by Cari Quinn
Nick swung his gaze to Deacon in disbelief. He didn’t know if Deak actually believed the shit he shoveled or if he was so used to handing them positive reinforcement he didn’t even know what came out of his mouth anymore.
Letting out a brittle laugh, Nick shoved the halves of his cig into his pocket. He might just be desperate enough later to try to light up. “You can’t be serious. We’ll be lucky to just hang on the way we’re running right now. One good thing about not being that known is no one will bitch much if we change things up a bit.”
“Which is good, since we were never about those hardcore ballads you keep trying to write.” Deak sighed. “We’re not fucking Air Supply, but without a drummer we didn’t have a choice but to try something new.”
Nick jabbed his fingers into his burning eyes. Everything always came down to Snake eventually. Nick had grown up with the guy, and he’d probably taken his leaving harder than the others.
Correction—he’d been the only one to even notice. Deak and Simon didn’t seem to care.
Maybe it made him a sap to want to honor the guy who’d been there almost since the beginning, the one who’d even given the band their name for fuck’s sake, but he believed in loyalty. In respect. It wasn’t like he had crowds of people at his back, so he’d damn well offer his support to those who’d stuck out a hand when he needed it.
So, no, he wasn’t forgetting Snake. Not now. Not ever. Since his ability to write girly crap was basically nonexistent lately, the ballad route obviously wasn’t going to work out. They needed to get someone to fill in behind the kit. But as soon as Snake got his shit together, things would get back to normal.
“Yeah, ballads are our best choice without a drummer. If I could figure out how to write them,” Nick tossed back, his voice equally soft. His temper was hanging by a thread, and his grip was sweaty. “Everything else is D.O.A. We’ve tried the balls-to-the-wall anthems, the crazy epic jams with me and Simon dueling till our fingers bleed. Nothing’s caught. Maybe nothing ever will.”
“Stop it.” Simon punched his shoulder, hard. “You’ve never been a defeatist. It’s one of the few damn things I like about you. Don’t take that away from me too.”
It made Nick smile, when he’d been sure he couldn’t. “Once I get some sleep, I’ll be better.”
He hoped. He’d had two days of back-to-back double shifts at the bar, followed by three hours of sleep interrupted by the sounds of squeaking bed springs from the other side of the wall, courtesy of his lead singer and the latest young thing Simon had picked up. Young thing had wanted to see where the “rock stars” lived, so Simon had brought her home for his nightly performance. Nick’s ceaseless pounding on the peeling Sheetrock to get the two of them to tone it down—or switch fucking positions—had gotten him nothing more than sore knuckles and a raging case of jealousy.
“Yeah, work on getting some, would ya, Nicky?” There was no mistaking Simon’s sly grin. Or his double entendre. “You’re a bear lately.”
“And whose fault is it that I can’t get any? Sleep?” he clarified at the laughter Deak smothered in his fist.
Their biggest mistake had been giving Simon his own bed while Nick and Deak took the bunks. Simon had campaigned loudly for the area Snake had vacated, claiming he couldn’t do the couch anymore because the back bedroom’s higher humidity helped his voice. Total BS, but Simon had gotten his way. The thin mattress he’d claimed probably had heel grooves from his parade of chicks.
Simon only grinned and pulled his hair out of its band. “So not saying sorry for that.”
Nick grinned back. “I wouldn’t either. What was her name? Hailey? Nice ass.”
“Nice everything, trust me.” Wolfishly, Simon licked his lips. “You need something else besides sleep. Stop making us pay the price for your self-imposed dry spell.”
Nick pulled out the creased paperback he’d shoved under the couch. He’d been reading about Tibetan monks in between cursing Simon for not having his interest in refining his creative abilities. Or not being so goddamn stupid as to try to go cold pussy—much worse than cold turkey—when they were already down a band member and up shit creek. “It’s a well-known fact that personal denial leads to—”
“Murder, plain and simple.” Deak rubbed his scruffy jaw. “You’re two more nights away from lopping off Simon’s head. Either of them.”
