by Anna Zabo
“They’re not going to understand the other part of that, though,” Mish said.
Zavier nodded. “Know that, too. Frustrating as hell, though.”
Ray knew knowledge didn’t always change emotions. “Why’d your mentor send them to you?”
A chuckle, and Zavier met Ray’s stare. “Because she likes to try to embarrass me. It’s a game.”
“Did she embarrass you?” Dom’s voice.
Zavier pursed his lips and nodded to Dom. “A little. I was surprised at how I looked in the photos.”
“How do you look in the photos?” Ray’s mug was empty, but he really didn’t want to move away from the couch, even if he did want more coffee.
“I looked—” Zavier shook his head and leaned over to unzip his messenger bag. He pulled his tablet out, and with a skill that Ray marveled at, somehow flipped the thing open and unlocked it without putting down or even spilling a drop of his coffee. He handed Ray the tablet. “Here.”
Ray took it, even as his stomach flinched. Last time he’d stared at a tablet, it had been Carl’s, and it had been the video of him yelling at Kevin. This, though...
He glanced down, then stared. Holy shit. It was a photo of him and Zavier from one of the acoustical sets when they were both out at the stage edge, taken from below. Zavier was lit perfectly, his black hair slick, his body glowing.
And he was looking at Ray with such open passion Ray felt the heat of both stares—the one in the photo, and of Zavier watching him now. Both went to his head and to his balls. Fuck, Zavier was hot.
He wet his suddenly dry lips. “You look like a rock god.”
“He is a rock god,” Dom said. “We all are.”
“It’s only been ten weeks,” Zavier murmured.
“You were always a rock god,” Ray shot back. They’d been living nonstop with each other since the audition. He damn well knew how good Zavier looked and played. He handed the tablet back, glad that his hands weren’t trembling like his heart was. “You willing to dig into the bad, too?”
Zavier nodded. “Paradoxically, it’s easier for me to read than the good.”
“Why?” The question came from Mish, but Ray had been about to ask it.
“Because I can ignore the bullshit, especially when I know it’s bullshit.” Zavier laid the tablet between the back of the couch and his legs. “With the good, I can’t tell if it’s smoke or fire.”
Ray didn’t say a word. Because when it came to Zavier, it was most certainly always fire.
* * *
The drive between Houston and Dallas was short, which Zavier found to be both a relief and an annoyance. He enjoyed not moving, but he also was getting very fond of the way Ray stretched out with him on the couch. Two cats, Mish called them.
As they traveled, Ray plucked out notes on Dom’s guitar—snatches of intriguing melodies and phrases—and jotted notes down in his journal. Not musical ones, but cryptic symbols nonetheless. Shapes. Letters. His own system.
Zavier itched to learn more about that, but Ray was absorbed, so he didn’t ask. He did tap out rhythms as Ray played, though. Simple and complex ones, which Ray took and wove into the melody.
“That gonna be something when it grows up?” Dom glanced up from his book. “Sounds damn good.”
“Maybe.”
Despite his cagey reply, Zavier felt the true answer. Ray was composing. Couldn’t be anything else. “Does the song have a name?”
“Not that I want to say yet.” Ray shifted on the seat, and put the guitar away. “But yes.” Amber eyes met Zavier’s, but no more words. Just a smile.
That was enough. Their little session of submission, as bad an idea as it had been, also seemed to have unlocked something in Ray. Or maybe taking the day off had. Hard to say. Whatever the reason, the outcome was a move back toward the rough-hewn friendship they’d carved. As an added bonus, Ray was regaining control of himself and shedding his anger and annoyance.
Though Zavier wanted to throat-punch Carl, especially after having skimmed through the good—and the bad—about the band on the internet. Generally, the press was as he’d seen in the articles Nadia had sent: positive, even glowing in places. Their shows were seen as rising to or even surpassing Five Asylum’s. They were becoming one of the season’s hottest, must-see groups. There were comments speculating about how an album with Zavier behind the drums might sound, how he’d elevated Twisted Wishes, and there was also praise for Ray’s energetic and outstanding vocals. Accolades rained down for Mish and Domino, too.
