by Neve Wilder
I sat on one of the stools and fiddled around with my guitar for a while, but the strings weren’t gliding under my fingers like they usually did. They were biting. All the notes came out cluttered with noise and my frustration, so after a couple of minutes, I gave up.
I opened the laptop back up and read the article again, though I didn’t need to. Ella’s account was pretty accurate, and my mind filled in the discrepancies, visuals running through me like a movie at high speed. One I’d stuffed into the corner and vowed not to look at ever again the day after it had happened.
“They had this really intense connection. The same I’ve seen in the YouTube clips of their live shows, but different, more intimate. It was really strange. Not bad strange. Beautiful. It was all very natural and fluid, and to be honest, there were times when I felt like the third wheel, but it was so hot while it was happening. Les is very loose and fun, joking around, laughing a lot. Evan was more reserved, but he was into it. I mean, at least I think he was. And God, the way he looked at Les—”
I stopped right there. What the hell did that mean—the way I’d looked at Les? I reeled back my memory but found nothing too strange there. I’d been watching what was happening, sure, but who wouldn’t if they’d been in the middle of it? It’d been a surreal experience in the first place. It wasn’t like there was some protocol of where I should be looking at which moment for me to follow.
When Les came in, I was standing in front of the stacks of records, my back to him as I flipped through the old cardboard sleeves. I’d been through them so many times I could probably name half the albums and artists by heart. All the greats were represented, from Ella Fitzgerald to the Eagles, and a bunch of less-popular gems, too.
The scent of soap wafted from Les’s skin, and his damp hair spiked in twenty different directions when he heaved his arms over the edge of the crate next to me. “Who’re you in the mood for?”
“I don’t know. Is there a way to cross Slipknot and Nina Simone?”
“I think you’re talking about Evanescence. Or, how they used to be, at least.” He curled over, resting his cheek on his forearm and studying me as I pulled out Led Zeppelin’s III and held it up to him.
“The good ol’ days before all these bullshit publicity stunts.” I slid the record from the sleeve, holding it between my fingers. I loved old records. There was something so austere about them—the pressed plastic, this physical emblem of music. Hell, I even missed the CDs I grew up on. What we did now? It was like shaping air, trying to mold sound into an invisible cage, and a lot of days it felt that ephemeral. A record had a timelessness and permanency unparalleled by digital downloads. I’d tried to convince our label to do a pressing of our first album, but they wouldn’t go for it, so I had someone else do it at my expense. It’d been a nostalgic act, I guess.
“Please,” Les said, taking the record from my hands after I dumped it from the sleeve. “Rex Richards and Emily Day were a total fabrication. And that was 1958.”
“No shit? Really?”
“Mm.” He nodded and set the record on the turntable, lowering the needle. “Immigrant Song” raced out from the speakers and filled the air with its throbbing, manic tempo. “That’s the song you wanted, wasn’t it? I knew it,” he said when I nodded. “And then there’s the White Sound. Everyone thought they were married. Tori Lee breaks up with someone every time she’s about to drop a new album. It’s not that uncommon, and the White Sound and Tori Lee have fans who would rip their own arms off to get a foot closer to the stage. It’s all narrative like anything else.”
I grumbled a nonresponse, because I still thought it was a bad idea. Abandoning the records, I returned to the couch and picked up my guitar again, funneling my agitation through the Zeppelin classic I knew by heart as Les trailed after me.
“I know you think you’re more invested in all of this than me, and you hate some of the bullshit that I don’t really mind. Some of it I even like. But I am invested. Deeply. As much if not more than you, though you’ll never believe it.” Les propped his chin on his hand, watching me from one of the armchairs he’d sprawled in. He was shirtless and barefooted, wearing loose cotton pants. Dark circles still ringed his eyes, but some of the color had returned to his skin and he at least looked alive.
I cocked my head at him. Do tell, said the lift of my eyebrows. He gave me a corkscrew smile, straightening to examine the records he’d carried to the chair with him while I tried to ignore a very different, much more undressed image of him trying to insert itself in the present.
“My reasons are different, and maybe they’re not as noble. I’ll freely admit that a lot of it’s shallow as hell. I crave the acknowledgment, and I crave the appreciation and adoration. And the money is pretty nice, too.” His fingers riffled through cardboard sleeves absently. “And part of all of this is playing the game. The rules change fast, but if we play along well enough, eventually we put ourselves in the position to make the rules.”
It was easy for me to sometimes forget that beneath the partying and sex, Les was fucking smart. Better educated, more knowledgeable about music history and probably any other topic than I’d ever be. He’d gone to some swanky private school growing up, and he’d had a full ride to Vandy that he let go to join up with me. I think that was part of what drove me so crazy. Sometimes it seemed like he was completely careless with his future.
“We should already be in that position.”
“I think we will be soon, if we do this fake couple thing and fulfill our contract. Then, we make the rules.”
“It’s such a fucking sham, though.” A shadow of hurt flitted through Les’s eyes, and I wasn’t sure what it meant, if he thought I was talking about him or his music.
