by Cari Quinn
“Shut the hell up,” Deacon muttered. “Why do you always have to be such a dick?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Nick clutched his chest with mock concern. “I didn’t realize we had to roll out the red carpet. Someone should’ve warned me I was in the presence of rock royalty or something.” He looked back at the woman. Her expressive eyes and blush-prone skin did all the talking her lips didn’t. “How about you?” He stalked toward her, his boots thudding heavily over the cracked linoleum. “Are you offended by my crudeness?” He licked his lips. “Or intrigued?”
Gray stepped between them and slammed a hand against Nick’s shoulder. “Back the fuck off. Got it? We didn’t come here for this. We just want to play.” He looked back at the woman, and Nick registered the visible conflict twisting her features. “We don’t need this, Jazz.”
“Jazz?” The word was out before he could stop himself. “What the hell kind of name’s that?”
Now it was her turn to sneer, and she did it with a flash of her big blue eyes that would’ve turned him to stone in a second if he hadn’t had a dude’s fist about six inches from his windpipe. Gray hadn’t let him go yet. “Jasmine to you, asshole.”
Nick laughed and lifted his hands, backing up deliberately from Gray. He couldn’t fault the guy for wanting to protect his woman. Especially this one. She looked like a wild weekend wrapped up in a gauzy layer of purity, the kind he’d happily rip to shreds with his teeth. By Monday morning she’d be walking funny, and he’d be cursing the name he couldn’t scour out of his brain.
Jazz. It fit her. Quirky. Smoky like a dimly lit club. Insidious like carbon monoxide.
“Jasmine what?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Gray in case her guard dog decided he didn’t like Nick getting too personal.
“Edwards.” She rolled her shoulders like a boxer limbering up for a fight and pushed Gray out of her way, going toe-to-toe with Nick. She was a good foot shorter than him, but from her stance she didn’t care. “Look, why don’t we cut the bullshit and get down to it? Show me the kit and we’ll see how this goes.” She bent to remove her boots and socks, then rose and cocked a purple eyebrow. “We don’t have all night.”
Nick took his time looking down her petite little body. He’d never had a foot fetish before, but he just might start tonight. “You always strip down at a session, darlin’?”
“This is how I play.” She jiggled her boots impatiently. “Just show me the kit, wiseguy.”
Finally her words sank in. He’d been so preoccupied by her wet-looking pink toenails that he’d lost the entire thread of the conversation. “The kit?” Great. “So you’re the fucking drummer.”
Even knowing it was the most likely explanation for her presence, he’d still been holding out hope she was just Gray’s girlfriend. No such luck.
“Yes, I’m the fucking drummer.” Jazz flashed him an acidic smile. “I presume you’re the fucking guitarist.”
“One of,” Simon put in, grinning at Nick’s dark look.
The door swung open and a blonde toting an empty laundry basket stopped dead at the sight of four glowering men and one glowering woman turning in her direction. The laundromat closed at eleven p.m., and usually by this time of night, the place was dead. She was the only one left other than the band and the newcomers, and from the way she hustled to get her clothes out of the dryers and into her basket, she was eager to get gone.
Nick waited until the woman booked back out to the parking lot with her obviously still wet clothes. He ground his jaw the entire time. The constant motion matched the relentless clenching of Gray’s fist around his guitar as he burned holes in Nick’s skull with his glare. They watched each other like animals circling each other before a tussle over fresh meat. Clearly Gray thought Nick wanted his sweet little pink pussy.
No can fucking do. Not before when he thought she was just Gray’s piece. Definitely not now when she was vying to be the next Snake and her hands didn’t even look big enough to hold a drumstick. Or anything that throbbed at just the sight of her licking those shiny lips.
“So, Jazz, you’re a drummer, huh?” No one could ever say Nick wasn’t a master at stating the obvious, but he wasn’t capable of asking anything more pleasant.
With a cute uptilt to her chin, she nodded. “I am. And a lyricist, and a keyboardist, and a guitarist when I have to be.”
Nick couldn’t hold back his sneer. “Do you do cook and do laundry too?”
