by Cari Quinn
He’d been so tired he hadn’t had more than a soda or water in his hands or a chick under him in days. Maybe those sports idiots were right about holding your load before a big game. After tonight, he was damn well going to find a girl to fuck until he was unconscious.
A smile ghosted his lips. Until she was too.
Simon adjusted the strap of his battered white Fender. His baby wasn’t really needed for the show—they were guitar heavy now, but he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands without his axe. The familiar weight pulling on his neck eased some of the boiling acid in his gut.
Deacon wandered back over to him, swapping out Simon’s empty water bottle for another. “We’re going to start with ‘Torn’ and hopefully Gray and Nick will be able to figure out a way to share the solo.”
“It’s my solo,” Nick chimed in from his corner of the stage.
“Not everything is yours.”
Nick nodded to Gray. “He can have Simon’s parts. I thought that’s why Pretty Boy is wearing Cherry as an accessory instead of her intended purpose.”
Simon’s eyebrow rose, and he dragged his guitar around until the fat, hand-drawn rockabilly cherries were visible. He’d had her almost as long as he’d had the Taylor. He wouldn’t deny it was killing him to turn off the solos and let someone else lead, but he’d do it for the good of the band and the new magic that had infused them. “Leave Cherry alone. She’s used to being against this fine chest or my superb ass. It doesn’t matter to her if she’s plugged in or not.”
Jazz’s lips quirked, but she didn’t quite crack a smile.
“Let’s get this over with.” Nick stormed forward and through the curtain, starting the show whether they were ready or not.
“Eager much?” Simon muttered to Gray, who only shrugged. He didn’t know that Nick never charged through the curtain first and also usually bulleted off the stage the second the last chord rang out.
Deacon tipped his head back and dragged a huge breath into his massive lungs. His bass looked tiny against his ginormous frame, but those huge hands knew just how to manipulate a bass line that kept them all in time with each other.
The house lights went down and the driving chords of Nick’s Epiphone buzzed into the dark. Jazz shed her shoes and jumped behind her kit. Her sticks slapped so hard he was sure the skins would split. She followed Nick’s lead like he’d been at every practice.
She knew him already. Instinctively knew where to change the beat and how to make it complement Nick’s gritty guitar.
Deacon slipped out, taking his spot on the left side of the stage. His bass held a rich and throaty growl. He wasn’t a typical bassist that kept to the back of the sound. Nothing about Deacon was a weak link. He was a demon on his instrument and yet at the same time he was their compass. As true and steady as breathing. Deacon would be on his left and Nick would be on his right.
Gray walked onto the stage and took his place beside Deacon. Simon could feel the lighter touch. Even with crappy amps, the new guy gave them another layer that Simon simply hadn’t brought to their dynamic before. Gray’s seamless transitions made for a soulful energy under the gnashing power of Nick’s guitar.
Simon quieted the tension, let the anticipation simmer, and slowly walked out, his eyes focusing on the tips of his black and red boots. No, the potato paste that coated his gut was not going to make an appearance. Just words. His words, his persona, his part to play. The lyrics ripped out of his throat as he finally stared into the crowd.
People were so busy chatting, they barely looked up at the stage. He glanced over at Deacon, and the furrow between his dark brows drew out nerves. His voice warbled.
No.
Hell no.
He stalked across the stage as the song became more guttural and he drew the crowd’s attention front and center. A few were fans already. They’d been on the circuit long enough to have a few followers. He focused on a trashy blonde that came to all of their Rhino shows.
She licked her lips and swayed. Her black corset top overflowed with fleshy breasts. He’d hooked up with her once and she’d hung around ever since. He winked as he hit the end of the stage and hiked up the half dozen stairs that led to the lighting system.
Simon was just high enough to draw the attention of some of the stragglers as their first song bled into the next. Jazz’s pounding beat kept him in time. He was too far away from Deacon’s bass. They didn’t have money for inner ear monitors, so he usually used Deacon to keep his rhythm.
