by Quinn, Cari
Fuck, was he late for rehearsal? He was almost sure it wasn’t until five. They’d be up late anyway, so no one wanted to start working early.
Except Ry. That guy made the early bird look like a slacker for not pulling an all-nighter.
“What’s up? You mad at me because I didn’t camp out in the rehearsal hall?” Michael asked, returning to the bathroom. Maybe he could finish his freaking shave. The halfway scruffy look wasn’t doing him any favors.
He’d just picked up his straight razor—he was all about the old school when it came to shaving—when Ryan’s desolate voice came over the line.
“Dude, I’m out. I can’t play.”
“What do you mean you can’t play?” Michael gripped his razor so hard the handle trembled in his hand. “We have Vegas tomorrow night. Our biggest fucking show.”
“I sprained my hand. I’m out. Doc says I won’t be able to play the drums for weeks, depending how I heal.”
Michael couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. “What the hell happened?”
“That doesn’t matter right now. Man, we’re fucked.”
Two
Fucked in every way but the one that included an orgasm. Yeah, that about summed it up.
“I went biking, you know, down at Shelby Ridge? Those crazy paths up through the woods, and when I came down—” Ryan broke off.
“When you jumped down, you mean. With your bike. Because you’re a crazy motherfucker.”
His best friend cleared his throat. “Correct on all counts.”
Michael tried to relax the tension in his spine. It had been an accident. Stuff happened. He couldn’t say Ryan hadn’t granted him the same courtesy after his own numerous fuckups.
They’d been friends since the first day of college at Caltech, when they’d found themselves in the same engineering seminar and wondering why they’d thought that was the right career path when all they wanted to do was play music.
Michael knew why he’d been there, of course. Controlling, overbearing father, need to please, yadda yadda, pass the therapy bill. Next.
Ryan, though, had been battling his own concerns that music wasn’t a viable choice. His family had a business repairing instruments, and he’d always had a skill with them, but he’d fallen into the “I should be doing something more” trap. Especially since he had a genius-level ability with math and science, which actually explained some of his ability to play just about any instrument, since math and music were way more linked than most people realized.
It had taken them a few miserable, drunken months to realize that nothing mattered more than music and friendship and family, and making something out of all three. They were still trying, still finding their way, but they’d come far from those usually hungover, often philosophizing jerks they’d once been.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t kick Ryan’s ass for screwing up the best opportunity they’d had yet to make their mark.
“I get that biking is a release for you. I get you’re a thrill seeker. But did you really have to do that shit right before the biggest show we’ve ever done?”
“I know, man, I know.” Ryan’s voice lowered. “I was going to call Lila, but I figured maybe you could? Since you have the in.”
Michael dropped his razor and hung his shoulders, laughing at the absurdity of his life. It was either that or get rip-roaring drunk, and he wasn’t about to do that before rehearsal. He had standards, dammit. “Not sure you’ve noticed, but Lila isn’t too thrilled with me lately.”
“Because you’ve been on hardcore pussy patrol.”
“I wouldn’t say that, necessarily.”
“Uh, Tabitha Tremaine? Does that name ring a bell?
“One girl is not hardcore pussy, hate to tell you, bro. If it is for you, then maybe you need to up your game.”
“My game is on point. And all the rules go out the window when you’re banging a senator’s girlfriend and it’s all over the news. You can’t even say the band’s name without someone mentioning how Senator Dickless wants to take you out.”
Michael snorted. “Right. I’m a real threat to a guy like that. Old money, powerful, can have any woman he wants—”
“Except his fiancée, who is hung up on you.”
Michael put his phone on speaker, set it down on the counter and picked up his razor. “That’s over.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it is. Just like you’re going to quit partying. Isn’t that what you told Lila last week?”
“I didn’t say I was going to quit partying. I just said I could if I wanted to.”
Ryan chuckled. “Right. You’re going to give up gorgeous Tabitha who’ll spread them for you anytime anywhere, and you’re going to stop drinking and having fun when you’ve finally got something to celebrate. Absolutely. Gonna happen.”
Michael nearly told Ry that he hadn’t had sex with Tabitha, then decided there was no point. Whatever he said, people believed what they wanted. Lila sure was. And she was just going to love this latest piece of crap news.
News he had to deliver. Thanks, bro.
“Maybe I want something more. That ever occur to you? Partying gets old after a while.”
“It sure does, but you were definitely feeling no pain when you were up on that bar, dirty dancing with Juliet the other night. You’re damn lucky Lila wasn’t there, or else you’d have gotten the “no band fraternizing” lecture she likes to throw around, though she knows no one gives a shit. I think she was a principal in a former life or something.”
Michael had to laugh. “She’s managed a lot of groups. She knows what causes strife within a band. She should, since Oblivion nearly imploded because of that.”
“Yeah, and then she married one of the members of Oblivion. It’s not like she can talk.”
“Truth. Just saying, she doesn’t want to see us do anything stupid. Jules and I were just messing around. Just dancing,” he amended, because Ry would take the “messing around” thing and run with it right into a bedroom. “She’s a fun girl. But not for me.”
