by Cari Quinn
And yeah, leave it to her subconscious to add that word two. She’d never see dating—or sex or any of its variations—the same way again.
But the fun wasn’t over yet. At least she was pretty sure it wasn’t, judging from the heavy stare she felt on her back whenever she lost herself in whatever song they were working on now.
It wasn’t a brand new thing anymore, the three of them. They’d had sex together in their own inimitable way a bunch of times now. In fact, since last weekend when Tris had made his remark about her not needing to spend the night, she’d spent the night two other times.
Yesterday they’d met for lunch. Except she had been the featured entrée, spread out on Tris’s and Sparks’s granite kitchen counter.
Afterward, she’d come back to rehearsal at the venue, face flushed, body wrung out, and tried to make sense of the chords and lyrics she knew by heart. Knowing all the while that Sparks would wander by when she least expected it and just watch her play while he made notes on his charts about wire placement and light direction and a million other things she didn’t understand.
The whole time, she’d have to fight not to tremble, just knowing he was observing her work. Of course, then she’d turn around and watch him as discreetly as possible. Studying the perfect swells of his ass as he crouched to adjust cords or eyeing the flex of his jaw as he spoke to his colleagues made her skin feel too tight and her heart race.
It was crazy. She’d never reacted that way to him before. For the better part of a year, they’d barely interacted. Once, they’d reached for the same quarter turkey sub during a lunch thing. She hadn’t been struck by lust from touching his fingers. Maybe a little curiosity after he’d shot her own of those sexy, heavy-lidded looks he now threw around like confetti, but not desire.
Now she couldn’t look at him and not want.
Not remember being naked in his arms.
In their arms.
The almost year they’d known each before the last few weeks paled compared to the intensity of their current interactions. Back then, they’d had some conversations here and there, along with a few rude comments she’d aimed in his direction that now made her feel guilty.
He wasn’t to blame for her hang-ups. Nor was it his fault that she acted dismissive every time fear took hold. As much as she fought against her upbringing, the minute she was stressed or worried—and anything having to do with fire was sure to make her panic—she reverted to her worst possible self.
If anything should have burned in that fire, she wished like hell it had been that side of her. That closed off, prickly ice queen who sounded suspiciously like her mother.
That woman had been the one who’d told the guys yesterday after lunch that she couldn’t come over that night. Rehearsal would probably run late, so it was better if she went home to her own place and slept in her own bed.
Tris had shrugged it off. Sparks had rubbed her shoulder and gazed into her eyes as if he could look deep enough to see what was really going on.
Good luck there. What was really going on was that she was getting in too deep. Too far, too fast.
Too much.
Two.
God, she was in deep with two men. Not one. Two.
So she’d slept alone, and awakened the same way. When she’d walked outside to get in her car, she’d found Sparks parked beside her, leaning against his car and holding a takeout white mocha latte and a breakfast sandwich. He’d gotten the call to come to the Wildwood Club today too, as they were doing some new lighting setup. What he’d worked on yesterday needed to be revamped, due to the setlist change-up that had come about as a result of the latest Mal meltdown.
Mal didn’t want to play their most recent single, the one that hadn’t hit it big at radio but seemed to be a fan favorite at shows. So what if it had a killer drum solo and drove the crowd wild? Sir Malachi said no, so they changed the songs and the light show that went with it.
She just frigging hoped he was worth all the headaches.
Including the one she now had at the base of her skull from three hours of trying to make music with these clowns. Her yummy breakfast and furtive hand-holding with Sparks before they parted seemed like a long time ago.
Especially since she’d barely seen him during the rehearsal. He was probably off working on the light board or doing crap with the crew she didn’t understand. Making sure everything was running smoothly.
That was always what he did, whether it was for the band or for her and Tristan. Always herding them in the right direction.
“From the top of ‘Exile’,” Michael said to Elle at his side, who nodded to West and Ryan. Ryan had pulled out his bongos for the beachy vibe of the song about a chick who’d had a rough breakup and exiled herself to a beach to heal. Mal flipped his drumsticks—probably more out of impatience than showmanship since he didn’t do many tricks—and started them off, backing off so Ryan’s bongos were more prevalent as Molly started to sing.
Complementing her, West played the Jamaican-flavored piano part of the song, making Juliet feel as if they’d dropped into a Tiki bar under the summer sun. The lights were hot enough, that was for damn sure.
She was roasting like a damn raisin in her tight jeans and even tighter blouse. But even for rehearsal she dressed like she would for a show, and she definitely tried to stick with her usual stage routines. This was work even if it sometimes seemed like play, and work meant getting into business mode.
Michael and Elle entered the song next, one playing rhythm, one playing lead, keeping the pace easy to match the lyrics. Juliet was last to come into the melody, and she fell into routine without thinking as Molly pranced around the stage and exalted about not needing a man to feel complete.
She had a feeling that wasn’t an idle statement for Molly. From what she’d heard, Molly had grown up way wilder than even Juliet, but she’d mysteriously tucked all her past away as if it had never occurred once she’d joined Warning Sign. Her older sister Jazz, Oblivion’s drummer, had probably helped Molly with her image makeover, but Juliet figured Mol was on borrowed time.