His guitar bounced against his ass, the knobs biting into his lower back twisting the loose material of his shirt. With impatient fingers, he struggled, tossing the shirt over the scaffolding. The steamy air coated his back and the strap chafed, but the freedom was worth it. Clothes left him feeling hemmed in.
He bounded back down the stairs, his voice growing stronger with every step closer to the stage. Deacon’s face relaxed and his smile widened as he swayed forward and back in that metronome way of his. The constancy he needed. Simon slung an arm over Deacon’s shoulder—he damn well couldn’t reach his neck—as they both sang the chorus.
He spun away and landed in the center of the stage, his knees singing with the impact against the floor as he drowned out the guitars, the drums, and the bass with a wail that left it open for Nick to take center stage with a guitar solo.
Heaving in breaths of oxygen and focused on his burning desire for a shot, he gathered his energy while Nick gave him a four minute break. He looked up to find Gray beside him, just to the left of Deak. Gray quirked a brow at him and Simon winked before he popped back to his feet and stalked over to circle Nick.
Nick’s bare arms were slick with sweat. The lighting rig was like the sun at noon and the smoke machine pumped out wispy gray plumes that teased around their feet like a specter. They looked frigging cool.
Who cared if the smoke singed the inside of his nose? They could breathe later.
When Gray came up beside them and leaned into Simon’s back, Nick stopped. Just stopped.
Gray peered at Simon, his brow arched in confusion as he continued through another key change and repeated the next verse’s chords to give Nick time to catch up. Simon pulled the mic away from his mouth and swore.
Nick stood in the same place, but he’d gone somewhere else in his head. His fingers had stopped flying. He’d turned into stone.
No, no, no. Not now.
Nick couldn’t lose it now on their first show as a new band. Even if he didn’t want to see them as a unit. Even if he refused to. Dammit.
Simon slung an arm around Nick’s neck just as he always did and jolted him forward a step. Nick didn’t react. He was still and cool, a marble guitar god and just as useful. Simon slid behind him and slapped his foot on the pedal to reset the amp.
Simon jerked the cord out of Nick’s guitar and plugged it into Cherry. He peered around Nick to the crowd and strummed a few times. He dragged Gray to the forefront of the stage and leaned against him until they were back to back.
Nick’s presence behind him felt like a cold blast of indifference and he tuned it out, unwilling to allow anything to disrupt this moment. He’d deal with his best friend later. If he could salvage tonight, he’d do whatever it took.
Gray was quick. He hammered out an extended solo and Simon followed suit. They’d been playing dueling guitars every night. Gray was leagues past him with technique and original style, but Simon had the showmanship. Adding flair and giving the ladies a show to remember was what he did best.
His entire body flowed into the music as it always did. Gray carried them with his steely concentration and meticulous finger work. Intense and relentless. If Nick dropping out of the song even affected Gray’s playing, it was impossible to tell. The guy did not falter. He barely even seemed to sweat.
Weird.
Simon closed his eyes, unable to focus if he didn’t shut out Nick and his wounded vacant eyes staring out into the crowd. That shell-shocked gaze pulled at him, nearly
causing Simon’s fingers to falter and his voice to thin.
Please God, no one notice.
Just think it’s a stage trick. Please.
Gray tipped his head back against Simon’s shoulder and the duel of a solo they both churned out was pure liquid silver. Incredible. Simon’s smoother tones over Gray’s inconsistent constancy blended into a new kind of magic altogether. It was hard to pigeonhole Gray’s style. His uniqueness was a gift from karma’s sweet mouth.
The keen notes of Gray’s solo slowly drifted out until the crowd went crazy. The applause echoed in his head, drowning out everything else. Simon nodded out to the lighting guy on the side-stage and signaled for lights down.
Simon leaned into Gray’s ear, both of them still back to back. He just hoped Gray could hear him. “‘The Becoming.’ Long intro.”
Gray jerked once, but nodded and careened off toward Deacon.
