Crazy Love (The Bad Boys of Brit Pop Book 1)

by Madelynne Ellis

  He zips up, and glowers at me. “Knox needs to go.”

  I shake my head, because there’s no sense in even responding to that. We’re not going to fire and recruit another bass guitarist in just over five hours in the middle of the night, and that’s even supposing I was willing to cut Knox loose.

  “We approach her,” Joel insists. “It wouldn’t hurt to sound her out.”

  “Are you fucking for real? She’s in the band we’re competing against.”

  “Not if she accepts the offer.”

  “And if she doesn’t we’re going to look fucking desperate. Callahan gets one whiff that we’ve issues, and we’re toast.”

  A gruesome smile spreads across Joel’s handsome mug, because unfortunately, I’ve just acknowledged that we have a problem. Knox is a problem. He’s always been a problem, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to give up on him. I don’t give up on my friends, not ever.

  “She’ll jump, Nate. She wants that deal. You can see it in her. She knows full well that Jessie’s only doing this to get back at Dane, and the other bitch is living in cloud cuckoo land. Come on, admit it, her talents are wasted on them. With us, she could fly to the moon and back. We’d all be on the same page, completely committed.”

  I’m going to need committing if this conversation goes on much longer.

  “What you’re saying is all very poetic, Joel, but it ain’t happening. There is no way in hell I’m asking Loveday Trevaskis to join us. Sure, I’d love to have her talent on the team, but Paradise Kiss doesn’t need two bassists, and I’m not letting Knox go. For fuck’s sake, I made a promise to his dying mum.”

  “The fuck you did.”

  “I swore I’d look out for him.”

  Joel wasn’t there the night Mrs. Knox passed away—terminal cancer. She’d had it as long as I’d known her. I was the one who rode with Knox to the hospital, the one who sat by her in that sad, overheated, little room that stank of pollen, while she sent her son off to find a nurse to top up her pain relief, when she could have just pressed the buzzer. “Someone needs to look out for him,” she said. “I know you’ll do it, Nathaniel, same as you look out for your brother. You boys have been good to my Teddy. Keep him on the right path.”

  I’m not sure rock and roll was what she had in mind, but there’s not a whole lot else the lot of us are good for, especially Knox. I can’t exactly see him holding down a typical job, he’d forget where he was supposed to be and what he was doing all the time, but things weren’t quite so bad with him back then.

  “We carry on as we are,” I say, making it plain that the conversation is done for good. It’s time Knox and I got down to work.

  Joel gives me the stink-eye. “Maybe Bitch Slap are looking for a drummer,” he mutters, stilling me, before I’ve had a chance to take a step.

  “Don’t even fucking joke about it.”

  “The only joke is that we’re saddled with Knox. If he blows it…” Joel shakes his shaggy mass of curls. “It’ll be choosing time for all of us.” With that threat still hanging in the air, he storms out, leaving me wondering what I’d do if it came down to that choice.

  Knox or Joel?

  Mediocre bassist or fucking hot drummer?

  Teddy bear or wild beast?

  It’s not a question with an easy answer.

  -6-

  Nathaniel Darke

  After the door stops rattling following Joel’s departure, I dowse my face with icy water. Everything is going so wrong tonight, that I hardly know what to do anymore. Scream. Tear a few handfuls of hair out. Punch mirrors. The one right before me is tempting, but seven years bad luck is not what I need. Instead, I fill the basin and this time, properly dunk my head. The cold brings crystal clarity to the situation. Only one thing of importance matters, and that’s finishing TL:DR. Everything else can wait. It really can.

  I slick my wet hair back when I raise my head from the water and secure the dark strands with a hairband. There’s no sign of the rest of Paradise Kiss or Bitch Slap in the foyer as I pass back through. I collect my guitar and Knox’s bass from the dressing room, then head into the dark function room. I flick on a single light switch, which turns on the centre stage spotlight, giving me a puddle of illumination in which to work. There’s no sign of Knox. Ten minutes pass and he still doesn’t show. Obviously, he’s forgotten he was supposed to be here, but I decide to give him a little longer anyway. It won’t hurt for me to go over what we’ve got and refresh my memory. Maybe working it out alone isn’t such a bad plan anyway. It’s hard work keeping Knox focussed, whereas once I’m lost in the zone, I can work for hours without my attention wandering.

