by Tracy Wolff
Which they would totally be doing, right now, if Wyatt wasn’t in the fucking wind, once again refusing to answer any calls or texts.
Part of her thought she should head over to his place and make sure he was okay after what she’d put him through that morning. But she couldn’t justify it. Not when she didn’t think he was using. Yeah, it was her job to try to keep him clean, but that didn’t mean she had the right to invade his privacy if all he wanted was some alone time after everything he’d told her. He’d come to her last night when he could have been drinking, had promised her this morning that he wasn’t going to use. That had to count for something.
Besides, she had to trust him some time. Trust really wasn’t her strong suit, but after this morning, she wanted to try with him. Needed to try. They all did, or they’d end up right back in the mess they were in three months ago.
Then again, here they were, several hours later, and Wyatt was completely MIA. The band was growing agitated—she could see it in the way Quinn kept clicking his pen, the way Ryder kept bouncing his leg. The way Jared kept glancing at his phone and cursing under his breath.
Shane could sense it, too, and she could tell it was making him nervous. His eyes were wide and his own body language a million times tenser than it had been when he’d first gotten here. He had to know what was making them nervous—the whole music industry and half the world knew about Wyatt’s addiction—so even if they decided they wanted to give him a shot at another secret club gig, there was no guarantee he would actually go for it.
Still, it would have been nice if Wyatt had actually given them a fighting chance. Oh, she knew that this wasn’t technically her problem—that helping Shaken Dirty find a new bassist wasn’t in her job description, especially after what her father had said yesterday. But this band meant a lot to her father’s label, and to her. And, more importantly, so did Wyatt. She wanted to make sure both he and his band were okay before she had to go back to New York in a few weeks. Or sooner, if her father decided to throw a hissy fit and send Caleb down here after all.
“Do you have any questions for us?” Quinn asked, leg still jiggling.
“Actually, yes.” Shane took turns looking each of the band members in the eye. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“Right here.” Wyatt’s deep voice filled the room as he stepped inside Quinn’s studio, letting the door fall closed behind him.
“Wyatt!” His name escaped before she even knew she was going to say it.
He winked at her before grinning at the other guys. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, holding up his hands, which were heavily bandaged. She barely had time to wonder if he’d been in a fight—please God, don’t let him have been in a fight—when he continued, “There was this song…”
The concern and annoyance melted off the other guys’ faces like it had never been. “You wrote a song?” Jared demanded, jumping up and crossing the room to clap Wyatt on the back.
“I did. I went home to change, saw my kit. It just kind of came to me.”
“Fuck, yeah, man!” Quinn let out a little whoop. “Every time that happens to you, we get another Grammy.”
“And another number one hit,” Ryder added with a grin.
“Yeah, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Wyatt said, but he was smiling, too. And it was a real smile, one that had his cheeks creasing and his eyes sparkling with a joy she’d never before seen in him. It was a good look, especially since those same eyes were clear and unclouded by drugs. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“Yeah, well, that’s about to change,” Jared said, grabbing one of Wyatt’s hands to examine the damage. It must have been even worse than it looked from across the room, because he let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, man, it’s been a long time since you tore them up this bad.”
Wyatt shrugged. “What good is art if you don’t suffer for it occasionally?”
“Damn fucking straight,” Ryder said, coming over to stand beside him, too. “But before we hear that soon-to-be-award-winning song, why don’t you meet Shane? We’ve just been talking to him about the bassist opening.”
“Hey, Shane,” Wyatt said, holding out one bandaged hand to shake. Shane looked at it, a little horrified, but Wyatt just laughed. “It’s fine, man. Doesn’t hurt.”
Shane nodded, but he still took Wyatt’s hand very gingerly, like he was convinced the drummer would scream if he pressed too hard.
Then again, she didn’t blame him. The whole doesn’t hurt comment was a blatant lie—the parts of his hands she could see were raw. She’d heard about drummers messing up their hands during a particularly hard performance, had even seen the blood spatters across the occasional drum head after a show.
