by Cari Quinn
Dobby, the lead singer of Venus Rising, was on his knees, wailing out an Oblivion hit. He probably thought he was doing a good Simon Kagan imitation, but he so wasn’t. The guy had a wicked cold, and he’d been hacking and sucking down lozenges right before coming onstage. He sounded like a dying cat, and his dance moves when he made it up off his knees weren’t much better.
Mal kept his head down and just kept whaling on the skins. He had a job to do. Get in, get out. No thinking. No concerning himself with anyone but himself. This wasn’t his freaking band. He didn’t have to play politics or wonder if Dobby went down, what that would mean for the rest of them for tomorrow night’s surprise added-on gig.
Three nights with the same bunch of clowns. He was practically an honorary member by now.
Fuck, no. One band was enough for him, and he’d have to deal with them again soon enough.
A movement in the crowd caught Mal’s eye. A woman in a belly shirt held up a giant white sign that said “The Bronx loves you, Dobby!” Dobby flashed the peace sign to the squealing woman, but Mal wasn’t focused on her. At the next table, a very familiar sexy as fuck brunette with a sling was leaning up to speak to a man who had his hand on her good shoulder. At her side, a bouncy redhead pumped her fist in the air to the music and laughed at something the man said, raising her drink high before tossing it back.
Ricki held a drink too and she was steadily sipping while she listened to whatever the asshole at her side was saying. From this distance and in the darkness of the club, Mal couldn’t tell for sure, but he was willing to bet the dude was about two inches away from copping a feel.
Jesus, this woman was going to kill him.
It had been bad enough living on the bus with her and watching the men who came in and out. Not that many, really, all things considered, but even one touching her was too much.
But she’d come to his set. He didn’t know what to make of that. She hadn’t seemed into it earlier yet she there she was.
Probably figuring it was as good a meat market as any. Not that she didn’t have every right to pick up dudes. Just as he had the right to pick up women.
Tough nuts he didn’t want any.
The band moved from the Oblivion classic into some Stones and a few other derivative pieces before swinging into a song off their upcoming album. From what Mal had heard from the other guys, that album had been in the works for some time.
It wasn’t as if Mal had room to judge. Warning Sign’s album was still a work-in-progress. They’d dropped a single that had blown up—even more so after the shitstorm of a concert in Queens—and they had a few booked dates for one-offs, but they were firmly in album hell right now. Their hotshot new producer, Nash, was bringing an interesting new sound to the table, as was Luc, Molly’s new dude and recent addition as co-lead singer.
Luc had texted him twice since the show. He’d answered neither one. He liked the guy well enough, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Especially anyone in the band or associated with the band or a fucking reminder of the band.
Not when all he could focus on was who was still there—and who was gone.
Now the guy was touching Ricki’s hair. She’d left it long and loose and from this distance, it looked like he was playing with it and making her laugh. But she was still looking at the stage, her attention riveted despite her new pal.
Mal tried to look away. The vibration through his foot on the pedal and the clang of the hi-hats and drums with every strike should’ve been enough to occupy him. He was learning new material on the fly, and whether this was his place or not, it mattered. A crappy effort would never be adequate. Not for him.
Their gazes locked, and he kept playing, harder, faster, rising up off his stool for the flourishes he was known for with Warning Sign. He wasn’t supposed to be doing that here. This was strictly a low-key gig. No reason to draw attention to himself. But he flipped the sticks up and back into his hands anyway, crossing his arms and slamming the hi-hats as Dobby glanced back with an arched brow.
His expression wasn’t admiring. It was more like a silent admonition. “Hey, fill-in guy, remember this isn’t your gig.”
Oh, he remembered. And when Ricki went back to laughing with her new friend, he’d tone it down. Because he was doing it for her. Putting on a show to make her keep her eyes right where they were—on him.
Always on him, just as his were on hers.
