by Cari Quinn
Nick sprawled on the sofa and grabbed his cig, flipping it through his fingers like the pick he’d thrown God knows where. “Maybe we should call Cinder.”
They couldn’t really spare the practice time on one of their marathon group sessions—more him and Simon than Deak, since their tenderhearted bassist preferred it one-on-one—but it’d be better to get their excess energy out that way rather than listening to all the constant bitching. Anything was.
Besides, it’d been a while since they’d had a woman over. And Cinder knew exactly what they all liked. The importance of a chick getting each of their unique preferences couldn’t be overstated. Plus Cin was low-maintenance. She’d fuck and she’d leave. Sometimes she even grabbed them breakfast on the way out.
Nick rubbed his growling stomach. A sausage and eggs special from The Rusty Spoon sounded damn good, matter of fact. If not for the lack of funds on his debit card, he would’ve told them both to go blow themselves and gone down to the diner to get some work done. One of the waitresses always gave him free refills on his coffee, saying she was supporting a budding artist.
Artist, yeah right. He just wanted to figure out the right key to turn to get some frigging notice for Oblivion. Well, notice beyond the occasional greasy pseudo manager-type that wandered through the Rhino and Kaleidoscope waving green. Luckily they’d never been dumb enough to take any of those dudes up on their offers.
“I’d be up for that tonight, actually.” Deak smirked. “Cinder likes variety, right?”
“Sure thing. Three for the price of one.” Waggling his brows, Simon returned to his club chair and reached for the remote. Apparently remembering Nick had unplugged the TV, he lurched back up and crossed the room to plug it back in. “Besides, unlike you two, I’m always up for a round. Or several.”
“Jesus. You never quit.” Deak pitched a pillow at Simon and flopped next to Nick. “Never mind. No can do. I forgot I heard she’s seeing someone.”
Simon sighed. “That sucks. She was perfect.”
The retro video channel popped back on screen. Nick shook his head at Joan Jett belting about rock and roll. No money for food and beer, but on demand eighties’ babes? Couldn’t risk losing those.
“Can’t you two clowns find anything better to do than watch women old enough to be your mother?” Nick demanded.
Simon grinned and plopped down on his stool. He spread out his long legs and leaned forward, his blue eyes riveted on the screen. “Older women know what they’re doing in bed, man. Let me have a crack at that sweet strip between her legs. I wouldn’t come up for air for like a century.”
They watched the rest of the video retrospective in silence, not counting Simon’s occasional reverent groans. By the end of it, Nick was definitely distracted, a fact that bugged him to no end. His mind needed to stay on business, not on rocker chicks in leather and lace. He couldn’t deny the truth—put a pair of drumsticks in a hot woman’s hands and he was putty on toast.
“I was good until Sheila E,” Nick muttered, fighting a grin as Simon clicked off the TV.
“You sure we can’t call Cinder?” Simon pouted, setting off a new round of laughter.
“No.” Deacon walked out and came back in, three beers held by the necks between his fingers. “But we can drink.”
“Last three, huh?” Simon asked, popping the top on his.
“Fridge is empty, bro,” Nick said, swallowing a slug of beer. “Which means we need to get busting our asses if we want to fill it with more than your moldy bologna and Deak’s eggs.”
Deak saluted them. “I need the protein.”
“Bullshit. How long you been saving yourself for your right hand again?” Simon tipped back his head, draining half his beer in one gulp.
“Excuse me for being more selective than you manwhores. Both of you would drill a tree trunk if the hole was big enough.” Deacon saluted them with his bottle. “And in both your cases, it could be a pretty small hole.”
“Oooh, he’s a comedian.” Nick kicked Deacon’s battered, humongous boot—and yeah, okay, the guy was packing, but he and Simon weren’t slouches—and drained the rest of his beer. “Can we possibly talk work now for all of ten seconds? In case neither of you Neanderthals noticed, I was trying to write a song until you launched your pussy marathon.”
“I wish I could launch a pussy marathon,” Simon muttered, groaning as he caught Nick’s stare. “Fine, fine. Shutting up now. Whatcha got, Boy Genius?”
