by L. A. Witt
“Thanks.” I stepped inside, glancing around the living room. Comfortable—elegantly so, in fact—but nondescript. I’d spent too many long, lonely nights on tour in rooms like this, waking up the next morning with no fucking clue what city I was in. I didn’t usually invite employees inside... well, except when I did. Sometimes the nights got too long and lonely. Too quiet. “I’m gonna have another drink. Care to join me?”
I could see the wheels turning in his head. Say yes, and confirm the reason he still couldn’t meet my gaze? Or refuse, and risk offending the boss?
“Um, yeah,” he said finally. “Thanks.”
I went over to the bar and poured us single Scotches while Jase ventured into the living room. He shoved his hands in his pockets, eyeballing the cream-colored couch like he was afraid he’d get something on it.
“Sit wherever you want,” I said, handing him his drink. I waited for him to choose a spot, then sank down close enough to him to touch if we wanted to, but far enough that he hopefully wouldn’t feel like I was trying to crowd him. “So,” I went on, picking up on our previous conversation, “did you record that EP yourselves?”
He chuckled. “Kinda obvious from the shitty sound quality, huh?”
“You should’ve heard our early demos. Sounded like we recorded ‘em in a fucking bathroom.”
“But you graduated to a world-class studio after you signed with Millennium Records.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “No one in their right mind would’ve ever signed us.”
“You’re lucky. Wish I had a time machine so I could go back five years and un-sign our contract.”
“I thought everybody in this business wanted a record deal.”
That’s what I’d wanted too, before I knew better. “If you don’t mind letting the corporate overlords rob you blind, have at it. I’d rather make music.”
“Is that why you’re always touring?”
“Aside from the money issue, yeah. Nothing like getting in front of an audience to remind you why you’re alive.” Even now, just thinking about performing sent adrenaline surging through my veins. No matter how sick or exhausted I got on the road, seeing that crowd out there waiting never failed to get me pumped. “The kicker is, I love playing so much, I’d do it for free. But don’t tell anyone.”
We both laughed. Jase slumped against the cushions, resting his glass on his chest. I watched, half-mesmerized, as it rose and fell with every breath he took. “Can I, um... ask you a personal question?”
I instinctively stiffened, then said, “Go ahead.”
“How come you’ve never recorded ‘Forth Into Light’?”
Not what I expected, but it still made me smile. “That’s not very personal.”
“Sure it is. You play it in your acoustic set practically every night, and you change the lyrics every time. Is it one of those songs that never stops evolving, or”—he waved his hand around, like he was trying to pluck the right words out of the air—“is it too close to your heart to let go of?”
All this insight from a guy who’d been silently watching my back the past few weeks. The man was a philosopher, and I hadn’t a fucking clue. “It’s a work in progress. I’ve been toying with it for a couple of years now. I still can’t get the bridge or the last verse right.”
“Takes that long, huh?”
“Sometimes.” But there was another reason too. “It’s my favorite of all the songs I’ve written. I can’t... no, I won’t let Millennium turn it into a fucking product.”
“It’s my favorite too,” Jase said softly. A jolt of pure lightning jagged through me as his fingers closed over mine. Strong, supple fingers with tiny hard calluses at the tips—the mark of a guitarist. A damn good one, too—those wailing riffs on his EP nearly scorched my eardrums. He set down his drink and looked at me.
Bad idea. He’s an employee, for Christ’s sake. Laugh it off and show him the door.
Or—oh, fuck it.
I leaned closer, sliding my hands over his shirt and the warm, firm muscles rippling underneath. The pulse in his throat thrummed, his stubble prickling my fingertips. And God, that mouth, those lips, parting just for me—
Something buzzed, vibrating against my hip.
My fucking phone.
With a call from Milo flashing on the display.
I hit the ‘answer’ button. “What?”
