by Neve Wilder
We worked for another half hour until we had a loose chorus-and-verse structure for a couple of other songs. But no lyrics. “I think you should write them,” I said. Evan watched my guitar bob and bounce on my knee, and I knew he could tell I needed a break.
“I can try, sure.” He twisted his mouth up like he was considering it before he suggested we stop for lunch.
“Yeah.” I nodded gratefully and slid my guitar into the stand next to me. “Was thinking I’d go check out Grim’s. Dan said he’d be bringing in some new stock this week. Interested?”
Evan didn’t even look at me when he shook his head, his focus back on his guitar, absorbed by a riff we’d been working on earlier. I’d hit a wall, but I hoped a change of scenery would be enough to put a few chinks in it and some lyrics would start pouring out of me later that afternoon.
Grim’s parking lot was tiny, and my three-point turn to back into a spot became a twenty-point tactical operation that resulted in me crawling out the passenger-side door of Evan’s SUV. I grabbed my ball cap at the last minute and popped it on my head. Not that I thought I was likely to be papped at noon in downtown Gatlinburg, but lately, who knew, and music perusal? That was my sacred time.
When I pushed through the glass-fronted door, a couple of rusty bells emitted a pitiful whimper, and immediately the scent of dust, old paper, and plastic surrounded me. I inhaled deeply for the way it reminded me of growing up and all the music stores I’d loved. Most of them were long gone. Grim’s Record Repository in Nashville was one of the few stalwarts left, and its owner, Daniel Grim, had opened smaller satellites here and in Knoxville and swore he’d die before his shops would.
I grinned when I spotted the man himself crouched over, sorting through a bunch of albums. I strolled down the narrow aisles, letting my fingers trail an uneven path over record sleeves displayed in the roughly constructed plywood racks. He had CDs and even some cassettes, but most of the central floor space was devoted to records.
“Old dude checking out Conway Twitty. There’s a cliché,” I teased as I stopped near his hunched back.
Dan glanced up with a smile and cranked his middle finger up slowly while he sang a few husky bars of “Hello Darlin’.” Dude could sing, and he used to professionally but had quit years ago. He was handsome, too, and not even for an older guy, just flat-out handsome in a rough, world-weary way as if time and tragedy had sanded his features in some places and left him sharp in others. Like his eyes, which twinkled as I cracked up.
He grasped my hand and pulled himself up, and then me into a hug, which he tightened unnecessarily until my lungs compressed and I let out a wheeze.
“Feel that vise? That ain’t old—that’s the vigor of the seasoned.”
Dan released me and I staggered back dramatically, earning a warm chuckle from him.
“How’s tricks?” he asked, sweeping up a stack of records and setting them into the display bin. He nudged the other two stacks aside with the toe of his cowboy boot and tipped his head to keep an eye on me as he started walking up the aisle to the checkout counter.
I followed along slowly, skimming records as I went. “Same old. Working on the new album.”
“Yeah? Got anything good yet?”
“I think so, but shit, I don’t trust my judgment as much this time. I thought the third album was good.”
“It was.” He leaned up against the counter, pulling out a can of nuts from behind it and spilling a handful into his palm. When he offered them to me, I shook my head. “I think it was the timing when it dropped. The market took a hit, people were flailing. The collective consciousness was primed for something light and hopeful and—”
“Black Dove definitely wasn’t that,” I finished for him. Dan had all kinds of theories on music, and if I got him going, he could go for hours analyzing and tying an album’s success or failure to fashion trends, politics, even the stock market on the day an album released. It was fascinating and maybe a little crazy, but I always listened anyway because Dan was Dan. He’d had a solid music career that he left behind to open a couple of record stores, so he knew his shit. And he was partially responsible for me and Evan getting together. I’d known him since I moved to Nashville and used to haunt his main store, digging through records, hanging out, or playing shows. I had a huge soft spot for him.
“What’s the new stuff sound like?”
“I’m not telling you, because you’ll analyze it against market trends or something and psyche me out before we can get it finished.”
He grinned. “Fair enough.”
He popped another peanut in his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully as he studied me, and I knew before he even opened his mouth again what he was going to ask. I started drifting over to one of the display racks because I was going to have to lie to him and I didn’t want to. He was still pretty well connected in the music industry, and even if I wanted to tell him the whole story about what was going on, it was a risk with the way gossip was traded in Nashville.
“It true?” He fixed me with a gimlet-eyed stare, then cracked another nut between his teeth.
Yep, there it was. I turned my back to him and picked up a random record without even reading the label, because the dude had a penetrating gaze that might as well have been an X-ray machine for bullshit.
“Sort of.” And that was all I gave him.
He grunted and I thought he read between the lines well enough because when I looked over my shoulder at him, he pulled his thumb and forefinger across the seam of his lips, like he was zipping them, and moved on.
“You looking for anything in particular today or just come down here to distract some words out?”
He knew me too well. “Kinda both. You have any Jessup Polk?”
