by Cari Quinn
“And he’s too good to hide away in this shithole,” Simon said quietly. Deacon was a damn good composer and he’d been content with that role in the band. Maybe they’d taken advantage of that. If Deak could make something out of the chaos that he and Nick came up with, there had to be words and notes burning in Deacon’s head same as the rest of them.
“I didn’t realize you were so fuckin’ unhappy, Deak.”
“Never said I was unhappy,” Deak replied, his gaze level on Nick. “Just saying the band has options that we’ve been ignoring. I have options.”
Nick slumped back against the sagging couch. “Then fucking walk.”
Deacon stopped in front of him. “I don’t want to. I want you to meet Gray and Jazz. There’s something there, man. I can’t define it. But it’s like we’ve been waiting to meet them.”
“You sound like you’ve already asked them to join. Since when did this become your band? I thought it was ours.”
Deacon loomed over Nick, his jaw and fists tight. Simon dropped his arms to his sides and widened his stance. Looked like fists were going to fly one way or another tonight. “We need fresh blood. Obviously we’re missing something. Hell, even just jamming with someone else might get the spark back. If you and Gray don’t hit it off, we walk away.”
“What about hitting it off with the drummer? That’s what we actually need, not another damn guitarist.”
A smile curved Deak’s mouth. “Don’t think you’ll have a problem with her, bud.”
Nick grunted. “And all of us will walk if I do?”
Simon hated the quiet nerves in Nick’s voice. Simon sat back down beside his best friend. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. All musicians jam out and talk. We’ve been staring at these brick walls way too much. We gotta do something to shake things up.”
Nick tipped his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each hard swallow. Stubble and tired eyes told Simon more than words. Nick was as fried as the rest of them.
This was their Hail Mary to save the band. Nick had to see that.
Nick nodded and stood, then grabbed his jacket. “Set it up,” he said over his shoulder. He was already on his way out.
Simon crossed his arms in a jangle of beads and silver. “Where are you going?”
“Gotta walk.” The door slammed behind Nick.
Simon was halfway to his feet when Deacon clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Let him go. We sprang a lot on him.”
“I just hope he keeps an open mind.” Yeah, right. Fat chance of that happening.
“An optimist to the last, aren’t you?”
“Me? Hell no.” Simon jammed his hands into his hair, pushing the tie out to dig his fingers into the base of his skull. “I need a fucking shower.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Fuck off.”
Deacon’s lips slid into his usual wry smile. “I only speak truth, brother. You smell like a gym bag soaked in vodka.”
Simon sniffed at his pit. “Close enough.” Maybe a shower would sober him up. Or maybe he should just bring the bottle in with him and finish off the night in a blissful blackout.
“Don’t be long. I’m going to call Gray, see if he can meet us upstairs in the laundromat. He works overnights but he should be around now. I don’t think he starts until midnight.”
Simon sighed. There went the idea of oblivion, his kind rather than the band’s. He peered up at Deacon. He was only four inches taller, but damn if he made Simon feel like a midget. “You had this little meet and greet planned.”
Deak shrugged. “I’m going stir crazy, man.”
“All right. I’ll meet you upstairs in twenty.”
Deak dug his phone out of his pocket and headed up the stairs two at a time to the Fluff and Fold’s main floor. Simon staggered down the hall to the small bathroom they all shared. Shaving kits hung on nails along the far wall. He grabbed his red leather bag with the peeling skull and unearthed his electric and the mini-bottle of vodka he stashed in there for emergencies. Without the adrenaline rush, he was cruising for a crash. A nip would put him back to rights. He stripped down and blasted cold water first.
With a yelp, he tipped his face up to the punishing needle spray before switching to hot. With a layer of skin gone and the worst of his beard buzzed off, he felt a little more human. He padded to his extra-long twin mattress on top of a couple pallets he’d stolen from the vending guy that serviced the Fluff. It served as a makeshift alcove for his stacks of black jeans. Being the same size since twenty helped keep wardrobe costs down. He snapped out a pair of bootcuts and tugged them on over damp flesh.