“Jordan, you’ve gotta believe me, I only left the room for a couple minutes. I thought Daniel was asleep, so—”
“What’re you talking about?” But my plummeting stomach already knew. I only ever heard that scared, frantic tone in Milo’s voice when something truly heinous hit the fan. “Is he—”
“Gone. He locked me in the bedroom and took off. I called hotel security, but…”
They wouldn’t find him. Daniel’d had plenty of practice giving security the slip. He’d be back when he ran out of money, coked to the fucking gills and with half the city’s police force gunning for him.
No, not again. Not if I had anything to say about it.
Chapter Two
Jase
“Fucking idiot,” Jordan muttered, and started for the door. “Daniel’s gone.”
I grabbed his arm before he could get past me.
He stopped, blinking. “What the—”
“You stay here.” I loosened my grip but didn’t let go. “I’ll find him.”
Jordan shook his head and pulled away. “I know him. I’ll find him.”
“And everyone in the city knows who you are.” I locked eyes with him. “Guy like him won’t be hard to find. He’s a junkie.”
Fury flashed in his eyes. His lips peeled back across his teeth as he snarled, “You have no idea what—”
“You want me to go find him?” I snapped. “Or do you want to argue about whether he qualifies as a junkie?”
Jordan broke eye contact, and his shoulders slumped a little as if I’d just hurt him. Maybe I had. Those two had been friends since the dawn of time, and regardless of what it did to their music career, it had to be hell watching Daniel slowly self-destruct.
“You’re too easy to recognize,” I said gently. “No one knows who I am.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Jordan.” When he met my eyes, I said, “I’ll find him.”
Breaking eye contact again, he nodded. “All right. Go.”
There’d be time to pick up where we’d left off—had I really made a move on Jordan Kane?—and maybe figure out what the fuck we’d been doing, but priority one right now was Daniel.
Jordan gave me his room key so I’d be able to make it up to the penthouse when I came back. Without a word, he watched me go, and as soon as the elevator doors had closed behind me, my mind shifted to the task at hand. Though I was and always would be a musician, I’d also done time in the military, which was what had led me into private security after the band fell apart. When shit happened, that training kicked in, and I was on autopilot.
All the way down the tall building, I considered every possibility. Daniel had been high when we’d left the bar, but he’d been lucid. No doubt he’d gone off to score another hit. Money wasn’t an object, so he wouldn’t have to risk whatever cheap shit he could get his hands on out on the street, and in an unfamiliar town with no connections—I assumed—he’d take the easiest route. That is, find a place where similar-minded people congregated, and his drug du jour would be easy to acquire.
Which meant I needed to find someone who knew where those people congregated.
In the lobby, I went to the front desk. “I’m looking for my friend. He just left. Did you see him leave? Blond, maybe yay tall”—I held my hand up around my chin—“with a goatee? Leather—”
“You just missed him.” The desk clerk gestured at the entrance. “He took a cab maybe five minutes ago.”
“And I don’t suppose you heard him say where he was going?”
She shook her head.
“Shit,” I said under my breath. “All right, thanks.” I went outside and
looked around. There were several cabs parked in front of the club across the street—the one Jordan hadn’t dared show his face in if he wanted to sleep in this place tonight—and just my luck, there was also a cop car cruising down the street.
I stepped up to the curb and flagged down the patrol vehicle. When the officer stopped and rolled down the passenger window, I rested a hand on the door and showed my ID from the security agency with the other. “I’m trying to track down a buddy of mine, and I think he’s going to try to score some blow. Any idea where he might go?”
The cop scrutinized my ID for a moment. “Your buddy got a preference? Coke? Meth?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure what his thing is right now. He’s been into both. If I had to guess, probably…” I hesitated. “Probably meth.”
The cop nodded. He reached across the passenger seat and opened the door. “Get in. I’ll drop you off a block or so away from the club.”
“Thanks.” I got in, and he drove me into one of the sleazier parts of town. One of those graffiti-covered places where even I didn’t like walking alone, with or without the forty-five I kept under my jacket.