The photos were amazing and Nadia was going to have a field day, because Zavier had become a new sexy catch, or something like that. The press dug back into the past and pulled out photos of him in a tux. Black tie and tails or nearly naked, Zavier Demos cut a stunning figure. He’d rolled his eyes at that.
The bad was—interesting. Mostly it revolved, as everyone knew, around Kevin and that one night where Ray had lobbed a bottle at him. There was an article about Ray’s “violent” outburst in St. Louis, including how Ray had flipped off Zavier. Perhaps offstage Van Zeller and Demos are not as in sync as on, but that didn’t mar their performance, nor their onstage chemistry.
Onstage chemistry. Those were powerful words.
No one had dirt on Domino, thanks to Dom’s night and day personas. For Mish, they speculated about her sexuality—gay or straight? As if those were the only choices. As if it were anyone’s business but hers. The press was horrid in that respect.
The dirt around Zavier focused on his departure from Silverton, but since he seemed to be enjoying the rock-and-roll life, no one had really dug any deeper than Dimitri throwing a tantrum. There was also quite a bit of speculation about his sexuality, too, which also made him roll his eyes.
The questions people wanted Ray to answer, though, did all revolve around Kevin. Had they been lovers? Did Ray regret drinking? Was he doing a twelve-step or some other program? Had he talked to Kevin? On and on.
Zavier started a list. Any of the questions were bound to bother Ray, but all of them would put him over the edge. There was also the question of whether Ray and Zavier were fucking—and that one hit a little too close for comfort.
He’d rubbed his eyes and turned off his tablet after about two hours of that nonsense.
An hour later, they arrived in Dallas. Zavier had to hand it to Ray—he always seemed to know what city they were near. To Zavier, all the venues were blending together. One outdoor amphitheater looked a lot like another. The accommodations, while slightly different, were similar enough. Déjà vu wasn’t just a feeling—it was a piece of his life now.
They’d huddled in the bus before they’d arrived and had changed up a few things, but left the show pretty much the same as they’d played in Houston, since that still buzzed in their veins. Good thing, too.
When they stepped off the bus in Dallas, it wasn’t just Carl waiting for them, but one of the label bigwigs, as well. Carl wore his usual twisted and displeased look, deeper than normal.
But the exec, he was downright excited. “Here’s the band everyone’s talking about!” A corporate smile followed.
For his part, Ray stepped forward and offered a hand. “Not bad for an opening act, huh?”
Zavier flinched internally. They were more than an opening act and Ray needed to believe that.
“Not tonight.” Where the exec’s grin widened, Carl’s mouth only became more pinched. “You’re headlining this concert.”
Ray seemed to stop moving. Stop breathing. Hell, Zavier’s blood went cold and hot. Headlining?
“What?” Ray let go of the exec’s hand.
Carl spoke, and his tone made Zavier want to punch him. Too dismissive, too snide. “Gregor Daye has laryngitis, so Five Asylum canceled. Should have canceled the whole thing, but the promotion company seems to think you guys can step up.”
“We agree,” the exec said. “Given your most recent performances and the number of fans coming to see just you, there’s no reason you can’t play the full show yourself.”
“We can.” Ray’s voice was soft, but the certainty behind those two words took Zavier’s breath away.
Carl started to speak, but it was as if Ray didn’t even hear him. His focus was on the suited man with the power tie and slick smile. “We can do this. We’ve got enough material. We’re ready.” He turned and looked at them in turn. “Right?” No doubts at all. It was if a switch had been flipped and Ray believed.
Zavier could only nod with Dom and Mish. Oh, Ray. Go. Do this. There was the strength and conviction—and control.
There wasn’t even any time for Carl to cut into them, because they were off into a whirlwind of resetting play lists, performing sound checks, doing warm-ups, then plunked right down into pre-concert interviews.
