by Cari Quinn
“Fantastic.”
Stacy looked over at Nick, then back to him. “You both need ice.”
Simon closed his eyes. “You think?” The chances of them having ice were about as good as him marrying royalty.
Deacon muttered something about idiots and broken skulls before disappearing into the kitchen. He came back out with three bags in one hand and peroxide and bandages in the other. He tossed the yellow one at him.
Simon missed and the bag of bullets—aka corn—hit him square in the ribs. “Son of a—” He reached down for the bag and pressed it gingerly on his cheek. Definitely swollen. “Did you have to go for the goddamn face?”
“I could ask you the same,” Nick said flatly.
Simon dropped back on his butt, covering his entire face with the frozen veggies. “I’m the face and the voice, you fucker.”
“Oh please, spare me the marketing speech. No one cares about you or your face.”
“I do.”
Simon pulled down the bag enough to smile at Stacy. “Thanks. We have a damn gig next weekend,” Simon added since no one seemed interested in talking but him. Nothing new there. “I bet I look like I went three rounds with Holyfield.”
“Worse.”
“Thank you, Stacy.” Simon leaned on the couch and placed the corn back over his eyes.
“I’m not the one that came in swinging, Pretty Boy.”
Simon aimed his middle finger at the ceiling.
“Real mature.”
Simon dragged the sweating bag off his face again and opened his good eye to stare down Jazz. “Really? You’re going to open your mouth now?” He smirked. “Think it’s already been at maximum capacity tonight anyway.”
She gave him a look of pure malice. “You’re lucky I’m not prone to violence, or I’d clock you in your other eye.”
Nick snorted out a laugh, but Simon ignored him and focused, sort of, on Jazz. “Go back home, little girl. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
“Only little girls pull stupid stunts like trying to pit two men against each other.”
Jazz clenched her fists. It made her look like a toddler having a tantrum. “I’m not with Gray. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
Simon squinted at her. Was she that dumb, or really that much in denial? He didn’t have it in him to open that Pandora’s box.
“All right, enough.” Deacon’s voice boomed. “Jazz, sit still.”
She sat and stuffed her hands under her thighs. “Don’t fuss.”
“Shut up and turn your head.”
She lifted her cheek to Deacon, who dabbed at her cheek with a saturated cotton ball. Well, that was just great. They all looked like they’d taken a crash course in MMA training.
Too tired and hurt to care, Simon put the bag back over his face with a groan. “Stacy, I think tonight’s officially a bust,” he muttered, corn still firmly in place.
“I’ll take you home.” Deacon must’ve stood up. His voice sounded a lot higher above him.
“You don’t have to,” Stacy replied, sounding pouty.
If Stacy thought he was able to perform at this point, she was sorely mistaken.
“It’s all right, Deacon. I’ll drop her off on my way out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Jazz’s voice drifted around him in the haze of pain and leeching endorphins from the fight. Simon opened his mouth to say goodbye, but the cut on his lip pulled and blood slid along his tongue. Veto that.
He really should drag his ass into the shower before he couldn’t move. He shifted against the lumpy arm of the couch and his side sang well into the eighth octave.
Nope, that wasn’t happening.
Maybe in a minute.
Okay, maybe ten minutes.
* * *
Ambient noise and familiar scents teased Simon into consciousness. The ever present strum of an acoustic, the rumble of washers and dryers, the over-sweet scent of industrial grade detergent and the moist air that chugged in through the vents and clung to his skin.
Home.
His bed.
His phone buzzed against his dick. He groaned. It was way too much effort to dig into his pocket.
Not to mention that if he moved, the hurt would come.
He floated on the too thick air, hoping that sleep would roll him under again. Three pulses and two short bursts vibrated against the side of his morning wood. A few more texts and he might have to roll into the shower just to finish himself off.
Another three pulses and he lifted his hips. He couldn’t hold back the groan.
