by Cari Quinn
“Look, can we do this another day?” Nick asked tiredly, unable to drag his gaze from Jazz’s frantic expression. He got that Gray was pissed at him—he could practically taste the dude’s fury even from a few feet away—though he didn’t know why.
It didn’t matter much, truth be told. Gray couldn’t be any more angry at him than he was at himself. Worse, disappointed.
He hadn’t just let himself down. That would’ve been bad enough. But screwing over his best friends? That was the kicker, and the root of the shame that boiled in his gut like battery acid. He couldn’t let this happen again.
Somehow he had to get it together.
“No, we can’t. I know you don’t like me and my girl, and that’s fine. You don’t have to. We’re here to do a job, and I’m assuming you are too. I don’t know what happened to you out there, and frankly, I don’t care. You’re only my problem if you touch what’s mine again.” Gray adjusted his hold on the neck of his guitar and Nick had the feeling he wished he had his hand around his throat instead. “Be very careful. If I ever see bruises on her again for any reason, you’ll pay. And I promise you, I’m a lot stronger than you think, Crandall.”
Nick stared after Gray as he whirled around to snatch Jazz’s hand and tug her through the crowd. Just before they disappeared, she looked back over her shoulder at Nick and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Nick pinched his fingers over the bridge of his nose. Gray played like a maniac, but apparently that talent made him loon crazy. Maybe that’s where his issues came from too. Seemed like as good of an excuse as any.
As for Jazz…no words. He hadn’t put his hands on her yet, and Gray should’ve been counting his lucky stars on that score instead of making him want to toss aside his admittedly shaky moral code to take a big, juicy bite out of his pretty little woman. He had his problems getting through a show, but he still knew how to fuck. Unless that became a spectator sport, he’d probably be okay for the foreseeable future.
Nick turned and shoved his way out to the parking lot, oblivious to the people who shouted his name and tried to get his attention. He’d save the socializing for Pretty Boy. That was more Simon’s speed than his, and besides, he’d become a liability, not a selling point for the band. They’d be better off if he holed himself up in his bed with headphones in his ears and the memories of tonight he knew he wouldn’t be able to scour out of his brain.
Five nights until their next show. Five nights for him to figure out how to straighten himself out.
He peeled away from the club with a screech of rubber, his foot jammed to the floor and the music on high to chase away the demons that screamed in his head. They never shut up. Even the spark of pleasure that he’d manned up and returned to the stage to do what he’d been born to couldn’t burn through them. Only his guitar and his voice mixing with Deak, Simon and Snake could drown them out.
And now there was Gray. And Jazz.
Punching the gas, he headed down the Strip, weaving in and out of traffic in a race with his inadequacies. They were gaining on him, and he could feel their hot breath on the back of his neck. If he slowed down again, they’d have him. He’d be damned if he gave in that easily.
He drove for hours with the warm, ocean-scented breeze pouring through his open window and Marilyn Manson blasting from his speakers. The louder the better. If he lost his hearing maybe he wouldn’t be able to hear those taunting whispers that told him he was about to be replaced, that he wasn’t good enough. That they’d found someone better than him. Someone who wouldn’t choke. Who wanted it more.
Hell no. No one wanted this more than him. He’d played until his fingers cramped and bled for way too many years to let some new punk ass kid stroll in and take his band away from him. No, not take. Tonight he’d handed it to Gray on a bronze platter. He might as well have given him a crown and a scepter while he was at it.
Not again. This was the first and last time Grayson Duffy would watch him melt down—or give him a lecture on touching his woman. If he wanted to put his hands on Jazz, that was between him and her and officially none of Gray’s business. Nick knew what running scared sounded like, and Gray’s irrational fear about him and Jazz smacked of desperation. Obviously things weren’t so happy harmonious in their little love shack, and he was blaming Nick.
He didn’t have a reason to. Yet.
