by Cari Quinn
And always, always, she shot him little private smiles. She was glad he was there, happy he was watching her.
God, he couldn’t look away.
Song after song, they seduced the audience, breezing through their singles and a couple untested songs, finally reaching “Undermine”, the song with the mini flame-like torches. Randy gripped the walkie talkie at his side and tried to relax his shoulders as West tapped out the first notes of the song, with Ryan on accompanying violin. Stressing until a new light design went off flawlessly was nothing new. But with each note, each flick of Molly’s colorful scarves as she danced in place, head down, letting the music soak into her, his gut tightened.
This was no big deal. Not even real pyrotechnics. No reason to—
The first couple of torches popped on, one after another. Juliet’s face was caught in the glow, and the terror that filled her expression nearly had him jumping the temporary barrier erected near the stage. In the midst of the lights coming on, she sought him, her gaze latching onto his like a lifeline in spite of the chaos around them.
He mouthed “Are you okay?” and she nodded vigorously, too vigorously, directing her attention at her bass. She glanced up one more time, her fear palpable, then she shut her eyes and let the music take her over.
The walkie talkie at his hip squawked, the vibration rumbling against his palm. He was needed back at the board. For the first time in his life, he ignored it.
Right now, the only place he needed to be was with Juliet. To make sure she was okay.
By the end of the song, her color had started coming back. By the start of the next—after a lengthy byplay between Molly, a loud, semi-belligerent West, and the audience—Juliet was almost rosy-cheeked again.
She also wasn’t looking Randy’s way.
Juliet never liked to seem vulnerable, even for a second. So if that meant she had to hide her fears for now, at least he’d make sure she never faced them alone. Even if he didn’t understand what had caused her panic.
Supporting her would have to be enough.
The walkie talkie went off again as his cell beeped, and he blew out a breath. He had to get back behind the board. Spending even this much of the night surrounded by the jamming guitars and laughter and buzz of the audience had fueled him enough to get through the rest of the show. She had fueled him, and being behind the board while he took in her telltale flourishes and imagined her riding that bass hard would only give him more juice to get through the rest of the night.
Until he could get her alone and feel all that energy break with him.
“We’re gonna throw it back eighties’ style now. All the way back to a San Francisco band that so many of us grew up with. Not me, I’m a nineties’ baby,” Molly said to laughter and a few boos. “But I did grow up not too far from here. You could almost say I’m a product of San Fran too, though I spent the most time a little bit south.” She did a hip shimmy that made the crowd stomp their feet. “Let’s see who knows this one.”
West started hammering out the first notes on the keyboard of “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey and the audience went wild. Molly grabbed the mic off the stand and went into a crouch, singing about a small town girl who took that midnight train.
Juliet’s bass came into the song, and Randy savored the pluck of her fingers on the strings. The concentration on her face, the little wrinkle in her forehead he couldn’t plainly see but knew was there.
She was flawless, always.
He couldn’t help singing along and when she glanced up and caught him, her grin shot through him like kerosene. She sang back to him and together, they jammed through the song.
And his fucking walkie talkie kept squawking. Dammit.
Sending Jules an apologetic glance, he started to inch his way down the aisle, squeezing around people and muttering his thanks when they let him pass. He ducked around a gigantic guy with tree trunk arms that he was pumping in the air, bending down low enough that he glimpsed a small brunette tucked in next to the stage. From the way she was holding up her phone, facing the audience no less, he had a feeling she really wasn’t supposed to be there.
Was she recording? Filming? What the hell?
He’d just cleared the aisle and taken two steps toward her when she lifted her head and tossed back the tangle of her dark hair.
The second their gazes connected, she jumped to her feet. And fucking booked for the exit, as if the devil himself were on her ass.
Randy grabbed his walkie talkie, waiting until he’d made it around the stage and into the back before alerting security. It was way too frigging loud in there, and he wasn’t even sure what he’d seen. He called it in just the same. Petite brunette recording or filming where she shouldn’t be. Fan who’d sneaked in? Fan who had a legit ticket but wanted to get closer? Crazed groupie?
Anything was possible.
Randy made it back to the board as Derek shot to his feet. “Issue in quadrant two, boss,” he said, and Randy went to work.
Juliet—and the mystery girl—would have to wait.
Nineteen
It was a sushi kind of day. The kitchen was half chilled with fish and meat set up on trays that kept them the perfect temperature. Tristan wasn’t a huge fan of sushi—a top ten reason to be expelled from California in some circles—but he’d learned how to work with it.
He left most of the specialized stuff to an expert, but when The Hollow was this busy, it was all hands on deck.
Leigh, his expeditor, shouted out the tickets in order of release back to the dining room. Tristan immediately slotted dishes in his mind and mirrored them onto the large stainless steel table. Kendra, his second in command, worked with him in the effortless flow they’d come to trust over the last four years.
His ass buzzed.
He ignored his phone and worked the plates. Steak, chicken, and a rustic dish of mussels all took up his attention. His sushi guy—actually, a girl, Kai—had quick and delicate fingers. She arranged the various delicacies in traditional sushi boats for a large party. Some sort of premiere. There was always some damn premiere in this town.
