. Wow. That was rare, especially from Lila. She wasn’t exactly lax about schedules.
But the idea of orgasms until tomorrow didn’t sound like a bad thing at all. Even if that meant she’d have to deal with Menacing Molly because her precious rehearsal had stalled out.
“I’ll deal with Molly.” Lila pulled out her iPad from her shoulder bag. “Have a good night, Ms. Reece.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Lila gave her a tight smile. “You’ve been practicing the last four days in a row. You deserve a break.”
“I’m not arguing.” She lifted her bass from her neck. “I’ll see you later.” Juliet nodded toward Elle and West. “I got a thing.”
West popped up from the couch. “What kind of a thing?”
“A you’re-not-invited kind of thing.”
“Second date. Sounds serious,” he called out.
She laughed as she tucked her bass into its case. She walked backwards toward the exit, grabbing her purse off one of the amps. “Still not giving you details.”
“Brat.”
She gave him a salute before whirling around. Nerves and excitement buzzed under her skin. She shouldn’t let Tris think she was available at his beck and call, but she wanted to see him again.
Them again.
She dug out her phone and popped the side door open to the small parking lot, texting Tristan as she walked.
Pizza for two or three?
She crossed the lot and opened the door to her trusty Toyota Camry. Not as flashy a car as she used to drive, but it was something she could actually afford without her parents’ money. There’d been a time when she didn
’t care. When she’d asked for the ridiculous, just to see if she could get a reaction from her father.
Instead, he’d just paid for whatever she asked. Not because he wanted to spoil her, but because he didn’t give a good goddamn. It was easier just to say yes than to actually have a discussion with her.
She tightened her fingers on her steering wheel.
Yeah, not going there. Not today, not now. Now she had two men—well, at least one man—who knew how to make her crazy. Who could get her out of her head for a few hours with laughter and orgasms for days.
She shivered as memories of that night pushed away the family crap. It had been more than a few days, but the technicolor flashes of what they’d done after the wedding were as clear as if it were yesterday.
And her body responded in kind.
She reached in back and dragged out her laundry bag. Lucky her, she’d just gone to the laundromat last night. She flipped off the Metallica baseball-style T-shirt and dragged on a red shirt that showed off the girls to their maximum potential. It was her favorite top. She could throw it in any bag and it never wrinkled.
A few spritzes of perfume and a few minutes with her makeup bag and she didn’t look like she’d been slaving away the entire day. Okay, not slaving. She loved to play, but by the end of practice, her fingers hurt and she desperately needed a neck message.
Maybe she’d get a little of that with her pizza.
Her phone buzzed on the dashboard. She read it and swallowed hard.
Three.
Oh, shit. Her nipples beaded up under the shirt.
Hmm, maybe not the smartest outfit to put on. Should she change her bra?
No.
Own it. She would absolutely own just how much those two men turned her on. But to help her cause, she rolled down the window, then plugged in Tristan’s address from the text that had just come through.
Cocky bastard knew he had her.
She was okay with it though. Especially if it meant she’d feel even an ounce of what she had last weekend.