“Nick—” Deak began, but Nick shook his head.
“Oh, I know. The feminist movement is in full swing and this one’s marched her flaming boots right out of the kitchen and on stage with us. Boo-fucking-yah. I’m all for it. All I want to know is how you manage to wrap those tiny fingers around a pair of sticks.” He slanted a glance at Gray, who looked ready to eviscerate him with his guitar pick. “Unless you’re well used to manipulating that size.”
Gray surprised the hell out of him by grinning. “Aww, you wanna see what I have to work with?” Gray grabbed his junk, an unexpectedly obscene gesture from a guy wearing a yuppie shirt that might as well have had an alligator on the pocket. “All you had to was ask nicely,” he added as Simon barked out a laugh.
Nick silenced Simon’s laughter with a look, though Jazz had yet to stop giggling. The sound reminded him of windchimes, light and airy and completely out of place in that over-sanitized room of clanking machines. He walked over to the door and flipped the sign to closed, then thumbed the lock. Turning back, he gave the four of them a wide, easy smile. “Whaddaya say we put our money on the table right now?”
Understanding, Simon dragged out the battered drums Snake had left behind from their hiding place. “Sure thing. We’re ready to roll.”
Jazz’s slick red lips fell open. “That’s your kit? Are you fucking serious? I have a prime Sonor and you expect me to use that?”
“Why, Ms. Edwards, I’d think a virtuoso such as yourself would understand that the musician makes the instrument, not the other way around.” Nick rubbed his hands together and walked toward the door at the back that led to their basement castle. “Two minutes,” he said before slamming the door behind him.
The second it was shut, he dropped his head against the peeling white wood. Fucking A, now he’d done it. He hated dueling with other guitarists that weren’t Simon or Deak, which was a good part of the reason he was so resistant to working with new people.
He wasn’t like the other guys who could sit down and play anywhere. His stage fright didn’t just occur on stage. He’d started smoking years ago in between sets to try to ease his nerves. It had never made sense to him how he could jam so easily with people he knew well and then completely freeze when he was around ones he didn’t. That little flaw was a serious impediment to Oblivion ever making the big time, and he knew it.
Opportunity didn’t offer second chances. If he choked, he’d take his brothers with him. And that just couldn’t happen.
Now he had to vet a guitarist and a drummer while feeling like he was auditioning himself. For his own freaking band. The band he’d started because who the hell else would have him but Simon, Deak and Snake? Who else wanted to deal with a lead guitarist who could play with the best of ‘em once the lights obscured the audience and the music drowned out their cheers—or boos, depending—but couldn’t play London-fucking-Bridge when he was one-on-one with someone new?
Huffing out a breath, Nick shoved open the door that led outside instead of going downstairs to the basement. His big flipping mouth had gotten him into this mess, now he’d have to ante up.
Except he was out of smokes. He’d even lit up the broken half, he’d been that desperate.
He jogged to the convenience store next door and motioned toward the red and white cigs behind the counter. “Marbs.”
The girl working the register didn’t comment on his purchase, though she’d encouraged him in his attempts to quit. They flirted every time he came in to buy his usual Big Gulp of lime soda mixed with orange, and he
’d suggested they hang out one night after she got off work. Hang out meaning fuck, which he was reasonably sure she understood. That was probably why she hadn’t said yes yet. She knew he was in a band, and that lowered her interest instead of increased it.
Tonight he wasn’t after innuendoes and sexy laughter mixed with shy glances under her lashes she thought he didn’t see. He wanted his smokes and the forty ounce beer he grabbed on impulse from the cooler. The guys would be pissed he hadn’t brought anything back for them, but too bad. Their own fault for cozying up to strangers.
“Hey, Band Boy, how are you?” she asked, ringing up his purchase.
Slapping down his money, Nick grunted in response to her usual greeting.
“Not so good, I guess.” She tapped the cigarettes and sighed. “You were doing so well.”
“It’s just one night,” he muttered, grabbing his stuff before she could bag it.