But what she saw in Wyatt’s hands—the raw sores on his knuckles, the broken blisters on a couple of his fingers—that wasn’t normal abuse from a hard session. Drummers built up callouses if they played often enough, so for Wyatt’s hands to look like that…he had to have played for hours, had to have played through agony to get them in that shape. And that was just what she could see. She couldn’t imagine what was actually under the bandages.
“So, what’s going on?” Wyatt asked the room at large as he ignored a seat in the circle of musicians and crossed over to sit next to her on the couch. As he did, it took every ounce of professionalism she had not to demand to see his wounds, to ask if he was really okay. But she was here as a guest, a social media coordinator in the eyes of the other guys, and the last thing she wanted to do was overstep her bounds.
At least until Wyatt rested one of his injured hands on his thigh and rubbed gently. When he grimaced at the friction, she couldn’t stop herself from picking his hand up at the wrist and bringing it closer to examine. “What did you do to yourself?”
“I played,” he said simply. “It’s what I do. Trust me, this is no big deal.”
She wanted to disagree, wanted to kiss his hands, to check and make sure he was really all right. But she didn’t know if it was her place, didn’t know how he was feeling after what had gone down at her apartment. So she kept her mouth shut as she let go of his hand and waited for one of the guys to say something.
It didn’t take long. Quinn stepped up, breaking the awkward silence by asking, “So, should we play something? See how we all sound together?”
Not quite what she’d expected him to say, but…if the others weren’t concerned, maybe she shouldn’t be either? Maybe this really was normal for him?
“Yeah!” Wyatt was the first one up and across the room. “Let’s do it.” He gave her one long, searching look as he stepped behind his kit, but then he was all business.
“Get your bass and come stand by me,” Jared instructed Shane as he headed to his guitar. “There’s an amp over here you can plug into.”
“Sick,” Shane answered, scrambling to follow directions.
So he’d definitely decided not to run, then, Poppy thought, amused as she watched him all but salute in his haste to do what Jared had said. It was a very smart move on his part. Shaken Dirty was a band to be reckoned with under any circumstances. But with Wyatt on and sober and writing songs ’til his hands bled? They were epic.
“What are we playing?” Ryder asked.
“You’re not playing anything,” Quinn told him, playfully jostling his shoulder as he walked by on his way to his keyboards. “You’re just going to stand there and wait for the rest of us to make you look like you know what you’re doing.”
Ryder flipped him off, but he was laughing while he did. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta front this band of miscreants and make you look good.”
“We should probably call Jamison, then, huh?” Wyatt joined in the teasing. “She’s way better at looking good than you are.”
“She totally is,” Ryder agreed with a grin. “Too bad she wants nothing to do with the rest of you losers.”
“Obviously not,” Jared deadpanned. “Must be why she demanded I come over for breakfast this morning. And made me blu
eberry pancakes while you were out on your pathetic excuse for a run.”
“Those were leftovers from when your sister made me breakfast in bed this morning. One of these days, you’re just going to have to come to grips with the fact that you’re not her favorite anymore. In fact—”
Wyatt cut off the good-natured teasing with an extended drum fill that had everyone in the room turning to stare at him, eyes wide and ears ringing from the powerful display.
“Shit.” Quinn was the first to recover. “Is that from the new song?”
Wyatt grinned, waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s do ‘Pieces of You’ first. That’s got a great base line.” He smirked at Shane as Jared fumbled through some hand-written sheet music before sliding a couple of pieces of paper onto the stand in front of the bassist. “Try to keep up, will you?”