The Fluff was as hot as a damn sauna so he opted for a red tank instead of a t-shirt. He stuffed his feet into red and black shitkickers and grabbed his acoustic. Simon followed the voices topside and stopped at the vending machine on his way.
He smacked a dented panel above the money slot and kneed a spot on the side of the ancient red and white monstrosity. A Diet Coke clunked out the bottom shoot.
“One for me too!”
Simon repeated the process, and this time a regular Coke shot out. He took that one for himself and tossed Deacon the diet. “You gotta keep that girlish figure.”
Deacon rolled his eyes and popped the top. There was nothing small about Deacon and he seemed to be growing in muscle mass every day.
“I thought I heard voices.”
“College kids finishing up a wash. They busted the dryer.” Deacon sighed and downed his soda in long greedy pulls.
Deacon’s Jack-of-All-Trades abilities were the reason they stayed at the Laundromat on the cheap. The widow Martine took pity on them and used Deacon’s skills as payment. Win-win for all of them.
The doors were propped open to give some semblance of a breeze, but as usual the circulation was about as good as every third washer along the wall. Simon dropped into one of the squat orange retro chairs that made up the small waiting area at the back of the room. Amps were hidden under old milk crates both for theft reasons and the sly practice space it made. Snake’s kit was still crammed next to two laundry carts with busted wheels.
Luckily Mrs. Martine didn’t check out the corners of her establishment too often, or she might’ve questioned having musical equipment stashed everywhere. Or maybe not. She was pretty cool.
The DW kick drum lay on its side and a fine layer of dust and grime coated the skins. The cherry lacquer had worn off in spots, probably due to the high humidity down here. Good for his voice, not so good for the drums. They should pack up Snake’s kit, but no one seemed to have the heart to put it into storage.
Simon twisted his chair to block out the empty spot that had eaten away at all of them. Snake hadn’t gone in rehab willingly—it was either that or jail. The fact that their drummer would have a needle in his arm immediately after the ninety days were up was an unspoken fact.
All in all, it was a depressing practice space. No wonder they were less than enthused about working. A year ago, it hadn’t mattered where they were—the pier, the beach, the dank basement—all they’d wanted to do was play.
What the hell had happened to them?
When had it come to this?
He absently tuned and strummed until his ancient Taylor gave its usual glossy reverberating notes. It had been his first big purchase in high school. He’d taken his meager savings and bought a top of the line twelve string acoustic. Every song he’d ever written started on the fired maple guitar.
Each scratch and nick told a story. And every story had been pieced together with someone from this band. There was no way they could let the band go. Too much had happened within their circle to let it go so easily.
Deacon sat next to him, the wide bodied black Takamine filling his lap. In companionable silence, they fell into step. A favored warm-up song echoed in the airy space. The light picking eased the tension in his shoulders. Hard-edged rock was their preference, but tonight felt mellow and a little busted up like the peeling wallpaper that matche
d the orange bucket chairs. The Fluff wasn’t in the best shape, but it kept going.
So would they.
Simon hummed a few bars as they circled around to the beginning of the song again. The lonely Bad Company lyrics were scratchy and pure without a warm-up or artifice. He closed his eyes and the room disappeared.
Instead, he imagined a smoky bar with hushed tables and the light murmur of patrons. The song slipped through the room, his voice strengthening with each verse. Deacon’s deeper voice added a little polish to the song. The song might be older than the both of them, but no one wrote songs like Bad Company anymore. Instead of ending the song, he let his fingers strum through another soft melody. Deacon’s strong bass voice harmonized with his own as “Drift Away” pushed away the ambient street noise and the ever tumbling dryers.
When Simon opened his eyes again. he found a stranger standing in the center of the Fluff and Fold. He didn’t stop playing—and neither did Deak—they just eyed the newcomer and strummed on.
So that was Gray. He matched his name. Glowering and silent as the San Francisco skyline in October, he made Simon feel positively chipper. He dressed like a fucking Boy Scout. Was that an Oxford shirt? Jesus.