The set ran long. At some point, he noticed Ricki and Teagan order another round of drinks. The first guy disappeared, then another couple of them took his place, crowding around the two women as if they were prisoners on a weekend pass. But Ricki was still watching him. Still laughing now and then. Definitely still drinking. But she wasn’t turning her attention elsewhere.
Eventually, Dobby held up his hands and made the signal for their typical closer. Mal played with about double enthusiasm of any other song thus far, though he skipped the stick tricks. His wrists were singing and his throat was raw from climbing out of his range. He was all too happy to join the others for their bows before running backstage.
He needed a change of clothes. Sweat was dripping off him, soaking right through his T-shirt. He’d just whipped it off and looped it around his neck when Ricki and her cute-as-a-button redheaded friend talked their way past security.
Mal saw Ricki giggle and flash her bra to the dude—if not more—and he barely managed to swallow a growl.
Christ, he needed to get himself in line. How, he had no clue.
Probably had to fuck it out with some anonymous babe. The kind who would be fun and wouldn’t expect anything after. Just a bounce in the darkness and on to the next.
Pity he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to get it up for anyone but the woman now sashaying her way over to him, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her sling and her walk way more confident than the trepidation that passed fleetingly over her face.
Her gaze dropped to his damp chest. Lingered. Then dropped even lower, practically lasering through his skintight leather pants to where his dumbass cock wanted to come out and say hello.
He cleared his throat. Now he knew what it was like for the other party when he checked out a female. Of course, he’d always known. He spent half his life on a stage and he wasn’t exactly considered ugly. But Ricki’s inspection was far more personal. And unexpected.
“Decided to show,” he said, bypassing hello.
Ricki nodded, suddenly gripping her friend’s arm and tugging her forward with enough force that the other woman winced. “Brought Teag. Teagan Daly, this is Malachi Sh—”
Mal held up a finger to his lips. “M. Cross,” he interjected, glancing at Teagan. “What’d you think?” he asked her friend.
He didn’t ask Ricki. Didn’t want to know. Not because he was scared. It wasn’t as if her opinion was vital.
“You were all amazing. You especially. Those flips and switches you were doing. You always kept the beat too. Rare. Lotta guys focus more on the showmanship and lose the rhythm.” Teagan’s gaze shifted to his chest and she licked her lips before looking up at his face again. “Impressive.”
“Thanks.” Mal wiped his cheek with his shirt. “And you, Crandall?”
So he was asking. So what?
Behind them, Dobby and the rest of Venus Rising was involved in a heated debate. From the sounds of things, the band didn’t think Dobby should go on the following night because his coughing and general lack of oh, showmanship wasn’t doing them any favors.
Dobby wasn’t having any of it.
Ricki trailed a fingertip along the cleavage revealed by her tank top, a different one than she’d worn earlier. This one had a lacy fringe over her breasts and along the hem. Drawing the eye up then down and over all the curves in between. “You know you’re exceptional.”
“Exceptional?” He cocked a brow, that brow only climbing higher as she laughed and leaned in closer to motion him down to her level so she could whisper in his ear.
“In all ways.”
He drew back, his eyes narrowing. Either she was pulling on his dick or she was flirting with him.
Then again, she had been drinking. Unless she’d taken something more potent than alcohol as a chaser.
Fucking A. He was tempted to lock her in a closet so he could keep an eye on her.
Not your job, asshole. She’s not yours. When are you gonna get that through your head? Also, she’s a grown woman. Makes her own choices.
You aren’t one of those choices. And never will be.
“She’s right for sure. Never heard of these guys before, M.” Teagan stressed the M, winking at him as if they were sharing a secret joke. She glanced around before stepping closer and lowering her voice. “Not your usual gig, huh?”
“A gig’s a gig.”
“Better not let Lila hear that.” Ricki shook her hair back, smiling at a passing tech carting a couple of guitars. “She owns you.”
“No one owns me.”
“Pretty sure that contract says otherwise. But don’t worry.” She flashed a smile at another tech, tilting her head so her hair fell demurely across one eye. “She owns me too. Not like I can do any side gigs either.”