Stiff muscles and sharp stabs of agony combined into the ugliest duet of his career. Now the vibration of his phone was a lightning strike of pain. He dug his phone out to launch across the room. A dozen blue text bubbles stopped him.
He dropped back on the bed. Panting, praying, trying not to breathe.
Memories of the night before assaulted his brain. Kicks, jabs, punishing fists and blood.
“Goddamn Nick,” he growled.
His phone buzzed again in his hand. Shit, even that hurt. He looked down at his swollen, split knuckles.
“Jesus.” He hadn’t been in such a vicious fight since…well, since the last time he and Nick went at each other. Thank God they didn’t do it often. He’d happily wait another four years before he weathered this kind of beating again.
The bleat of a fog horn—his ringer—screeched out of the phone. He flicked his thumb over the accept button and put the phone on speaker. “What the fuck, man?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.”
Simon squinted at the display. “It’s ten in the goddamn morning on a Sunday. Someone better be dead.”
“Better.”
Simon rolled his forehead on his forearm. Even that hurt. “Whaddaya want, Trevor?”
“Did you go to the site? I sent you the link.”
“What site?” He bit back a squeal of pain. Do not scream like a girl, you fucking fuck. Even if this hurts more than one of Dad’s beatings. Jesus, Nick had Thor’s hammers for fists.
“Look at your phone, asshole.”
Simon tipped the phone up and flicked to the texts.
“Do you see it?”
“Jesus, Trev. Wait a second. I don’t even have my eyes open yet.” Well, the one eye that he could open anyway. He tapped the link in the text. Blue Rhino’s YouTube page came up. He got a shit signal in his area of the basement, but he read the title.
“No shit. That’s awesome. Who taped us?”
“I did.”
“Very cool.”
“It’s not just the video, Simon. Look at the hits, man.”
Simon flipped his phone sideways and scrolled over. That couldn’t be right. He rolled on to his side and swallowed the shout of pain. “Holy crap.”
“I know! Isn’t it friggin’ awesome?”
The screen blurred thanks to the red film that shimmered through his vision. He took a long, slow breath and focused. That number wasn’t in the single digits like he expected.
As he was sitting there, he refreshed and a couple hundred more hits ticked up.
“Are you messing with me?”
Trevor laughed. “When the blue lights came up last night and Deacon started this song—I had the right title?”
“Yeah. ‘The Becoming’.”
“I only had my iPhone, but shit, man. I searched for it this morning and it was up on the Macon Minute.”
Simon stumbled off his mattress and swore when every bruise made itself known. He couldn’t quite hide the gasp as the agony in his lower ribs on the right side caused the room to go black.
“You all right, dude?”
“Yeah,” Simon managed to get out. He braced himself on the doorjamb and slid along the wall of the small hallway. “Deak,” he croaked out.
Deacon flew out of his seat. “Jesus, Simon.”
“I�
�m fine.” Simon pointed at Deacon’s laptop sitting on the coffee table crates. Miraculously, the room seemed to have suffered few ill-effects from the night before. Unlike him. “Check out Macon’s page.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it.” The order came out harsher than he intended. He had to bend at the waist and drag in a few breaths.
“Are you all right?”
The question came from the phone and Deacon at the same time. He waved off Deacon.
“Hey Trev, let me call you back. Thanks for calling me—I owe you big for this one, my friend.”
“Sure.”
Simon jammed his phone in his pocket and gingerly lowered himself onto the saggy couch. He tried to shift over so he wasn’t sitting on top of Deacon, but gave up and propped his forearm on Deak’s shoulder. “Hurry up.”
“I’m opening the page. Give me a sec.” Deacon tilted his head so Simon got an eyeful of the bruise that shadowed his cheek and jaw. Nick had one hell of a right hook.
Simon released a long, slow breath as his ribs panged in agreement.
Deak tipped his head away. “Christ.”
“Believe me, my morning breath will be worth it in a minute.”
