by Quinn, Cari
“Is that so?” When they were knee-to-knee, he reached out and pressed his fingers to the seam of her jeans between her legs. She gasped and rocketed upward so fast that her head bumped his chin. “Then you don’t need me to help you take the edge off?”
Her eerie purple eyes leveled on his. Damn contacts. “Don’t. I’m working.”
Sure, she was working. Too bad he didn’t have anything else to do. Except this.
He pressed harder. “Don’t feel like playing with me today?” He leaned in and dragged her bottom lip between his teeth, pulling until she moaned. “Afraid he’s going to find out?”
She twisted away as if she could see Gray through the wall beneath the glass that faced the main rehearsal area. And that was all the answer he needed.
He rose and hit the button for the curtains that blocked the glass. Maroon drapes slid over the pane, caging them in the humid dark. Jazz’s breathing audibly accelerated and his heartbeat thrummed in time, as if they were connected. He circled her and gripped her ass, nudging her forward until she grabbed the seat behind the kit.
“Simon mentioned me fucking you behind your drums. That never occurred to me, but I gotta say, I like the idea,” he murmured against her ear, keeping his voice beneath the range of the mic. The static hiss prickled over his skin, though she didn’t seem to notice. He pushed his nose through her collection of braids, finally latching on to the side of her neck with his teeth. “Wanna?”
He smiled as she fumbled for her zipper. “We only have a minute. Seriously.” She reached for his hand and levered it into the gap of her jeans. “Anyone could come—”
His fingers skimmed her slickened flesh and she stumbled into silence. “Someone is going to come. You.”
He thrust into her with just his middle finger, wasting no time building his rhythm. She was obviously just like the rest of them. Playing was like foreplay. Every minute working his guitar keyed him up higher and higher, like the hottest chick in the world was riding his dick with her mouth and never let him get off. Sucking just lightly enough to keep him aroused, but never giving him that release.
As much as he wanted to fuck Jazz—finally—there wasn’t time. So he’d mete out his revenge on Gray and his own locked-down libido on her sweet, swollen pussy.
“Bend over. Spread your legs.” Without waiting, he yanked her jeans to her thighs and parted the cheeks of her tight little ass, rimming her back there too just to hear her whimper. So fucking innocent.
Jesus, she made him hot.
He eased his hand lower, back to the warmth that called to him. Sinking his finger inside her again, he used his other hand to toy with her breast through her revealing top, finally going in over the neckline to tug out her tight nipple. It was cool in the studio, the air conditioning pumping almost as hard as her breathing and her heart-shaped ass against his straining cock.
His mouth covered her ear again. “Do you imagine me doing this to you while you’re whaling on those drums? Do you remember my dick in your hand when you’re working the sticks? The way you pulled me in your throat and swallowed me down?”
“Nick,” she pleaded, her forehead banging against a cymbal and sending it clanging.
He smiled and pressed harder, rubbing her piercing with his free fingers and tugging on her bared nipple with his other hand. God, he wished there were some mirrors in here. He’d love to see her bent over her drums while he did her like this. “Almost there, baby.”
She moaned and his satisfied smile grew. Take that, you motherfucking band-stealing piece of shit.
Then she squeezed him, rocking into his strokes and gasping her pleasure, and he forgot all about Gray and the studio.
She was his guitar, and running his fingers up and down her slick seam to coax out her sounds of delight moved him as much as any piece of music.
Pushing her farther down against the seat, he murmured encouragement in her ear. “Use me to get off, baby. Come on my fingers. You can do it.”
She arched, her spine locking, her glittery purple nails raking the seat. Her body jerked, flailing so wildly that he felt like he’d caught a fish at the end of a hook. Except this one was wriggling for more, not to get away. He impaled her with that one single finger again and again, surging deeper then finally swiveling and holding as the pressure in his balls built until he was a second from orgasm himself. She broke underneath him, her wetness drenching him, her snug heat pulsing while she moaned and panted and begged.
“Beautiful.” He licked the damp side of her throat, unsure if the moisture was just from his mouth or her sweat. It tasted salty and sweet. A chocolate-covered pretzel soaked in sparkles, that was his Jasmine.