The nickname rankled Nick, mainly because if he’d ever felt like a boy genius it sure wasn’t lately when he couldn’t seem to get a single song on paper that he didn’t think sucked large. Sometimes they went down okay during the writing, but sure enough, after he’d sobered up and gotten some sleep, his middle of the night poetic ramblings seemed trite and bland. And worse, not commercial enough.
He hated those three fucking words, and what they meant for his checkbook situation.
“I have nothing.” Nick dropped the empty bottle beside his hip and shut his eyes as it rolled off the sofa and onto the threadbare carpet with a barely audible clink. “I’m so damn blocked even an enema couldn’t unclog me.” The soft sounds of Deak’s bass made him open his eyes to find both of his bandmates steadfastly not looking at him. Simon was playing with his phone, Deak his instrument. “Hello? Either of you listening? I could use your help here.”
“Really? Since when? Every time we try to sit down and brainstorm with you, you shut us down. Then you claim we’re not focused.”
Nick stared hard at Simon and contemplated how Oblivion’s lead singer would look with half his head shaved. Simon had taken to tying back the top half of his long dark hair to keep it from turning into a rat’s nest, but right then Nick was appreciating the style for how quickly he could disfigure the bastard. Simon’s hair was his prized possession, other than his Gibson.
And his cock.
“You haven’t tried to write with me in how fuckin’ long?” Nick asked in a low voice. So maybe it wasn’t that long, and he’d probably been obnoxious the last time Simon had tried to get something going. But they’d been all out of sync and the guys never seemed to want to put in the time he did. “And you know Deak doesn’t write lyrics—”
“Why don’t you stop assuming you know everything and ask us what we can do?” Simon shot back, tossing his phone on the coffee table and jamming his fists under his biceps until they bulged. “The whole Snake situation proved you wrong there. You didn’t have a fucking clue what he was putting up his nose because you were so busy policing the music. That’s all that matters to you.”
“Damn straight that’s all that matters to me, and it should to you too. Do you two fuckers really want to be living beneath a damn laundromat for the rest of your lives?” Nick snapped his last cigarette in half. Like hell he’d use that as a crutch as he used too many other things. “And we wouldn’t even be here if Mrs. Martine didn’t have a soft spot for broke ass bastards with dreams. Newsflash, Bret Michaels wannabe, dreams don’t pay the bills.”
“We’ll start booking bigger clubs on the Strip soon. You gotta give it time. We—”
Nick swung his gaze to Deacon in disbelief. He didn’t know if Deak actually believed the shit he shoveled or if he was so used to handing them positive reinforcement he didn’t even know what came out of his mouth anymore.
Letting out a brittle laugh, Nick shoved the halves of his cig into his pocket. He might just be desperate enough later to try to light up. “You can’t be serious. We’ll be lucky to just hang on the way we’re running right now. One good thing about not being that known is no one will bitch much if we change things up a bit.”
“Which is good, since we were never about those hardcore ballads you keep trying to write.” Deak sighed. “We’re not fucking Air Supply, but without a drummer we didn’t have a choice but to try something new.”
Nick jabbed his fingers into his burning eyes. Everything always came down to Snake eventually. Nick had grown up with the guy, and he’d pr
obably taken his leaving harder than the others.
Correction—he’d been the only one to even notice. Deak and Simon didn’t seem to care.
Maybe it made him a sap to want to honor the guy who’d been there almost since the beginning, the one who’d even given the band their name for fuck’s sake, but he believed in loyalty. In respect. It wasn’t like he had crowds of people at his back, so he’d damn well offer his support to those who’d stuck out a hand when he needed it.
So, no, he wasn’t forgetting Snake. Not now. Not ever. Since his ability to write girly crap was basically nonexistent lately, the ballad route obviously wasn’t going to work out. They needed to get someone to fill in behind the kit. But as soon as Snake got his shit together, things would get back to normal.
“Yeah, ballads are our best choice without a drummer. If I could figure out how to write them,” Nick tossed back, his voice equally soft. His temper was hanging by a thread, and his grip was sweaty. “Everything else is D.O.A. We’ve tried the balls-to-the-wall anthems, the crazy epic jams with me and Simon dueling till our fingers bleed. Nothing’s caught. Maybe nothing ever will.”
