Seduced

by Cari Quinn

  Sometimes he thought he played that better than guitar.

  Simon and Deak weren’t completely oblivious to his issues with performance anxiety, though even they didn’t realize how deep it ran. He was good once the house lights came on and he got out of his head and into the music. Unfortunately he was pretty sure the guys wouldn’t be down with practicing in the dark with Gray. And Jazz, who would probably sparkle from her freaking glittery barrettes.

  Nick slicked his hand over his head, grimacing at the gel that shaped his blond hair into its usual show style, and slipped out the back door to the parking lot of the Blue Rhino to get in one last smoke. Damn anti-smoking militants were everywhere nowadays, and even clubs frowned upon lighting up. Just as well, since it was a warm and breezy night and for once the smog wasn’t on full choke alert.

  The whisper of palm fronds competed with the muted laughter coming from inside the Rhino. The crowd hadn’t reached capacity yet—not even close. Another half hour or so, the people milling around out front and the scattered few wandering between the cars would stop slapping hands and make their way inside. And the members of Oblivion plus optional add-in accessories would either fly or crash and burn.

  He didn’t know which option he preferred.

  Cupping a hand around the end of his cig, he flicked his lucky lighter. He’d had it almost as long as he’d had his Taylor, since twelfth grade. It had taken him three summers of part-time work to save up for that used guitar—well, that and the junk car that he’d dubbed the pussywagon, considering it had been that vehicle that had finally allowed him to get some.

  A smile glimmered as he flicked the lighter again and waited for the flame to catch. Forget some. He’d gotten a lot in that piece of shit car.

  The sound of an argument snuck into his consciousness, and he turned his back to force the sound out of his head. He just wanted to smoke and get ready for his spectacular failure in peace.

  “Come on, sweetheart. You’re too pretty to act like such a bitch.”

  “I said no. Fucking no. Are you hard of hearing?”

  Nick shut his eyes and a sigh escaped him. He didn’t need to play anyone’s savior tonight. Not until he figured out how to save himself.

  An eerie silence descended. Now it was too quiet.

  He pivoted and surveyed the darkened parking lot, trying to make out the shadows between an old van and a sedan. A sharp scream broke the silence and he ran, pitching his cigarette and lighter on the way. He caught a glimpse of pink between two looming men, both of them about twice her size.

  Christ, this wasn’t some random female. It was Jazz.

  Their ham-sized hands jerked up the frilly little skirt Nick had sneered at earlier. They were pawing at her patterned leggings like her ass had been put on the clearance rack and they wanted to sample the merchandise before they bought.

  “You better fucking let her go,” Nick said in a low voice, stopping close enough that they could hear him and far enough back that he could pick up something to use as a weapon to split their skulls open. The old chrome bumper of the vintage sedan beside him would work.

  No response. The groping didn’t stop, and she stopped struggling long enough to shoot him a single panicked glance. The sheen in her eyes ripped his gut open. He might not like the girl or her guard dog, but that didn’t mean anyone had a right to lay a goddamn finger on her.

  Especially when he was around to put a stop to it.

  “I mean it,” Nick grated, stalking closer. If they didn’t release her in about ten seconds, one or both of them was going to lose some vital appendages. Even if he wasn’t exactly sure how, since they looked about five inches taller than him and had the body mass of redwoods. “Back the hell off.”

  The bigger of the two whirled on Nick, his craggy face contorted in a grimace. “Who’s she to you?”

  “The drummer in my band. We’re playing here tonight.” Nick strode forward to snatch hold of Jazz’s wrist while he had the power of surprise on his side. The glassiness he’d glimpsed turned to actual tears, creating silvery threads down her cheeks in the moonlight. His chest gave one hard twist before he turned his glare on the second guy. He’d dropped his hands from Jazz the moment Nick had mentioned his band.

  Magic words apparently. Now if only he had some for the woman at his side—who’d curled into him as if he’d just fought a bear and barely survived to tell the tale—he’d be all set.

