by Cari Quinn
The burly bouncer stared down at him. “We’re just about at capacity.”
Simon folded his arms and tipped back on his heels. “What’s capacity?”
He looked down at the digital counter in his hand. “Twenty more.”
Simon shrugged and said into the mic. “Then I get to find at least a dozen delicious ladies in this crowd and bring them inside with me, now don’t I?”
“What about dudes?” A guy called from the line.
Simon made a huge sigh into the mic. “I’m not really into sausage parties, but I suppose there’s not enough of me to go around.” He pointed at two guys that looked the least like douchebags and lifted the little boundary strap from its plastic housing. The entire crowd surged forward and Simon laughed. “I just can’t choose. I guess I’m taking them all.”
The bouncer tried to step in, but the bedlam was too much for him to fight. Fifty-plus people flooded into the club. Simon grabbed a random blonde and twirled her around so he could snuggle up against her back. He did a dirty grind on her backside all the way to the bar.
People surged around him, shoving him forward like he was a pebble caught out on the rapids. “I need a fuckin’ beer!”
Hands reached up and a cold Stella ended up in his hand. His band—because they were awesome—kept on playing. Gray and Nick dueled out a solo that would make The Black Keys proud.
Simon crawled up onto the stage, turned and lifted his beer. “Now that’s a damn party!”
The crowd exploded with laughter and screams. Fucking A—this was what a show should be like every single time. He put the beer to his lips and slugged it back and handed Nick back his mic.
He blazed through another three songs, tearing his way toward the end of their set. His vocals were solid and the band was as tight as a yoga instructor’s thighs. He flipped the microphone cord around his neck and monkeyed across the lighting rig to drop down next to Gray. The crowd went crazy.
Simon laughed and made a choking sign of a noose before he got the mic free and back to his mouth. With an arm around Gray’s neck, he tipped their foreheads together. “I think these girls might be screaming for you.” Simon looked out into the crowd. “You like the look of my boy, Gray?”
The whoops and catcalls didn’t seem to faze the stone-faced Gray, but he was pretty sure that made the girls scream even louder. He didn’t know what it was about girls and guitarists, but women freaking loved them. Good thing there was more than enough of them to go around.
He and Gray harmonized through the end of “Ripcord” and the smiles and slapping backs from Nick and Deacon signaled the end to the set. The encore to come.
They’d survived their second Frenzy show.
Simon grinned and hooked his other arm around his best friend. They lined up with the Purple Pixie squeezing in the middle of Deacon and Nick. Gray took Simon’s other side. The five of them here on a stage they’d never hoped to stand on.
Now they’d done it not once, but twice.
“Holy shit.” Simon put Nick in a headlock and dragged him off the stage. A good shot to the ribs made Simon let go but Nick couldn’t stop grinning. Stage fright hadn’t won this round.
They all scrambled into the back to mop off faces and change shirts. Jazz had sweat her way through a black lace top. Comfortable in a sports bra, she shimmied out of the shirt and tied a purple and silver wrap-around job tight to her compact curves. Her toned legs, silver hot pants and silver-tipped toes made him grin. Damn, their little feisty drummer was hot.
Jazz stuck her tongue out at him. “What’re you looking at, Super Slut?”
Simon wiped down his chest with a towel. “You got a nice rack for such a tiny package, Purple Pixie.”
“I know.” Jazz batted abnormally long lashes at him. Christ, there were little crystals at the end of them. God, he loved their little bling-girl.
Gray shrugged out of a soaking wet black T-shirt and into a tank. His arms bulged with adrenaline and the strain of playing for eighty minutes. A black dueling guitar tattoo curled around his shoulder and down his biceps. Jazz’s gasp and intent eyes told Simon that was new. Another one to add to the list of Gray’s secrets.
Deacon handed Cherry to Simon for the encore. He might not get to play during most of the show, but “The Becoming” required as much guitar layering as possible in the beginning. If they had a hope in hell of matching the new epic version that was going on the soundtrack, he had a part to play now.