“You have fun with a lot of girls, which, you know, good for you, dude. We’re all enjoying our trip on the banging bus. Just saying that you can’t really claim you could clean it up in a second and get on the straight and narrow because, sorry, I don’t believe you. Neither does anyone with eyes and ears who’s seen one of the rags or heard a story on one of those tabloid news shows.”
“Can we discuss something other than my dick for five seconds? Any more talk about it and I’ll think you want a ride yourself.”
“In your dreams, pal. So Lila? You gonna talk to her for me?”
Michael did a half-assed job finishing his shave before rinsing off and patting his face down with a towel. “How long did the doc say you were out?”
“Depends. At least through this leg, probably, as far as drumming goes. It’s just too much strain on my wrist. I can come back in a support role onstage though.”
Michael took the phone off speaker and held it to his ear. “A support role. You mean playing some of those crazy instruments you love? Fucking xylophone or some shit?”
“Can do a xylophone one-handed if need be. You’d be surprised at the richness it can add to a song. Imagine how it’d sound at the end of ‘Tenacity’?”
Michael snorted. “Right. Look, I’ll call Lila, but she’s going to want to talk to you. So you’re only putting off the inevitable.”
“Thanks, man. You’re the best. Good luck. Catch ya later.”
Michael stared at the dead phone and tossed it on the counter. It was just a symbolic gesture, because less than a minute later, he’d pressed his speed dial to call Lila.
No use putting off misery. Might as well start the recovery process as soon as possible.
“Michael. Are you hungover again? That’s not an acceptable way to show up at rehearsal, especially not today.”
“What? No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Jesus, was he really that bad or were the people in his life just excessively par
ticular?
“Just checking.”
“I’ve only shown up to rehearsal hungover twice.” He pinched a little harder. “Okay, maybe three times, but opening for The Slayers? C’mon. That’s as good as it gets. Of course I was going to get loaded.”
“Right, and playing at the House of Blues tomorrow night is your biggest gig ever, even bigger than The Slayers. Logic dictates you probably trashed a hotel room last night.”
“Why would I get a hotel room when my apartment is nearby?”
“You tell me. Also something you’ve done before. Remember that Quincy girl? Diana, was it? Cost Ripper Records ten grand to bail you out of that mess, and that’s not even talking about PR.”
“I’m not fucking drunk, okay? I’m not with some random chick, and I’m not in a hotel room, trashed or otherwise.” He brought his fist down hard against the counter. Pain sang up his arm, but not enough to cause any real damage when he had to play the next night. Despite what everyone seemingly believed, he wasn’t some colossal screwup. “Christ, can’t anyone just give me a little space?”
“Sure. I can give you all the space you need when I stop caring about you. Except you’re the closest thing to a son I have, so—”
“You have your own kids now, ones who actually belong to you. Stop using me as a substitute, all right? It’s not necessary anymore. I’m a goddamn grown man.”
The silence that came over the line made him clench his throbbing fingers. “Li, I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean that. I know you mean well.”
“I’m overstepping.” Lila’s voice sounded stiff. “I get it. Sometimes it’s easy for the roles to get blurry between stepmother and manager, and I’m as guilty as anyone of losing focus. But let’s get clear about one thing. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my son. You were my son the day Martin introduced you and Mal to me, and you’ll be my son when you’re seventy-five and in the nursing home. Biology doesn’t make a family. Love does. Call me back when you remember that.”
For the second time in as many minutes, a line went dead in his ear. Except this time, he deserved it.
He pressed his fingers into his eyes. The day had already been a shitstorm and he hadn’t even gotten on his pants yet.
A shower. He needed a freaking shower, and maybe to jerk off until he didn’t remember Tabitha or Senator Dickless or anyone else.
He stripped off his sheet and got into the stall, then turned the spray to cold. He needed a good slap in the face, so until he got coffee, this would do.
Tipping back his head, he let the icy needles of water drive away the voices in his mind. Tabitha. Ryan. Lila. Especially Lila. He hated hurting her, but what she’d said had struck too close to home on the heels of Ryan’s comments.
Because he had it under control. He was done being that guy. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d done anything he couldn’t take back.
Yet.
He ducked under the showerhead and let the spray beat on the back of his neck. It helped pulse away some of the pressure there, but grabbing his dick would take care of the rest.
Fumbling for the liquid soap, he squirted some into his hand. He did a cursory pass of the important parts, then lubed himself up in short, fast strokes. He was in no mood to take the time to build. This would have to be quick.
He squeezed his fingers, pumping, letting out a hiss as his flesh swelled in his grip. Harder and harder, he worked himself, bracing his forehead on the arm he pressed against the damp wall of the shower. His balls drew up, tighter than his hold on his cock. Just another minute more—
Dimly, he heard his front door buzzer. Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses or girls selling cookies. Who the hell cared?
He was close. So damn close.
Another buzz, longer than the last. Someone was leaning on the damn thing.
They’ll go away.
Except they didn’t. The buzzes might as well have been someone slamming the hi-hats.