Dan’s eyes crinkled at the corners as they narrowed. “Shit, that’s a rare one.” He put a hand to his forehead, thumb and index finger running along his brows like he was trying to coax something out. He had a pretty damn good memory, could usually nail an album’s release down to the exact date. “I think I’ve got one or two of his, but they may be at the main store. They’re hard to find now. Want me to call and see?”
“Sure.”
I wandered the aisles, watching him while he made the call. He was probably fifteen years older than my twenty-six, maybe a little less. Back when I first started out, I’d have slept with him in a heartbeat, but the one time I’d tried, he’d given me a gentle letdown. He had a rumored history with another of Nashville’s greats, but it was all wrapped up in some convoluted love triangle that had involved the woman the other guy ended up marrying, and nobody really knew the truth as far as I could tell. I respected Dan too much to ask, though I was curious as shit. For as long as I’d known him, he’d been single.
He found me staring down Dolly Parton. The cutout display version, this time. She wore a sparkling red dress and a smile the size of Nashville that I matched, thinking about the wax museum.
“Paying your dues?”
I clasped my hands prayer fashion and gave a short bow to her gleaming, dimpled smile and physics-defying tits. “Always.”
“We’ve got it in stock at the main store. Only copy. I had Ru set it aside for you. I can bring it when I come back next week. Assuming you’ll still be here.”
“We will.”
“I’ve never heard you mention Jessup before.” Dan went back to eyeing me thoughtfully; apparently I was quite the mystery to him today.
“Evan was talking about him recently and I thought…” I thought what? I bit my lip. Shit, what I’d thought about was how surprised Evan would be. The pleased grin he’d give me that would be like moonbeams and starlight and the fluffy soft warmth of a good blanket in the winter. Goddammit. I cleared my throat. “I thought it might inspire him or something.”
“Uh-huh.” Dan emphasized the “huh” as if he’d made a discovery.
“What?” I feigned innocence, and Dan shrugged but didn’t ease up on the scrutiny.
“Better be
careful with that shit. Music chemistry getting all mixed up with hormones? Can get messy—”
Again, I thought of the rumors about him, but just then the bells on the door chimed and a guy around my age wearing a beanie and carrying a wooden crate tripped in over the threshold.
“Shit!” he shouted and stumbled another step forward, just managing to keep the crate in his hands, though a few record sleeves went skittering over the open top and slid across the floor.
“Goddamn, kid, you’re killing me,” Dan grumbled, and went to take the crate as the guy bent over to collect the records.
“Owen, Les. Les, Owen.”
Owen righted himself, nodding absently. He started to speak and then stopped, his mouth half-open, eyes wide as he registered me standing there. “Oh.” He tilted his head to one side, avian-like, then nodded to himself again, like he’d come to a decision about something. “Les. Yeah, hi.” I guess that decision was to play it cool. I gave him a grin.
“Shit. I love your music. I heard you were in town. Working on the album, I guess? How’s it going? I love your music.” He smacked the side of his face. “Oh. I already said that. Well, you get the extended version. Bonus praise!” He wiggled his fingers enthusiastically, dropping one of the albums he’d picked up in the process.
Or not. Man, that was a lot at once. I cracked up and leaned over, sweeping the album from the floor and handing it back to him. “It’s going all right, I guess?” Usually I was better at this, but Dan was standing behind him now, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he clapped his thumb and fingers together quickly. I got the gist. A talker.
I pointed at the door. “Was on my way out, actually.”
“Oh, right, sure. Yeah. Cool.” Owen skirted a few steps to the side, still clutching the records close to his chest. “Come back anytime, though, seriously. I could pull some stuff we get in that you might like. I mean, I’d be guessing because obviously I don’t know you personally, but just based on your music.”
“Sure, that’d be awesome.” I smiled my friendliest smile again and stepped past him. Dan held the door open for me, pitching his voice low as I passed. “He’d keep you all afternoon, trust me. Sweetheart, though.” And then louder, he said, “Be good.”
“To the bone.” It was our common parting shot, and I cut him a wink before I headed down the sidewalk back to the car.
You’ve said before that “Violet Hour” from your second album was a surprise hit.
Evan: It was more aggressive than the other songs. At the time, the popular sound was more atmospheric and soft. So I was just surprised something that was a little grittier made it that far. Obviously we put it on the album because we liked it, but I don’t think either of us thought it would top the charts.
How did that song come about?
Les: Evan left his favorite blankie behind in Nashville. He was quite distraught. I think the vocals on the track express it well.
Evan: You’re such an ass. It was my pillow. And I wasn’t distraught. And that’s not at all where that song came from. Jesus fucking Christ, please don’t print that.
Les: He was beating his chest. Wailing. Inconsolable.
Chapter 26
“Porter! Fuckin’ A. Are you shaving your legs or what?” I nudged the bathroom door open as I yelled and was greeted by a waft of fragrant pine-scented steam as Evan poked his head around the shower curtain, his hair plastered over the crown of his head and dripping onto his shoulders. Goddamn, he was sexy when he was wet. Down, boy.
