by Cari Quinn
Simon shrugged and dropped into a chair. Deacon sat in the other, but his long frame didn’t quite fit in the space. His damn legs didn’t fit anywhere.
“You guys were awesome tonight.”
Deacon leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “Thanks.”
“So awesome I want to sign you up for the next three weekends.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weekends in a row?” No shit. He knew they’d been good tonight, but not that good.
“My only issue is Nick.”
Simon stood, hoping desperately Phil didn’t see him sway. “What about Nick?”
Phil laced his fingers over his bony chest. “What was up with his disappearing act?”
“He—”
“It was part of the show,” Simon said over Deacon.
Deacon’s mouth shut with a click of teeth.
“Really? Looked like a meltdown to me.”
“Nah.” Simon forced his sluggish brain to focus. “Didn’t you see the people eat it up? They love that shit. Infighting and drama. Like we’re their very own episode of the Real World.”
Deacon shot him a look but caught on. “Yeah. We added a few new band members and thought some stage dramatics would be cool.”
“Well, it’s not.”
Deacon’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “Right.”
Simon wandered to the back wall and picked at the corner of a local punk rock band’s poster. “I don’t know. We certainly had the crowd screaming. I think we even brought in some customers tonight, Phil.”
Phil clamped his teeth around his cigar and puffed.
Damn, did he think he was some entertainment mogul? The shitbag ran one of the bottom tier clubs on the Strip. He had a receding hairline and a damn ponytail. The Rhino may have been a decent club in the eighties, but now it was scraping to get by just like all the artists who played there.
Phil put the cigar back in the ashtray, steepled his fingertips together and finally spoke. “Maybe. But I’ve seen a good night from just about every band that’s come in here. You guys have been working the opening act circuit for two years. There’s a reason for that. Even when you get the stage to yourselves, you never own it. Tonight was the first time you showed real promise.”
“Then why have you been asking us back?” Deacon asked before Simon could snarl a comment.
“Because you’re almost there. You’re good enough for an opening act and occasionally, when the timing’s right, a headliner.”
Good enough.
Anger thrashed around in Simon’s chest, just dying to come out in a rush of vile words and swinging fists. The corner of the poster he’d been toying with tore and he curled his fingers into his palm before turning very slowly and very deliberately until the wall hugged his back. He folded his arms, tucking his fists under his biceps.
Good enough.
What Phil meant was they were one level above sucking dick.
And he knew it.
The strangling, gnashing anger was dying to get out.
Deacon laid a hand on his shoulder then stood beside him along the wall. Christ, Simon didn’t even see him move while the haze of fury drowned out all sense.
No. He wasn’t going to scream and mess this up. Phil Turner may deserve a fist or two into his stupid bony face, but it wasn’t going to be tonight. Because all he’d done was speak the truth.
Simon had known it for a while. No amount of vodka and willing females were going to change that singular fact. He and Nick had been so far away from each other lyrically they might as well have been in separate bands. They had a second chance here.
“We want a headlining night next Saturday with a marketing blast. None of this last minute crap where we’re just filling a slot because someone else dropped out. This is all about us.” Simon was satisfied that Phil was listening when he lifted and then dropped his cigar back into the ashtray. “We want a poster and an announcement in the trades.”
“What he means is—” Deacon tried to break in.
“No, we deserve a shot. And if we rock that stage again, we get a twenty percent cut from the liquor sales.”
“Fuck you.”
Deacon held up a hand. Simon jerked the belt loop at his side and Deacon looked down at him. They needed to play this out. Even Deak had to know that. It was time to take their career by the balls even if the short and curlies got tweaked a little. Groveling hadn’t worked. Waiting hadn’t worked.
This was their chance.
Deacon looked at Phil. “If we boost sales significantly, we get seven percent. If we sell out this place, you give us fifteen percent of the bar take.”
Phil smirked.
Simon laughed. Deacon was ever the dreamer, but he liked it. Seven percent was standard for most of the small acts on this part of the Strip. Win-win.
“Deal.”
Phil knew he was getting a deal. Deacon dug his phone out of his pocket and clicked open a program. He flicked through a few pages and the tell-tale swoosh of an email being sent made Simon shake his head. Ever the organized soul.
“Did you just do what I think you did?”
Deacon shrugged. “Check your email, Phil.”
Phil frowned and tapped his system to life. “Are you kidding me?”
“It’s a simple contract.”
“Son of a goddamn bitch.”
Simon slapped Deak’s back and pulled him in for a hard hug. “I fuckin’ love you, man.” Deacon thumped his back twice and Simon coughed. “Easy there.”
“Sorry.”
Simon took a quick breath. Christ, Deacon could pack a punch without even trying. They both stepped forward and signed the one page contract twice. Deacon tucked one into his pocket. “We’re looking forward to working with you, Phil.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get out of here.”
Simon waited until they were through the door and out into the main bar where the music would muffle their voices. “I can’t believe that worked.”
Deacon scrubbed his hands over his face. “What were you thinking? Nick would have our ass if we lost this gig.”
