by Quinn, Cari
Simon backed into the door, dragging Cherry around to his front. “We’re going out there and we’re going to play our song. We’re going to burn it like Ted Nugent and Jimmy Hendrix were having a duel-off and blow the roof off this place. And you are going to frigging like it. Not because you want to, but because it’s your damn job.”
Nick just stared at him. His body vibrated with tension but nothing came out of his mouth. Either he couldn’t speak or he wouldn’t, and right now Simon didn’t care. He’d pony up for Nick’s therapy sessions later.
“Fine. If that’s how it is, stay in here and stew. Your choice.” Simon slapped a hand on the door. “Me, I got a show to do.”
Simon backed up and pushed out of the stifling little room. The guitar intro was at the edge of being too long. He strode down the hallway and back out to the stage. Deacon shot a relieved look at him and backed away from the main mic.
Simon shook his head, urging him back to finish the song. Simon’s mic was turned up louder than the rest and this needed Deak’s growling voice to be in the forefront. The duet format was new for them, but it worked. The sex and sin-filled lyrics were made for Deacon’s deep voice.
Simon curled his hands around the old school mic he’d found in a pawn shop. Broken shielding and cracks at the hinge didn’t matter when he closed his eyes. The faint distortion fit the song giving it a hazy liquid feel. The repetitive lyrics followed the slow pulse bass line.
He leaned forward at the waist and dragged every ounce of passion out of his belly and put it in the endless sighs of the song. The crowd disappeared, the anger dissipated. There was only the stage and the music and the lyrics.
Gray’s voice came in at the end of the song like an epilogue. Simon opened his eyes. The first reaction from the crowd was stunned silence, then finally thunderous applause. It built slow like one of Nick’s solos, the thud of stomping feet growing until it pounded in his ears.
Relief soaked his skin right along with the sweat. The magic he’d been aching for with every hour in the dank basement, every humid afternoon in the laundromat laboring over his shitty amp to get a song right. The fights, the disappointments, the lost songs had all been to get them here.
Simon leaned against Deacon’s shoulder and crossed his arms, his grin sly. Shows had an afterglow just like great sex, and he was going to enjoy the heck out of this one. He wrapped the cord of the fat retro mic around his wrist, letting it dangle at his side and grasped his usual mic stand.
“The boy thinks he can take my job. What do you think?”
The crowd freaked and Simon let his bottom lip poke out. “More love for the Demon than me?”
Deacon’s eyebrow raised and he laughed away from the mic then stepped forward. “I only sing on special occasions.”
Simon shrugged. “I had to pee.”
Deak laughed. “See? Special occasion!”
Simon hooked his arm over the top of the mic stand. “I like the slow stuff sometimes. Mostly horizontal times.” He rolled his hips in a slow, fluid motion and was rewarded with whoops and howls. “But I think I need it long and hard now, how about you?”
The deafening scream made him grin. He saw a flash of black at his side. Nick. Finally. The last of his nerves fell away.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he called to the crowd. “This one’s ‘Ripcord’.”
Five
Nick: How Bad Do You Want It?
I ache,
but it’s so sweet, this pain.
Bitter fruit, corrupting my brain.
He’d lived through his nightmare.
Tonight his stage fright hadn’t just threatened, it had consumed. He’d been just as helpless in the face of it as the rest of Oblivion.
All the mental self-coaching, all the nights Nick had white-knuckled it through the opening bars until the magic of doing what he loved squashed the nerves, all the overcompensating and posturing he’d adopted to hide his biggest weakness—it had all led him here, and he’d taken his band through the aftermath with him.
And they’d all survived. Thrived even, judging by the screaming and foot stomping still ringing through the club even minutes after the curtain had come down. The fans—they had fans—wanted an encore, and normally, they might’ve given them one, had they ever been in this position before. They’d never worked out an encore set. Usually people were too wasted to give a damn if they came back to the stage or not.
They weren’t too wasted tonight.
