by Cari Quinn
She shook her head, hard and definite. “No. Just fingers. Please. Like last time.”
They didn’t speak after that. Didn’t do a damn thing except kiss and touch and pant hotly into each other’s mouths. Just like last time, she stroked his cock like she was manipulating her drumsticks. Up, down, up, down, squeezing, letting go. Over and over until he shoved her back against the wall and pushed his hand under her skirt. All he could think about was getting into her slick pussy.
She wore panties tonight, tiny frilly ones, and he ripped them aside and surged his fingers deep. She threw her head back, banging her skull. He pulled out and rubbed her piercing, amazed all over again that such perfection existed in his world. The memory of those pink crystals around her taut little clit could take him straight to heaven. But he wouldn’t go alone.
He spent extra time toying with the studs, testing her reactions to each flick and flutter. Building the urgency between them until they both trembled like plucked strings. Then he was playing her flesh like she’d played him and all he could hear were her ragged gasps, each of them ending on a single plea.
More.
More.
God, give me more.
She came in a pulsing gush against his palm, and he groaned as he dropped his forehead into the crook of her neck. Her brown sugar scent and the smell of her arousal wrapped around him, constricting his lungs, blocking his airflow. Then she dropped to her knees again and pulled down his zipper, taking him out so fast he couldn’t do more than pant his gratitude. Her lips closed around the head of his dick and he fisted his hands against the wall, one of them still soaked from her, lost to the sensation of her wet silky mouth riding up and down his length.
It didn’t take long. She remembered what he liked, and he’d been primed for the past week. He hadn’t let himself come on his own, knowing he’d see her behind his eyes. She’d be the cause of his orgasm even if he was all alone. So he’d held back, held off, somehow knowing they’d end up in this place again. His own touch would never be a decent substitute when he could have her.
At least he had her right now.
When the door opened, they’d take their places on stage and it would be all over. But in here, in the dark, they were the only witnesses to their crime that wasn’t.
He came deep in her throat and she didn’t balk at taking him that way. If anything, she drew on him more strongly, coaxing out every drop as he shuddered and gasped. He ground his hips into her face and she didn’t do anything but invite him to do more.
More.
Fucking give me more.
Still shaking, he didn’t move when she sidled up his body to press her lips to his chest. Somehow he felt their dampness even through his cotton T-shirt.
The room stank of sweat and sex and he couldn’t even be sure it was just theirs. Didn’t want to know. Words failed him. Utterly. All he could think to say was, “thank you.” Over and over, like a prayer.
“You’re welcome. Now you’re going to pay me back, right?”
His deflated ego started coming back to life just from her breathless question. She chuckled, then he did too.
At least one part of him didn’t get stage fright.
“You know it.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheek and she released a soft sigh. “Every song tonight, Jazz,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly thick. “Every one I play, it’ll be for you.”
Though he couldn’t be sure in the crack of light coming under the door, he thought she shut her eyes. He slid up his hand to check and her tangled lashes fluttered under the pad of his thumb. Like a butterfly kiss.
“Then you better not mess up, Crandall.”
He dropped his head back and laughed, more relaxed before a show than he’d been since—
Ever.
He’d never felt like this before he took the stage. Relaxed, loose-limbed. Ready to rock. To blast the rafters off the joint.
And it was all due to her.
“I won’t, baby.” Using a handful of her ass as a lever, he edged her to the door in front of him. He couldn’t stop his sigh. What he could do with her if he had more time. “I’ll be too busy thinking about removing your piercing with my tongue.”
Laughing softly, she opened the door and stepped out. He grinned and reluctantly pulled his hand from the sexy curve of her hip. So not fair.
Then he glanced at the stage.
Gray was standing directly across from them, his axe across his chest like a shield. His eyes accusing.
Jazz tightened like a bow before she launched herself toward the man who loved her. Maybe hated her now, if the look Gray wore meant anything. Her small hand crept up Gray’s chest as she whispered to him. Whether she offered an explanation or an apology, it didn’t have much visible effect. Gray’s face had turned to granite, incapable of showing any emotion but the fury that burned in his eyes like a smoke signal.