  The guys mumbled what sounded like apologies and lumbered off toward the club, looking back at Nick every other step. Jazz had completely disappeared from their radar.

  They hadn’t disappeared from hers.

  “I don’t know why I’m crying.” She shook her head, her sobs leaving her throat on shuddery gasps. “I can handle fuckers like them. I have before, so many times. But they caught me off-guard, and they grabbed me from behind. That always reminds me of…God, it reminds me.” She stopped there, shuddering.

  Of what? He almost asked, then decided it wasn’t his business. She wasn’t. Even if the idea of anyone touching her like that—sneaking up on her from behind—scorched through his show nerves and left his muscles quivering for a whole new reason. He wanted blood.

  Tucking it away, Nick wrapped his arm around her shoulders and lowered his face to her hair. She was shivering so violently her jaw kept clicking. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, stroking all those wild curls he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind. She sparkled, even in the dark. “It’s okay. You’re okay. They’re gone.”

  She only shivered harder. “They didn’t have any right to t…touch me,” she said through clenched teeth. “I told them no and they did it anyway. I said no.”

  “I know you did. I heard you, loud and clear.” Nick took a risk and touched her cheek, tilting her heart-shaped face upward. Her cheeks were sheened with moisture. Even her lips were trembling. His heart lurched again. “Hey, look at me. Jazz.” It felt weird to call her that, when he found himself calling her Jasmine more often than not. How could he resist when she’d tossed such an irresistible opening line at him? He was an asshole, and she was as beautiful and delicate as jasmine. Too delicate for a bastard like him. “Jazz, look here.”

  Her eyes stayed resolutely closed. “It’s…Jasmine to you, asshole.”

  Just like that, he knew she was okay. That she’d faced worse in the past and survived. Survivors came in all kinds of packages. Sparkles or grime, giggles or growls.

  Chuckling, he stroked his fingertips along her jaw. Lightly, to give her something to focus on. And maybe to satisfy his curiosity if her skin would feel as satiny as it looked.

  Knowing that it did didn’t exactly give him comfort.

  Her big eyes flashed open and locked on his, and he let out a long breath at the punch of awareness. What the hell was it about this girl that worked him over so thoroughly?

  She didn’t swoon in his arms or even thank him for his chivalry. No, she squished up her cute nose and made a face. “You smell like smoke. Ugh.”

  “I didn’t even get it lit,” he muttered, glancing over her shoulder as he remembered his lucky lighter. The chances of finding it before some jerk ran over it with their car ranked in the negatory region.

  “So? You chain smoke. How many others have you siphoned into your lungs today?” Shaking her head, she pushed him gently but firmly away. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m ruining my voice. Not that it’s anything special anyway.”

  “Not your voice, silly, your lungs. Your body. Don’t you care about your health?” Letting out a dramatic sigh, she lifted the item she’d crushed against her chest, her small, pale fingers smoothing the mangled fabric.

  Unsure how to respond to her unexpected concern—hell, his dad had bought him his first cigs in high school, so what the frick did she care if he lit up or not?—he nodded at what she held. “What is that?”

  “Gray’s hat.” Her smile warmed her voice as she glanced toward the club. “He keeps
forgetting to bring it in with him, but it’s lucky so I wanted him to have it tonight.”

  Nick wasn’t sure which part of that equation bothered him more. That Gray also had a lucky item or that Jazz was stroking his fedora with more love than a woman had ever touched him with. Then there was the whole Gray thing, period. He was really beginning to hate that guy.

  What was the deal with Gray and Jazz anyway? He’d laid claim to her in the laundromat, and she hadn’t disputed the assertion, but something was off there. Nick hadn’t seen them touch more affectionately than friends. She’d never done more than ruffle Gray’s shaggy dark hair or pat his back. They hadn’t kissed. He hadn’t grabbed that fine ass, and she’d never leaned up to latch those plump, wet lips around his earlobe to give it a sexy tug. Either they’d been together so long that comfort superseded heat or there was more to the story.