It was Deak’s song—Deak and Gray’s song—and he hoped like hell it would save their ass. They’d been practicing until the song was as ingrained as any that Simon had a hand in writing. He’d been dying to get it out before a crowd. He’d been dying to actually perform something new.
He flicked Cherry behind his back again, unplugged and dragged Nick away from the lights. Simon spared one last look at the stage. The heartbeat-heavy bass filled the dark room. A single blue spotlight caged Deacon as he became the demon that had lent him his name. His deep voice resonated with a conviction he’d never heard from his friend.
Jazz picked up the change in setlist and pounded out her distress call to the room. She and Gray were the newcomers, but they were as at ease as if their names were tattooed on the wall. The song was perfection. And Simon was going to miss it.
The burn of anger and lure of the mic blazed down his spine as he dragged Nick farther back into the small closet and yanked the door shut behind him. He slammed Nick into the steel shelves full of cleaning supplies. “What was that, dude?”
Nick’s hands clenched and unclenched as he turned away.
Simon crowded in on him, his chest pressed to his arm, his mouth against his ear. The anger was so close to the surface he had to speak around a growl. “You clicked off. You haven’t done that since our first show.”
Nick’s turned flat brown eyes on him, cobra still and ready to strike. “Step back.”
Simon shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for coddling. All of them had been tiptoeing around him for the last week. The pansy-ass bitch was going to taste a little reality. “You find a way to put your stuff in a box and get back on that stage and play like a man.”
Simon backed into the door, dragging Cherry around to his front. “We’re going out there and we’re going to play our song. We’re going to burn it like Ted Nugent and Jimmy Hendrix were having a duel-off and blow the roof off this place. And you are going to frigging like it. Not because you want to, but because it’s your damn job.”
Nick just stared at him. His body vibrated with tension but nothing came out of his mouth. Either he couldn’t speak or he wouldn’t, and right now Simon didn’t care. He’d pony up for Nick’s therapy sessions later.
“Fine. If that’s how it is, stay in here and stew. Your choice.” Simon slapped a hand on the door. “Me, I got a show to do.”
Simon backed up and pushed out of the stifling little room. The guitar intro was at the edge of being too long. He strode down the hallway and back out to the stage. Deacon shot a relieved look at him and backed away from the main mic.
Simon shook his head, urging him back to finish the song. Simon’s mic was turned up louder than the rest and this needed Deak’s growling voice to be in the forefront. The duet format was new for them, but it worked. The sex and sin-filled lyrics were made for Deacon’s deep voice.
Simon curled his hands around the old school mic he’d found in a pawn shop. Broken shielding and cracks at the hinge didn’t matter when he closed his eyes. The faint distortion fit the song giving it a hazy liquid feel. The repetitive lyrics followed the slow pulse bass line.
He leaned forward at the waist and dragged every ounce of passion out of his belly and put it in the endless sighs of the song. The crowd disappeared, the anger dissipated. There was only the stage and the music and the lyrics.
Gray’s voice came in at the end of the song like an epilogue. Simon opened his eyes. The first reaction from the crowd was stunned silence, then finally thunderous applause. It built slow like one of Nick’s solos, the thud of stomping feet growing until it pounded in his ears.
Relief soaked his skin right along with the sweat. The magic he’d been aching for with every hour in the dank basement, every humid afternoon in the laundromat laboring over his shitty amp to get a song right. The fights, the disappointments, the lost songs had all been to get them here.
Simon leaned against Deacon’s shoulder and crossed his arms, his grin sly. Shows had an afterglow just like great sex, and he was going to enjoy the heck out of this one. He wrapped the cord of the fat retro mic around his wrist, letting it dangle at his side and grasped his usual mic stand.
“The boy thinks he can take my job. What do you think?”
The crowd freaked and Simon let his bottom lip poke out. “More love for the Demon than me?”
Deacon’s eyebrow raised and he laughed away from the mic then stepped forward. “I only sing on special occasions.”
Simon shrugged. “I had to pee.”
Deak laughed. “See? Special occasion!”