  Normally, I stick to an acoustic for composing, but the normal method has failed me so far. In any case, old trusty is at home in her case. I connect up Knox’s bass. Bass guitar isn’t my instrument. It’s different to playing lead, even if to the uneducated they look like virtually the same animal. Still, I try out a few chords and manage to produce a sound that’s not wholly akin to a caterwaul. The situation is made more taxing by the fact that Knox is a leftie and his bass is custom-made to his personal taste. Nothing about it is comfortable. It feels alien. Still I slip on some headphones and fire up the dirty mix of the track as it stands so far.

  This is the song that’s going to make us. Whether Graham Callahan says yay or nay in the morning won’t matter once this gem is complete. It has all time classic pencilled all over it. I knew that from the moment I had the first chords. Listening, I can almost hear what’s missing. I know where the additional bass notes are supposed to fit, but the exact pattern remains a mystery. I try a few things, but…wrong…wrong…wrong. It fails to blend smoothly, making things discordant instead. What I need is something that will provide shape, give the music some backbone. So I keep working, playing the recording on an endless loop, head down, fingers dancing over the frets, wondering if my fingertips are going to be so numb by tomorrow morning that I’ll be unable to play. I need to get this right. It’s almost, almost there…I swear I catch a hint of it on the very edge of my senses. I lean towards it, I strain for it, pray for it, which is right when I realise I’m not alone.

  “’bout time, Knox.”

  The time on my watch is 1:40AM. The minutes are flying by too quickly.

  “It’s not Knox,” she says. “Leastways, I’m not him, and he’s not here.”

  Prickles creep across the bare skin of my arms at the sound of her voice. She’s standing a few feet away, long hair wild about her shoulders, eyes focussed intently upon me. She’s still wearing the same outfit she wore on stage—jeans, ripped in so many places they must be a swine to put on, a heavy belt made of chain links, stiletto heeled boots and the sort of top that makes it next to impossible to look her in the face.

  “Need lessons?” she asks, positioning a stool before me and perching her tight derriere on its padded surface.

  No I fucking don’t. “Go away.”

  I sound like such a twerp, but she’s a distraction I don’t need right now, and I can’t see any reason for her to be here. We’re not friends, only rivals. We don’t know one another. In fact, we’re barely acquainted with each other’s names.

  “No wonder the ladies swoon over you,” she remarks, and I struggle to know whether she’s being sarcastic. “I bet they think you’re ever so cool and aloof when you glower like that. Do you tell them to piss off and leave you alone?”

  “You’re not a fan. What do you want?”

  She shrugs, and I decide that she’s not entirely sure herself what it is that’s brought her here to fraternize with the enemy. I think back over Joel’s words, and his assertion that she’s ready to jump, all she needs is incentive. I can’t deny that the fantasy of playing alongside her is a compelling one. The girl has the power to rock my world, no question about it. What’s more thrilling is that she’s capable of rocking the rest of the world at the same time.

  Temptation doesn’t mean shit, though, in terms of reality. Two gr
oups are not about to become one and some extras overnight. There’s too much at stake to fuck about like that. Callahan’s not going to stand for it. He’ll just walk. I’m not arrogant enough to think we’re the only band with chops enough to impress him or fill the slot on Black Halo’s tour roster. In fact, low drama probably trumps talent right now.

  Safe rather than sorry.

  The man’s had his patience stretched to the limits over the last few months between fatalities, exposes, accusations and a jaw-dropping stage dive that’s put the whole tour on hold, and Black Halo’s lead guitarist in a hospital.

  “We didn’t know this was going to happen,” she says, leaning forward a little. “It was a complete surprise. He approached us after our set. I didn’t even know who he was.”