Finally, his phone went silent, only to start back up again not even five minutes later.
“Jesus,” he muttered. He was elbow-deep in steam, thanks to the red chili broth he infused into the mussels. He hated rubbery meat and knew it was a fine line between perfectly tender and old shoes.
He hissed as a shell burned the side of his thumb. His hands were always covered in little nicks and burns, but this week, he’d been all thumbs.
Today, was even worse.
He’d fallen asleep with the television on, and woke to a morning talk show featuring a story about his girlf—the woman he was fucking—and her new boyfriend. Complete with a picture of her wrapped around the third person in their fucked-up little threesome situation.
Oh, yeah, if that wasn’t bad enough, it was his best friend.
Fuck.
Now everyone was talking about the two of them as an item.
Juliet Reece and her roadie.
How the hell had things gone so sideways?
“You good, Chef?” Kendra asked in a low voice.
“Fine.” He controlled the growl—barely. “Where’s Rome?”
“Fridge.”
Tristan nodded. “All right. Move over to the line. I’ve got this.”
“You sure?”
He only arched a brow at her. She didn’t ask anything further of him, simply rushed off to handle the pasta and mussels dish. He worked with the freshest things. The fishmonger had dumped an inhuman amount of swordfish on him. If he smelled lemon, basil, garlic, or swordfish ever again, it would be too soon.
And it was his favorite goddamn fish.
He grabbed an avocado and made a quick chili. As usual, when a recipe started percolating, he went with it. Sometimes the special made waves, and sometimes it was a ripple.
He stuck his pinkie in the avocado concoction. His tongue burned from the serrano
, but the wash of lime and cool avocado were perfect for swordfish steaks.
Helluva lot more interesting than what he’d been dealing with all night. “Leigh.”
“Yo!”
“Menu change.”
“Ah, fuck.” Leigh ran back to him, all beanpole legs and arms, and yet oddly graceful. He was six-and-a-half-feet tall, nearly albino white, and Tristan couldn’t live without him. His silvery blue eyes were intent and wary. “You know the amount of A-listers in here, right?”
Tristan nodded. “Why I have to up my game. Can’t have them going back over near the Chinese Theater, yeah?”
“Fuck, no.”
Tristan scribbled the ingredients on the card. “Make it sound pretty, word dude.”
Leigh scanned the card and grinned. “Only if I get a portion for dinner.”
“Deal. I don’t want to see a goddamn swordfish again this month.”
“Good luck with that,” Kendra said.
“Yeah, well, I need a little luck,” Tristan muttered. His ass buzzed again and he growled as he wiped his fingers on the towel at his hip. “Romeo Alazzar.”
“Yeah, boss.”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder at his sauté chef. “Done cranking it in the back?”
“I wish, but you know if you want to get Annabelle’s number, I could try it out for you.”
“Dream on. She doesn’t see anyone unless he’s wearing a tie.” Tristan whipped up a bowl of the chile vinaigrette, ending with the juice of half a lime before spinning the wide white bowl to Rome. “New menu item for the big table.”
“You like to live dangerously.” Rome used his pinkie to take a taste and whistled. “Trying out for the LA Magazine again?”
Tristan shrugged. It had been a few months since he’d been talked about. It would sure as shit help The Hollow to get mentioned in one of the biggest magazines in the metropolitan area. But he built recipes for him and for the patrons, not the press.
They were just an added bonus.
The fact that there was a six-week waiting list for a table at The Hollow was all the ego boost he needed.
He dug out his phone and glanced down at the five missed calls. Juliet’s name for four of them, Rand for the final. He walked to the back of the kitchen to the freezer and ducked in for a second.
It was the only place to find any peace.
The calls were relatively close together, and they were all vid calls. Even in the subzero temp of the huge walk-in freezer, his cock hardened like a goddamn trained dog. Juliet and Sparks had been gone for almost a week now.
His body was a damn tuning fork for them.
He was stuck there in LA while Sparks was riding her perfect body. Tris fisted his hand and slammed it on a box of chicken. At least he’d managed to have a quick text convo with Sparks before Juliet’s show, but how many times had he missed their calls in the last few days?
Had to be ten or more at this point. About the number of times he’d had to jack off during the week.
His shower was becoming his second goddamn home, and not just because he’d reeked like swordfish for the last three days.
Because his balls were as blue as the belly of the fish at the back of the cooler.
He bent at the waist. His bed had never been a lonely place until now. His life had never felt empty. He had friends and work, not to mention a chock-full social calendar.
He didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d cancelled on Darcy and Emma.
They’d never spoken of going exclusive, but the thought of another woman under him, over him, kneeling over his face…fuck. There was only Jules. Only her dark eyes and endless fistfuls of dark chocolate hair. Her bow mouth wrapped around his cock—wrapped around Rand’s cock. Her hands shuttling over both of their shafts as she knelt between them.
He adjusted his black dress pants and tipped back his head.
They were fucking with his head and they weren’t even here.