“Doubt it.” At the insult, Simon dug his elbow into Deak’s neck, only to get a sharp shove in return. “Don’t make me toss you on the floor.”
“Wouldn’t take much.”
Simon craned his neck at the voice. Nick sat in the club chair just behind them, his acoustic resting across his belly. He took some satisfaction that Nick looked almost as bad as he felt. “You might want to take a look too, wiseass.”
Nick gave him a long look, then dug into his pants pocket for his phone. “Macon’s site?”
“Yeah.”
They all had Jerry Macon’s page saved in their favorites. He covered the Strip’s music scene. Getting on his blog was fucking-A major.
“Blue Rhino is barely a blip on my radar, but one of my interns was at a show last night. He sent me a text early this morning going on and on about this band he saw last night.” Deacon’s deep voice filled the room. “So, because I’m always on the lookout for new blood—and I was too hungover to do my usual research on the big clubs—I hit up Blue Rhino’s site.”
“Nice compliment, douchebag,” Nick muttered.
“Keep reading,” Simon said.
Deacon cleared his throat. “Color me surprised when my intern was actually right. BR had two clips up and both were pretty impressive, but ‘The Becoming’ really knocked it out of the park. Like home run out of Dodger Stadium on a clear day. Oblivion has officially hit my watch list.” Deacon stood. “Did you hear that? We’re on Macon’s watch list!”
Simon slid down until his shoulder rested on the seat and his ribs stopped screaming. “Look at the video.”
“Holy shit,” Nick whispered.
Simon closed his eyes. “Yep.”
The page loaded and Deacon’s bass blared out of the speakers.
Simon folded his arms tight over his ribs and finally he could take a breath. “Hook it up to the TV.”
“Yeah, good idea.” Deacon set his laptop on the buffet table they used for their electronics catch-all. He tapped a few buttons and the fifteen inch screen gave way to fifty-two inches. He rewound the video.
Even in the dark, the video captured Deacon’s hulking frame and Gray’s lean form as they shared the center stage. The music boomed out of their surround sound speakers.
Heavy bass, painfully epic guitars and then his own voice resonated. The metallic flavor thanks to the old school microphone, the smoky air, the crowd’s wolf whistles. Power and beauty. Stoic and sweeping, the song built until the walls buzzed with the sultry song.
They’d taped themselves before. Had friends video their shows to see how they performed, to try and improve.
But nothing like this. Nothing so huge.
Simon forced himself to sit up, to stand and survey. It was everything he’d hoped the song would be. It was them, through and through.
He grinned hugely at Deacon, then his gaze tripped over Nick. It was almost all of them, except Snake.
And his best friend.
Nick’s face was blank, his guitar propped against the wall next to his chair. He simply stared at the screen then stood and walked up the stairs to the laundromat.
Simon knew he wasn’t the only one who’d just thought of Snake. Only difference was that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let his friend’s absence screw up one of the best moments of his life. Nick would.
He tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Nick’s stunned face had burned itself onto his retinas. “Dammit.”
Deacon already had his phone in his mitt of a hand. If he’d even noticed Nick leave, he didn’t show it. “Gray? You gotta check out Jerry Macon’s website. Yeah, now. I don’t care if you’re driving. Pull over.”
Simon stared up the stairs. Lavender wafted down from the double F. Normally one of his favorite scents—especially when attached to a female—now it just left a bitter taste in his mouth.
They should have been celebrating. All of them should be together. Every single person that mattered to him had been at that show. But only one had been hiding in a shell of misery behind the scenes.
Simon slapped his hand against the cool cement wall and swore.
“Deak?”
Deacon covered the mouthpiece. “Yeah?”
“Tell them both to get over here. We’ve got work to do.”
Deacon nodded. “Hey, grab Jazz and come over to the Fluff and Fold today.” He paused, made a few noises. His huge laugh filled the space.