Simon sighed. Deacon was as cool as a gangbanger with a jacket full of lead when he was in the moment, but when all was said and done, Deacon could and would lose his nerves in the nearest bathroom stall. Simon wasn’t sure what went on in that head of his, but he worried far too much. “We took a chance. We had to, man. Even you and your weak ass stomach have to know that.”
Deak slicked off a layer of sweat on his brow. “I can’t believe you demanded all of that.”
“I can’t believe you made it work and pulled a contract out of your ass.”
Deacon shrugged. “I’ve been researching contracts and put a few on my phone just in case. I can’t believe I actually got to use one.”
“Freaking iPhone to the rescue. Man, we need to do a shot.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Don’t pussy out. Besides, a shot of whiskey will settle your stomach.”
“Yeah, right.”
Simon nodded to the bartender. “It is now officially time to party.”
“What do you call the last three hours?”
Simon waggled his eyebrows and motioned for the girls to come over. “Foreplay. Let’s get out of here.”
Simon placed one foot in front of the other along the edge of the dropoff. Laughter and the whipping sea breeze buffered his blurry senses. Somehow they’d wandered in from the walking path and onto the monolithic skatepark on the fringes of Venice Beach.
The sky was inky dark with just a sliver of moon to highlight the cresting waves. This was his favorite part of the day. The last few hours before dawn crawled across the water. Everything settled down, including his overactive brain.
Excitement and hope percolated. For just a little while he could enjoy the what ifs before the powerful brew of misplaced dreams and stark reality overpowered him once more. For a few hours, he soaked in the calm before Los Angeles came alive. Bikers, joggers and power walke
rs would congest the park with overpriced matching outfits and Bluetooth-synced electronics and another day would start.
There were no lights in the skate park. The dips, jumps and valleys looked like Fred Flintstone’s Bedrock with the concrete bowls and ramps. The neverending scrape of wheels and slaps of hands on the ledges echoed in the near-empty park.
It didn’t matter if it was two in the afternoon or three in the morning, someone wanted to pit their skills against another. But instead of daylight there was the phosphorous glow of glow sticks and LED lamps at the opposite side of the park.
They’d made do with the flashlight app on a cell phone and the tinny croon of Cowboy Junkies. Deacon, ever the Boy Scout, had brought out a sleeping bag and the two girls were swigging from a forty of cheap beer as Deacon sipped a single from the six pack they’d bought. He’d nurse that drink for the rest of the night.
“So we get to see you guys play next weekend too?”
“Headline,” Deacon said proudly. “And for once, not because someone else backed out,” he added in an undertone.
Simon lifted off into a backflip.
The girls squealed and laughed. Deacon’s rusty laugh filled their little section. How long had it been since any of them laughed?
Cowboy Junkies faded into the psychedelic tones of an old Ted Nugent song. Simon sauntered toward the blonde he’d chosen for the night, dropped to his knees and crawled to her.
Her face was thrown into shadow, the meager light turning her features into a blurry haze. He had just enough booze in his system to make him horny rather than tired. He stretched out on his back and rested his head in her lap.
She smelled like roses and Tootsie Rolls. He grinned up at her, watching her face change from laughter to the sly knowledge of more. She brought her beer up, dribbling a little of the now warm liquid between his lips before curling over him to seal her mouth over his. He closed his eyes and sank into her taste.
And then boom, right there, Nick in his head at the worst moment. Damn. The memory of Nick’s closed off face as he drowned in fear and uncertainty superimposed itself over the lust crowding into his brain. Nick had an innate ability to piss him off more than anyone on the planet. He didn’t know how to help his best friend and it killed him.
When it came to the stage, they were yin and yang. Simon came alive, something switching on deep inside of him that lay dormant the other twenty-something hours of the day. While Nick could become completely paralyzed.
Part of him wondered if Nick even enjoyed playing anymore. But there were other times when Nick was so on, it was overpowering to see. Why couldn’t Nick find that one vibe and home in on it?
Realizing he was just kissing the girl by instinct alone—and that she was far more into it than he was—brought him back into focus. Distantly, he heard the other girl’s giggles as Deacon murmured something to her. About time Demon loosened up.
Simon rose, twisting until he was on his knees again. The promise of uncomplicated sex let him float on the moment. This he understood. He pushed the anger and worry from Nick’s abandonment aside, stashed the excitement of the following weekend in a corner of his brain and let it feed his increasingly happy cock.
He drew the girl to her feet and away from Deacon and the girl’s friend. She wound her arms around his neck, her knee bumping between his thighs until she was flush against him. Soft breasts, a slim waist and flared hips.
She smelled of roses and chocolate and crap beer. This was what an after party was supposed to be. She broke their kiss, leaning back to let him take her throat. He buried his nose into the heavy fall of her hair and nipped her ear.
The giggling purr made him smile against her skin. Wanting to draw out the pleasure, he ducked under her arm and led her to the open space just before the ledge that dropped into a steep bowl for the skateboarders.
Their hips bumped as the music changed to a sexy Kings of Leon song. Dreamy guitar riffs and a sultry bass line suited his mood. He dipped his head to her neck, flicking his tongue over her fluttering pulse.
They were far enough away from Deacon and his girl that shadows curled around them. She was skin and fun. As uncomplicated as a misty morning dream. The fact that her features were as fuzzy as her name didn’t matter.