Clang, clang, you’re not gonna get to come, so might as well stop prolonging the torture.
Cursing, he turned off the water and yanked open the shower door. He pulled a towel off the rack and swished it around his waist.
“Someone better be fucking dead,” he muttered, slicking a hand down his dripping face and over his sopping hair.
He padded barefoot to the door, not caring that he was leaving a path of wet footprints across the floor. Probably yet another sign that he was out of control.
Shit, he was a hotel trasher, a pussy partaker, and practically an alcoholic, if his family and friends could be believed. What were a few damp spots?
Once he reached the panel beside the door, he pressed the button for the lobby. “Yes? Who is it?”
If the person had gone, he was probably going to throw something. It didn’t count as trashing a place if he owned it.
Hell, it probably did.
“Mike, it’s me. Let me up.”
Michael frowned. Only one person called him Mike and didn’t get a double barrel of snark in return. He’d always been Michael, since his days as a pretentious kid who hated nicknames. “Mal?”
“Yeah.” The response was gruff, as most things were from his brother. “C’mon, buzz me in. Pretty sure they think I’m trying to break into the place.”
In spite of everything, Michael laughed and released the door.
A minute later, he turned the knob and found Malachi standing on the other side of the threshold. Huge, hulking, tattooed, bald. His opposite in every way.
“Long time no see, little brother.”
Three
Malachi Shawcross, his older brother. In the flesh.
Giant flesh, but good goddamn.
“Mal,” Michael managed before he was swept up into a massive bear hug. He didn’t have much choice but to return it, or risk losing lung function.
Sweet hell, Malachi was one big motherfucker. Shit, it was great to see him.
Long time no see was an understatement. He hadn’t been this physically close to his brother in a year or two, though they lived in the same frigging state.
Born eleven months apart, they’d gone from being best friends to practically enemies after their parents had divorced. Malachi had sided with their mother, and Michael had been closer to his father. He also hadn’t had such a hard time accepting Lila in their lives. Malachi had blamed Lila for the breakup while Michael had taken it much more in stride. Somehow he’d known even at that young age that Lila wouldn’t have been able to come between two people who were truly in love. His parents had fought all the time, and once they were apart, things got better. Life calmed down, minus the fact that his older brother had started pulling away.
Lila had been a fun stepmom, always taking him to cool places like the zoo and her parents’ orchard back in New York. Through his dad’s marriage to her, Michael had gained another parent, one who wasn’t out mainly for her own interests.
And he’d repaid her for all those awesome years by making her feel bad. Yeah, he was winning all kinds of awards today.
Now his estranged brother was standing in front of him, and he’d be damned if he screwed this up too.
Maybe this would be the one thing that actually went right in a so far completely shitty day.
“Everything okay?” Michael asked as Malachi stepped back. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Me, Ma. We’re both fine.” The smallest glimmer of a smile twisted his mouth and disappeared just as fast. “Well, she’s not fine, but she’s healthy.”
“Aw, Christ, now what?”
When Malachi clenched his jaw, Michael held up a hand and paced over to the wall of windows. His balcony extended the length of the apartment, and he opened one of the French doors to get some air. A lot of air.
“Okay, lay it on me.”
Malachi dipped his hands in the pockets of his jeans. They were so worn that patches of skin showed through. The slashes weren’t for fashion though. Mal didn’t believe in such things. He ju
st happened to be a millionaire who wore his clothes until they were rags.
Mal pulled out a folded piece of paper and walked over to join him by the French doors. Wordlessly, he pushed it into Michael’s hand.
Michael opened the fancy card stock and read the first few lines. That was all he needed to shove the invitation back at his brother. “I’m not going.”
“I figured you’d say that.”
“Are you?”
Mal stared out the open door. “She’s our mother. What the fuck can I do?”
Michael’s gaze followed his brother’s to the shimmer of ocean in the distance, crystal blue with a scatter of pinprick diamonds on top. Light bounced off the high-rises across the street, reflected off dozens of panes of glass. But the million-dollar view didn’t occupy all of his attention. Nope, he was too fixated on how someone could take the institution of marriage so fucking lightly.
“Five times. Five goddamn times, Mal. How can we continue to support her? She’s clearly lost her damn mind.”
Mal crumpled the invitation in his giant fist. And said nothing.
He’d worked on cars before he could race them, then he’d turned to the illegal side of things. Michael’s mother had turned her back on what Mal was up to, both the crowd he was running with and the unlawful betting and racing he was doing, but Michael hadn’t been able to. That had been yet another bone of contention between them, and had driven one more wedge. Eventually, there had been too many to count them all.
They’d stopped talking to each other shortly after Mal’s high school graduation. He’d moved out practically the second he turned eighteen, and in the years since, they’d rarely spoken. They had conversations now and then at family events and on holidays, along with the even more occasional text. Michael had come to terms with the fact he’d lost the older brother he’d once idolized, just as he’d dealt with the fact his parents were both batshit crazy.
But now with Mal standing beside him, looking both so fucking familiar and so different that his teeth ached, Michael realized he hadn’t dealt with shit.