“Hey, Nick, wait—”
He slammed through the door and kept going.
Later he’d feel badly for being so abrupt with her. Right now he couldn’t rip open the pack of cigs fast enough. He pulled out the lucky lighter he habitually carried in his back pocket and lit up, then sucked in that first illicit breath of nicotine. It burned on its way down his throat, smoothing out the raw edges that made his fingers shake as he hauled in another drag.
He flicked away ash and tipped back his head, viewing the churning sky through the lazy curls of smoke. A storm was moving in. He could smell it on the breeze, along with the sweet salt of the ocean and the proof of his own inadequacies veiling the air in front of his face.
A few more puffs and he tossed aside the cigarette. Crushing it under the heel of his boot, he opened up the forty and downed some, using it to wash the taste of smoke out of his mouth. They’d all smell him the instant he came in the door, but at least he’d ditched the evidence.
Once he was back in the basement, he shoved the pack between his mattress and box spring, right next to the spare strip of condoms he hid there to try not to be too obvious. It wasn’t as if he had a lot of women over—at least ones who weren’t into group action—due to the lack of privacy, but when he did invite someone over, he liked to give the illusion that he wasn’t an indiscriminate fuck-all. Unlike Simon, who practically had condoms hanging from the ceiling for easy access.
On his way out, he grabbed his Epiphone. He had a Taylor just like Simon, but he wouldn’t give this impromptu session any more credence by pulling it out. The Taylor was his special guitar. Besides, he’d made it clear that in the right hands, any instrument got the job done.
Which, of course, was BS. He’d be using a forklift to dig out by the end of the day.
He brought the forty with him and elbowed his way into the laundromat with it to his lips. Conversation skidded to a halt at the sight of him, just like it had the first time.
Man, could he kill a room.
Simon zeroed in on the forty first. “What the fuck. Where’s ours?”
Ignoring him, Nick kicked a stool into place near the assembled group and took another slug of his beer before setting it down. He tugged over one of their cheap practice amps and plugged it in. Flexing his fingers, he brought them to the strings and willed them to work. He didn’t look at any of the group. Didn’t even acknowledge their presence. Right now he was alone in the basement, playing for his own enjoyment. No one else existed.
The chill at the base of his spine grew, taunting him. As if he’d be let off the hook that easily. The sensation was nothing new. Soon it would be climbing up his back, wrapping cold fingers around his throat, trapping the words he needed when he lowered his mouth to the mic.
This time he wasn’t giving in.
His fingers started moving faster and he squeezed his eyes shut, leading them into one of their first songs, “Decimation”. He missed some of the notes despite knowing the song better than the sound of his own heartbeat. Beside him Simon kicked into gear, joining him without any hesitation. Of course not. Simon charged in with swagger and a smile. Always.
Deak followed him up, playing the acoustic with an effortlessness Nick both admired and hated. Why the hell did he have to use a crowbar to get the music out of him when it came so easily to the other guys?
For a few moments, it was just the three of them, jamming as they always did. He’d almost forgotten they weren’t alone when another guitar joined in, somehow making room for himself in a song made for three. The transition wasn’t seamless, not even close, but it was closer to it than he’d expected. Way closer than he wanted. By the time the slow drumbeat started, adding a firmer backbone to the song, he was already losing himself in the unexpected new rhythm. Much as Nick hated to admit it, the sly embellishments added by Gray took the melody places it hadn’t gone before. Better places.
Then the drums. She didn’t try to overpower the song, just chose her moment and entered the rhythm stealthily, like she expected to be shoved right back out the passage she’d snuck through. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. She could’ve been Snake for all the bravado she showed, crashing through the song and making it hers while Nick fought the overwhelming urge to open his eyes and see if she looked as beautiful as he knew she must. Those pink curls flying wildly around her head, those tiny fists gripping sticks that were made for hands twice her size.
But Nick didn’t look. Couldn’t, until the song ground to a halt and he blew out the breath he hadn’t realized had clogged in his lungs.