  Testing them both, Nick gave in to the urge to run his thumb along her jaw again. She deliberately moved her face away, but not before she confused the hell out of him with a flirtatious flutter of her lashes.

  “So you come out here alone for a stupid hat?” Nick asked gruffly, his thumb still vibrating from the feel of her skin. If she hadn’t slipped back, would he have tried to touch more of her? Yes. No. “Damn shame your guard dog’s more interested in his guitar than you.”

  Jazz frowned, her wet eyes drying in a blink. “No, that’s not it at all. He doesn’t even know I’m gone.”

  Right on cue, the back door of the club banged open and a shout sounded across the lot. “Jazz? Baby, where are you?”

  Baby sure sounded like a term of endearment. They were hooked together, one way or another, and a smart guy didn’t get caught in someone else’s net.

  Nick set his hands on Jazz’s shoulders and turned her toward the club where his future awaited in the form of a man who voluntarily wore a velvet hat. Fuck me.

  “Guess he knows now,” he said in Jazz’s ear, registering her shudder when his warm breath skittered down the side of her neck. It would be so easy, too easy, to lick her there. To see if her vanilla and brown sugar scent flavored her skin.

  And then to just keep right on going. To that slash of collarbone, to the gentle rise of her cleavage. Over the tight points of her nipples through her fuzzy top. Unless he was crazy, he was almost sure her nipples had tightened further since he’d touched her.

  All he had to do was slide his hands down a few inches, and those soft swells would be in his palms. For such a little thing, she was frigging built. He’d gladly spend a couple of hours just exploring every sweet nook and cranny in that lush, lithe package.

  As if she could read his increasingly dirty thoughts, she didn’t move, and neither did he. Part of him was sorely tempted to tell her to lose her bodyguard and meet him somewhere after the show, where they could get to know each other way better.

  Without the BS. Without their clothes.

  The rest of him knew she was a mistake wrapped up in fluff and glitter, and he didn’t need the aggravation. He could fuck his fist and get rid of the burn in his belly that had her name all over it without the consequences of sinking between those pretty thighs.

  Nick gave her a light shove forward. His heart was hammering just from her nearness, and man, that pissed him off. “Your man’s waiting, Jazz.” Not Jasmine. She wasn’t anything special to him.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” She looked over her shoulder, her lips glossy and soft, and his cock went from hard to on the verge of drilling through his pants. “It’s Jasm—”

  He couldn’t listen to her teasing, not right now. In a second he was going to rub his dick against her ass and let her feel what she was playing with. “Go,” he gritted out.

  She went. And she didn’t look back.

  When he could breathe without feeling the glass shards sticking between his ribs at her retreat, Nick followed.

  They had a damn show to do.

  Chapter Four

  Simon: The Becoming

  I own your soul, the night has just begun

  the becoming claims with a whisper and ends in a scream

  Simon bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to get a good look at the crowd. He swung his guitar around to his back and jerked at the red button-down shirt trying to strangle him. Finally he popped all the snaps open, letting the humid, smoky air cling to his bare skin. Damn smoke machine was working overtime.

  Deacon’s deep voice teased at the fringes of Simon’s consciousness. He was in herding mode again. They weren’t two-year-olds.

  Simon slicked a layer of sweat off his neck. He’d done his warm-up in the stank-hole closet that the Rhino called a bathroom. Lyrics packed his brain like Styrofoam peanuts waiting to explode. He just hoped the explosion didn’t come with a gullet full of the coffee and hash browns from lunch.

  Rehearsals had gone well. There was no reason to be nervous. Except for the fact that Nick had only shown up to one goddamn practice since first meeting Jazz and Gray. No big deal.

  Jesus fuck.

  Simon shook out his fingers, the tingle of unease slammed into excitement like thunder. Though the room was half empty, a six pack of college kids were getting rowdy at the back of the room. Little groups of women in various stages of teased hair and skimpy clothes dotted the general admission area. The bar was a bottleneck of patrons looking for cheap beer and watered down well drinks.

  Deacon swiped the black sheet fronting the stage closed and jerked a thumb at Simon, motioning for him to join the rest of the group.