Margo’s part.
Margo who’d gone slumming and couldn’t wait to leave him in the dust.
Simon slid the strap over his shoulder and knew he didn’t need to worry about tuning it. Deacon didn’t know how to hand over an instrument that was in anything less than perfect condition. Simon just hoped that he’d do her part justice.
The crowd was whipped into a frenzy. They knew the main attraction was coming. The song they’d been waiting for all night. They’d peppered in the other songs that had skyrocketed up the hit list on Rhino’s YouTube page. And the response had been inspiring. But “The Becoming” was the one everyone wanted.
Deacon went out first, his bass reverberating through the club. Screams rang out and were stunted as the blue light transformed Deak into Demon, the soul-vibrating monster bassist. They all took their places in the dark and the guitars soared.
He’d practiced every hour he’d been awake to make sure he could pull off a reasonable facsimile of Margo’s strings. No wonder he couldn’t get the woman out of his brain. He had to play her song again and again. Her quiet groans were superimposed over each line and each note.
He wanted to stamp her out like a bad night of drinking but she kept sitting there on the fringes, waiting to remind him what it felt like to connect with someone. One fucking night shouldn’t mess him up like this. Especially when it hadn’t meant a good goddamn to her.
Simon shook his head. No. He was not going to ruin this moment with a chick who didn’t know how to have a good time. He was lucky his dick hadn’t broken off in her tight body.
He groaned. The memory of just how tight she was definitely needed to be eradicated. Just some classy tail. That was all.
Simon sighed into the sex-drenched lyrics. Into the guitars and chest-battering bass. He let Jazz’s drums fill his head as he harmonized with Deacon and readied himself for the wailing echo of longing just ahead.
His band, his life and his future flashed behind his eyelids. And when he drowned in the drawn out lyrics, he kept catching on one line.
I own your soul.
Her face with that tiny oh of surprise as her orgasm slammed into her.
Simon shook his head and bent at the waist, cradling the mic with both hands as he poured out the sighs to the end of the song. His chest constricting, his skin tightening, his ears ringing.
He took a breath. And another.
And then another.
The crowd roared and Nicky slapped his back. Simon forced the smile until it felt natural. He took his bows with his band and pushed Violin Girl to the back of his brain where she belonged.
His gaze scanned the crowd and found the blonde from earlier. The lust was bright as a spotlight.
And he’d start with her.
Epilogue
Deacon
Searing June sun sliced through the L.A. fog and threatened to filet off a layer of Deacon McCoy’s skin. Even with the deep, even tan he was sporting, today was brutal. He could taste the Pacific Ocean on his tongue and an actual breeze ruffled his shoulder-length hair. They were twenty-seven stories up with Wilshire Boulevard and the endless march of Los Angeles traffic below. Funny, from this angle the cars looked like his favorite Matchbox cars as a kid. A Lamborghini in eye-searing yellow, the sleek Bugatti in black, a Bentley in red? That was just wrong. Matchbox would never ruin such a classy car with that color.
But then again, they were in LA and the regular trucks and metal-flecked sedans that made up his childhood collection didn’t quite fit in w
ith the elite and the moneyed. Kinda like them. They were like a shined-up Camaro slotted in a parking space next to a Maybach. Both cars, but didn’t quite fit together no matter how hard they tried.
In fact, the last few months had been one holy shit moment after another. They’d gone from relative obscurity to viral video fame. If that wasn’t crazy enough, that video had landed them the coveted lead single of a soundtrack.
Movie soundtrack…and not an indie movie starring Joe Nobody from Topeka. This was an actual Hollywood movie with a budget in the hundreds of millions. They’d been visiting radio stations to do press and acoustic versions of “The Becoming” in the studio. Live.
Jackson Miller was lodged so firmly up their asses lately that Deacon was pretty sure the marketing guy was going to start passing out Astroglide as a party favor. And now they were crawling around a penthouse that only people like Jared Leto could afford.
“Deak! C’mere, you gotta see this!”
