by Cari Quinn
Simon slid down until his shoulder rested on the seat and his ribs stopped screaming. “Look at the video.”
“Holy shit,” Nick whispered.
Simon closed his eyes. “Yep.”
The page loaded and Deacon’s bass blared out of the speakers.
Simon folded his arms tight over his ribs and finally he could take a breath. “Hook it up to the TV.”
“Yeah, good idea.” Deacon set his laptop on the buffet table they used for their electronics catch-all. He tapped a few buttons and the fifteen inch screen gave way to fifty-two inches. He rewound the video.
Even in the dark, the video captured Deacon’s hulking frame and Gray’s lean form as they shared the center stage. The music boomed out of their surround sound speakers.
Heavy bass, painfully epic guitars and then his own voice resonated. The metallic flavor thanks to the old school microphone, the smoky air, the crowd’s wolf whistles. Power and beauty. Stoic and sweeping, the song built until the walls buzzed with the sultry song.
They’d taped themselves before. Had friends video their shows to see how they performed, to try and improve.
But nothing like this. Nothing so huge.
Simon forced himself to sit up, to stand and survey. It was everything he’d hoped the song would be. It was them, through and through.
He grinned hugely at Deacon, then his gaze tripped over Nick. It was almost all of them, except Snake.
And his best friend.
Nick’s face was blank, his guitar propped against the wall next to his chair. He simply stared at the screen then stood and walked up the stairs to the laundromat.
Simon knew he wasn’t the only one who’d just thought of Snake. Only difference was that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—let his friend’s absence screw up one of the best moments of his life. Nick would.
He tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Nick’s stunned face had burned itself onto his retinas. “Dammit.”
Deacon already had his phone in his mitt of a hand. If he’d even noticed Nick leave, he didn’t show it. “Gray? You gotta check out Jerry Macon’s website. Yeah, now. I don’t care if you’re driving. Pull over.”
Simon stared up the stairs. Lavender wafted down from the double F. Normally one of his favorite scents—especially when attached to a female—now it just left a bitter taste in his mouth.
They should have been celebrating. All of them should be together. Every single person that mattered to him had been at that show. But only one had been hiding in a shell of misery behind the scenes.
Simon slapped his hand against the cool cement wall and swore.
“Deak?”
Deacon covered the mouthpiece. “Yeah?”
“Tell them both to get over here. We’ve got work to do.”
Deacon nodded. “Hey, grab Jazz and come over to the Fluff and Fold today.” He paused, made a few noises. His huge laugh filled the space.
At least one of them was happy. Nick could pout all he wanted, but they all needed to talk today.
This was a freaking banner day. Nearly five thousand hits at ten in the morning on a Sunday? What would it be by noon?
Simon glared up the stairs one more time before trudging down the hall to the shower.
It was a good goddamn day.
Nine
Nick: Balls To The Wall
Knock me down once,
watch me come back and nail you to my wall.
Nick shoved aside a laundry cart and sprawled on a folding chair at the back of the laundromat. His body hurt like a motherfucker. His face wasn’t much better. Everything ached. Head. Heart. Dick.
Especially dick.
He’d been ten seconds and another tongue flutter away from an insane orgasm and bam, nothing. Jazz had yanked away from him so fast he’d been stuck using that baby oil last night anyway, and not to come. She’d left teeth marks in his flesh. She could’ve maimed him for life, and he hadn’t even gotten his rocks off.
Not that he was thinking about Jazz today. He’d stuck her in a big black box in his head labeled do not touch.
Now…this. A video of them on YouTube. One that was actually being watched, not dying in obscurity like every other half-assed thing they’d ever done.
Excitement trickled through him, cutting shallow swaths through the pain, but he wouldn’t let it through. He preferred to hurt. At least he could trust feeling bad. Feeling good never led anywhere but to disappointment.
He clenched his hand around his phone. He’d clicked off the video site, afraid to believe what he was seeing. Who were all those people causing the numbers to jump? What the frick was going on?