His thumb hovered over the call button. Maybe if he tried, he could talk to one of them for just a moment. His goddamn brain was going to explode today. The premiere party was bad enough, but the raging hard-on he lived with lately was distracting and insanity inducing.
“Chef!”
“Give me a fucking break,” he snarled under his breath.
He huffed out a breath and shot a text to Jules and Sparks.
Tonight. Midnight. Make sure the lock is on the door and you’re alone.
He sent the text and jammed his phone into his back pocket. Six hours to endure. He could do anything for six hours.
Including fuck Juliet Reece into the mattress until she couldn’t move.
But tonight, he’d have to watch his best friend do it and hope it was enough. Because if he couldn’t be there, he was damn well going to watch. He might have to remain the silent party in all this, but Jules would be screaming his goddamn name tonight.
The rest of the day was pretty much a shit-show. Well, at least in the kitchen. The food went out the door fine, but the manager in the restaurant took on a secondary A-lister party and his plans for the day fell apart like overcooked kale.
By the time he escaped the kitchen, it was after twelve.
He leaned against the wall in the tunnel that led to his car in the parking garage. His cock had been primed since he’d ripped off his chef jacket.
He needed this.
Needed them.
He pulled out his phone and dialed. Juliet’s face filled the screen. Her huge, dark eyes were excited and she wore that half smile that moved him from primed to fully loaded.
“Hi, you.”
“Hi, babe. How was the show?”
“Amazing.” The awe in her tone told that tale succinctly.
“I knew it would be. You always are.” And he’d missed it, goddammit. “Sorry I’m late. Work was shit.”
The pleasure in her gaze dimmed a little and empathy pushed forward. “You all right?”
“I am now.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but there it was. The joy on her face made it worth it.
“I missed you.” She looked over her shoulder and panned the camera lens to Sparks. “We missed you.”
“Good.” Tristan’s gaze slammed into Randy’s. There was an easiness to his stance. He was sprawled on the couch with Jules between his legs. Randy had been able to touch her, fuck her, be near her whenever he wanted. “Strip her.”
Tristan’s voice was a little harsher than he intended, but Randy’s posture went stiff immediately.
Yeah, time to shake them up. To show them Randy wasn’t the only one who could please her this week.
Juliet’s eyes widened. “Well then. I thought you were just annoyed because we’d mostly been missing each other all week.”
“I am. And I want to see Rand go down on our favorite girl.”
“Now?” Her voice was little better than a squeak, but her nipples practically drilled through the thin T-shirt she was wearing.
Rand’s jaw worked, and his fingers tightened on the couch cushion.
The call may have started out innocent, but he knew Randy. That boy didn’t have any problem with going down on Jules.
If he hadn’t already that day.
Tristan shifted his already aching cock.
He was usually too busy banging the hell out of her to get a taste, and that would be rectified when they got home, but for now, he would use Randy as a conduit.
“Where’s your selfie stick, Jules?”
Her eyes flashed, offense rolling off of her. “I don’t have one of those.”
“Sure you do.” Tristan grinned. “Or do you actually have a tripod?” When she flushed, his grin widened. “You make too many vids for me to believe you don’t have something, Ms. Reece.”
She tossed her phone at Randy. The world tilted a little, then righted with his best friend frowning down at him.
“What?”
Rand shrugged. “Not sure I like the orders.”
“Or is it
that you don’t like that she’s following them?” Tristan countered.
Before Rand could answer, she was back. She plucked the phone out of his hand, then clipped it to something. Tristan had a very nice view of her thighs—her bare thighs. She was wearing an old pair of boxers that flirted with the tops of her legs.
If he looked close, could he see her shorn pussy? The little landing strip of mink-colored hair?
His head thudded against the cement wall of the tunnel. He was damn lucky no one had used the cut-through. He really needed to get to his car where there was a modicum of privacy, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from her.
And neither could Randy.
They were probably mirrors of slack-jawed lust.
Juliet wiggled her hips and her boxers slid over her smooth skin to fall out of frame. The high curve of her perfect ass made his mouth water. The camera was set so he could see Randy’s every facial tic.
His lovers were less than five hours away, even if it seemed like forever. But he had this little window into their world and it would have to do.
For now.
A flash of navy obscured his view. He could only see a sliver of her, but before he could snarl, she pulled her T-shirt off the tripod and sat back against Randy, now completely naked. “Is this what you wanted?”
Tris swallowed. “Almost.” His hand tightened around his phone. “Open your legs.”
She rested her head against Randy’s chest, then reached up to grip the couch cushion next to his head. She stared right into the lens and opened her legs. “Like this?”
Christ, she was already wet. The screen was small, but the slickness coating her inner thighs was on display.
“Touch her,” Tristan said hoarsely.
Randy’s hands coasted up her hips and belly to cup her breasts. His touch was gentle. Easy in a way that came from effortless touches.
Had he done this all week?
Tris knew he’d want to get his hands on her every chance he had. He didn’t blame the guy. He wanted to be him. It should be his hands coasting down her front as Sparks worked her from the back.
It was as simple and complicated as that.