“Have mercy.” Simon grimaced and cupped his notable crotch. “He knows not what he drills.”
Nick couldn’t help laughing. He really did love these guys, and it wasn’t fair to be putting all his recent feelings of inadequacy at their doorstep.
Could be he just needed to get laid and forget all this for a night. It had been way too long since he’d vented his frustrations. His work was starting to suffer for it. His real work, not the tables he waited for peanuts at The Fit Fiddle.
Getting laid was sounding better and better.
He rose and grabbed the keys he’d thrown on the end table. As an afterthought, he checked his wallet was equipped for the night’s events. Two foil packets were wedged in next to his last twenty. He was good. “I’m heading out.”
Simon laughed and got up to slap him on the back. “Atta boy.”
Nick glanced at Deak as he set his bass aside. “You wanna come with? You could use a roll too.”
Simon grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt off the chair and pulled it on. “Yeah, a roll would be good. I’ll second that.”
“Jesus.” Nick laughed and shook his head. “Partying and women. All you care about.”
“Not true,” Deak said quietly, drawing Nick’s attention. “He cares about the band, just like I do. And he’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep it going. Even if that means changing stuff up.”
Simon’s head whipped toward Deacon. “Not now, man. He’s taking off.” Then lower, he added, “Let him go.”
Nick’s gaze swung between them. The two steps he’d been from the doorway might’ve been miles. “What’s going on?”
“No big deal.” Simon gave him an easy, clearly fake smile. The guy thought he was smoother than a seashell, and he usually was. But Nick had known him way too long. “It’ll keep until you get back.”
“No, it won’t.” Deak stood and pushed a hand through his hair. “You said something earlier about me not wanting to work on this stuff. You’re wrong. I write, just not for Oblivion. And you know why that is, I think.”
Though Deacon didn’t say more, it came through loud and clear.
Because of you.
Nick’s lips clamped down on the words he wanted to spew. “What the hell is this? You two ganging up on me?” He dropped his wallet, his plans for the night going up like the smoke he’d surely fucking need now. Too bad he relegated getting high to special occasions. Side effect of having a druggie dad and sister. “Plotting behind my back?”
“No. Take it easy.” Simon shot a glance at Deacon. “Thank fuck you normally don’t take sides. You’d cause a damn nuclear war.”
“Start talking.” Nick narrowed his eyes at Deacon first, then Simon. “Now.”
Deacon looked away from them both and spun the Celtic ring on his left middle finger with his thumb. “Look, I’m not good at this subterfuge shit. He’s right. I probably should’ve come to you, but I didn’t think it would come to anything. It was totally random that I met this guy at the Rhino. He just started doing gigs there too.”
Nick bit down on his tongue until the flare of pain quieted his urge to rage. He’d be damned if the guys had secret meetings behind his back because he was such a freaking loose cannon he couldn’t be trusted. “And?”
His big shoulders hunched, Deacon scrubbed his palm down his jeans. “Just let me say one thing before you lose it, man.”
Nick nodded stiffly. Acid and bile burned the back of his throat as rank as a skunked beer.
“Some of us are willing to do whatever it takes, even if that means making sacrifices.”
“No one is more invested than me. N
o one,” Nick muttered. “Tell me your idea.”
“It’s not an idea. It’s a way out.” At Deacon’s glance, Simon nodded.
“Just say it, Deak. For fuck’s sake.”
Deak cracked his knuckles, again looking at Simon. “Sometimes before the club opens Phil lets me fuck around. It’s good to have another place to practice so we’re not on top of each other all the time, yanno?”
Nick said nothing.
“So this guy I met asked if he could sit in with me. I didn’t even know his name at first. Next thing you know, we’re jamming together every day.”
He went somewhere else to practice? What, wasn’t this place good enough anymore? Yeah, so the acoustics in the laundromat weren’t the best. True, they had to store equipment in the basement and in the van, not to mention tucked away in corners of the Fluff and Fold. But that was their system.
Rather than speak, Nick let his glare do the talking. Anything he said now would likely be laced with an expletive cocktail and he could tell from Deak’s rigid posture he would just shut down. So Nick waited him out.