The night was half gone by the time he pulled into the Fluff’s lot and cut the engine. He’d grabbed his guitar and taken three steps from his car when he noticed the small figure huddled on the low stone wall that bordered the lot, her wild tangle of hair lifted off her neck by what looked like a radioactive hairband. Either that or she’d swallowed a glow stick whole and was now operating on solar power.
The curse left his lips before he could shut it down. She jerked like he’d slapped her, sliding off the wall with a scuff of sneakers and a hiss of breath. “Hear me out,” she began when he just kept walking past her.
“Sorry, I’ve got a date.”
“With who?” There was no mistaking the indignation in her tone. Aww, Pinky cared. He was almost touched.
“With my hand and an industrial-sized bottle of baby oil.” He glanced back just to have the satisfaction of watching her blush and look away. Thank God the Fluff’s neon sign threw off a beam of red light, because he would’ve hated to miss it. “Now if you don’t mind—”
“Nick, wait.” She caught up to him and grabbed his arm, making a soft noise of distress as he shook her off. “Please.”
“Is that how you get him to do your dirty work? Just purse those big pink lips and bat your lashes and whisper baby, please until he gets on his knees and does what you want?”
For a long moment the sounds of traffic in the distance and a chirping frog somewhere in the high grass were the only noises. Then she slapped her arms over her adorably heaving chest. “My lips are not big.”
His laughter tore from his chest like a bandage being ripped away. “Whatever you say, Angelina.” He started walking again. “See ya on the flip side.”
“C’mon, Nick. I came all the way out here to see you. I’ve been waiting for hours. Can’t you even give me a couple of minutes?”
He hated that the plea in her voice affected him enough to stop. It looked like Gray wasn’t the only dick who’d been suckered by those sexy blue eyes. “You shouldn’t be out at night alone. Didn’t you learn your lesson earlier tonight?” He couldn’t temper the harsh edge to his tone, not when he thought about those two losers shoving her around. It wasn’t her fault it had happened, but she needed to be more careful. “Where’s your—”
“Don’t ask about him. Is that all we have to say to each other? Just where’s Gray or what will he think if he catches me alone with you?” She shoved a dangling curl out of her face and shook her head. “You don’t understand how we are. Hell, I don’t even understand sometimes.” She laughed softly, but it didn’t sound like she found their relationship funny.
He knew the feeling.
“You have to admit, he’s hard to ignore. And the fact is, you’re the one who’s with him. If you’ve got an issue with how he treats you, tell him. Don’t tell me.”
“That’s just it. I’m not. With him,” she said when Nick slanted her a look. “We’re not a couple. Never have been.”
Nick hated the flare of hope that bloomed inside him before he extinguished it with a dose of hard reality. Gray or no Gray, she wasn’t on his radar. He wouldn’t let her be. “Really.”
“Really.” She held up a manicured hand. Shit, even her nails sparkled as she waved her fingers. “I swear.”
Nick quirked a brow. If she was bluffing, she could run a con with the best of the hustlers on the Strip. “Uh huh. You might want to tell him that.”
“Honestly, I don’t even think he wants that from me, he just wants to see me safe.” She blew out a bubble before popping it with her nail. He hadn’t even realized she was chewing gum. “You don’t really know him yet, but he’s, uh, kin
d of stubborn.”
“You don’t say. He’s also really fixated on me. What was all that after the show about? He couldn’t have been that mad at getting to be lead guitar, so what was it? That he’s so frigging certain I’m sharking on you?”
“Sharking?” A faint smile touched her lips as she slipped off the shoulders of her fuzzy, way-too-touchable sweater.
He gazed at her upper arms, not getting it. “Nice baby muscles you got there. Been pumping at the gym?”
“Don’t you see the bruises?” Impatiently, she hunched her shoulders. “Look closer.”
He looked. The fingerprint smudges darkening her pale flesh made him clench his fists. “Those bastards.”
“I didn’t realize they’d bruised me. I mean, my arms kind of hurt, and there’s a spot on my hip…” She shrugged the sweater back on, though she didn’t do up the buttons. Beneath she still wore the tank she’d worn on stage. “Gray saw them the minute I came back inside. It was super hot backstage so I took off the sweater, not knowing they’d left marks. He freaked.”