“Stop it.” Simon punched his shoulder, hard. “You’ve never been a defeatist. It’s one of the few damn things I like about you. Don’t take that away from me too.”
It made Nick smile, when he’d been sure he couldn’t. “Once I get some sleep, I’ll be better.”
He hoped. He’d had two days of back-to-back double shifts at the bar, followed by three hours of sleep interrupted by the sounds of squeaking bed springs from the other side of the wall, courtesy of his lead singer and the latest young thing Simon had picked up. Young thing had wanted to see where the “rock stars” lived, so Simon had brought her home for his nightly performance. Nick’s ceaseless pounding on the peeling Sheetrock to get the two of them to tone it down—or switch fucking positions—had gotten him nothing more than sore knuckles and a raging case of jealousy.
“Yeah, work on getting some, would ya, Nicky?” There was no mistaking Simon’s sly grin. Or his double entendre. “You’re a bear lately.”
“And whose fault is it that I can’t get any? Sleep?” he clarified at the laughter Deak smothered in his fist.
Their biggest mistake had been giving Simon his own bed while Nick and Deak took the bunks. Simon had campaigned loudly for the area Snake had vacated, claiming he couldn’t do the couch anymore because the back bedroom’s higher humidity helped his voice. Total BS, but Simon had gotten his way. The thin mattress he’d claimed probably had heel grooves from his parade of chicks.
Simon only grinned and pulled his hair out of its band. “So not saying sorry for that.”
Nick grinned back. “I wouldn’t either. What was her name? Hailey? Nice ass.”
“Nice everything, trust me.” Wolfishly, Simon licked his lips. “You need something else besides sleep. Stop making us pay the price for your self-imposed dry spell.”
Nick pulled out the creased paperback he’d shoved under the couch. He’d been reading about Tibetan monks in between cursing Simon for not having his interest in refining his creative abilities. Or not being so goddamn stupid as to try to go cold pussy—much worse than cold turkey—when they were already down a band member and up shit creek. “It’s a well-known fact that personal denial leads to—”
“Murder, plain and simple.” Deak rubbed his scruffy jaw. “You’re two more nights away from lopping off Simon’s head. Either of them.”
“Have mercy.” Simon grimaced and cupped his notable crotch. “He knows not what he drills.”
Nick couldn’t help laughing. He really did love these guys, and it wasn’t fair to be putting all his recent feelings of inadequacy at their doorstep.
Could be he just needed to get laid and forget all this for a night. It had been way too long since he’d vented his frustrations. His work was starting to suffer for it. His real work, not the tables he waited for peanuts at The Fit Fiddle.
Getting laid was sounding better and better.
He rose and grabbed the keys he’d thrown on the end table. As an afterthought, he checked his wallet was equipped for the night’s events. Two foil packets were wedged in next to his last twenty. He was good. “I’m heading out.”
Simon laughed and got up to slap him on the back. “Atta boy.”
Nick glanced at Deak as he set his bass aside. “You wanna come with? You could use a roll too.”
Simon grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt off the chair and pulled it on. “Yeah, a roll would be good. I’ll second that.”
“Jesus.” Nick laughed and shook his head. “Partying and women. All you care about.”
“Not true,” Deak said quietly, drawing Nick’s attention. “He cares about the band, just like I do. And he’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep it going. Even if that means changing stuff up.”
Simon’s head whipped toward Deacon. “Not now, man. He’s taking off.” Then lower, he added, “Let him go.”
Nick’s gaze swung between them. The two steps he’d been from the doorway might’ve been miles. “What’s going on?”
“No big deal.” Simon gave him an easy, clearly fake smile. The guy thought he was smoother than a seashell, and he usually was. But Nick had known him way too long. “It’ll keep until you get back.”
“No, it won’t.” Deak stood and pushed a hand through his hair. “You said something earlier about me not wanting to work on this stuff. You’re wrong. I write, just not for Oblivion. And you know why that is, I think.”
Though Deacon didn’t say more, it came through loud and clear.