Nick wiped his forehead and stared at his palm as it came away damp. He’d sweated through the song, and his shoulder blades ached from his vicious hold on his guitar. Didn’t matter. They didn’t know he’d been in meltdown mode, and he could lift his chin and stare hard at the preppy kid across from him without flinching.
Insolently, Gray kicked out his long denim-clad legs and crossed them at the ankles. He wasn’t sweating at all, and he gripped his guitar in a loose hold that spoke of his utter calm. Goddammit, it pissed Nick off.
“So?” Gray demanded.
“So?” Nick tossed back. He’d happily kick Gray’s ass just to burn off some of the relentless frustration brewing in his gut. Then he made the mistake of glancing at Jazz.
She smiled like a rainbow appearing after a storm, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with pleasure. They were almost as pink as her hair. Her blush emphasized the enthusiasm practically leaking from her pores.
God, how long had it been since he’d felt that excited about playing? He wanted to feel like that again.
Hell, he wanted her.
What would it be like to take a taste of the energy that burned inside her? To harness some of it for his enjoyment? To feel her splinter apart and sag under him, finally replete.
So not happening.
Before he did something he would regret, Nick pulled the cord out of the amp, threw back a slug of beer and got to his feet. Deliberately standing over Gray, he let his mouth curl into a smirk. “You passed the demo. Want a real audition? We’re playing at the Blue Rhino on the Strip on Saturday night.” They usually had to fight fang and claw to get a weekend show, and he was about to ensure they’d probably never get another Saturday gig. He jerked his chin in Simon and Deak’s general direction. “Nine o’clock. These guys will hook you two up with the setlist.”
Before Gray could get a word in, Nick grabbed his guitar and strode toward the door. Delayed shakes had set in, but he’d be damned if he let them see them.
“Wait a fucking second.” The scrape of Gray’s chair over the linoleum razored down Nick’s back like a blade. “Audition for you? You’re short a drummer. Your band’s going nowhere without us.”
Nick flashed a grin over his shoulder at Jazz, who watched him from behind the kit with a quiet certainty that caused his jeans to shrink in direct proportion. Fuck, she was hot.
And off-limits. Which made her even hotter.
“Talk to your guard dog, Jasmine. Sounds like he needs some convincing.” Nick shut the door at h
is back before anyone tried to stop him. He needed to get some air, and he sure couldn’t do it there.
Taking the steps two at a time into the basement, he set down his beer and grabbed his cell phone off the table where he’d left it. He punched in Cinder’s number and held the phone to his ear, already eager for her crushed velvet voice to flow into his head and take away all the shit that wouldn’t leave on its own.
“I forgot I heard she’s seeing someone.”
Not his problem. He wasn’t the damn morality police. If he was, they were all screwed.
“Hey baby,” Cin purred after about five rings. “What’s doing?”
Nick eased a hip against the wall and flipped open his wallet to make sure Simon hadn’t thiefed his rubbers again. Nope, both were still there. Perfect. His car keys were missing in action, but that didn’t matter since Cin just happened to be in walking distance. “You. I hope.”
“You know it. Come on over. I’ll leave a light on.”
The amusement in her tone made him grin as he hung up. He wrapped his hand around the doorknob, falling still at the images playing behind his eyes. Jazz and her smile, those unforgettable eyes seeing way too much. Gray stepping between them, all fury and passion and need.
He hissed out a breath between his teeth and stepped into the hall. Need was something he understood.
Way too well.
* * *
Saturday night came much faster than Nick wanted it to. Day after day working his ass into exhaustion at The Fit Fiddle didn’t stave it off. Neither did the two late nights/very early mornings he spent with Cin, losing himself in her body. The strained rehearsal he’d sat through with his band Friday night definitely didn’t, since the guys were beyond pissed at him.
Deak claimed only someone who wanted to fail would march into a gig and attempt to practically play cold with two new people just to prove he had bigger balls. Because letting Deak believe that was better than telling him the truth—that he didn’t know if he could get through Saturday night, let alone a couple of practice sessions beforehand—Nick just smoked and smirked and generally played his asshole role to the hilt.