The cop pulled up next to the curb in front of a dry cleaner that had probably been closed since the 1970s. As the car came to a stop, he said, “There’s a club about one block that way.” He gestured down the road. “Shitty place, but if he wants a quick score in this town, that’s where he’ll find it.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Good luck.”
I got out of the car and headed toward the club. This was definitely the part of the city where someone would find cheap and easy blow. And it was a damned good thing Jordan hadn’t come out here. Even a junkie would recognize him, and if someone caught a picture of him in a place like that, all the rumors would start up again. The tabloids had finally given up their insistence that he was a closeted cokehead about a year ago, and they didn’t need anything to reignite that bullshit.
I gritted my teeth just thinking about that, and walked a little faster. I’d seen the tabloids well before I’d gotten this job, and they hadn’t really registered either way. But now Jordan was my responsibility.
And as I ran the tip of my tongue across my lower lip, searching for just a hint of that short-lived kiss from earlier, I tried to convince myself he was only my responsibility. Not my lover. Not my friend. My boss and my responsibility. Nothing more. As for the near-kiss? Well, I’d been the closest warm body after a stressful evening, and he’d probably fire me tomorrow for making a pass at him anyway. Not that he’d exactly objected to it.
Not that any of that mattered if I didn’t come back to the penthouse with Daniel. Jordan’s temper was legendary, and from what I’d heard, he wasn’t above firing everyone within earshot if someone pushed him far enough. More often than not, that someone was Daniel.
I stopped in front of the club. The cop was right. Between the passed out drunks on the sidewalk, the vomit in the gutter, and some all too familiar scents in the air, this was probably little more than a crackhouse with a deejay.
I tugged at my jacket to make extra certain my weapon was concealed, and then headed in.
A huge bouncer stood in front of the door. “Cover’s fifteen.”
Shit. I had no cash.
I gestured for the guy to lean in so he could hear me over the music. “Listen, I’m not here to party. I need to find someone before he gets into trouble.”
The bouncer shook his head and didn’t move. “Can’t help you, man. Still gotta pay the cover.”
I glared up at him. “You can let me in, or you can let the cops in.” I held up my cell phone. “Your call.”
His lips tightened. Then he stood aside. “Ten minutes. You stay in there a second longer, I’m coming in to—”
I was already through the door and didn’t hear the end of the threat. Whatever. Ten minutes, half hour, however long it took, I wasn’t leaving here without Daniel.
I put in some earplugs just like I always did at the shows, and continued through the club. Though I was used to bright lights and loud music, I wasn’t usually this wound up and I definitely wasn’t usually trying to find someone in all the chaos. The flickering lights fucked with my eyes, and the thumping bass smacked the insides of my skull as I searched for Daniel in the crowd.
Faces came in and out of focus. Male. Female. They all blurred together, the lights and movement making it impossible to tell one from the next. Panic simmered beneath my skin—what if I couldn’t find him? Jordan hadn’t fired me over the cab incident, but I doubted he’d be so forgiving if I came back without his best friend in tow.
The “song” blasting through the speakers changed. The new rhythm jarred me, confusing both my thoughts and my pulse. Everyone moved in time with this one, and the lights changed color, drenching people in pink and purple instead of blue and green.
Get it together, Jase. I was used to environments like this, damn it. But being lost in this crowd and trying to find someone in it were two entirely different things. And there was that fear in the back of my mind that this wasn’t the right place. That he was in a back alley somewhere, surreptitiously swapping cash for powder. Or that he’d found some shady backwoods motel and was already wasted.
No, this was the place. It had to be. This was Daniel’s scene. Music, drugs, flashing lights, women—this was the flame for a moth like him. This was his fucking bonfire.
Shouldering my way through the crowd, I edged toward the hallway between the two bars. If any transactions went on here, they were probably—
There.
Propped up by a wall and two barely dressed girls, his distinctive leather jacket gave him away. Places like this were too hot for jackets like that, but the huge embroidered No Rules insignia on the back got him the attention he craved as much as the dope.