Simon hooked his arm over the top of the mic stand. “I like the slow stuff sometimes. Mostly horizontal times.” He rolled his hips in a slow, fluid motion and was rewarded with whoops and howls. “But I think I need it long and hard now, how about you?”
The deafening scream made him grin. He saw a flash of black at his side. Nick. Finally. The last of his nerves fell away.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he called to the crowd. “This one’s ‘Ripcord’.”
Chapter Five
Nick: How Bad Do You Want It?
I ache, but it’s so sweet, this pain.
Bitter fruit, corrupting my brain.
He’d lived through his nightmare.
Tonight his stage fright hadn’t just threatened, it had consumed. He’d been just as helpless in the face of it as the rest of Oblivion.
All the mental self-coaching, all the nights Nick had white-knuckled it through the opening bars until the magic of doing what he loved squashed the nerves, all the overcompensating and posturing he’d adopted to hide his biggest weakness—it had all led him here, and he’d taken his band through the aftermath with him.
And they’d all survived. Thrived even, judging by the screaming and foot stomping still ringing through the club even minutes after the curtain had come down. The fans—they had fans—wanted an encore, and normally, they might’ve given them one, had they ever been in this position before. They’d never worked out an encore set. Usually people were too wasted to give a damn if they came back to the stage or not.
They weren’t too wasted tonight.
If only Snake were with them to see it. To hear that chanting crowd. He should’ve been the one with them on that stage, not Gray. Not Jazz. Even if they’d never managed to capture that lightning in a bottle when Snake was around, it wasn’t fair he didn’t get to know what it was like. But when was life ever fair?
“Dude, listen to that.” Simon was all smiles as he slung an arm around Nick’s neck, their earlier fight forgotten. If it could even be called that. More like Simon had thrown a verbal bucket of cold water in his face, and he’d stood there and gotten drenched. “We freaking nailed it.” He pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes and tossed a grin at Gray where he lurked on the sidelines like a ghost, his spritely better half standing on his opposite side. “Guess we need to come up with encore material, huh? Good goddamn, what a rush.”
Before Nick could ask who exactly Simon was speaking to, he’d already rolled off to slap backs and bump fists with
Deak. Their bassist looked similarly starstruck. Nick had never seen his guys smiling so wide. Who could blame them? After his spectacular fail, they’d managed to come back hard and put an exclamation point on the night. The crowd had soaked up every guitar lick and had lip-synced their lyrics right along with them like they weren’t a bunch of local boys who sang as many covers as they did original material.
Maybe the others would forget how he’d clutched and run. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Nick wiped the smile off that he’d worn for Simon and Deak’s benefit and picked up his guitar, his only thought to get back to his shitty car so he could get his ass home. Simon would be on pussy patrol, and normally his relief that he’d made it through another show would have him doing the same. The adrenaline high after a concert left them all buzzing for hours, better than any hit of weed or alcohol binge. Only nicotine after really excellent sex could touch the post-stage afterglow, though tonight he didn’t even have the energy to light up, never mind look for someone to bone.
Unlike that bastard Gray, who had his woman right at his side. He’d never had that. Probably never would. Who would want to put up with his bag of crazy day in and day out?
Rather than stare at the guy who seemed to be the target of all of his frustrations lately, he strapped his guitar on his back and pivoted away, pushing through the crowd of people milling backstage, all of them just as pumped as Simon. A show like tonight’s was good news for the Rhino, and they all knew it. Business had been down lately, and the bar receipts would be excellent thanks to the concert. They might even get a portion of the tab going forward, if tonight’s success translated to other shows down the road.
Other shows. Right. Just what he didn’t need to be thinking about now.
Jazz called out his name a second before a hard shove hit him square between the shoulder blades. Nick spun around. Her face was the first he saw. Her eyes were as huge as ever, but her mouth curled as if she’d swallowed a slug of lemon juice. Then his focus shifted to Gray, who balled his fist at his hip in preparation for a swing. Of course.