Then, before waiting to see if anyone agreed, he started counting off the time on his hi-hat cymbal. One and two and three and four and—
Jared joined in first, with the powerful set of chords that marked the beginning of Poppy’s favorite love song ever. Quinn dropped in second and then Shane was there, too. He was shaky, nowhere near as confident on the song as the other guys were, but it was new material for him—and obviously a new song for Shaken Dirty to be playing all together. Rumor had it Ryder had written it to win Jamison back after they’d broken up, right around the same time Wyatt went to rehab and Micah got kicked out of the band.
Since Jamison and Ryder were together now, it obviously must have worked. Not that she was surprised. The song was gorgeous, and so full of heart that she didn’t know any woman who could have resisted it.
The song ended in a sophisticated tangle of chords that had Shane scrambling. He didn’t quite pull it off, but he did okay in her opinion. A quick glance at Wyatt’s face told her he felt exactly the same way.
They did four more songs together, all of them big Shaken Dirty hits that anyone who liked rock music should have known like the back of their hand. It was obvious that Shane did know them, but even with the sheet music he struggled to keep up. Struggled to lay down a bass line that the others could work with. And it wasn’t just his fingerings—in most cases, those could be learned. But there was something about the way he played that just didn’t work with Shaken Dirty’s sound. He wasn’t crisp enough, which meant that for most of the songs, his notes kept coming out just a little muddled.
As they finished, she glanced at Wyatt, Jared, Quinn and Ryder. They were all smiling, and with another band she’d take that as a sign they’d liked playing with Shane. But the four of them were usually so polite that it was hard to tell—it wasn’t like they were going to start listing his shortcomings right there in front of him. So instead of worrying needlessly, she decided to just sit back and see how things played out.
Sure enough, a bunch of silent and covert communication went on between the band members as Shane started packing up his bass, and after that, it didn’t take long for Ryder to start moving the bassist toward the door. He was super nice about it, even told the guy that they’d enjoyed jamming with him. But he definitely didn’t mention that they had another anonymous concert scheduled for Antone’s the next night—or invite Shane to play with them.
Which meant that they had to go back to the drawing board to find a bassist, and they had to do it quickly. With Austin City Limits—which was going to serve as the first date of their tour—only a few weeks away, they needed someone, like, yesterday.
She knew a few—actually, she knew dozens—but none that she thought would work who were also available to go on the road with Shaken Dirty. Still, she wracked her brain trying to come up with a solution as the guys’ conversation ebbed and flowed around her.
“What about Deacon Brown?” Quinn tossed out after Shane was gone and they were all settled back with bottles of soda and water.
“His sound isn’t right,” Ryder objected right away. “He’s too pop.”
“Yeah, but he’s a hell of a bass player,” Wyatt said.
“A pop bass player,” Jared told them. “Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s already with a tour right now.”
“How about Jackson Kery, then?” Ryder asked. “He’s good.”
“He’s also a bigger druggie than me,” Wyatt said with a rueful laugh, “so probably not a good idea.”
“No shit, that,” Jared agreed. “Mike James?”
“No!” Quinn barked. “No, no, fuck no!”
“Aww, come on, Quinn. Let bygones be bygones, isn’t that what you always say?”
“Fuck Mike James and his bygones. No fucking way is he joining this band—unless you want to find yourself a new keyboard player, too.”
The guys all laughed at his vehemence, but nobody brought up Mike James again. She made a mental note to ask Wyatt later what had happened between him and Quinn—something told her it was a hell of a story.
They continued to toss out names for the next ten minutes, all to no avail. Most of them were guys she’d thought of herself, then discarded for various reasons—it felt good that her judgment seemed to mirror theirs, made her feel like she really did have her finger on the pulse of what was going on in this industry. Considering how much time her father spent telling her she wouldn’t understand this decision or that one, it was a nice validation.
Eventually, though, they got tired of throwing around names and Jared picked up his guitar and played a few chords that sounded really familiar. She couldn’t place them, but watched as smiles crossed the face of every guy in the place. Seconds later, Quinn was behind his keyboard, and this time when Jared played the notes, he did too.