Because of you.
Nick’s lips clamped down on the words he wanted to spew. “What the hell is this? You two ganging up on me?” He dropped his wallet, his plans for the night going up like the smoke he’d surely fucking need now. Too bad he relegated getting high to special occasions. Side effect of having a druggie dad and sister. “Plotting behind my back?”
“No. Take it easy.” Simon shot a glance at Deacon. “Thank fuck you normally don’t take sides. You’d cause a damn nuclear war.”
“Start talking.” Nick narrowed his eyes at Deacon first, then Simon. “Now.”
Deacon looked away from them both and spun the Celtic ring on his left middle finger with his thumb. “Look, I’m not good at this subterfuge shit. He’s right. I probably should’ve come to you, but I didn’t think it would come to anything. It was totally random that I met this guy at the Rhino. He just started doing gigs there too.”
Nick bit down on his tongue until the flare of pain quieted his urge to rage. He’d be damned if the guys had secret meetings behind his back because he was such a freaking loose cannon he couldn’t be trusted. “And?”
His big shoulders hunched, Deacon scrubbed his palm down his jeans. “Just let me say one thing before you lose it, man.”
Nick nodded stiffly. Acid and bile burned the back of his throat as rank as a skunked beer.
“Some of us are willing to do whatever it takes, even if that means making sacrifices.”
“No one is more invested than me. No one,” Nick muttered. “Tell me your idea.”
“It’s not an idea. It’s a way out.” At Deacon’s glance, Simon nodded.
“Just say it, Deak. For fuck’s sake.”
Deak cracked his knuckles, again looking at Simon. “Sometimes before the club opens Phil lets me fuck around. It’s good to have another place to practice so we’re not on top of each other all the time, yanno?”
Nick said nothing.
“So this guy I met asked if he could sit in with me. I didn’t even know his name at first. Next thing you know, we’re jamming together every day.”
He went somewhere else to practice? What, wasn’t this place good enough anymore? Yeah, so the acoustics in the laundromat weren’t the best. True, they had to store equipment in the basement and in the van, not to mention tucked away in corners of the Fluff and Fold. But that was their system.
Rath
er than speak, Nick let his glare do the talking. Anything he said now would likely be laced with an expletive cocktail and he could tell from Deak’s rigid posture he would just shut down. So Nick waited him out.
Deak stood, then shoved his hands into his pockets as he paced the room. “He’s good, man. Really good.”
“A guitarist?” Nick glanced at Simon. His arms were crossed again, his eyes unfocused and blurry. He’d been hitting the bottle hard lately. “You quitting, Pretty Boy?”
Simon’s gaze slammed into Nick’s. “Hell fucking no.”
“And I’m not quitting, so by my math that means we already have two guitarists and a bass player. What we need’s a drummer, not another stick man.”
Undeterred, Deacon plowed ahead, still pacing. “When I say good, I mean incredible. Seriously.”
“Oh, well, excuse the fuck out of me then. Show me where to genuflect.”
Simon laid a restraining hand on Nick’s arm. “Hear him out, okay?”
“He has a drummer.” Deak sat on one of the coffee table crates and spread his long legs wide, hanging his arms between them. His face radiated sincerity and hope, and for that alone Nick wanted to give him a black eye. Maybe two. “In fact, he won’t join us if the drummer’s not part of the equation.”
“Join us? That sounds like he’s been invited to.”
“He has,” Deacon affirmed quietly.
Nick stepped forward and balled his fists. “Who the hell gave you the right to make decisions for my band?”
Simon grabbed him by the upper arms, yanking him back and speaking directly into his ear. “I did. Because it’s our goddamned band too, and it’s time you open your ears and listen to what he has to say. You want to save Oblivion? Then stop sabotaging it because of your stupid pride. If I can handle the idea of bringing another guitarist in, you sure as fuck should be able to. Remember who taught you to pick, dickwad,” Simon added, shoving Nick away.
Nick rubbed his shoulder, but not in pain. Simon’s shove had shook something loose in his brain, like he’d opened up a window and let in a sliver of light. “I haven’t forgotten.”