Secrets had a way of coming out. Juliet should know. She’d been dealing with them all her life.
Juliet scooted forward and hooked her foot around Michael’s ankle, dragging him back toward her. He laughed without missing a beat. This was their thing. Their spiel. They’d teased and rubbed against each other so much on stage that some fans had speculated they were a couple. Not so much anymore, since Michael was now a married man with a stepson and a baby on the way, but the rumor mill still occasionally worked overtime. Michael’s wife Chloe understood the stage thing and didn’t mind their show routine, but still, they tried to keep it all fun and lighthearted.
Though there was that one time Juliet had tried to grab his pocket and grabbed…something else. And the time when he’d turned his head to whisper a request to switch up the bass line and instead kissed her dead on the mouth. When the crowd started to cheer, there wasn’t much they could do but to play along and make it seem intentional.
But seriously, ugh, no. Michael was smokin’ hot and everything, but he was like her brother. No bueno.
He leaned back into her and cheek to cheek, they played their parts. He hipchecked her and she laughed, tilting her head as she focused on her fingers. She’d played this song enough times that she almost didn’t have to think, if not for the fact she was very cognizant that Sparks was somewhere. She could sense him nearby, could see him in her mind and the exact green grass shade of his eyes. Hell, she could practically smell his clean, soapy smell. He was in her damn pores.
Another breath and it was Tristan she could smell, spice and citrus. His were the wicked blue eyes she could see behind her closed lids. Beckoning her onto his lap while Sparks came up behind her and feasted on her neck. Hands wandering over her breasts, her hips, her pussy…
Shit. Her nipples were hard and her panties had gone damp in the middle of rehearsal. She huffed out a breath, blinking her eyes op
en to shake herself out of the waking wet dream she’d tumbled into.
There was someone off in the corner of the closed club. Someone in the last seat in the last row. For a second, hope surged.
Tristan. He’d left work to see her rehearse. Maybe he’d even have enough time to come backstage. She could find Sparks and they could—
Jeez, get it together. Fling, remember? You’re at work right now. This is what matters.
Not going for a threesome fuck in the nearest bathroom. Sure, they could try it, if she wanted to risk getting caught and kicked out of the band for not being serious enough. She wasn’t Malachi Shawcross, and she definitely wasn’t Molly McIntire. They’d been courted.
Wanted.
Prized.
She’d had to push her way into Warning Sign and hope like hell they didn’t find an easy reason to push her right back out.
Besides, the person in the back row was too slight to be Tristan. Even from that distance, when she blinked, she could see the person wasn’t very broad-shouldered. Male or female, she wasn’t sure, but they weren’t built like Tris, that was for damn sure.
Who was it? The club was supposed to be closed. Lila would pitch a fit if she found out someone who wasn’t supposed to had sneaked inside.
No supposed outsider was sanctioned. Not Tristan, not anyone.
Closing her eyes, Juliet turned her back to Michaels’ to do her typical shimmy as she rocked out on the bass. The music flowed through her veins, as molten as lava, and she let the rhythm force out everything crowding into her mind.
There was just this moment. Just the music. Just what felt good.
“Goddammit.” A crash of the cymbals had her eyes flying open to land on Mal. He was half standing, half sitting behind his kit, and he was snarling. “I can’t fucking keep time with his bongos pounding in my ears.” He flipped one of his sticks, and West had to duck so it didn’t nail him in the head. “Bongos. Seriously. What the fuck?”
“Bongos are a legit music instrument, just like your kit.” The always unflappable Ryan barely reacted. “If you’d rather, I could—”
“You know what I’d rather? Not to sit here all day rehearsing songs we’ve already done four thousand times. Maybe none of you have better things to do, but I do.” Mal stood up and saluted, before slamming his remaining stick on the drums and climbing down from the kit.
Juliet sighed and pulled her guitar strap over her head. She didn’t understand why Mal went postal so often. Not to mention she’d seen him throw his sticks several times only to come back and collect them later after rehearsal had finished. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect he was putting on an act.
Almost as if he wanted to get his ass kicked out of the band. But why?
“Damn, we almost made it through one whole song without a manstrual episode.” Michael shook his head and slung his arm around her shoulders. “With you and Mol and Elle, we just buy you extra chocolate. Not sure what would help with my brother’s issues.”
“A good fuck,” West said. When silence reigned, he shrugged. “Always helps me.”
“Yeah, and your left hand sent you flowers just last week.” Ryan rolled his eyes and pushed aside his much maligned bongos.
“Gotta say the man has a point. Never say no to a good fuck.” Michael grinned at Juliet. “That’s just logical, right?”
She laughed and shifted toward Elle. “What a guy thinks is good and what a chick thinks are two different things.”
Elle nodded. “Preach it, sister. Faking it doesn’t mean we want you to keep going.”
“And going and going and going…”
“Clearly, you two haven’t been with the right men.” Michael gave Juliet a loud smacking kiss, then offered the same treatment to Elle.
“So says every male.” Laughing, Juliet glanced toward the back of the stage, locking her gaze on the man standing off in the shadows.