Even if she wasn’t. His.
“Was it good for you?” he teased, pinching her hip.
When she twisted around to punch him, he chuckled and darted back. He’d just managed to tug up her sinfully tight jeans when the door swung open and Jackson Miller’s broad frame filled the space.
Fuck.
Nick opened his mouth to explain. They couldn’t lose this gig before they even knew if they had it. This studio thing had been a trial run to see if they would work for the soundtrack—and if Jackson would work for them. Jazz was too busy trying to fight her breast back into her top to worry about lost deals.
He was worrying a little too late. Whoops.
Nick backed up to the table and slapped a hand on the mic behind him, turning it off. “Look, man, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
Jackson waved him off with a wide grin. “So I guess this means the rumors are true?” He circled his pinky, clad with a giant gold initial ring, between Nick and Jazz. He held up his smart phone with the other hand. “I was just checking out the latest YouTube vid someone snapped of Oblivion at the Rhino, and lo and behold, what do I find? A link in the comments to another vid of the encore.” Jazz glanced at Nick and he shrugged, as clueless as she was. “You two kissing is all everyone’s talking about in the comments. There’s all this buzz about Oblivion’s Romeo and Juliet.”
“Huh? Who’s killing themselves?” Nick pushed a hand through his hair. “Look, never mind that. When can I get my guitar back into the studio? I have some ideas.”
“Never mind? Soundstages one and two just got treated to the sounds of Jasmine—” Jackson coughed delicately while Jazz went bug-eyed.
“What the hell do you mean?” As she caught Nick’s guilty expression and mentally connected the dots, she grabbed the sticks she’d tucked next to her kit and pointed them at Nick. “You fucking bastard. You did that on purpose.” She advanced on him, sticks out, and Nick held up his hands.
Whoops number two.
Jackson stepped smoothly between them. “Now, kids, relax. This is a good thing. Whatever Nick’s motives for, ah, broadcasting that, it’s exactly the missing ingredient this song has been needing. There’s an erotic element to the film, you know.” He glanced between the two of them, his cheeks turning pink. “I don’t suppose the two of you would be willing to do another ta—”
“No,” Nick and Jazz echoed in unison.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, we’re sure. That’s crazy,” Nick muttered.
“As crazy as you setting me up like that.” After giving Nick a hard shove, Jazz pushed past Jackson into the hall.
“I don’t know if someone taped that somehow, but destroy that track,” Nick said to Jackson. “I’m not kidding. It was a stupid move on my part, and completely unprofessional to boot, but it’s not going to be part of a song. Any song. Ever.”
Nick followed Jazz, only to find the rest of the band waiting in the hall, minus Gray. “Good performance, man,” Simon taunted as Nick passed.
Nick shook his head and kept going, his gaze trained on the flash of pink and purple blurring up ahead. He’d need an even better performance to convince Jazz he wasn’t a complete asshole.
Good luck on convincing himself.
* * *
Nick kicked back on the couch an
d channel surfed. Wrestling, news, porn, soccer, a weepfest talk show, then finally, real man’s television—Beavis and Butthead on the classic cartoon channel. In his lap he had a bag of cheese puffs, which he crunched into with enthusiastic vigor. He didn’t have any cash to spare on dinner, but he’d snagged these from the break room at the studio. If he never got to freaking play there, at least he could swipe their junk food so he wouldn’t starve to death. Tomorrow he was bringing his backpack to load up.
His phone buzzed and he picked it up long enough to see the caller was his sister, not Jazz. He’d deal with Ricki later. He could only handle one angry female at a time, and telling Ricki that she wouldn’t be getting her rent money for a few more days would not go down well.
Why did he even care? His dad sure hadn’t given a fuck when he’d pushed Nick out the door at seventeen and told him not to come back. It was a line he’d stuck to until he’d gotten hurt on the job and started counting on Nick to pay his rent. Ricki had never left, staying with their dad because he “needed” her.
Right. The only thing Nicholas Crandall Senior needed from his kids was weed and money. In that order.