God, he wished he could call Snake. His rehab place limited contact with the outside world, especially people identified as potential enablers. Since the band was basically a walking excuse for addiction, Snake had put him and Simon on the Do Not Call list. He hadn’t bothered with Deacon, knowing he would never contact him. Deak wasn’t all that understanding of Snake’s issues.
Or mine.
Nick rubbed his scraped cheek. Maybe he should borrow Deak’s phone and reach Snake that way. It didn’t seem right not to at least give him a head’s up about the situation. He’d be out of Sunshine Pines or whatever the joint was called in another month or so, but that was practically a lifetime away. If somehow he heard they’d replaced him, even temporarily—
The door to the Fluff banged open and Gray strode in, flashing a smile at the woman rocking a baby near the first bank of washers. She smiled back, turning toward him with obvious interest.
Nick sat up straighter while he waited for Gray to respond. Gray’s smile widened but he kept walking past the young mother. Aiming straight for…him.
Just who Nick wanted to talk to on the day after he’d gotten his ass kicked—the guy who was, at the very least, in unrequited love with the girl who’d blown him last night.
It better be unrequited.
Almost as soon as the thought surfaced, Nick scowled. Gray and Jazz’s relationship issues were not his problem. She was a cute girl with a memorably strong grip and a mouth that could put any upright vacuum to shame. Though he didn’t know her well, she seemed nice enough. What was between her legs was even nicer. She was also extremely talented and not showy about it. But she was definitely not his problem.
“Hey.” Gray came to a halt in front of him, his eyes wary. He set his guitar between his sneakers. They looked brand new. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” Christ, had Jazz spilled about last night? No, that didn’t make sense. If she had, Gray would’ve led with his fists, not polite conversation.
Then Nick remembered his face. And his body.
He shrugged and slouched down into the hoodie he’d pulled on after his shower this morning. The heat was already building outside, which meant it was inside too—thank you, lackluster A/C—but he’d wanted something comfortable. He’d actually been tempted to pull up the hood and sulk all day like the dumb piece of shit Simon had accused him of being last night.
So far he’d avoided taking any pain relievers. He had a feeling that streak was about to come to an end.
“Your face?” Gray prompted at his silence. “Were you in a fight?”
“Not with Jazz,” Nick tossed back, then realized the ridiculousness of that reply. Jazz wasn’t much bigger than one of the laundry carts. She couldn’t have put a hurting like that on him even with the help of a pair of brass knuckles.
“About that.” Gray pulled out the chair next to Nick and carefully laid down his guitar. He didn’t sit. “I talked to her this morning.”
Nick schooled his face into casual lines and tried to ignore the buzz that zipped up his spine. She wasn’t even here. He’d be damned if his palms went damp just at the mention of her—and the memory of everything they hadn’t finished. “So?”
“She told me she’d lied about you touching her last night.”
“Did she?”
“Yeah. She ex
plained about the guys at the Rhino. She’s right. I have a temper, especially when it comes to her.”
Just what Nick needed to hear when he already had a busted face and a guilty dick. Did such a thing exist? If not, he was going to coin a new phrase because his had just shriveled up in his boxers. “Yeah, I get that you two are…close.” He wasn’t fishing for info. He didn’t care. Not even a little bit.
“We are. Really close.”
Sometimes direct was best. Besides, he had to know if Jazz had just fed him a line of crap. “How long have you been together?”
Gray frowned and glanced away before his gaze came back to rest on Nick’s forehead, never quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve known her since she was thirteen. I’m a year older. She was my foster sister. Her home situation wasn’t the best, so she came to live with my family.”
“Oh.” Momentary sympathy for Jazz snuck in before he considered the rest of it. That was a kinda creepy setup for unrequited lust. Flowers In The Attic for the non-related set. “So you’re not dating?”