At least one of them was happy. Nick could pout all he wanted, but they all needed to talk today.
This was a freaking banner day. Nearly five thousand hits at ten in the morning on a Sunday? What would it be by noon?
Simon glared up the stairs one more time before trudging down the hall to the shower.
It was a good goddamn day.
Chapter Nine
Nick: Balls To The Wall
Knock me down once, watch me come back and nail you to my wall.
Nick shoved aside a laundry cart and sprawled on a folding chair at the back of the laundromat. His body hurt like a motherfucker. His face wasn’t much better. Everything ached. Head. Heart. Dick.
Especially dick.
He’d been ten seconds and another tongue flutter away from an insane orgasm and bam, nothing. Jazz had yanked away from him so fast he’d been stuck using that baby oil last night anyway, and not to come. She’d left teeth marks in his flesh. She could’ve maimed him for life, and he hadn’t even gotten his rocks off.
Not that he was thinking about Jazz today. He’d stuck her in a big black box in his head labeled do not touch.
Now…this. A video of them on YouTube. One that was actually being watched, not dying in obscurity like every other half-assed thing they’d ever done.
Excitement trickled through him, cutting shallow swaths through the pain, but he wouldn’t let it through. He preferred to hurt. At least he could trust feeling bad. Feeling good never led anywhere but to disappointment.
He clenched his hand around his phone. He’d clicked off the video site, afraid to believe what he was seeing. Who were all those people causing the numbers to jump? What the frick was going on?
God, he wished he could call Snake. His rehab place limited contact with the outside world, especially people identified as potential enablers. Since the band was basically a walking excuse for addiction, Snake had put him and Simon on the Do Not Call list. He hadn’t bothered with Deacon, knowing he would never contact him. Deak wasn’t all that understanding of Snake’s issues.
Or mine.
Nick rubbed his scraped cheek. Maybe he should borrow Deak’s phone and reach Snake that way. It didn’t seem right not to at least give him a head’s up about the situation. He’d be out of Sunshine Pines or whatever the joint was called in another month or so, but that was practi
cally a lifetime away. If somehow he heard they’d replaced him, even temporarily—
The door to the Fluff banged open and Gray strode in, flashing a smile at the woman rocking a baby near the first bank of washers. She smiled back, turning toward him with obvious interest.
Nick sat up straighter while he waited for Gray to respond. Gray’s smile widened but he kept walking past the young mother. Aiming straight for…him.
Just who Nick wanted to talk to on the day after he’d gotten his ass kicked—the guy who was, at the very least, in unrequited love with the girl who’d blown him last night.
It better be unrequited.
Almost as soon as the thought surfaced, Nick scowled. Gray and Jazz’s relationship issues were not his problem. She was a cute girl with a memorably strong grip and a mouth that could put any upright vacuum to shame. Though he didn’t know her well, she seemed nice enough. What was between her legs was even nicer. She was also extremely talented and not showy about it. But she was definitely not his problem.
“Hey.” Gray came to a halt in front of him, his eyes wary. He set his guitar between his sneakers. They looked brand new. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” Christ, had Jazz spilled about last night? No, that didn’t make sense. If she had, Gray would’ve led with his fists, not polite conversation.
Then Nick remembered his face. And his body.
He shrugged and slouched down into the hoodie he’d pulled on after his shower this morning. The heat was already building outside, which meant it was inside too—thank you, lackluster A/C—but he’d wanted something comfortable. He’d actually been tempted to pull up the hood and sulk all day like the dumb piece of shit Simon had accused him of being last night.
So far he’d avoided taking any pain relievers. He had a feeling that streak was about to come to an end.
“Your face?” Gray prompted at his silence. “Were you in a fight?”
“Not with Jazz,” Nick tossed back, then realized the ridiculousness of that reply. Jazz wasn’t much bigger than one of the laundry carts. She couldn’t have put a hurting like that on him even with the help of a pair of brass knuckles.