When Gray turned away and stalked off the stage, she chased after him without looking back.
Nick walked over to grab his guitar, his eyes shutting the instant his fingers brushed the smooth wood. That brief high was fading, dwindling to nothing, but he clutched it with both hands. No. Fuck, no. She’d given him something he wouldn’t waste.
He just hoped like hell she didn’t pay a price she hadn’t anticipated.
Fifteen minutes later, the curtain came up. Simon pranced forward, his bruises and pain forgotten in favor of the showmanship that was as much a part of him as his skin. He catcalled to the audience, getting them riled up. Making them want it. Him.
They strummed their way into “The Becoming”, the song that had ripped everything open last weekend. Nick breathed in and out, letting the muscle memory take over. He had one thing to do tonight, and that was to play. Nothing else existed.
Gray wasn’t staring him down with enough hatred to make his guitar spontaneously burst into flame. Jazz wasn’t pounding her way through the song so seductively that he wished he could turn around and take her against the kit. Simon wasn’t parading around like he was the main event at a strip joint—and wearing just as few clothes—and Deacon wasn’t looming behind him, a silent, threatening presence warning him he had no missteps left to make.
It was just him and his guitar. And his band.
His fucking band.
By the time they lined up for their bows after an abbreviated encore, his body was so sore that even walking hurt. Sweat dripped down his back, from his temples. The roar of the crowd rang in his ears, filling his brain until it squeezed out everything. He took his usual position next to Simon and clasped his best friend’s shoulder, sharing a grin with him that might as well have been a fricking kiss. He was so elated he might’ve laid one on his buddy if Jazz hadn’t slipped up beside him and grasped his cheek, turning his face to hers.
“You did it,” she breathed, grinning with him. For him. “I knew you could. You were amazing.”
Then her warm, wet lips were on his and he didn’t give a shit that people were watching, that he’d probably wake up in traction after Gray lit into him.
It was all worth it.
Jazz pressed close as they made their way backstage, laughing and shouting and slapping hands with everyone who crossed their paths. An image of Snake, his bald dome sweaty as he whaled on the drums, popped into Nick’s head and was just as quickly dismissed. Now wasn’t the time.
It didn’t take Nick long to realize Snake wasn’t the only one who was missing. Gray had disappeared.
In the center of the pandemonium backstage, a guy in a trim brown suit cornered Deacon. He was smiling widely and gesturing. All the while, the crowd continued to scream on the other side of the curtain.
They hadn’t filled Madison Square Garden—yet—but they’d done okay. Better than. They’d done amazing.
Deacon turned away from the guy in the suit and motioned to Simon, then to Nick and Jazz. If he or Simon had noticed the way he and Jazz were wrapped around each other, they hadn’t given any indication. Gr
ay still hadn’t reappeared, and Nick didn’t miss the little glances Jazz kept sliding toward the back exit. But she also didn’t leave his side, and for that he was eternally grateful. He needed to hold on to her soft, curvy body just a bit longer.
Especially when Deak introduced them to the guy he’d draped one of his gigantic arms around.
“This is Jackson Miller.” Deak smiled like he’d won the frigging lottery. “He wants to talk to us about recording a song. For a fucking soundtrack.”
Chapter Ten
Simon: Ruined
Mistaken hearts choke on sighs of pleasure.
She knows my demons, unlocks my secrets, leaves me bare.
Simon paused mid-swig, choking on his water. Surely he didn’t hear that correctly. “I’m sorry?” Bent at the waist, he hissed as his ribs protested the movement. He was still tender. Hanging off the lighting rig during the show had not been the wisest of moves.
Amazing what adrenaline could do for a body.
Nick slapped him on the back, the power behind it dragging a groan out of him. “I hate you,” Simon said on a choked breath.
“I know you do.”