“I think we should let it ride,” he countered. “We can put an expiration date on it. We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Go through with it, then couple of weeks before we drop the album, just a quiet press release suggesting we’re not a couple anymore. Come on, man, think about it? It’s not that big of a deal. No one’s dying here. It’s just a gimmick, and everyone fucking uses gimmicks. Audiences are used to that, but ours will be none the wiser anyway because we’ll sell the hell out of it, both ways. We’re good at putting on a show. Don’t forget that.”
“I don’t want to put on a show. I just want to make music and get paid for it.” I was being petulant. I knew what I’d signed up for, otherwise I’d still be busking on street corners like I used to, writing songs on my own, and playing to whoever would listen, hoping just one person would hear me, really hear me the way Les had. The way our fans did.
“Do this with me and I promise I’ll let you make the decision what happens next. Whatever you say, I’ll back you up one hundred percent. You want to go indie, that’s fine. I’m there with you.” Les fixed me with a stare that burned with sincerity, with promise, and maybe even a bit of a plea, and I knew right then I was going to do it, even as I tried to hedge.
None of this felt good, but maybe he was right. If we stuck with the plan, the whole thing would be done by the time we got the next album out. I was determined to make it a success, and if it was good enough, what the hell we’d been doing in our personal lives wouldn’t matter. Hopefully.
I sighed. “Fuck. Okay.”
We spent the rest of the day getting set up, organizing Les’s disastrous notebook scribbles into a semblance of coherency and playing through old songs to get into the feel of things so we’d be ready to crack hard on some new stuff the next day. It went surprisingly well, considering the shitshow that morning. Maybe Les was as eager to dive into a distraction as I was. Then Levi called Les back late that afternoon with a schedule so ridiculous I almost went back on my agreement to play along.
He’d effectively mapped out our “relationship” for the next few weeks while we were in Gatlinburg and had set up locations, times, and dates where we were to show up and act all cozy so a photographer could get some of the action. We were buffered enough from
the cities that random paparazzi shouldn’t be a problem. It still felt like a covert operation with drop points, except the shit we were unloading was bogus. I had to leave the room and let Les finish the conversation because I’d started to get angry over the whole scenario again.
That was only part of the problem, though. The major key, if you will, because there was still the minor to contend with, and it might actually have been the more important thing.
That night, lying in my bed, unable to sleep, memories of our time with Ella splashed across the backs of my eyelids. I’d kept the box closed so tight for months that the minute I cracked the seal, it came pouring out like a technicolor tsunami and dragged me under.
Chapter 17
Six months ago
The three of us ended up in the bedroom. I couldn’t remember how, I just remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, increasingly aroused as I watched Les with Ella. They stood in front of me, Les behind her, his hands tracing over her body slowly, reverently. She made these kittenish little sounds and writhed under his touch, but Les stole my attention, kept me riveted on his mouth when he bent low to her ear and started speaking softly. It wasn’t anything special, but it was insanely hot, these whispered encouragements and compliments as he kissed and sucked the side of her neck, and she reacted like his voice was just as palpable as his touch. His hands seemed perfectly calibrated to her body, anticipating every twist and arch as he caressed her. It was the same dedication he gave on stage, this sort of transcendent awareness of what the audience craved commingled with his intuitive ability to satisfy them.
There was no doubt in my mind that Les was an exhibitionist, and the more he touched her, the more I got the crazy idea that he was putting on a show for me, playing to me, and Ella’s body was the instrument he was serenading me with. I was completely transfixed.
I stood, fumbling my pants open in front of Ella, absorbing the two of them and saturating myself in their pleasure. Voyeurism gave way to intense desire. It was the same thing that happened to me with music. I could listen up to a certain point, and then the itch to be the one creating it overwhelmed me. This was just a different kind of song. One made of bodies and soft moans and hot, heavy breaths. Or so I told myself. We’d been busting our asses for weeks, and maybe Les was right—I needed to cut loose and go with the flow.
Without warning, he reached out and fisted my cock, making me gasp. It was part shock, part relief, part what-the-fuck. Tightening my hand on Ella’s shoulder, I swayed a step backward, gaze darting to Les’s in bewilderment. He stilled his hand, then loosened his grip reactively, but the look in his eyes didn’t match up to the retreat, because when they fixed on me, they were dark and hungry with challenge. He dipped his head to lick the join of Ella’s shoulder and neck, then released me and slid his hand back between her legs. I could feel the faintest brush of his knuckles against me as he explored her. My own neck warmed as if it were mine he was kissing, and my dick throbbed, pulsing at the absence of touch and aching in ways I’d never felt before.
Ella moaned and bucked at the air.
“You all right, Porter?” His gaze hadn’t wavered from me, but a quicksilver flash of concern passed through the depths of green.
“Yeah.” Maybe I was drunker than I thought, because I was way too into this and a little disturbed by how much Les was turning me on.
Sure, I’d seen him fucking or fooling around on plenty of occasions. But never up close like this. Never where I could feel his breath on my skin and feel his movements translated by another body into mine.