Of course, the reporters tried to dig into Ray. But Zavier damn well wouldn’t let them take this night from Ray.
This journalist was named Samantha Galloway. “How do you feel about Twisted Wishes doing so well after you replaced your drummer? Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”
Ray’s color changed, paling, the flushing red as embarrassment and ire rose.
Zavier beat him there. “Oh, come on, what kind of question is that? And with me sitting here?”
She paled herself, and turned a little toward him. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course you did.”
Silence.
“No one—not Ray, not me, not Domino or Mish—could have predicted how we’d play together. Or that I’d even be available or interested. And asking Ray that—” He shook his head.
She had the decency to look taken aback. Everyone around the table shifted, especially Carl, who sat next to Samantha. Interesting.
Ray’s gaze flicked to his momentarily, then focused on Samantha. He straightened in his chair. “Look, I miss Kevin. I wish he could be here. He made those albums what they were, too.” His gaze shifted to Zavier. “I mean, I love your playing, but...”
“Hey, I know I’m filling shoes.”
Samantha swallowed and glanced at her phone, which was recording the interview. Carl stared down at his hands.
“I’d say you should ask Kevin how he feels, but...” Ray shook his head. “Leave him alone. He’s been through enough.”
After that, the interview shifted away from Kevin and on to other topics like recording a new album and whether Zavier would remain. They answered those honestly, and the whole process felt a damn sight better than it had before. Afterward, once the journalist and Carl had left, Ray focused on him.
A sense of calm flew through Zavier. Yes. There was the trust he craved. The understanding and spark of friendship.
“Oh god.” Ray leaned back in his chair. “Are they ever gonna stop asking about Kevin? It’s not okay talking about him like that.”
“Hon, it’ll be okay.” Mish rubbed his back. “You did fine. Zavier, too.”
He only wanted to take some of the burden off Ray, let him run with this night. Lead them into a show that would win over the label.
Ray rose. “Yeah.” He met Zavier’s gaze. “Thank you. I’m really grateful.”
So was Zavier. He nodded, because it seemed the best response.
A smile flitted across Ray’s face—first one Zavier had seen pre-concert in a while. “Let’s go get dressed.”
They did, and when they took the stage, the whole audience was theirs.
Zavier drank in the energy and excitement, the glory that was Twisted Wishes, and the singular excellence that Ray brought to the stage.
He rained his sticks down on the kit and wanted to live in that moment forever.
Chapter Fifteen
Ray was still high as a kite after the autograph lines. They’d headlined their very own show and had their first VIP encounter. Those had been in the works for a while, though Carl had neglected to tell them. Still, the whole thing had been an unbelievable experience, so he couldn’t even be mad about that, especially since the VIP packages would continue. The label executive had praised the band afterward for their energetic and fan-inspiring performance and complimented them for stepping up when Five Asylum had to back out.
They were heading to the buses—band and crew—for a little celebration when Ray stopped in his tracks, the realization hitting him like a hammer in the head. Zavier bumped his shoulder and gave him a questioning look.
“I left my notebook in the dressing room.” He had to get it. Its potential loss was like a punch to his chest.
Zavier nodded. “Want company?”
“Nah. Should only take a second.” With that, he turned and jogged back into the building.
Thankfully, the Moleskin was exactly where he’d left it, sitting on the vanity. The rest of the things in the room—the clothes and makeup and other items—were packed up.
One of the crew, Sasha, smiled at him. “Thought you might be back for that,” she said.
He gave a laugh. “Yeah. It’s like my security blanket.” He gave the crew a wave.
“Hey,” she said. “You joining us for movie night?”
The whole band had been invited. Mish thought it was a great idea, and so did Dom. They’re working their asses off, too, he’d said.
Ray agreed, except he didn’t know if he’d make it to the party. “Really depends on when I start to crash.” He bounced up and down. “Right now I’m fine, but—”
Sasha gave him a little look he interpreted as interest. “Well, I hope to see you, if you don’t crash.”