  Simon jogged over to the band. “What now, Deak?”

  He handed Simon a bottle of water. “We’re discussing the setlist.”

  Simon flung out his arm to show off the six songs that were scrawled on the inside of his forearm. “We already figured out the setlist.”

  “We’re taking out ‘Demolition Man’ and putting in ‘Ripcord’ instead.”

  Simon’s eyes widened as Deak walked away. “Ripcord” was the last song he and Nick had written before the great lyrical drought. They’d only practiced it a handful of times. “Demolition” was a tried and true song. Why didn’t they go with that one?

  He glanced over at Nick. His eyes were glassy with the typical terror they were used to seeing. Nick thought he was fooling all of them, but Simon knew him better than anyone. Besides, his tells were getting easier to spot. Like the way he kept stomping his feet as if he were cold, when the temperature in the club was hovering close to the desert at noon. Then there was that furtive glances he kept shooting him, looking away before Simon had a chance to do anything but groan under his breath.

  They really did not need this crap tonight. Simon uncapped the water and glugged down half. It helped with the cotton mouth he got before a show. Deak always knew what they needed.

  Too bad he couldn’t magically fix Nick’s issues. Instead Nick was on asshole patrol. If he’d shut his goddamn mouth maybe, just maybe, they’d make it through this show with everyone intact. But no. In between mental freakouts, Nick kept picking at the scabs of each of his verbal lances into Gray. The guy was a damn saint for putting up with Nick. Especially with whatever was going on between Nick and Jazz. Nick kept watching their little Minnie Mouse drummer as if he expected her to swipe his jacket or something.

  If that wasn’t enough, after Gray and Jazz’s latest furtive conversation, Gray shoved on his hat and prowled to his spot. Then he started drilling holes via his retinas into the back of Nick’s head.

  Christ, what had happened now? Simon had obviously missed the latest round of sniping, and for that he was grateful. His name was not Deacon, and he didn’t get his rocks off by pretending he was Mr. Rogers and handing out cookies. Those three could figure out their stuff by themselves. He had his own to deal with.

  Simon frowned as Nick took his place on stage and fished his pick out of his jeans. It wasn’t his favorite. This one was a generic silver, not the battered red and black with the worn edge. A single drop of sweat coasted
down Simon’s spine. No, he would not give into the asinine superstitions that ruled Nick before a show.

  The jerk had only come to practice once and now Nick thought he could change the setlist? That change had come from his best friend, not Deacon, he knew it.

  Simon blew out a breath, his heartbeat like a ticking time bomb in his brain. He rolled his shoulders, trying to put the anger in a box. Obviously there was going to be some serious shit going down after the show. If it required him pulling Nick’s head out of his ass for him, then that’s what he’d do.

  Jazz drew his gaze and he focused on her instead. Her super short skirt over leggings was bad enough, but the strappy black tank she’d stripped down to showed off perky little tits that made him think about much better ways to get the pounding out of his system. She twirled one of her Day-Glo purple sticks through her fingers up and back, up and back, until it was just a flash of color. The other she tapped slowly against her thigh. Her skin was perfection save for a few dark marks that looked suspiciously like finger digs along her upper arm.

  Simon frowned.

  Where had those come from? He instantly swung his gaze to Gray. He stood very still. He’d swapped out his usual uniform of khakis and Oxford shirts for black cargos and a long sleeved black t-shirt. In between glowering at Nick, Gray’s dark eyes followed Jazz’s movements as if he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight.

  The guy was watchful in a way that made Simon’s shoulder blades itch. He wasn’t sure what to make of him and Jazz. They were too pent-up to be banging on a regular basis. Maybe that’s exactly what they needed to do.

  All of them. Separately. Though, seriously, hello possibilities. Having a chick in the band added an all new angle.

  Then again the bowstring-tight tension they were all carrying around had come with a side benefit of renewed creativity for the last five days. Everyone had been trying to outdo the other. Simon had woken with finger cramps every morning from playing for five and six hours a night.