“For once it makes sense.” He cursed and wished he’d paid closer attention to what those assholes had looked like so he could deliver a delayed gift the next time he saw them at the club. “I should’ve kicked them in the nuts with my steel-toeds.”
Her smile deepened, teasing out the hint of dimples. “Then run away really fast?”
Smiling back would be counterproductive, so he settled for gruff agreement. “Something like that.”
“There’s more.” Chewing on her lip, she tugged down her sleeves. “I sort of told him you did this.”
“Come again?”
“I might’ve said you were the one who bruised me. Accidentally,” she added hurriedly when Nick swore. “I said we’d gotten into it a little in the parking lot, arguing about the band. You pissed me off, I went to slap you, and you just moved me back a smidge too forcefully. That was all.”
“That’s all? You told a guy who already hates me that I roughed you up? Oopsie, sorry.” Nick locked his jaw. “You’re tiny. What kind of jerk would accidentally touch you hard enough to bruise?”
She drew herself up to her full height of five-feet-nothing. “I am not tiny, and I can take care of my damn self.”
“Oh, yeah, saw that earlier. Stand back, super ninja.” He shoved a hand through his hair then clutched a handful and debating pulling. “Jesus, Jazz.”
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t know what else to say. Gray’s so hotheaded about keeping me safe that if I hadn’t said it was you he would’ve been all over that club, searching for those guys. He works out, yeah, and really is a lot stronger than he looks, but he couldn’t take both of them down. Besides, what about the show? If he’d been consumed with searching for them, when the whole thing went down with you, he might’ve been off his game—”
“Yep, right, all roads lead back to me. Colossal fuckup number one, reporting for duty.” He stroked a hand down his guitar and bit off a sigh of his own. “Look, Jasmine,” he enunciated her name carefully, “as fun as this convo’s been, I really wanna be alone. It’s been a long ass night for me, in case you didn’t happen to notice.”
“I did. And I feel awful for making it worse.” She reached out and touched his arm just below the sleeve of his T-shirt. He would’ve been a liar if he denied he felt the burn from her fingers straight through skin and bone. “Can I come in with you? Just hang out for a while?”
“Why? What could I possibly have you want?”
Something shifted across her face, and like the pansy Simon had accused him of becoming, he stepped back. He’d stepped in enough muck tonight without pulling on his hip-waders first. “Hold it right there. You want to bounce from man to man, that’s on you and I couldn’t care less. But don’t try to drag me into your mess.”
“You hard of hearing or what?” Undeterred, she advanced toward him and slicked her wicked little tongue over her lower lip. “I’ve never been with him.”
“You’re saying you have never had a physical relationship with Gray. Ever.”
She kept right on coming, getting right in his personal space and stepping on the toes of his boots. The pinch centered him, proving he wasn’t imagining this whole wacked-out conversation. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said flatly.
“You should. I don’t lie.” He jolted as she slipped her fingers into the tight sleeve of his T-shirt, but she didn’t linger. She grabbed the pack of cigs he’d tucked there, prying one out and then withdrawing a lighter from the pocket of her miniscule denim skirt. “Well, I don’t usually, tonight aside,” she added before spitting out her gum and lifting a cigarette to her pretty-as-a-picture mouth. She flicked on the lighter. The flame caught instantly and she dragged hard before pulling out the cig and turning her head to cough violently. “Dang, that is nasty.”
He smirked and took the cig from her, lifting it to his mouth and taking a welcome breath of nicotine. He’d been trying to hold off reaching for his security blanket, but when in Rome… “You shocked those virgin lungs.”
“Apparently.” She rubbed her chest and eyed him as he blew a steady stream of smoke to the side. “Seriously disgusting habit. But you looked like you could use one. And this.” She pressed the lighter into his palm.
Wanting to hold on to the sensation of her small hand gripping his for an instant longer, he closed his fingers. Then he opened them and stared. “You found my lucky lighter?”