“No.” Gray ground his molars. “Not technically.”
Nick kicked back in his chair and studied Gray while Gray looked anywhere but at him. He almost felt sorry for the guy. If he hadn’t ever experienced Jazz’s oral talents, he was seriously missing out.
Then again, this was probably why he had never had a platonic female friend. The concept keep it in your pants just did not compute in Nick’s world.
Gray obviously wanted Jazz and for whatever reason, she didn’t feel the same. Or else she didn’t get that Gray wanted her that way, so she hadn’t examined her feelings. Whatever. Yet Gray continued on that doting path of being her pal-slash-bodyguard without complaint.
Unless there was some on the down low friends with benefits stuff going on…
“How about un-technically?” Nick ventured. Just making conversation is all.
Gray gripped the back of his neck and stared up at the spiderweb of cracks on the ceiling. “No, not at all. She doesn’t see me that way. I’m like her big brother.” The tight smile on his face proved exactly what he thought of that assessment. “You know, number one douche role.”
Nick cracked his knuckles, anything to alleviate the silence between them. In a second he’d start humming. He didn’t like the lost expression in Gray’s eyes, not one bit. It wasn’t his place to feel sorry for the dude. Definitely not right for him to commiserate, even if he’d never felt that particular emotion before. He’d never wanted someone he couldn’t have. Had never wanted anything that much but his number one lady, music.
Though lately she was being pretty damn fickle too, come to think of it.
Nick cleared his throat, then cleared it again. At this rate he’d start wearing away his vocal cords soon. “Well, just so you know, I don’t lay hands on a woman. Ever. I may be a first class asshole but even I have standards.” Obviously not many, though he wasn’t about to go to confession to Gray.
“Yeah, I hear you. I’m sorry for accusing you. It just makes me crazy when I think about anyone hurting her. She’s the most important person in my life.” Gray exhaled and rubbed his hand over the back of his longish, spiky hair. It sprung right back into place. Had he used shellac instead of gel? “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. We’re just trying to do the same thing, aren’t we?”
“Don’t think so, no,” Nick responded under his breath.
Gray didn’t seem to hear him. “We both just want to play. It’s about the music, man, not us. And after what happened last night—”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
Gray frowned. “I meant how we nailed the show. You have to agree?”
“Oh. Yeah. We nailed it.” God, he needed to take another shower and cold-soak his tired brain. He couldn’t deal with this crap right now. He’d worry about his limp penis and his irritation and his guilt some other time.
“There were some stumbles at first, but we got it together. The YouTube thing proves it. We’re going to have to figure out how to get along, and I’m man enough to step up to the plate.”
“Bully for you.”
Gray folded his arms across his chest. Either last night’s beating had knocked some clarity into Nick’s head or he hadn’t looked close enough before, but the guy had some serious muscles. That sealed it. He wasn’t going within fifty feet of Jasmine Edwards—and her magic lips—ever again. He’d wear a snowsuit around her if need be. Anything to ensure she couldn’t touch him.
Or look at him. Or even breathe in his general direction, since he was almost sure just the scent of her fruity gum-scented breath could get him hard.
“You’re not going to make it easy on me, are you?” Gray asked tiredly.
Nick blinked. Gray had a vague halo around him, thanks to the jab Simon had delivered to his eye. Blinking again didn’t help. Figured.
He was hurting and pissed. And horny. All things considered, he really didn’t feel like being sociable. Still, it wouldn’t kill him to make an effort.
Well, maybe it would. But he’d do it anyway. He’d fingered the guy’s girl to near unconsciousness last night. He could at least try to be charitable.
“I have no beef with you, man Honestly. This situation is just awkward.” Nick winced. Understatement of the century. “Oblivion’s drummer…former drummer,” he acknowledged, “is a close friend. All of this is just temporary.”
Gray’s mouth firmed into a hard line while he tapped out the beat of his impatience on his forearm. “You just said former and temporary in the same sentence. Which is it?”