With a sigh, he dropped his head back on the arm of the couch. Still no response from Jazz. He’d texted her multiple times and even left a voicemail. Nothing. He wasn’t surprised, really. They’d gotten through the afternoon at the studio, but it had been strained. Even Simon and Deak had been sullen and mechanical. They were probably wondering about the fallout to Nick’s latest massive screwup.
If it was any consolation, he was wondering too.
The mic thing had been an incredibly dick move. So what if Gray got into the studio ahead of him? He’d get there. They needed guitars in the song. His guitar. It wasn’t as if he really relished playing in front of everyone anyway. He wasn’t looking to bust his pipes like some male version of Mariah Carey either. The vocals were just a means to an end to him.
Let Gray and Deak and Simon sing. In the meantime, he’d try to get his head straight without the distraction of Jazz, who smothered a lot of his stage fright and stirred up a bunch of other crap inside him he wasn’t ready to face.
He liked her. Not just screw-your-brains-out-until-you-can’t-stay-upright liked, but genuine affection for more than her naked body. Which he still had not seen, and now probably never would. He didn’t intend to start drawing hearts around their names, but it would be nice to hang with her away from the band. Maybe go to dinner or something. Or a movie. When he could afford those things.
Never was the first available date for that to happen.
This was why he stuck around babes with low expectations. He had nothing to offer. A waiter/band boy/son of a druggie/brother of a drug pusher was no one’s good bet. And he’d proven it to Jazz by getting her into a band fight the night she’d been caught blowing him, then getting her off in a closet, then turning on her mic during an orgasm at the studio.
His classy side was definitely not showing.
He’d have to stop calling Simon a douche, because that title was now officially his. If he had any money left for beer, he’d toast himself.
Sick of his thoughts, he tossed aside the cheese puffs and crawled off the couch to go take a shower. Fifteen minutes later, he was back on the couch again in his ripped pajama pants with a bottle of some foul shit of Deacon’s he’d found in the back of the fridge. He’d just settled into more cartoons when a couple knocks sounded and the doorknob turned.
The guys were finally back. Maybe they’d even brought some real food.
He sat up hopefully. “Hey, you got any—” He fell silent at the pink and purple head poking into the basement. Shit. “Oh, hi. Come in.” His stomach—and the area below his waist—jumped as Jazz stepped inside. “I’ve been calling you all night.”
“I know. I wasn’t ready to talk.” She shut the door. She looked around the messy, spartan living room as if seeing it for the first time then skirted the coffee table crates and took a seat near his feet. He’d pulled his legs up nearer to his chest in case she wanted to sit, but it still kind of amazed him she was willing to get that close to him after his insane stunt.
He took another drink of the blueberry crap of Deak’s and set the bottle aside with a grimace. It wasn’t the protein shake stirring up his gut. After he got used to it, the stuff really didn’t taste that bad. Nope, it was nerves. Plain and simple.
Little Jasmine Edwards made him nervous as fuck.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, staring hard at the side of her face as she gazed down at the hands she’d clasped in her lap. “I have no defense for what I did.”
The delicate line of her throat bobbled with her swallow. “Are you just messing around with me to get at Gray?”
“Are you?” he countered.
“No.” She looked him dead in the eye and lifted her chin. “I don’t have any reason to hurt him or make him jealous. It’s not about that with us. He just gets overprotective—”
“Jazz.” Nick reached for one of her soft, cool hands and wove his fingers through hers. She was so small. So breakable, if he wasn’t careful. The hell of it all? He had a sneaking suspicion she might be able to break him too. “He told me it was more than that. At least from his side.” The last part he added for his own benefit, not Jazz’s.
There was no mistaking her shaky exhale. “What exactly did he say?”
Nick wanted to tell her. He really did. That would be the right thing to do. But since when had he played by the rules?
“You have to see how he looks at you,” Nick said instead, forcing back the words that weren’t his to say. It was up to Gray to man up enough to tell her his feelings. He’d be damned if he did his dirty work for him.
She swallowed again and curled her fingers tighter around his. “What do you see?”