If only Snake were with them to see it. To hear that chanting crowd. He should’ve been the one with them on that stage, not Gray. Not Jazz. Even if they’d never managed to capture that lightning in a bottle when Snake was around, it wasn’t fair he didn’t get to know what it was like. But when was life ever fair?
“Dude, listen to that.” Simon was all smiles as he slung an arm around Nick’s neck, their earlier fight forgotten. If it could even be called that. More like Simon had thrown a verbal bucket of cold water in his face, and he’d stood there and gotten drenched. “We freaking nailed it.” He pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes and tossed a grin at Gray where he lurked on the sidelines like a ghost, his spritely better half standing on his opposite side. “Guess we need to come up with encore material, huh? Good goddamn, what a rush.”
Before Nick could ask who exactly Simon was speaking to, he’d already rolled off to slap backs and bump fists with Deak. Their bassist looked similarly starstruck. Nick had never seen his guys smiling so wide. Who could blame them? After his spectacular fail, they’d managed to come back hard and put an exclamation point on the night. The crowd had soaked up every guitar lick and had lip-synced their lyrics right along with them like they weren’t a bunch of local boys who sang as many covers as they did original material.
Maybe the others would forget how he’d clutched and run. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Nick wiped the smile off that he’d worn for Simon and Deak’s benefit and picked up his guitar, his only thought to get back to his shitty car so he could get his ass home. Simon would be on pussy patrol, and normally his relief that he’d made it through another show would have him doing the same. The adrenaline high after a concert left them all buzzing for hours, better than any hit of weed or alcohol binge. Only nicotine after really excellent sex could touch the post-stage afterglow, though tonight he didn’t even have the energy to light up, never mind look for someone to bone.
Unlike that bastard Gray, who had his woman right at his side. He’d never had that. Probably never would. Who would want to put up with his bag of crazy day in and day out?
Rather than stare at the guy who seemed to be the target of all of his frustrations lately, he strapped his guitar on his back and pivoted away, pushing through the crowd of people milling backstage, all of them just as pumped as Simon. A show like tonight’s was good news for the Rhino, and they all knew it. Business had been down lately, and the bar receipts would be excellent thanks to the concert. They might even get a portion of the tab going forward, if tonight’s success translated to other shows down the road.
Other shows. Right. Just what he didn’t need to be thinking about now.
Jazz called out his name a second before a hard shove hit him square between the shoulder blades. Nick spun around. Her face was the first he saw. Her eyes were as huge as ever, but her mouth curled as if she’d swallowed a slug of lemon juice. Then his focus shifted to Gray, who balled his fist at his hip in preparation for a swing. Of course.
“Look, can we do this another day?” Nick asked tiredly, unable to drag his gaze from Jazz’s frantic expression. He got that Gray was pissed at him—he could practically taste the dude’s fury even from a few feet away—though he didn’t know why.
It didn’t matter much, truth be told. Gray couldn’t be any more angry at him than he was at himself. Worse, disappointed.
He hadn’t just let himself down. That would’ve been bad enough. But screwing over his best friends? That was the kicker, and the root o
f the shame that boiled in his gut like battery acid. He couldn’t let this happen again.
Somehow he had to get it together.
“No, we can’t. I know you don’t like me and my girl, and that’s fine. You don’t have to. We’re here to do a job, and I’m assuming you are too. I don’t know what happened to you out there, and frankly, I don’t care. You’re only my problem if you touch what’s mine again.” Gray adjusted his hold on the neck of his guitar and Nick had the feeling he wished he had his hand around his throat instead. “Be very careful. If I ever see bruises on her again for any reason, you’ll pay. And I promise you, I’m a lot stronger than you think, Crandall.”
Nick stared after Gray as he whirled around to snatch Jazz’s hand and tug her through the crowd. Just before they disappeared, she looked back over her shoulder at Nick and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Nick pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. Gray played like a maniac, but apparently that talent made him loon crazy. Maybe that’s where his issues came from too. Seemed like as good of an excuse as any.