It was probably the devil on his shoulder encouraging him. Or maybe he wanted to see if she’d ante up.
There was something else he wanted to see—what they’d be like on a stage together when it was just the two of them and strangers.
And the music. Always the music.
“I might have a gig for you actually.” He kept one ear on the loud conversation taking place a few feet away. “One night only,” he added as Dobby’s objections reached a fever pitch.
Ricki rubbed her fingers over her mouth. Her gaze was darting everywhere and she couldn’t stand still. If she was riding on just alcohol, she’d definitely had more than her share. “Oh yeah? What’s that?” She tapped her sling, laughing a little too loudly. “You know I’m gimp. Know that better than anybody, don’t you?”
Rather than answer her, he came up behind her and cupped her good shoulder, turning her around to head toward Dobby and his bandmates. They widened the circle to include them, but only by a few inches. Their welcome was narrow at best.
“Think they’re right, Dobster. Need to take a night off to rest your voice. And I have someone who can fill in for you on vocals.”
Under his hand, Ricki jerked. “Have you lost your mind? I’m not a singer. I don’t sing.”
“Liar,” he said easily, wrapping his other hand around the curve of her waist to keep her from bolting. “Who do you think has the bed closest to the shower? I hear you singing every damn day. Time someone else hears you too.”
She shook her head so vehemently that her big hoop earrings swung. She backed up into him, but he was about as mobile as a brick wall. The soft sound that left her might’ve been distress at what he was proposing. Or it might’ve been the collision between her tight little ass in stretchy pants and his hard dick trapped in unforgiving leather.
Deliberately, he held his ground. And held her right where she was.
“Who is this, exactly?” Dobby rasped, eyeing Ricki. “She’s injured.”
“This is…Ellie.”
Something about either the nickname or that it was part of constructing a lie—that they were nobodies just trying to snag a gig—made her gasp. Mal smoothed a hand down her good arm, unsurprised her skin was as baby soft as he’d always suspected. Damn plum lotion was already working its magic on his head, making it swim.
Hell, he could’ve gotten an erection from the scent of her alone. And that wasn’t even saying a thing about her scent, the intimate one he’d never know. The plum was bad enough. Dark and drugging and seductive with an innocence over it.
Much like the woman herself.
“Ellie, huh?” Dobby stuck out a hand. “You a friend of M’s? You ever sing before?”
“Yes,” Mal said, overriding her quick head shake. “She’s shy.”
“Shy, is it?” Dobby sneered. “You think that’s what our band needs?”
“A talented, sexy woman with stage presence fronting your shit? Yeah, hmm, that’s a no. Never mind. I can’t imagine how a band with that setup could ever work.” Mal took one step backward, drawing Ricki with him.
She was all too eager to go.
“Thank God,” she hissed. “Thought you’d gone nuts.”
“Hey there, Eddie,” Dobby said, moving forward. His voice sounded worse and worse by the minute. If he didn’t lose it entirely by tomorrow night, Mal would be shocked.
“Ellie,” she replied primly, sliding Mal a look over her shoulder. For some reason, he was certain she’d been called that before. It wasn’t a leap from Elle, but the look she gave him was weighted with more.
Maybe a man had called her that once. Could be why she’d chosen Elle as the name to use for her rebirth for the stage.
But he called her Ricki, because that was the name of her roots. And he wasn’t about playing games or fawning over new facades. Ricki was who she was at the core, not the pretty gloss she shined on top for people who didn’t know her.
Like you do?
“Ellie,” Dobby corrected. “What kind of experience do you have?”
“I’m not really applying for this position. I’m not a singer.”
Dobby rolled his eyes as if they’d colossally wasted his time. “Just as I suspected.” He blew out a breath. “Damn shame just about everyone thinks they’re a musician these days. Art is totally gone—”
Ricki straightened her spine and stepped forward, making Mal cough into his hand to hide a grin. “Actually, you know what, I’ll give you my experience. I’ve been in a band for a couple of years now. We have a crazy touring schedule when we’re not in the studio.”