Deak stood, then shoved his hands into his pockets as he paced the room. “He’s good, man. Really good.”
“A guitarist?” Nick glanced at Simon. His arms were crossed again, his eyes unfocused and blurry. He’d been hitting the bottle hard lately. “You quitting, Pretty Boy?”
Simon’s gaze slammed into Nick’s. “Hell fucking no.”
“And I’m not quitting, so by my math that means we already have two guitarists and a bass player. What we need’s a drummer, not another stick man.”
Undeterred, Deacon plowed ahead, still pacing. “When I say good, I mean incredible. Seriously.”
“Oh, well, excuse the fuck out of me then. Show me where to genuflect.”
Simon laid a restraining hand on Nick’s arm. “Hear him out, okay?”
“He has a drummer.” Deak sat on one of the coffee table crates and spread his long legs wide, hanging his arms between them. His face radiated sincerity and hope, and for that alone Nick wanted to give him a black eye. Maybe two. “In fact, he won’t join us if the drummer’s not part of the equation.”
“Join us? That sounds like he’s been invited to.”
“He has,” Deacon affirmed quietly.
Nick stepped forward and balled his fists. “Who the hell gave you the right to make decisions for my band?”
Simon grabbed him by the upper arms, yanking him back and speaking directly into his ear. “I did. Because it’s our goddamned band too, and it’s time you open your ears and listen to what he has to say. You want to save Oblivion? Then stop sabotaging it because of your stupid pride. If I can handle the idea of bringing another guitarist in, you sure as fuck should be able to. Remember who taught you to pick, dickwad,” Simon added, shoving Nick away.
Nick rubbed his shoulder, but not in pain. Simon’s shove had shook something loose in his brain, like he’d opened up a window and let in a sliver of light. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Though sometimes he did. It had been a long time since he’d been that undersized, late-blooming kid who’d turned to guitar because he didn’t have anything else. Music had been his way out of a bleak home life—bleak life, period—and if he hadn’t had that outlet, he would’ve gone nuts. He’d looked up to Simon and his crazy abilities, wishing and hoping he’d get there too someday.
Eventually Nick had moved past Simon’s skill level when it came to the guitar, but he was still wishing. Still hoping. Still building barb-wire fences to keep anyone from crushing the dream he clung to like a hooker before the meter ran out.
Nick sat down across from Deacon and pushed out a breath through lips that had gone numb from nerves. He was about to utter the two most difficult words he’d ever said. “I’m listening.”
Chapter Two
Simon: Black Magic
Scars and curves, loss and gain, she’s the thief in the night that soothes all my fears
Simon Kagan stumbled against the brick wall behind him. The silk screen flags from all the concerts they’d been to stopped him from cutting the shit out of his back. He bounced his skull against the wall. Cold and solid, the brick jarred his brain and the flicker of pain helped snap him into the now. Through the quick sting of tears, a flash of coherence cut through the fog for the first time in months.
He tugged at the thin silver bracelet on his arm. The worn snake’s head fell into the grooves of his wrist where it had rested since Oblivion started ten years ago. The one remaining emerald chip glinted up at him from the eye of the pounded silver. His other bracelet, the banged up infinity symbol his mother had always worn, clanged against the snake head eating its own tail. Two of the few constants in his life.
He was rhapsodizing about a damn bracelet. Hallmark and Lifetime should just fuck in his head and get it over with. Maybe make romantic comedy babies.
He blinked away the last of the sluggish edges from the pint of vodka he’d had for dinner. It was easier to glide on the cool indifference of booze. Easier wasn’t going to get them through this intact. Easy would splinter this tinder box apart.
Fuck easy.
Maybe Deacon’s news would finally jerk Nick out of his safe little bubble of depression. Once upon a time Nick had been their constant well of creativity and all Simon had to do was sit across from him with a legal pad and the songs came. Sometimes faster than the ink could hit the page, and sometimes painfully slow scrawls, but the words always flowed.
How long had it been since a song had come together between them? He could count the months instead of the days.