The tall guy could have been eighteen or twenty-five. His face was ageless with a clean shaven jaw and distant fog-colored eyes, and his cheekbones were as sharp as his own. A tuft of longish dark spikes on top of his head tapered to super short hair in back. Instead of the pretty boy label Simon got slapped with all too often, the kid was just plain serious. Broody serious. The kind that got laid.
A lot.
The only outward show of nerves was Gray’s tight fist on the handle of his battered guitar case. Stickers from guitar manufacturers, bands, and clubs layered the ancient black hardshell case. It was a song itself. Simon’s fingers itched for paper for the first time in ages.
A lonely man with a story to tell.
Then again, wasn’t that all of them? Lonely in different ways. Different stories, different melodies. Somehow still the same song.
Without a word, the kid sat down and popped open his case. The gleaming Gibson was well-oiled and polished with a glassy sheen on the front and a nicked to shit back. Even if Simon didn’t trust Deak’s word that the kid could play, the scuff marks and worn finger grooves proved that guitar had seen a lot of action. Gray cradled it like a woman, stroking his hand over the rounded parts then gliding along the neck. The clunk of Gray’s belt buckle against the base made Simon smile.
Nothing was sweeter than a well-loved instrument.
Well, besides exceptional pussy. But that was a different animal all-together.
Without a word, Gray’s fingers walked the length of the fret and he picked up the old song Simon and Deak were still playing but added a quick pickup to the bass line. The kid’s fingers were nimble and impressive. He stopped to tune quickly and found the heart of the melody with a rich, sad pang.
Simon’s throat tightened in reaction and he layered his own sound over Gray’s. Deacon came up the back end with another layer. The room was resonant with the aching whine of guitars and a three-part harmony that couldn’t be manufactured without a million dollar studio.
Instead the magic was in a dingy laundromat.
Simon grinned as they tumbled into an acoustic version of “Life is Beautiful”. Deacon leaned back, his gangly legs outstretched as he thumped mercilessly on the body of his acoustic. Gray pulled notes out of his Gibson that didn’t quite blend with the rest. The guitar was gritty and slightly off. Not out of tune, but chords layered over chords.
How did this Gray guy get his fingers to bend like that? With a nimble gift Simon envied, he climbed the fret board, leaving jagged perfection in his wake. No fucking amp, no electric guitar and he could do that?
Simon’s voice strengthened to compete against the heavier guitars—his element, his way to shine. Then gentled as the middle of the song soared and he had to reach the higher notes. It felt good to sing again. His throat had been pickled with alcohol too often the last few weeks, but it still didn’t let him down. Thank fuck.
Nikki Sixx’s dark lyrics suited the mood, and still there was hope even in the Heroin Diaries anthem. Gray strummed so fast, his hand was all but a blur. The Oxford shirt and khakis were hiding one helluva monster rocker.
Simon tipped his head back and chased him through the chords. His fingers cramped from disuse, but the muscle memory saved him. It was a favored song for them when they were fucking around and didn’t want to play their own music.
Pretty damn often lately.
He picked up the end of the song and Deacon’s bass voice growled along with him to the end. The miniscule quirk of Gray’s lips was the only sign he’d enjoyed himself. His hand hung over the belly of his guitar, the veins in his arms tight with how hard they’d played.
The quiet clap drew everyone’s attention to the girl. She’d faded away in the height of the jam session. Simon wasn’t quite sure how. Obviously he’d been starved for music because women rarely fell off his radar no matter the circumstances.
She was…pink.
Pink wavy curls teased the tops of her more-than-a-mouthful sized breasts. Her hair darkened to a violent purple the closer it got to her scalp. Her face held an innocence under the heavy eye makeup. Heart-stopping innocence that lured a man into doing stupid things.
But his brain shorted out as his gaze dropped to the short and lacy pink skirt over black and gray leggings. Black Docs with pink flames climbed her calves and hugged just below her knees.
Christ, she had to be roasting. It hadn’t dropped below seventy tonight and the Fluff held onto steam better than a Chinese laundry. But she didn’t look uncomfortable. She was silent and cool as an ice cream cup. And just as tiny and lickable.
He wouldn’t mind using his tongue as a spoon.