Relieved that I’d found him and worried sick that I was a little too late, I worked my way toward him. He shifted his weight, and nearly collapsed, grabbing onto one of the girls and laughing hysterically. God, he was all kinds of fucked up. He’d been high when he’d left, but now, he was an overdose waiting to happen. The sweat on his forehead gleamed in the flickering lights, and his hair was visibly damp. His gestures were big and imprecise, nearly knocking a Solo cup out of one girl’s hand.
When I finally made it through the crowd, I grabbed his arm and pried it off the brunette’s waist.
“Excuse you,” she snapped.
“It’s time for him to go.”
Daniel’s head lolled toward me, and when he looked up at me, he grinned deliriously. “Hey, Greg. You made it.” He gestured at the girls. “Tell ‘em I ain’t lying ‘bout who I am.” Definitely wasted—he didn’t even know who I was. Hell, he probably didn’t know who he was.
“Yeah, yeah.” I put my arm around his waist. “Party’s over. Let’s get out of here.”
“Hey, wait!” One of the girls glared at me. “We were talking to him.”
“Hope you enjoyed it,” I grumbled. “Come on, let’s go.”
Daniel slumped against me. He tried feebly to fight me, but I was stronger than him even when he wasn’t fucked up.
The other girl staggered a little and grabbed her friend for balance. “So is it true he’s Daniel Barrett? Do you know Jordan Kane?”
“No.” I adjusted Daniel’s arm around my shoulders. “He’s just too fucked up to know who he is.”
They both pouted and sauntered back into the crowd.
“You sumbitch.” He tried and failed to push me off him. “I was going to—”
The music drowned him out, and I wasn’t listening to him anyway. Whatever he said, it was the drugs talking, and I didn’t want to hear it, so I just focused on dragging his ass through the thick crowd toward the front door.
Outside, ignoring both him and the bouncer—who insisted I’d overstayed my ten minutes—I hauled Daniel down the road to one of the main thoroughfares. There, I flagged down a cab and dumped him unce
remoniously into the backseat. He mumbled something and tried to fight me, but he was high and I had a good thirty pounds on him, so he didn’t win.
I directed the driver to the hotel as I took out my phone. The driver muttered an affirmative and pulled into the road.
I texted Jordan: On our way back.
Hopefully that was enough to calm him down. Though once he saw Daniel, he’d probably flip out again. Couldn’t say I blamed him. A musician’s career was precarious enough without a junkie on board. People had been after Jordan for years to quietly replace Daniel and move on, but he refused. The band was Daniel’s life just like it was Jordan’s, and he wasn’t going to take that from him. At this rate, he might strangle him, though…
My phone buzzed.
How is he?
Daniel slurred something I didn’t understand, and slumped against the door. His breathing was still fairly even, though he was delirious and sweating profusely. He looked a little pale too.
“Hey, man,” the cabbie said. “He okay?”
I nodded, eyes still fixed on Daniel. “He’ll be fine. Just needs to sleep it off.” I hope. With anyone else, I’d have gone straight to the hospital just to be sure.
I finally messaged Jordan back, High as a kite, but I think he’s okay. After a moment, I added, Should I take him to get checked out?
My phone stayed silent for almost a minute. Then, Is he lucid?
I looked at Daniel. His eyes were open, if a bit glassy, and he stared out the window. “Hey, Daniel.” When he turned his head toward me, I said, “How’re you feeling?”
His glassy-eyed gaze turned into a glare. Facing out the window again, he muttered, “Fuck you.”
He’s lucid, I wrote back. Sort of.
Bring him home. I’ll have Milo keep an eye on him.
Will do.
As the cab took us from the shitty part of town to a slightly safer-looking area, I relaxed a little more about Daniel’s condition. The less I had to worry about him, the more my thoughts drifted back to the moment before Jordan’s phone had come to life and killed the mood.