He gave me a sublime nod and kissed Ella’s shoulder as I swallowed hard and said, “Your hand—jerk me.”
To Les’s credit, he didn’t miss a beat; he just took me in his fist again, and the flood of pleasure and relief at having the friction I craved sent my head falling back and my throat swelling with a moan.
Les urged us backward until my calves hit the bed. I wrenched off my clothes, Ella shed her bra. God knew how long Les had been naked. When I sat on the bed again, Ella climbed into my lap. I slid on the condom Les handed me, and it was crazy how naturally all of it happened, as if choreographed. There was no awkwardness, no random jarring moments where we didn’t know what to do. It just… flowed. Ella and I both groaned as she sank down on top me, and Les didn’t stop—he kept talking in that seductive whiskey drawl while he ran his fingers through her hair and plucked at her nipples as she rode me. I fell onto my back and dragged her with me, grabbing for her hips so I could plunge deeper. Les’s gaze was pinned on me, and fuck, it was hard to explain what it did to me, but it felt less like I was fucking Ella and more like she was a conduit between Les and me. I grabbed a fistful of her ass and quickened my rhythm, and the next thing I knew, Les’s hand was on top of mine, spreading her cheeks. He slid his finger in alongside my cock, and another thrill rocketed through me.
When he asked her if she wanted him to fuck her in the ass, she moaned out a yes.
Les put on a condom and eased into her slowly, liberally dousing all three of us in lube and murmuring to her softly when she clenched up at the invasion.
Then I couldn’t fucking move. Because once he was inside her and thrusting, the pressure of him against me, the seemingly negligible separation between our bodies, had me seeing stars. It was intimate and filthy and so fucking hot. I thought maybe this was what Les had meant about the magic of orgies. But it wasn’t Ella getting me hot. It was Les’s presence.
Ella dropped her head to my shoulder, fisting the covers as Les pounded into her and we became a tangle of limbs—her legs straddling my waist, Les between my thighs, one hand propped on the bed beside him, the other closed over mine on her hips. But his gaze was all mine, searing me as he thrust into her, and I couldn’t fucking look away. Couldn’t stop watching how pleasure twisted his face up, how much joy he was getting out of this. It was like a drug, and I lost myself in the flex of muscles running along his arms, his abs contracting with movement, and the tendons straining at his neck.
“You like this, sweetheart?” he growled, and the way his eyes were still locked on mine, almost felt like he was asking me, but it was Ella who answered in a groaned yes, and then please.
“Fuck,” he ground out, then lost it, hips whipping against her before he pulled out and snapped the condom off. He jerked himself roughly against her ass, the tip of his cock brushing over the back of my hand where I gripped her, and exploded with a cry, hot liquid jetting all over my knuckles and her ass and sending me tailspinning into my own orgasm. Les seized the top of my thigh with one hand and wrapped the other around the base of my cock as I arched into Ella and fell apart while she spasmed against me. To say my orgasm was intense would be doing it a disservice. It was so otherworldly, it left me quivering for minutes afterward.
We collapsed in a heap, then straggled up to the head of the bed and passed out.
And that was the second half of the problem. I hadn’t minded Les’s hands on me that night. In fact, I’d enjoyed every second of it, and ever since then, I’d been so fucking twisted up on the subject of my bandmate, I didn’t have a clue where to pull the string that might unravel all of it into some kind of sense.
Evan, you’ve been spotted frequently in the company of Jessica Nash. Are the two of you serious?
Evan: No comment. Next question.
Les: Seriously, you’d have better luck asking the White House for the nuclear codes.
Chapter 18
Present Day
Evan stared at the cereal display like he was a judge on one of those competitions on TV and he was trying to decide which one got to move to the next round. He had his fist under his chin, eyes darting back and forth between Cheerios and Cocoa Krispies, his mouth set in a tight line of scrutiny. This was pretty much how shopping with him had gone since we’d stepped foot inside the deep freeze also known as Food City. I was halfway to hypothermia in a T-shirt and jeans, my skin pebbled with goose bumps, my nipples diamond hard, and I just wa
nted to get through it so I could get back outside and thaw, but Evan applied the same kind of consideration to grocery shopping that he did to music. The cold seemed to have zero effect on him. He appeared perfectly comfortable in his shorts.
“Just get both,” I huffed, growing exasperated. The cart in front of us was full of stuff I’d basically just thrown in Supermarket Sweep style. That’s how damn cold it was inside, and plus, it was just groceries. Admittedly, I hadn’t done my own grocery shopping for a while. I had a service that did most of my errands when I was at home in Nashville—which was rare in the first place—but I was pretty sure nothing had changed in the supermarket world that it required a doctorate to shop now.
“I don’t need both.” He gave me a cool blink of his eyes and went back to his internal quandary.
“But you want them both. So just get them both and let’s move on before you have to debate over which ice pick is best to chip me from the block of ice I’m about to become.”
He glanced over me again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, and I could tell he was considering making a point out of the fucking cereal somehow. “Just because you want—” And there it was, so I cut him off at the pass.
“This is grocery shopping, not couch time with Freud.”