The glare he shot me didn’t hold any heat. “I literally just got in. Antsy?”
“Little bit.” We hadn’t left the cabin in two days because we’d been locked in the zone writing. Evan couldn’t care less about staying in. But me? I was restless. I needed sunlight on my face every now and again, needed to see other human beings. I was a social animal, and while Evan was probably the only person on earth I didn’t get sick of even after weeks on end, being shut away in the cabin with him for days upon days was too chancy with everything that was going on right now. I needed to remember that what we were doing technically had an expiration date. That it wasn’t real, as Evan had so plainly said. At least, not yet.
“Five minutes.” Evan flashed me a smirk and pulled the shower curtain closed again. I was tempted to strip and get in with him, just to see what he would do, and I made a mental note to try it sometime. But not right then, because we were already late.
The past two weeks since I’d gotten him off in the basement had been busy with more than just music. I didn’t think I’d ever given or received so many hand jobs in my life. I wanted more, but instinct told me to let Evan lead, give him time to situate himself in this fucked-up tapestry of a relationship.
Not that I was complaining, and I could tell he was still into it. The following day after we’d gotten off in the basement together, he kept giving me these looks until I’d finally come up behind him when we were in the kitchen after lunch and pressed my erection against his ass, covered his hand with mine, and pushed it down his pants. He’d shot a bewildered glance over his shoulder at first, but was soon jacking himself with my guidance all the way to a white-hot release. I’d come the same moment as he did, jizzing in my pants like a fucking pubescent boy. And the first time he’d put his hand on my dick, I almost came before he’d even fully wrapped his fingers around me.
I loved getting him off—watching his face contort, listening to him groan and curse while I stroked him to orgasm in the basement, up against the kitchen counter, in the hallway one time just because he’d aimed a cocky grin at me when I passed him on the way to the fridge. Last night I’d finally blown him. I’d attacked him while he was sitting on the couch off the living room checking our stats, as usual. I’d pushed the laptop off his thighs and started yanking his shorts down.
“You’ve got a problem, man,” he’d said, even as he writhed under my touch.
“Yeah. I’m stuck in a cabin with a guy with a hot dick. I’m miserable.”
He laughed and then stopped as soon as my fist closed around him. “Fuck,” he groaned, hips rocking into my hand. He threw his head back as I pumped him hard and slow the way he liked it, my lower lip caught between my teeth in concentration, when I realized he was staring intently at me through slitted eyes.
“What?”
“Your mouth.”
My hand slowed. “What about it.”
“I want it on me.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I swallowed him so fucking fast I think it caught him by surprise. He cried out at the wet heat and suction and twisted on the couch until I pinned his hips down to keep him still. Then he watched me hungrily as I lapped at his cock, groaning when I let his tip slip free and slap wetly against my chin before rubbing my lips over his head. I loved having him at my mercy. So often I felt like I was at his, but when I was getting him off, he was wholly, desperately mine to torture. And I took advantage of every second of it. He glided like satin in my mouth, and he didn’t last long. One deep, hard suck and he filled the back of my throat, his thighs twitching in time to the spasms of his cock. And then we’d eaten dinner like nothing had happened and gone back down to the basement to hammer on the album some more. It was the weirdest non-relationship I’d ever been in. And, I guess, technically the only one. But fuck if I was going to be the one to burst our little pleasure bubble.
Evan slid into the passenger seat smelling shower fresh, dark blond hair slicked back from his face. I keyed in the address Maize had given me into my phone and pulled onto the street. Evan’s phone rang and he tipped it toward me to show our manager’s name flashing on the screen, then hit the screen to put the call on speaker.
“What’s up?” he greeted Byron.
“Les with you?”
“Right next to me.”
“How cozy.” Byron chuckled.
“We’re in the car, asshole.”
He grunted, then said, “Dan called me asking about a secret show at Grim�
�s.”
“Huh?”
I winced. Dan had mentioned the possibility of doing a show when I was last in his shop, but I’d neglected to tell Evan because I didn’t think anything would come of it since we were supposed to be laying low and I wasn’t sure how serious Dan was anyway.
“Said he mentioned it to Les.”
Evan shot me an accusing look.
“I didn’t think Evan would want to do it,” I said, ignoring Evan as he tried to burn a hole through me with his gaze.
“You didn’t ask me, tool.”
He’d balked at doing anything more than required publicity, so how the fuck was I to know? “Well, do you?” I glanced over at him, searching his face for any evidence of interest in performing off the cuff. I’d be down, because I always was.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think?” I asked Byron.
“I think it’d be a good move, get you guys out there but in the more controlled setting Dan could provide. Try out some of the new stuff. As long as you can keep your hands from each other’s throats.” If only he knew. Evan must have been thinking along the same lines because he barked out a laugh.
“We’ll think about it and get back to you,” he said.
Before Evan could even get started after he hung up with Byron, I was on it. “You made it clear you wanted to do the minimum amount of publicity.”
“You could’ve at least asked.”