“Guess I did. What makes it lucky?” Now she was the one smirking.
“That it works.”
“Ah, I see. Logical.” She flicked another wayward curl out of her eyes and shrugged. “I looked over just as you pitched it away. I didn’t realize what it was, just heard it fall on the concrete. After the show, I was curious what you’d ditched so I looked around for it.”
“You looked around a parking lot by yourself, in the dark. Alone. The same parking lot where you were attacked earlier tonight.” Nick hauled in more smoke. “Real smart.”
“I wasn’t alone. The band was with me.”
Amazing how two innocent words could wound. He set down his guitar between his feet. “My band?”
“Our band,” she corrected quietly. “Are you ever going to acknowledge that?”
“No, I’m not. Not when your piece of shit non-boyfriend keeps threatening me for wanting to fuck you as if that’s a freaking crime.” He popped his neck, but it didn’t relieve an ounce of his tension. “It’s not my fault I have eyes.”
She went deathly still. The contrast from her usual constant movement was stunning. “Did you just say you want to fuck me?”
“Oh, come on.” He scoffed and tipped back his head to blow smoke at the moon, so fat and shiny and smug. “You can’t pretend to be surprised. It’s hardly a newsflash.”
“It is to me.” Her soft voice curled around him as insidiously as the smoke.
“Really?” Tucking his lighter in his pocket, he chanced a look at her through the smoky veil that hung in the air. “Have you seen you?”
Her husky laughter took him by surprise. All of a sudden he wasn’t just standing around talking for a few minutes before he barricaded himself in his basement. The moment changed, the space between them becoming charged thanks to the words he’d thoughtlessly tossed at her in the hopes of chasing her away.
Yeah, so that hadn’t worked.
Obviously whatever result he wanted, he should do the opposite of what his instincts told him to, since Jazz didn’t look like she intended to leave anytime soon. In fact, she edged even closer, hooking her fingers in the belt loops of his jeans to haul him against her distracting body. A place he really should not be, despite his cock’s urgent interest in the proceedings.
“So, you want to sleep with me, huh?” She tilted her head as he blew smoke to the side and tried desperately not to react to her nearness.
Not that his dick was helping matters. The thing would
probably bust through his jeans any second now. So much for playing it cool.
Ha. Cool. As if he had any. This chick brushed against him and he got shakier than freaking Snake after a week in rehab.
“Never mentioned anything about sleep.”
A corner of her mouth ticked up. “You know what I mean.”
“It may have crossed my mind once or twice.” Don’t breathe in anything but nicotine. She does not smell like brown sugar. Her pussy is not a tight sinkhole and your dick is not a drill. “You know, idly.”
“Idly. Right. So, ah, how would you do it? If you were to fuck me.”
Was her voice shaking? Or was that him? “The standard way would work well enough.” Temptation arrived in the form of her licking her lips, and he gave in. “At first.”
“So what’s the standard way? Missionary?” She rubbed his bicep through his shirt and holy hell, that did it. His cock jerked between them so hard that she glanced down and smiled a secretive smile. “One vote for missionary.”
It took breath he currently didn’t have in his overtaxed lungs, but he managed not to pant in her ear like a perv. “That vote doesn’t count.”
“How about girl on top? Or doggy style? Or, I know, maybe you’d rather fuck my—”
Sanity returned and he clapped a hand over her mouth. Apparently it was the only way to shut her up. “Unless you’d like a live demo of my preferences in the parking lot, let’s just drop it, okay? You’re cute and yeah, you get me going. But you don’t know what you’re playing with, baby girl, and I’m not in the mood to be anyone’s teacher.”
He couldn’t see if she pouted since her mouth was pressed against his palm, but her eyes sure did. Then she licked his hand. Frigging licked him.
Swearing under his breath, he let her go and took one last hit off his cigarette. He pitched the butt into the darkness and lightly blew the smoke in her face, tired of this game. “This is not happening. Got it? Go home and find your rabbit, because that’s the only thing you’ll be getting between your sweet thighs tonight.”