As for Jazz…no words. He hadn’t put his hands on her yet, and Gray should’ve been counting his lucky stars on that score instead of making him want to toss aside his admittedly shaky moral code to take a big, juicy bite out of his pretty little woman. He had his problems getting through a show, but he still knew how to fuck. Unless that became a spectator sport, he’d probably be okay for the foreseeable future.
Nick turned and shoved his way out to the parking lot, oblivious to the people who shouted his name and tried to get his attention. He’d save the socializing for Pretty Boy. That was more Simon’s speed than his, and besides, he’d become a liability, not a selling point for the band. They’d be better off if he holed himself up in his bed with headphones in his ears and the memories of tonight he knew he wouldn’t be able to scour out of his brain.
Five nights until their next show. Five nights for him to figure out how to straighten himself out.
He peeled away from the club with a screech of rubber, his foot jammed to the floor and the music on high to chase away the demons that screamed in his head. They never shut up. Even the spark of pleasure that he’d manned up and returned to the stage to do what he’d been born to couldn’t burn through them. Only his guitar and his voice mixing with Deak, Simon and Snake could drown them out.
And now there was Gray. And Jazz.
Punching the gas, he headed down the Strip, weaving in and out of traffic in a race with his inadequacies. They were gaining on him, and he could feel their hot breath on the back of his neck. If he slowed down again, they’d have him. He’d be damned if he gave in that easily.
He drove for hours with the warm, ocean-scented breeze pouring through his open window and Marilyn Manson blasting from his speakers. The louder the better. If he lost his hearing maybe he wouldn’t be able to hear those taunting whispers that told him he was about to be replaced, that he wasn’t good enough. That they’d found someone better than him. Someone who wouldn’t choke. Who wanted it more.
Hell no. No one wanted this more than him. He’d played until his fingers cramped and bled for way too many years to let some new punk ass kid stroll in and take his band away from him. No, not take. Tonight he’d handed it to Gray on a bronze platter. He might as well have given him a crown and a scepter while he was at it.
Not again. This was the first and last time Grayson Duffy would watch him melt down—or give him a lecture on touching his woman. If he wanted to put his hands on Jazz, that was between him and her and officially none of Gray’s business. Nick knew what running scared sounded like, and Gray’s irrational fear about him and Jazz smacked of desperation. Obviously things weren’t so happy harmonious in their little love shack, and he was blaming Nick.
He didn’t have a reason to. Yet.
The night was half gone by the time he pulled into the Fluff’s lot and cut the engine. He’d grabbed his guitar and taken three steps from his car when he noticed the small figure huddled on the low stone wall that bordered the lot, her wild tangle of hair lifted off her neck by what looked like a radioactive hairband. Either that or she’d swallowed a glow stick whole and was now operating on solar power.
The curse left his lips before he could shut it down. She jerked like he’d slapped her, sliding off the wall with a scuff of sneakers and a hiss of breath. “Hear me out,” she began when he just kept walking past her.
“Sorry, I’ve got a date.”
“With who?” There was no mistaking the indignation in her tone. Aww, Pinky cared. He was almost touched.
“With my hand and an industrial-sized bottle of baby oil.” He glanced back just to have the satisfaction of watching her blush and look away. Thank God the Fluff’s neon sign threw off a beam of red light, because he would’ve hated to miss it. “Now if you don’t mind—”
“Nick, wait.” She caught up to him and grabbed his arm, making a soft noise of distress as he shook her off. “Please.”
“Is that how you get him to do your dirty work? Just purse those big pink lips and bat your lashes and whisper baby, please until he gets on his knees and does what you want?”
For a long moment the sounds of traffic in the distance and a chirping frog somewhere in the high grass were the only noises. Then she slapped her arms over her adorably heaving chest. “My lips are not big.”
His laughter tore from his chest like a bandage being ripped away. “Whatever you say, Angelina.” He started walking again. “See ya on the flip side.”
“C’mon, Nick. I came all the way out here to see you. I’ve been waiting for hours. Can’t you even give me a couple of minutes?”