“Temporary. Snake’ll be back. Sorry.” Nick shrugged.
“No, I think your friend Snake is the sorry one, because he wasn’t on stage last night and Jazz was. She’s the one in the video. The one they’re already drooling over in the comments.” From Gray’s tone, he wasn’t too pleased about that.
Nick frowned, his thoughts sliding together like tectonic plates. Rubbing over each other but not quite locking into place. “Wait, a second. You know about the video? The hits?” What were they saying about Jazz?
He wasn’t jealous. That would be dumb. He knew more about her lips than her personality. When he thought back about his dating history, that wasn’t all that unusual.
Yeah, he was a prick.
“Why else do you think I’m here? Band meeting.” Gray quirked an eyebrow at Nick and took a seat at the table as the door to the stairwell banged open and voices poured out. Deak and Simon. Lovely. “Didja think I’d come by to chat?”
No, to kick my ass. I’ll show you which cheek is available. The rest has already been spoken for by Bret Michaels’ fraternal twin, Simon Suck Me Off Kagan.
Rather than say any of that—or grumble about the band meeting he didn’t know anything about—Nick just slouched into his chair and thanked God Pink and Perky hadn’t showed. Small favors.
“Good. Everyone’s here.” Deak stopped at the table and rubbed his hands together. Then he frowned. Maybe Nick’s fist had caused some brain damage. “Wait a second. Where’s Jazz?”
“I’m here, sorry!” At the high, feminine voice, Nick pulled up his hood and tightened the ties. He still saw a flash of pink-and-purple hair done in some wild style. She was so bright he feared retinal detachment just from looking at her too long. “My shitbox car broke down again so I had to call in to work. Stupid tranny—” She broke off, and Nick guessed she’d realized there were other people in the laundromat who weren’t hungover and/or beat-to-shit musicians. “Oops, sorry,” she muttered, her voice way too close.
Then she pulled out the chair closest to Nick and he groaned. Not under his breath either.
Dammit, why did she have to sit next to him? He wasn’t exactly in fighting form. If Gray launched an all-out attack, he’d end the day spooning up applesauce and drinking mashed potatoes through a straw.
And he. Hadn’t. Even. Gotten. To. Come.
“Hi,” she whispered to his hood.
Nick bobbed
his head in pithy acknowledgement and hoped he’d wake up dead.
A second later the room exploded with sound, courtesy of Gray. “Okay, what the hell is this?” he shouted, apparently unconcerned about the other patrons.
They really needed somewhere else to practice.
Cautiously, Nick pushed back his hood. If he was going to get his block knocked off, he wanted to at least be prepared. But Gray wasn’t looking at him. He’d turned Jazz’s face to the light and was tracing his fingers over the long slash down her cheek she hadn’t quite covered with makeup. She grimaced and pushed Gray away.
Nick frowned. “How’d you get that?”
“That’s my question,” Gray muttered. He leaned a hip against the table and gestured to Simon and Deak, who both had taken up the fascinating hobby of staring at the floor. “Something happened last night. I went to work after the show. Where did you guys go?”
Where did Gray work in the middle of the night? Since that wasn’t an appropriate response to the guy’s question, Nick remained silent. So did everyone else.
“Goddammit, something happened. I don’t believe for a second that you all got in separate fights. Jazz?” Gray asked, his voice so soft and pleading that Nick shut his eyes and jammed his knuckles into his forehead. He couldn’t believe he felt guilty. This wasn’t his fault. He didn’t owe anything to Gray.
Goddammit.
When no one spoke, Nick shoved to his feet. He wasn’t going to sit there and choke on the tension in the room. Even if he’d helped cause it. “I need air.”
“Yeah, well, you should’ve thought of that before.” Simon leaned across the table and used one bony finger to shove Nick back down in his chair. “Gray, it has nothing to do with the band, okay? You’re right. Some shit went down last night, but it’s over.”