“Oh, really. Now you’re in a band.”
“Never said I wasn’t in a band. I said I wasn’t a singer.” Her eyes unfocused a little as she glanced back at Mal, and his grin dimmed.
Her words were slurred too, just enough for someone to notice who’d made a study of her for the past couple of years. Whether it was alcohol or something else—possibly pain pills—he didn’t know. But there was more swimming in her bloodstream than earlier.
When she swayed back against him and he locked his hands around her waist, he was certain.
He was going to find out what she’d taken, and fucking set it on fire. Possibly with a blowtorch. Whether it was legal or not, whomever had prescribed it to her needed their ass handed to them. Recovering addicts couldn’t take just anything. If it was alcohol, he was going to have a stern talk with her bubbly little friend with the nervous tics. She was standing off to the side of the members of Venus Rising, brushing her hair back, shifting from side to side, fiddling with her clothes. And always looking over her shoulder.
Fuck, maybe Teagan wasn’t legal. Impossible to tell with most chicks these days. Hard to imagine she’d rented the apartment that Ricki was staying in if she wasn’t yet eighteen, but Ricki had mentioned a former boyfriend earlier. Could the age thing be why she was acting so out-of-sorts? She’d been fine at first but with every passing minute, she appeared more anxious.
If she was that edgy because she was surrounded by so-not-rockstars, he almost felt sorry for her. Talk about a lame first—and probably last—rockstar experience.
The more tense Teagan became, Ricki became more…loose. Uncoordinated. Flushed.
High. She was so fucking high, and well enough used to it to be able to function. He’d bet his life on it.
“So you don’t sing, hmm, but you’re in a band.” Dobby’s voice was almost down to a whisper, but he still managed a cocky grin that he aimed at his bassist. “What exactly is it you do? Stand around and look cute?”
Mal’s fingers clamped around Ricki’s waist, but she shot him a quelling glance. “I play guitar. Pretty good at it too, I’m told.”
“Oh, is that so. We’d have you play for us but rough break with the arm.”
She gave Dobby and the others a thin smile. “It’ll heal. Give me an address and I’ll send you a copy of our next EP. Even signed. Since you’re a purist and all, can’t imagine you’d be into digital.”
Dobby frowned and gazed past her at Mal. “She your girl?”
“No,” they both said simultaneously, though if anything, his grip on her increased.
He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever be able to let her go. Especially not when it seemed sometimes as if she might buckle without his support.
“Quick response there.” Dobby’s grin was just as quick. “All right, we’ll see what the doc says tomorrow. What the hell. If you fuck it up, I’ll look even better, right?” He let out a rasping laugh that no else echoed. “Pay is a portion of the night’s bar receipts and a percentage of the take at the door.” He coughed and blew his nose into a wadded-up tissue. “Small percentage. Not gonna get rich off this one, sweetheart, so hope your band is paying you better.”
The corners of Ricki’s mouth turned up. “I’m getting by.”
“Yeah, well, good for you. You got a number you can be reached at?”
“Use mine,” Mal said before Ricki could answer.
She shot him a glance, but he focused on Dobby. No, he didn’t know what he was doing. Not at all.
But he was doing it.
Dobby smiled coyly. “Called that one,” he muttered, tapping out something in his phone.
Ricki turned around and lifted her brows. “Hello, I have a phone. And I’m at Teagan’s not with you—”
“You were at Teagan’s,” he agreed. “You’ll be packing up tonight and staying with me for a few days.”
Bare minimum, until he made sure she wasn’t using. If that meant monitoring her 24/7, well, guess what? He just happened to have some free time just now.
Instead of raging at him, she let out a bawdy laugh. Oh, so high. He’d use her current state to his advantage if need be, if it meant she’d be safe. “You’re such a dick.”
“Your point?”
“This lover’s squabble is adorable. Can’t wait to see how it plays out on stage.” Dobby rolled his eyes then pointed at Mal. “If I can use her tomorrow, I’ll call you. If not, just you. Last night.”