The one holding a clipboard and staring right at her with killer green eyes. And this time it wasn’t just his irises that were colored that shade. His jealousy practically flattened her from a dozen feet away.
Holy shit.
Chapter Sixteen
Immediately, Juliet leaned away from Michael. She knew he’d just been messing around, and it meant nothing. They were just having fun, just blowing off steam.
But Sparks might not realize that. He probably hadn’t paid much attention to their rehearsals before. Maybe he hadn’t paid much to this one either, just come in at the end to see Michael with his arm around her.
And playfully kissing her.
God, everything was so new between the three of them. The rules hadn’t really been delineated. It wasn’t as if they’d talked about exclusivity, or even what was going on beyond sex.
Was anything going on beyond sex? That area kind of overshadowed everything else when it was that frigging good.
In any case, she should explain. She needed to tell Sparks it was just about having a good time—
She mumbled an excuse to Michael and detangled herself from him. Gripping the neck of her guitar, she rushed forward, skirting an amp. And then she was flying through the air, and coming down hard on her ass.
Her guitar hit the floor with a thud and pain sung through her hip. Fuck. She shook her head to clear it. What the hell had happened?
“Baby, you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
She sat up dizzily and stared into Sparks’s concerned face. “Aww, am I still your baby?”
She’d meant it as a joke, but um, she so had not used her indoor voice. Worse, her bandmates were crowding closer and Sparks was cupping her thigh in a manner befitting a man who knew his way around her body without benefit of a map.
Shit, damn, fuck.
“Let’s give her—them—some space. She’ll be fine. Just a little bruise, I’m sure.” West’s voice was stupidly chipper as he patted her on the back like she needed a Band-Aid. Or a lollipop.
Or something else in her mouth to keep her from saying things that made an already difficult situation even worse.
Secret threesome, remember? Try being secretive for a change of pace.
“Sorry, yeah, I don’t even know why I fell. I tripped over something. Probably my own shoe. Dammit, my guitar.” She started to scramble toward her bass guitar, stopping when Sparks laid a gentle hand on her knee and moved over to pick it up for her.
She watched, dumbfounded, as he ran his hands over it as carefully as he touched her before the passion that sprung to life so readily between them—between all three of them—took over. “Looks okay to me.” He gave her a quick smile before holding the guitar out to her. “Just added another scratch or two, but that only adds character.”
“Yeah.” She ran her fingers over the minute dings and dents of the wood of her most treasured Fender bass guitar. She had a couple she used for shows, and others she played on occasion, but this one held special memories.
Everything went back to Paris, in one way or another.
When Sparks held out his hand, she gave him back the guitar and he turned to set it on a stand. Then he shifted back to her and crouched to pick her up as if they were completely alone.
And she let him, because hell if she hadn’t begun to love how he and Tris manhandled her in the sexiest ways. Picked her up, nudged her forward or back, dragged her right where they wanted her to be.
It was always her choice to go. If she said no, they’d put her down or release her.
But she didn’t want them to. Not really. She liked being their center. Their focus.
“What hurts?” he asked, carting her backstage to where there was a small beat-up sofa. He set her down and nudged her over so he could sit on the edge of the couch beside her legs. When she winced at the jab in her hip, he ran his hands over her ass and thighs. “What’s sore?”
Right then? Her chest. He was just so insanely sweet. What could he possibly ever see in her?
“Just bruised my ass, and no worries there. I’m extra
padded.” She forced a smile and glanced over his shoulder to where a couple of her band members were clustered near the doorway. They pretended to be deep in conversation, but she knew they were really watching her and Sparks.
Damn gossips. Especially West and Molly. They were the worst. West loved finding dirt on people he could then torment them with later when he needed a favor. Usually something related to covering for him at band meetings when he was “indisposed”, which meant he’d spent the night with some lucky babe and had fucked her until she couldn’t walk. Or he couldn’t.
“You want some water?”
“Molly steals all the water for her throat, so there won’t be any left. I’m good though.” Juliet rubbed her fingers over her skinny jeans. There was a new rip along the outside of the leg that hadn’t been there before. Distressed was in, so that was okay. The bruise she could see blooming, however, wasn’t a fashion statement.
“You sure? I can grab—”
“Sparks, you carried me.” She kept her voice low, but it didn’t matter now. Everyone had seen.
That should bother her, right? This was a secret, all on the downlow. For once, her band had stuff to whisper about that wasn’t Mal-related. She wasn’t even really concerned, except for one thing.
It should’ve been three of them there, not two.
“Yeah, sorry.” Sparks scratched the back of his neck as he followed her gaze to her friends. “You don’t want this out there. I should’ve thought.”
“It’s okay. You’re so kind. Thoughtful.” When he wouldn’t look at her, she leaned up and cupped his jaw to bring his gaze back to hers.
Being caught wasn’t nearly as important as this.
“Why me?” she asked. “What makes a guy like you want someone like me? Everyone thinks I’m shallow. I was mean to you. I never paid you the time of day.”
“That’s okay. I paid you enough for the both of us.”
A lump formed in her throat, and she curled her fingers against his cheek. “I was blind. Fucking blind.”