Oh, honey. You’d be better off trying that on Mish than me. He smiled and headed out—and ran straight into Carl. Almost literally.
“What the fuck, Ray?”
“I—” He held up the notebook, but the rest of the sentence died in his mouth. Carl was furious, red-faced and glaring. Ray took a step back.
“I’ve been all over this fucking venue looking for you.” Carl pointed down the hall, like a schoolmaster, and the bottom dropped out of Ray’s life.
What had he done? Why was Carl so mad? Jesus, the label guy had loved them! Still, he went the way Carl pointed. Don’t make waves. Stay calm. Stay collected. Controlled. Like he should be. Like Zavier wanted. God, he should have stayed with the band. Or taken Zavier up on his offer to come with him. His head swam like he was drowning in the booze Carl always accused him of drinking.
At the end of the hall was a tiny room, a closet of an office. He followed Carl inside and flinched when he closed the door. Ray swallowed a breath and turned.
Carl shook his head. “That—” he pointed in the vague direction of the stage “—was not good enough.”
Ray gripped his notebook, the cover biting into his palm. “But—everyone loved it.” His voice wavered. Hold it together.
“Is that what you think?” Carl’s lips curled into a smile that was anything but kind.
“The label—”
“Mr. Collinger was being kind. Reality is that your performance out there was barely adequate as a headlining band. It was mediocre, and barely up to an opening act’s form.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky you have such enthusiastic fans. They pulled the weight for you tonight.”
That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right...could it? Ray played the night over in his head again. Tried to remember exactly what the exec had said, what he’d looked like. Had his smile been too wide? Shit, shit.
He wanted to slam past Carl, tell him he was full of it, and flee back to the bus. But that was the act of the fool Carl said he was. Probably what the asshole thought he’d do. Instead, he took another breath. “Okay, what do we need to do better?”
Carl blinked at him, and for a moment looked dumbfounded. Then he snorted.
“No, I’m serious. If there’s a problem, how do we fix it?”
“Stop being so goddamned condescending.” Carl turned away.
Condesc—“I’m not!” Ray’s voice rose, along with his anger. Both he tried to catch and tamp down. He would not explode. Not here, not tonight. “I’m not trying to cause trouble, Carl. I’m asking for your opinion as our manager. What are we doing wrong?”
“More like what are you doing wrong, Ray.”
“Me?” His voice crept up. He was giving each and every night all that he had.
“You’ve got to be better. Get more vocal training. Stop hitting the notes sharp. You’re not giving your all out there. It’s lucky your bandmates have talent.”
Oh. Ray’s heart turned to stone. Had he sung sharp? He couldn’t really remember the night clearly now. It all came in bits and pieces—visions of light and sound and tastes. He tried to piece together what he could, but his heart rammed in his chest. The video of Carl’s singing flitted through his mind. So much easier to critique a performance from the outside. Maybe he had been off tune. Probably. Yeah.
“I—” He met Carl’s cold gaze.
“Get your fucking act together, Ray, That’s your only choice.” Carl spun, wrenched open the door, and walked out.
All the while, Ray struggled to breathe, to think, to not throw his notebook—the one possession he cared about—against the wall. Screaming would feel good, but probably fuck up his voice even more. They’d just headlined their first show, and it wasn’t fucking good enough for Carl. He could track down the exec, but what would that look like? A sniveling kid looking for approval?
What good was a notebook full of songs if the singer was crap? Was he fucking up?
He didn’t know. Shit. What was he going to do?
* * *
Zavier was standing outside the crew bus, listening with one ear, but paying attention to the walkway from the venue. Ray had been gone too fucking long. A few more minutes and he’d grab one of the security staff that still hung out by the gates, and go hunting for him. It didn’t take that long to grab a notebook. So far, the only people coming down that path had been the crew with the last of their things, along with Carl, who’d stalked off to his hired car. Zavier’s blood chilled as watched him leave.