  “Why the hell are you telling me this?”

  She gives another of those little shrugs, and I can’t help admiring the way the action lifts her breasts.

  “I just want you to know that we didn’t set out to make trouble for you. I know Jessie lost it earlier, but Bitch Slap’s about more than sticking two fingers up at your brother. We work hard at what we do.”

  “Ergo I’m supposed to believe that you deserve it just as much. I don’t give a shit whether you’re worthy.”

  What have Bitch Slap being doing since Callahan approached them and then sprang this talent competition on them? Not getting early nights and bedding down like good little girls, by the sound of things. I suspect heated words have been exchanged, which is why she’s antsy, and sounding me out at quarter to two in the morning.

  Their keyboardist certainly didn’t sound as if she was enthralled by the idea of living on the road for six months or more. Me, I’m ready to rock as many people as are prepared to listen to me. I reckon that’s something Ms. Trevaskis and I have in common.

  “You don’t think we’ve the chops to beat you?” she says.

  Seriously, where the fuck does she get that idea from. I’m shitting myself here over how much of a test this breakfast performance will be. Does she imagine I’m composing at this hour for the sheer heck of it?

  “Your set was good. It’s not a big shock that Callahan was blown away by you.” Hell knows why I feel obliged to patch up her ego, other than out of some likely mistaken belief it might get her to leave faster.

  “Did you even listen to us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you really think that?”

  I give her a grudging nod. No need to go into exactly how blown away by her playing I was, or the fact there are ructions in the band because she was so ridiculously good. “I prefer your vocals to Jessie’s. You’ve the more distinctive voice.”

  She makes a little huh sound in the back of her throat as if she’s genuinely surprised by this praise.

  “The track you sang was pretty impressive.”

  “No one else has said so, but then no one has said much about our music at all, not even Mr. Callahan. They’re all just rattling on about Ivy’s bush. We told her not to pull that stunt, but she didn’t listen.” Loveday shakes her head and sighs. “Ives doesn’t even want this gig—not really. Can you believe that?”

  Clearly she can’t.

  “This is just a bit of fun to her, something to do to while away a few evenings a month. I kind of figured she was at least vaguely serious though, and even if she wasn’t, who the hell passes over an opportunity like this?”

  “Are you telling me you girls aren’t playing tomorrow morning?” I can’t deny the thrill that shoots through me at that possibility, and not just because I’d enjoy some sleep tonight.

  “We’re playing,” she snaps, pulling her shoulders back so that she’s sitting up straight. “Sorry. It’s not your fault our keyboardist has cold feet.”

  “How cold?” I ask, because this is great ammunition if it comes down to a fight to the death. I’m sure Callahan doesn’t want to be hiring a band that isn’t one hundred per cent committed. He’s certainly not going to be impressed if half way through the tour, they wake to find Ivy’s taken a hike. On the other hand, I wish she’d shut the fuck up and stop proving Joel’s assertions right, because I don’t want to be tempted into compromising my principals because I’m desperate for success. Nathaniel Darke is not, and never will be, a sell-out. My soul is not up for sale to the highest bidder.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

  I can’t refute that.

  “But shit, I don’t want to be playing dive bars and hotel function rooms—lovely as this place is—for the rest of my life. I want to be rocking Wembley, and the twenty thousand plus crowds at all the major festivals.”

  “Preaching to the converted.”

  “Yeah. Figures.” She smiles.

  I like her. I can’t help it, even though she’s a distraction I can ill afford right now. Also, and despite the ammunition she’s providing me with, at least a bit of me suspects Jessie of having sent her here to spy.

  “What are you working on?”

  And yes, that tips the balance of my suspicions. “Nothing. I always sit alone in hotel function rooms playing other people’s guitars.” In other words, don’t be so fucking nosy.

  “Me too,” she laughs.

  She sits back and watches me for a few moments. She can’t hear the melody, so I don’t worry about her poaching anything. The rhythm I’m tapping out isn’t right anyway. The notes just won’t come. Maybe that’s down to pressure or tiredness, maybe it’s because bass isn’t my instrument, either way, having her staring at me really doesn’t help.