He hated that the plea in her voice affected him enough to stop. It looked like Gray wasn’t the only dick who’d been suckered by those sexy blue eyes. “You shouldn’t be out at night alone. Didn’t you learn your lesson earlier tonight?” He couldn’t temper the harsh edge to his tone, not when he thought about those two losers shoving her around. It wasn’t her fault it had happened, but she needed to be more careful. “Where’s your—”
“Don’t ask about him. Is that all we have to say to each other? Just where’s Gray or what will he think if he catches me alone with you?” She shoved a dangling curl out of her face and shook her head. “You don’t understand how we are. Hell, I don’t even understand sometimes.” She laughed softly, but it didn’t sound like she found their relationship funny.
He knew the feeling.
“You have to admit, he’s hard to ignore. And the fact is, you’re the one who’s with him. If you’ve got an issue with how he treats you, tell him. Don’t tell me.”
“That’s just it. I’m not. With him,” she said when Nick slanted her a look. “We’re not a couple. Never have been.”
Nick hated the flare of hope that bloomed inside him before he extinguished it with a dose of hard reality. Gray or no Gray, she wasn’t on his radar. He wouldn’t let her be. “Really.”
“Really.” She held up a manicured hand. Shit, even her nails sparkled as she waved her fingers. “I swear.”
Nick quirked a brow. If she was bluffing, she could run a con with the best of the hustlers on the Strip. “Uh huh. You might want to tell him that.”
“Honestly, I don’t even think he wants that from me, he just wants to see me safe.” She blew out a bubble before popping it with her nail. He hadn’t even realized she was chewing gum. “You don’t really know him yet, but he’s, uh, kind of stubborn.”
“You don’t say. He’s also really fixated on me. What was all that after the show about? He couldn’t have been that mad at getting to be lead guitar, so what was it? That he’s so frigging certain I’m sharking on you?”
“Sharking?” A faint smile touched her lips as she slipped off the shoulders of her fuzzy, way-too-touchable sweater.
He gazed at her upper arms, not getting it. “Nice baby muscles you got there. Been pumping at the gym?”
“Don’t you see the bru
ises?” Impatiently, she hunched her shoulders. “Look closer.”
He looked. The fingerprint smudges darkening her pale flesh made him clench his fists. “Those bastards.”
“I didn’t realize they’d bruised me. I mean, my arms kind of hurt, and there’s a spot on my hip…” She shrugged the sweater back on, though she didn’t do up the buttons. Beneath she still wore the tank she’d worn on stage. “Gray saw them the minute I came back inside. It was super hot backstage so I took off the sweater, not knowing they’d left marks. He freaked.”
“For once it makes sense.” He cursed and wished he’d paid closer attention to what those assholes had looked like so he could deliver a delayed gift the next time he saw them at the club. “I should’ve kicked them in the nuts with my steel-toeds.”
Her smile deepened, teasing out the hint of dimples. “Then run away really fast?”
Smiling back would be counterproductive, so he settled for gruff agreement. “Something like that.”
“There’s more.” Chewing on her lip, she tugged down her sleeves. “I sort of told him you did this.”
“Come again?”
“I might’ve said you were the one who bruised me. Accidentally,” she added hurriedly when Nick swore. “I said we’d gotten into it a little in the parking lot, arguing about the band. You pissed me off, I went to slap you, and you just moved me back a smidge too forcefully. That was all.”
“That’s all? You told a guy who already hates me that I roughed you up? Oopsie, sorry.” Nick locked his jaw. “You’re tiny. What kind of jerk would accidentally touch you hard enough to bruise?”
She drew herself up to her full height of five-feet-nothing. “I am not tiny, and I can take care of my damn self.”
“Oh, yeah, saw that earlier. Stand back, super ninja.” He shoved a hand through his hair then clutched a handful and debating pulling. “Jesus, Jazz.”
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t know what else to say. Gray’s so hotheaded about keeping me safe that if I hadn’t said it was you he would’ve been all over that club, searching for those guys. He works out, yeah, and really is a lot stronger than he looks, but he couldn’t take both of them down. Besides, what about the show? If he’d been consumed with searching for them, when the whole thing went down with you, he might’ve been off his game—”