“Well, are you just going to sit there like a moron, or are you going to play this new song for us?” Ryder jerked his chin toward Wyatt. “I mean, if you’re staying, that is.”
Right. That’s where she’d heard that note arrangement—at the beginning of Wyatt’s drum fill. Shivers worked their way up and down her spine at the thought of actually hearing the song, and she waited, a little breathless, as he pushed himself off the couch and headed toward his drum kit.
“Oh, I’m staying, since it sounds like you’d all be lost without me,” Wyatt teased.
The others didn’t bother to give him shit back—they were all too busy grinning.
Wyatt settled himself on the throne. “I’ll run through it once on my own and then you can join in.” He grinned at Ryder. “And you can just sit there and try to look pretty this time around.”
“Fuck that.” Ryder flipped him off before reaching for one of the acoustic guitars lined up against the wall. “This is history in the making. I want in.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “The song could suck, you know.”
Quinn snorted. “When have you ever written something that sucked? Now stop being a pussy and let’s hear it.”
Wyatt didn’t say anything else, but she could see just how much Ryder’s and Quinn’s support meant to him. It was in the way his face relaxed, the way his shoulders straightened, the way he had to clear his throat before he started talking way too fast about keys and tempos and chords.
And then he was tapping out the beat on the hi-hat, seconds later adding in the snare and bass and tom-toms. He ran through the verse twice, pointing out where he wanted Jared and Ryder to come in and the sound he wanted Quinn to bring. And then he was starting from the top and they were joining in. She listened, spellbound, because even though it was rudimentary and unpolished and far from perfect, it was also magic. Absolute magic.
And that was before he added in the chorus, which was all towering chords and powerful beats that got inside her, that grabbed on to her soul and wouldn’t let it go. She was on the edge of her seat as they played the verse and chorus through a couple of times, searching for the sweet spot. It sounded so good, and that was before the third time, when they got it. Really got it, enough so that goose bumps broke out all up and down her arms.
“This is good,” Ryder said when they stopped for a couple of minutes to regr
oup. “This is really fucking good.”
“I’d like to play it all the way through once or twice,” Jared suggested. “See how it sounds with a bridge between the second and third verses. Do you have any words in mind yet, or—”
“I wrote lyrics, but that’s always been more you and Ryder, so if you don’t like them, it’s no big deal. In fact, maybe you should just go ahead and come up with something—”
“Yeah, ’cuz that’s what we’re going to do—come up with something else before we even hear what you’ve got,” Ryder interjected. “Stop making excuses and let’s go, dude.”
Wyatt nodded, but for the first time, he looked nervous. Reluctant. And she got that—she did. Music was personal, emotional in its own right. It set the tone, the mood, told the listener how to feel and gave them an experience all on its own. But good lyrics could do so much more than that. If they were done right—and she had a feeling Wyatt’s were done very right—they drew the audience into the artist’s world, gave them an up close and personal look at a very specific experience or emotion in the writer’s life. That was something that even the best music couldn’t do on its own.
So it was no wonder, with all the shit he’d been through, that Wyatt was reluctant to open that vein and bleed, even in front of his closest friends and the woman he’d spent most of the previous night making love to. Or maybe especially in front of them. As worried as he was about fucking things up—and being rejected for it—it was a miracle he was willing to try at all.
Then again, she’d figured out days ago that his trust in the other guys was absolute. It was just one of the many things she admired about him—the way he could just give them that part of himself without reservation. Which was why, despite everything, she wasn’t surprised when he gave in and started marking the beat on the hi-hat again.
Seconds later, the others joined in with their instruments, and then Wyatt started to sing. He had a good voice—a really good voice, all gravel and sex and darkness. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard it—he had sung backup on more than a few of the tracks through the years. It was, however, the first time she’d heard it this up close and personal, and she was glad she was sitting down, since her knees were trembling so badly that she wasn’t sure they would have supported her if she’d been standing.