Deacon pushed a hank of hair out of his face and backed away from the stone wall of the balcony. He couldn’t quite stop himself from sliding his fingertips over one of the suede-covered lounge chairs that made an S-curve around the outdoor fire pit.
The goddamn balcony was bigger than the Fluff and Fold.
He opened the sliding door wider to fit his shoulders. Silk curtains brushed his cheek. Billowy and insubstantial, they simply framed the window, letting sun filter into the oversized play room. Two pool tables and a theater-sized screen took over the space. Yet another television hung above the fireplace that took center stage. A mammoth leather sectional made a U-shape around the projection screen. Kind of a cool movie pit, actually.
Jazz’s superior ass was currently on display as she leaned over the back of the couch and craned her neck to take everything in with her iPhone. Ten bucks she’d have a video up on Facebook and Twitter within the hour. Thanks to Jazz, they had tapped into yet another goldmine. Social media had pushed their Rhino video of “The Becoming” from viral to stratospheric.
She had them doing vlogs, for God’s sake. Deacon wasn’t sure why anyone would want to watch a clip of them talking about how they wrote a song, or an impromptu guitar lesson from Gray, or watch Simon scratch his ass, but each video had more hits than the last. In fact, the videos with Simon were reaching cult status. Their Pretty Boy had just as many followers on his Instagram as the band. And Simon was shameless with the pictures and the replies, which only added to the feeding frenzy. They added several hundred new followers to their Twitter account every day and had at least double that subscribing to their YouTube account, thanks to Simon and Jazz.
Jazz hopped over the side, barefoot as usual, her tiny feet soundless on the plush carpeting. She turned back to him, aiming the phone up to put him in the frame. “You gotta see the upstairs.”
Deacon flipped her off, but she didn’t stop filming. Typical. He followed her out of the living room and up the stairs. The dark wood had a high-gloss sheen that spoke of money and the modern perfection that Los Angeles liked to showcase. He took the stairs three at a time. The open floor plan allowed him to get a good look of the apartment—correction, penthouse—below. Huge living area, a kitchen of stainless steel, the ethereal shimmer of tiles that reminded him of the inside of an oyster. Connecting doors that led to the attached penthouse on the other side.
Not just one penthouse, but two.
And it was theirs.
“Deacon, seriously. What is the hold up?”
He grinned. Simon’s impatient growl dragged him up the last of the stairs. Between Jazz’s excited flitting and Simon’s frenetic pace, he was dragged along from bedroom to bedroom that could have been fresh out of the pages of Architectural Digest. Hell, they probably were. Bed linens matched to the curtains in just the right shade screamed interior designer and carefully spent money. But he had to admit the rooms suited them down to the bone.
Deacon ran his hand down the soft bedspread in a gray and yellow geometric pattern that he could definitely live with. At least they’d picked young designers who understood they were men, not women.
Jazz filled the doorway as only she could. Arms splayed, feet barely still, and wild blue and lavender-streaked hair trapped in dozens of braids than flew out behind her head. “You are missing the tour with Jackson, mister.”
“I’m sure I don’t need a rundown of all the designers who worked on this place or the famous people who have lived in the building.”
Jazz rolled her eyes and finally tucked her phone in her pocket. Another segment of As Oblivion Turns was over for the day. He hoped. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever seen. Aren’t you at all excited?”
Deacon glanced up at the crown moldings and the floor-to-ceiling window that gave another view of busy LA. It was like the entire set-up had been designed to prove they were indeed one of the important.
But he couldn’t ignore the persistent itch between his shoulder blades since the movie premiere last night. Trident had even ponied up the money for a video a few days after they’d finished up in the studio.
A video that was currently sitting at number three on VH-1 and splashed all over YouTube. Their song couldn’t be stopped once it had hit mainstream. He’d never heard of a song being rushed to completion so fast. The single had been up on iTunes way before the soundtrack had released.