She flashed him a look, her blue eyes as still as the middle of the ocean off the Monica pier. Too still. Too contained.
Then she flashed him a wicked smile and winked before her attention skidded toward the door and its jangling bells.
Simon muffled a groan. Christ, he didn’t need an insta-erection now. She was the kind of trouble he’d end up in jail for if he wasn’t careful. He hoped to hell she was legal or he was going to have to make himself scarce. Miss Pink was exactly the kind of trouble he hooked up with on a nightly basis, though his chicks were old enough to drink. Usually. And it wasn’t smart to fuck a girl that couldn’t be gone by morning.
Simon tilted his head to find out what had shifted her focus from him to the door. Even knowing he’d never touch her, the slight was a slap.
Nick. Always fucking Nick. Why did chicks dig his stone-face? Nowadays the bastard rarely smiled, yet he had women lining up to suck him off. Lined up—but not getting much action.
Because Nick didn’t fucking see them. He was too lost in his own head.
The room fell silent. The shuffling feet and scraping chairs instantly stilled. The click of a button on a pair of jeans in a dryer was the only sound.
With a harsh drag of breath, Nick pitched aside his glowing cig—so much for giving up the smokes—in the dispenser by the door and stepped into the laundromat.
Showtime.
Chapter Three
Nick: Taste of Candy
Gimme one taste, so I can swallow you down and live on your moan.
Nick had just walked in the door, and he wanted to walk right back out.
But he didn’t. Instead he let his gaze bounce from face to face. Simon, sulky pout already in place. Deacon, expression wary. Then the kid he assumed was Gray, who didn’t look younger than them at all, not with eyes that haunted. And closest to the door, a pink-haired chick watched him with unabashed curiosity, the kind that killed cats and mindfucked men into paying attention.
So was she the drummer or some groupie girlfriend of the guitarist? She almost looked a little too candy-slick to play. If she traded that dark red lipstick for bubble gum gloss and tugg
ed up her low-cut tank top a little, she’d be ready for a nineties-style high school sleepover. A wrist full of bracelets clanged when she shoved her fingers through her hair, which was held back with glittery barrettes. Barrettes, for God’s sake. She was like a living anime doll.
Nick’s gaze dropped, quite unintentionally. Did anime characters typically have tits like this babe’s? He’d walked in on Simon watching some freaky cartoon porn once or twice. Maybe he’d have to check some out himself. Had to be better than one-handing it under the covers while Deak sawed them off in the bunk above him.
Without warning, the haunted-eyes guy with the ancient Gibson bobbed to his feet and stuck out a hand in Nick’s general direction. His gaze, however, rested on the watchful pink doll. She was practically small enough to steal.
Not that Nick intended to try. He had his pick of cash-and-carry chicks, were he so inclined. He wasn’t. Sex wouldn’t cure his latest ailment—the destruction of his goddamn band.
“Grayson Duffy,” the guitarist said in a voice that sounded as if it had been rubbed with gravel. The hand he held out never jumped, despite Nick not taking it. “You must be Nicky.”
“Nick, yeah,” Nick replied coolly, cocking an eyebrow at Deak. He just shrugged. Calling him Nicky to outsiders? So that’s how they were playing things now. “Can I call you Gray or do you prefer son?”
Evidently realizing Nick had forgotten his manners, Gray drew back his arm and wrapped his fingers around the neck of his guitar. “Gray’ll do.”
Nick slid his gaze toward the pink princess. “She yours?”
She started to reply, but Gray beat her to the punch. “Yeah, she is. So don’t fuck with her.”
“Jesus, G.” She scuffed the toe of her boot across the dingy floor like she’d been chastised. Or maybe she was into that submissive crap.
Nick raised a brow and glanced at Gray with new respect. “Define ‘don’t fuck with her’. What about if you’re there? Because we don’t mind sharing. We’re just that kind of band.” He made a show of walking over to slap Simon on the back, who promptly shoved him away. “This one especially. If you put it in front of him, he’ll nail it. And Pinky over there is just the kind of candy we like, right, Pretty Boy?”