Simon battled back the urge to yak up his toes. Instead, he focused on the chipped vinyl flooring and swallowed down the bile. The busted rib wasn’t going to kill him. He just had to man up. Because there was no way in shit he was putting the ace bandage back on. It was bad enough listening to Nick ask him daily if his ribs were okay.
Like his didn’t hurt just as much.
He and Nick had been poking at each other for days. Their fight had definitely taken most of the sting out of the tension between them, but it was always there at the fringes. Waiting to spring up between them and do more damage.
Hating Nick for closing off was as exhausting as fighting with him. Simon wasn’t sure which one was worse.
But right now the shitstorm brewing between them didn’t matter. Nick had gotten through the show tonight. Now the Slick Mick waiting to pounce needed to be his focus. Simon straightened up, his eyebrow climbing as he got a good look at the guy in the suit—a suit that probably cost more than all of their equipment combined. Including Jazz’s mondo-expensive kit that she only brought to the double F for rehearsals before immediately hauling it back home.
Hard to believe she thought a laundromat in one of the poorest sections of town wasn’t safe. Pfft.
Simon met Jackson Miller’s gaze. Intelligent and far too bright brown eyes locked on his. The guy looked too pleased with himself. And if Deacon didn’t get his smile under control, Simon was going to be tempted to yak all over again.
Simon held his hand out. “Simon Kagan.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Miller pumped his hand, his grip firm and his palm dry. Again, that slick smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. Crinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes.
Not a completely fake smile. Close, but not all the way there.
Simon nodded toward his right. “Nick Crandall, Jazz…” What was her last name again? She was his Pink Pixie. Hell, he rarely ever used her real name.
Pretty in Pink bounced forward, jamming her ever-present drumsticks into her back pocket. “I’m Jazz Edwards. Our other guitarist, Gray Duffy, had to…he had to go to work.”
Simon glanced down at her, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. What now? He sighed and transferred his attention to Deak. The big puppy’s green eyes held a light he’d never seen. Was this the real deal?
How many times had some exec promised them the world? Especially when the world came with deals that included the band shelling out an arm, two dicks and four legs to pay for it? Up front, before the contract.
Simon crossed his arms, jamming his fists under his biceps. The sticky grit from the smoke machine and his own sweat-saturated skin only added to his discomfort. “What soundtrack?”
“For Pacific Coast.”
Simon’s heart jumped and skidded into his throat. His temples throbbed with the quick rush of blood. “The action movie?” The summer blockbuster that was on the damn television every five minutes?
Simon frowned. Shouldn’t the score or soundtrack be done for that already?
Miller nodded. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you guys had sneaked on the sound stage. ‘The Becoming’ is tailor-made for the love story part of the movie.”
“Really?”
Simon heard the hope and the excitement in Deacon’s voice. Deak was the level-headed one—and he was freaking entranced. Simon had to admit, the guy looked a helluva lot more legit than anyone they’d ever spoken to before.
Jackson smiled. “Really. We’d like to discuss this with you, if you’re amenable.”
“Yeah, we—”
“We need to talk it over.” Simon said over Deacon.
Deacon shot him a look that could have melted bone. Simon felt the tingles at the back of his neck. The same ones he’d felt in Phil’s office when they’d made their first contractual gig deal. But he was so tired of being let down.
This was too important to let excitement screw them sideways.
Nick stared at his feet. He wasn’t grinning, but he also wasn’t scowling. Jazz, on the other hand, couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. In fact, with every bounce on her platform boots, she crowded in on Nick. Who didn’t seem to mind the invasion.
Nick of the don’t-crowd-me persuasion.
Shit.
So much for the pounding to warn him away from everyone’s favorite cotton candy confection. Jazz was beyond talented, but she may as well have a neon sign screaming danger, sharks ahead. Big, fucking hungry sharks that would leave nothing but chum in their wake.
Okay, he had to stop watching Shark Week on Netflix.