Deacon slid his hand under his shirt, rubbing at the abdominal muscles he’d tortured with the medicine ball workout this morning. It was all finally happening and he just couldn’t settle. And now this? Trident was actually putting them into not one, but two penthouses at the Platinum Towers.
“This is my room,” Simon shouted.
Deacon laughed for the first time all day as Jazz bounced into the room he was pretty sure he was going to call dibs on and dragged him back into the main living space. More of the glossy dark wood flowed out with geometric print rugs sectioning off the huge area into quadrants. Banks of windows on each side with more filmy curtains let in tons of light. It looked great now, but within a month, Simon would have blackout curtains up to combat a hangover. Fat pots with flowers dotted tables framed by plush club chairs and low-slung couches that made up another screening area.
All of it looked too expensive to sprawl in. Though Nick was doing a good job of it anyway. He leaned back in a chair and stared at the ceiling, all the while walking a pick through his fingers. Ever since he’d given up the smokes—it might even be for real this time—he’d been fiddling with a pick, a poker chip, even a stubby pencil some days.
Jackson stood in the center of it all, pointing to the mammoth wooden structure that bisected the ceiling, further emphasizing the little alcoves that were set up in the main upstairs living area. “This area joins the two penthouses together. Stefan Picoult designed the living space.”
“The architect?” Gray asked.
Jackson smiled widely. “Yes, one and the same. We were very lucky to get him to redo this space. We wanted to give it a more masculine flavor.”
How the hell did Gray know the names of architects? Deacon frowned and stretched up, dragging his fingertips along the silky wood.
“Showoff,” Jazz muttered.
Deacon scooped her up and balanced her butt on the curve of his biceps, scooting her on his shoulder. Without missing a beat, she braced her hand on his other shoulder and touched the carved structure. She grinned down at him. “Man, this is what it feels like to be tall? I kinda like it, but don’t you get altitude sickness?”
Deacon rolled his eyes and let her slide down his side. He enjoyed the glide of her curvy little body, but quickly stepped back when Gray’s pewter eyes flashed.
Drama everywhere. That was his band.
Focusing on the vaulted ceilings, Deacon absently listened to Jackson wax poetic about the architect and how hard it was to get him to take the time to redo the penthouse. Recessed lighting made the whole room seem soft and glossy even with all the angles. More dark wood in a herringbone pattern framed
out the huge room and flowed into walls with more of the same pattern, but this time with neutral cream colors.
Classy.
Way too classy for a group of misfits from Carson.
Jackson turned around. “Enough of all the art talk. You don’t really care, do you?”
“Nope,” Nick said from his perch on one of the club chairs. He’d reclined so far that his shoulders practically swallowed his neck.
“Right.” His smile brightened instead of dimmed with Nick’s bored tone. Jackson was in full salesman mode. He smiled down at Jazz, again looking a little too longingly at her shapely curves. The shithead was always staring at her. He was old enough to be her father, for fuck’s sake. “But there’s one room I think will suit you, Jasmine.”
“I’m not really feminine. This totally works for me.”
“Ah, but there should always be one space for a woman to escape to.” He waved for her to follow him to the west side of the penthouse.
Her delighted squeal drew all of them into her room. It was an explosion of black, purple and girly blue-green. One wall was jet black with framed art and a huge black four-poster bed dominated the space.
Jazz sprawled on the bed, and even with her arms and legs stretched out in an X, she still couldn’t meet any of the sides. She rolled over and snuggled into the dozen pillows. Inviting wasn’t even the word.
Gray stood in the doorway, his eyes drifting over her, the bed and her tangle of braids before he backed out into the living room again.
Jackson stood in the doorway to the en suite bathroom. “That’s not even the best part.”
Jazz bounded off the bed and scooted into the bathroom. “A purple tub? Oh, my God.”
Deacon grinned and followed. Jazz’s head barely peeked over the high curve of the clawfoot tub. Deacon was pretty sure those were usually white, but it had been sandblasted a deep purple with black feet. The whole room was a sumptuous girl haven. “We’re never going to get you out of that.”