She was a pretty distraction.
When she palmed his cock, he groaned and let her draw down his zipper. He looked over his shoulder at Deacon. But instead of the similar state of lips and skin, Deacon had her friend in his arms. “Time to go home, Melanie,” Deacon muttered with resignation.
Ah, that was the other chick’s name.
Stacy—he was almost sure it was Stacy—slid away from him. “I don’t want to go.”
Deacon stepped into the dim light from their phones. “Looks like your friend doesn’t agree. She passed out.”
Simon shook his head. That was definitely not on the menu. “Sorry, man.”
Deacon shrugged and smiled that lopsided smile that charmed many a pair of panties to drop. Stacy definitely wasn’t immune to it. Against his chest, Simon felt her heartbeat pick up. She’d probably be up for both of them if Deacon was in the mood. “I’ll take you both home if you want,” Deak added.
Stacy stroked Simon’s shaft again and he swallowed a groan. Good Christ. “Can you just take her home without me?” she asked. “You’re not going to hurt her or anything?”
Simon laughed through another groan. “Deak would sooner stab his grandmother than hurt a chick.”
Stacy flicked her fingernail over the head of Simon’s ready-to-go cock. “Can I trust you?”
“No.”
She giggled into his chest then nipped his collarbone. Dang. That only got him going more. “I know I can’t trust you, but Deacon?”
Simon slung an arm around her neck. “Give him her address, babe. He’ll get her home and tuck her in.”
“She’s going to be so pissed that she passed out before getting a piece of you,” Stacy whispered, looking up at him like he was a god. Simon couldn’t say he minded.
Deacon grunted and shifted Melanie in his arms. “Text me her address.”
“You got it,” Simon said to his retreating back.
“Oh, and Deacon?”
Deacon swung around at Stacy’s voice. “Yeah?”
“Come back when you’re done. I like to party and three is definitely not a crowd.”
Simon wasn’t sure if he was going to answer, but then Deak surprised him.
“Sure you can handle both of us, Stacy?” Deacon’s voice was as deep as the tones he plucked out of his bass.
Stacy’s fingers curled around Simon’s shaft tightly and he groaned. He did love a girl that was open to all the possibilities.
“Oh, yeah.” Her voice was low and smoky, her eyes as focused as her busy fingers.
“Then I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
Simon’s hips rolled against the sweet stroke of Stacy’s hand. “Mind if I start without you, man?”
“You probably should. She’ll need to be primed for what I have in mind.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Deacon rarely joined in when Simon and Nick shared a woman, but clearly things had changed. Deacon had been bottled up for so long it was becoming a state of mind, not a reaction like it used to be. Looked like Stacy would be a well-timed release valve.
Amen to that.
Stacy laughed into Simon’s neck. “God, I can’t wait to get both of you inside me.”
Simon shuffled Stacy into the light. Before he could lay her down on the sleeping bag, she twisted him around and kicked his feet out from under him. They both landed hard, his elbow cracking into the cement. “Fuck.”
“I expect to get seriously fucked.” She grinned down at him and shook her hair back before she caged him.
“That’s exactly what I intend to do. You sure you’re up for both of us?”
She scooted up until his back was cushioned on the thick, slippery material and her full breasts swung in front of him
. He cupped both of them, his thumbs finding her stiff nipples easily. She rustled around in a bag above his head, took a swig of beer then settled back on his thighs with a condom between her teeth.
She leaned forward, dropping the condom on his chest. “Good thing I brought extra.” Cool fingers with sharp nails tore at his belt.
He grinned up at her and tucked his hands behind his head. “My kind of warm-up.”
Seven
Nick: Hard Target
All these hours,
all these years…feel my joy, taste my tears.
Nick’s phone went off before they’d even made it inside. Figured. He couldn’t even bust a nut in peace. “Goddammit.”
Jazz laughed. “Should’ve left it in the bushes with mine,” she said as he reluctantly checked who was calling. He would’ve ignored it, had it not been the middle of the night.
“Only one bush I’m thinking about right now, and it’s not for phone storage.” While she choked on her laughter, he cursed and lifted his phone to his ear. “What do you want this time, Ricki?”
Jazz bristled at his side, but better she see who he really was before she fucked him. Nasty morning-after surprises led to trouble, and he already had enough to spare.
“It’s Dad. He’s about to get kicked out of his place,” Ricki replied in her typical nasally whine.
Nick jammed his key into the lock and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “So you’re calling me to tell me this at,” he glanced at his phone, “three-freaking-thirty in the morning? Not my problem.”
It hadn’t been his problem since he’d gotten the hell out of the wasteland where he’d spent his junior high and high school years. The only good thing about living in the Delta apartments—the projects—had been meeting Simon. One gain compared with too many losses.
“Oh, so you don’t even care about your own father? He’s not just mine, you know. It’s not my job to make sure—”
“You’re absolutely right,” Nick cut in smoothly, nudging Jazz into the basement ahead of him. “You don’t take care of anything else, including supporting yourself, so drop this too. Just crawl into the gutter somewhere and leave me be.”