“He wants you. He…” Fuck it. “He loves you. And not as a brother, not even in any of those places where brother and sister get way too close.” Her laughter surprised him and teased out his smile.
“I still think you’re reading more into it than is there. He’s had all these chances to tell me and he never has. He doesn’t say jack to me. He’s just possessive.”
Nick grunted. “Possessive. Right. If I didn’t basically dislike him on principle for hijacking my band, I’d dislike him more for making me feel guilty over you.”
“I know, I know. You want to fuck me. We colored in those pictures already.”
“We haven’t colored in that picture. I’d remember, I’m pretty sure.” When she laughed again, he turned over her hand and traced a circle on the inside of her palm. “You grew up together. You and Gray.”
“Since we were teenagers, yeah. His parents took in fosters, and I was one of them.”
“So you guys got close?”
“Yeah. Gray was different back then. Not the way he seems now. He used to crack jokes constantly. No one could make me laugh like he did.” She wrapped her free arm around the knee she pulled up to her chest. She couldn’t seem to stay still. “We used to sit in the backyard and play together for hours.”
“With or without clothes?”
She didn’t laugh. “Him on his guitar, me on mine. I played that and the keyboards before I moved on to the drums. His mom got me my Sonor. I couldn’t believe she’d bought me something so kickass.” She smiled wistfully. “He’s the one who encouraged me. I hated going to class, so he helped me study. When I didn’t have a date for the dances at our fancy prep school because everyone thought I was weird with my lime green Kool-Aid-dyed hair and my obsession with band, Gray took me. He was my best friend.” She shook her head. “Is.”
Part of Nick wanted to hear more. The storyteller in him could never resist a good juicy tale, and he suspected this one had some bite. But this time he was more involved than he usually was when he was pretended to listen to his friends’ stories, all the while mentally mining what he could use for his next song.
“What happened?” he asked as Jazz’s hand clamp
ed tighter around his. Her grip was truly a thing of beauty—until she started squeezing the life out of his fingers. “Why did he change?”
“There were a couple reasons, I think. Maybe more than I know. It’s not like he’ll tell me.” Restlessly, she rubbed their joined hands over her thigh. “Things were different when we were in Montecito. I lasted at Gray’s place a couple of years, longer than I’d managed to anywhere else. I always was that kid with behavioral problems, you know?”
Did he ever. “Yeah.”
“No one gave a shit about my past, how it had messed with my head. And Gray’s family seemed so great. They cared about me. Or at least that’s what I thought. They’re mondo rich and stable, but there were…other issues.”
“Like what?”
She pulled her leg underneath her and stared at some spot on the floor. “Gray’s older brother tried to rape me.”
“Tried?” Nick kept his voice steady. “He didn’t hurt you?”
“No. Gray stopped him.” She bit her lip. “Both times.”
“Jesus. And you wonder why the dude’s protective of you?”
“No, I don’t. I’m protective of him too. I would kill anyone who hurt him or even tried to—” Shaking her head, she shut her eyes. “He’s not how he used to be. Everything changed when we left his parents’ place together. He stopped being the funny, happy guy I knew. The one I loved. He suddenly started trying to be my father. Always watching me to make sure I didn’t do anything too wild or crazy. Getting mad at the kinds of guys I wanted to date, saying they were all assholes who only wanted one thing.”
“Well, hate to burst your Kool-Aid-colored bubble, sweetness, but they probably did.”
“You think that’s all I’m good for?” Her chin quivered and he felt like a first class dipshit. “A quick fuck?”
“Never said anything about quick,” he mumbled, pleased to see a smile creep across her mouth.
She toyed with the hole on the knee of her jeans. Poking her finger through again and again. Making it bigger. “When I met you, I knew he’d hate it if I started anything with you. But you actually talk to me. You see who I am. Gray just wants to keep me in a box. Safe. Protected. As good as dead.” She sighed and gestured to her lap. “Why do you think I got that crazy piercing? It’s not like I let just anyone down there, and a complete stranger pierced me. But I wanted to rebel so fucking bad.”