Across from Deak, Nick sat on the sofa. Misery had carved grooves into his defiant face. His shoulders were stiff, and his straight spine would do Sister Mary Catherine proud.
The nun across the street at Saint Vincent’s was forever praying for their souls. At least that’s what he hoped she was doing when she crossed herself when they walked by.
At this point Simon’s soul didn’t need saving, just his sanity.
His brain was jumbled with words, drenched in alcohol to quiet them. It was all he could do to keep his shit together lately. Nick had always been the one to streamline the crap in his head and make it work.
He missed his best friend and the jam sessions. He missed the insults over chord progressions. Music had cemented their friendship, but now it was a wall between them.
Simon knew his strength was fine-tuning a song and finding the perfect blend of tone and inflection. He was the voice. The guitar was an instrument to write and the cool factor couldn’t be denied, but the mic had always been his best fit. And if he had to give up co-lead guitar he’d do it. Anything to save this clusterfuck of a band they’d become.
Deacon had been just as stifled, but he’d found an outlet. And Simon couldn’t blame him. Drinking and hiding had never been Deak’s style. He was the single moving force in the band. Leaving Nick alone to obsess was what got them into this mess. Snake’s addiction was a symptom of the cancer eating Oblivion alive. Nick was just too blind to realize it.
Deacon’s earnest eyes and fingers digging into his knees made Simon click in again. He’d missed something.
Simon scrubbed his palms down his thighs then sat next to Nick. They needed to discuss this like a band, not a bunch of nancy bitches that couldn’t face hard truths.
“Gray’s been playing for a good ten years. He’s a little younger than us, but his talent is solid. Even better, that drummer I mentioned?” Deacon pushed back a hank of hair behind his ear. “I’ve met her. She can play damn near any instrument, but this girl on the skins is a sight to see.”
Nick’s mouth dropped open. “A chick?”
Deacon held up a hand. “Yes, she’s a girl, but she’s a genius.”
“If she’s such a genius, then what’s she doing playing the Rhino?”
Simon tugged a rubber band from his wrist and tied back the top of his hair. He wasn’t sure about dragging a chick into the band either, but a
drummer was a drummer. She would be behind the kit and out of the way. There was damn well enough drama at the front of the stage.
“Same as you,” Deak said, an edge to his normally even voice. “She’s just as talented and just as hungry to make it out of the shitboxes we play in. Between Gray and Jazz, we’d have a tight band.”
“You get this temporary, right? Snake will be back once he’s out of rehab.”
Deacon barely missed a beat. “Sure. If you meet them and they don’t gel, then we’ll walk away and figure something else out.”
Nick paused, his gaze cool. “Are you going to walk with them?”
Simon popped up from the couch. “Fuck off, Nick. No one is going anywhere.”
“I don’t know.” Deak’s low reply echoed in the room, and for an instant, Simon only stared at Nick.
I don’t know? After all they’d been through, Deak was ready to pack it in?
Simon expected Nick to blast Deak’s ears off for that one. But Nick just kept his eyes on Simon, as if somehow this was his fault for not reining Deak in.
Simon smothered a sigh. Hell if he liked taking on the heavy role in the group, but sometimes there was no choice. Like right now. “What the fuck, man?”
Deak scraped his hair back, leaving his angular face naked. There was strain along with dark circles under his eyes. “I can’t do this much longer. All we do is fight. You haven’t written a damn thing with Nick in weeks.”
“Months,” Simon said before he could shut his damn mouth. Fucking vodka.
Nick flinched and rose. “So a few bad months and you’re going to walk?”
“No.” Deak stood. “I’m just saying we need to do something. I don’t want to walk, but I am not going to live in this fucking basement for the rest of my life.” He paced the length of the living room, his long, muscular body tense as a guitar string. “I’m twenty-four years old and still eating Ramen noodles as a basic food group. I hustle pool three times a week just for beer money. I want more than shilling at the pier for loose change or begging for a set at the Rhino. I want to be in the band that gets the prime Friday night gigs in the best clubs on the Strip. I’m sick of waiting.”