Simon returned his gaze to Deacon—an unusually keyed up Deacon who wouldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his massive fists. Seriously, the veins were going to burst out of his forearms.
No help there.
Simon sighed. Since when was he the voice of reason? That was Deak’s job, Nick’s job—hell, even Gray was probably more responsible than he was. The fact that he had to be the downer pissed him the fuck off.
“Got a number?” Simon asked. “A card?”
Miller nodded, his smile losing a bit of its luster.
“You understand that we have to check you out, right, buddy?” Simon added, hoping the question would jog something in Deak’s brain too. Hello, manage this?
“Sure, I get it.” Miller’s smile was back in a blink. “Can never be too careful. But this is a time sensitive deal, guys…and you too, Miss Edwards.”
“You were right to lump me in with the guys,” Jazz said with a shrug and a grin.
Miller’s eyes lit with interest as he got trapped in Jazz’s tractor beam smile. Simon knew all too well how easy it was to focus on her elfin face and huge blue eyes and forget where the lines were.
Placing Jazz and her short skirts and hot pants in the far corner of his brain was the only way to keep him from hitting on her that was for damn sure. Jazz was one of the few chicks he’d met who didn’t have lead-singer-syndrome. As in I want to bang one. Her being in the band herself probably helped, but she clearly had other preoccupations. If she moved any closer to Nick, she’d be burrowed under his damn skin.
“I think—”
“Is tomorrow good enough?” Simon again talked over Deacon.
This time Deacon only clenched those giant hands. There was no unclenching. Simon knew he was risking another beating—even the Peacemaker could be pushed too far—but this was important and they needed to discuss it. All of them.
Including Deacon’s new writing partner, who had a habit of disappearing at the most inopportune times. Where the fuck had Gray gone?
Miller buttoned his suit jacket and smoothed his palm over the trim lines. “I hope to hear from the band as a whole.” He turned to Deacon. Obviously the man knew his mark. “Walk me out?”
“Absolutely.” Deacon’s shoulders remained tight under his
Rebel Rage shirt. The faded cotton strained with multiple washings and his friend’s increased muscle mass. The guy was spending as much time lifting weights as he was playing bass these days.
Deacon followed him out the side curtain and down the rickety stairs, his deep voice blending with the cacophony of people still mogging around the Rhino. Simon followed, but a handful of women pushed forward and blocked his path.
Fans?
They weren’t exactly unheard of, but they didn’t usually linger around the side of the stage. They found them at the bar and occasionally at the van once the bar closed up for the night.
Simon smiled automatically as a gorgeous woman snagged him by his belt loop and trailed her fingers through the light patch of hair that led to his zipper. He sucked in a breath at the slide of her nails below his waistband. “Hello there.”
Her steady blue eyes were a little disconcerting. All thoughts of chasing Deak disappeared under the implacable focus of a beautiful lady. Or not a lady, which was even better. “I was watching you on stage.”
“Handy,” he said around a cough as her nail nipped over the head of his very interested cock.
“I was just wondering if you’re as energetic without your clothes on.”
Any twinges of pain were still buried under the high from the show and the promise of a very willing female. He spared a look over his shoulder. Nick and Jazz were a little too intent on each other. He really didn’t want to have to beat on his best friend again so soon.
The woman’s clever fingers curled around his shaft. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Simon choked, his gaze now riveted to the woman in front of him. “Stamina’s my middle name, darlin’.”
She lifted onto her toes, flicking the tip of her tongue along the dent in his chin. “Good.”
Simon looked back once more, but Nick and Jazz were gone. Her fingers tightened on him and he groaned. “Let’s just see how many rounds it will take to tire you out.”
Her scarlet lips curved up into a triumphant smile. “Many.”
Putting suits filled with promises, band drama and a niggling worry into one of his favorite boxes at the back of his brain, he dragged the hot blonde closer. His fingers dug into the firm flesh of her ass and he skimmed his lips over her cheek to her ear. She smelled of expensive sex and had real diamonds dangling from her earlobes. “Where to?”