  “Do you think you could sod off?”

  Up she jumps from her chair, but not to depart.

  “Is this your beast?” She picks up my Gretsch. “Interesting choice. Mind if I try her?”

  You’ve got to be frickin’ kidding me. No one gets to play about with my guitar. And yet I let her put the strap over her head without making a murmur of protest. Not only that, I get prickles over the way she handles my baby, leaning it across her thighs, and fingering the strings with her delicate digits. I shiver, and she smiles in response, showing just the faintest hint of teeth.

  What she’s doing shouldn’t feel like caresses against my skin, but it does. It shouldn’t give me thrills, or turn me on, but it does that too.

  I try to tune her out, concentrate on the track playing through the headphones, but my gaze is persistently drawn back to her. In the end, I stop the endless loop of music, and take out the earbuds. I watch her, enthralled despite myself.

  This is madness. We’re on opposing teams. In a few short hours we’ll duel and only one of us can be victorious.

  Her, my sleep-deprived, horny-arsed self predicts.

  There’s so much raw talent wrapped up in her tiny frame, what the hell chance have we got?

  Every chance, a voice in my head that’s suspiciously like Joel’s suggests. But only if you enlist her for our team.

  I can’t do that. It’s not and never will be an option. I curse Joel under my breath for ever planting the idea in my brain. I think about her sound and ours, how we could combine them and my excitement only increases. Combined, we could blow Graham Callahan away. Hell, we could probably give Black Halo themselves a run for their money.

  I don’t recall the point at which my fingers begin to work again, only that suddenly my dodgy bass-playing is being complemented by her glorious licks. This girl could easily play lead. I try a few things, and she follows, or rather anticipates. She’s like a chess-player, always several steps ahead. Hearing the music before it’s played.

  The noise we make together is fucking awesome. For several long minutes, we’re both lost in it. Riffs become increasingly complex. This isn’t a Paradise Kiss song, nor something of Bitch Slap’s, but a perfect melding of us into a seamless whole.

  What sort of miracle could we weave together on our own instruments? I want to know so badly, but I don’t want to speak and spoil this.

  In the end she’s the one to say, “Swap.”
She holds out my Gretsch to me, and I pass her Knox’s Fender in return.

  The eye contact between us is intense as we settle our respective instruments around our shoulders.

  “One…two…three,” I count us in.

  The result is so good I nearly come in my pants. It’s like the sound has been dredged up from the depths of hell.

  The vibrations of the guitar zap through my body, contributing to my dizzying sense of arousal. We take solos, bounce off one another in a way Dane and I sometimes do, blending our individual melodies, and pitching rhythm against lead. With her, the outcome is richer, more vibrant somehow. The bass rumble behind my flashy top notes pure magic.

  I fucking love the idea of her underneath me—and I’m not just talking about musically.

  There’s no hiding how much she turns me on, so I stop even trying to. Let her think what she will. It’s not as if I’m the only one riding this particular thrill train. Her nipples have tightened to twin points that distort the line of her top. They’re like beacons. I want to drag my thumbs over them. Suck them. Fuck them, even though the later makes me think of Jessie and that damned song.

  Actually, perverted tit fucker doesn’t seem such a bad title to be saddled with anymore. Not if the tits in question are Loveday’s.

  God help me, I want to be inside of this woman so badly. I’m so hot for her my fingers are glued to the frets. All right, not literally superglued, I mean they’re moving at the speed of light, but I don’t think I could release my grip right now even if I wanted to.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that,” she remarks. Even the soft lilt of her voice turns me on.

  “Like what?”

  She shakes her head because…chemistry.

  “You’re an open book, Mr. Darke.”

  “Read lots of hot books, do you?”

  She cocks one brow. “I don’t need to be a literature major to know what’s going on in there,” she nods towards my head.

  “Depends how dirty your own thoughts are.”