by Cari Quinn
Excitement and hope percolated. For just a little while he could enjoy the what ifs before the powerful brew of misplaced dreams and stark reality overpowered him once more. For a few hours, he soaked in the calm before Los Angeles came alive. Bikers, joggers and power walkers would congest the park with overpriced matching outfits and Bluetooth-synced electronics and another day would start.
There were no lights in the skate park. The dips, jumps and valleys looked like Fred Flintstone’s Bedrock with the concrete bowls and ramps. The neverending scrape of wheels and slaps of hands on the ledges echoed in the near-empty park.
It didn’t matter if it was two in the afternoon or three in the morning, someone wanted to pit their skills against another. But instead of daylight there was the phosphorous glow of glow sticks and LED lamps at the opposite side of the park.
They’d made do with the flashlight app on a cell phone and the tinny croon of Cowboy Junkies. Deacon, ever the Boy Scout, had brought out a sleeping bag and the two girls were swigging from a forty of cheap beer as Deacon sipped a single from the six pack they’d bought. He’d nurse that drink for the rest of the night.
“So we get to see you guys play next weekend too?”
“Headline,” Deacon said proudly. “And for once, not because someone else backed out,” he added in an undertone.
Simon lifted off into a backflip.
The girls squealed and laughed. Deacon’s rusty laugh filled their little section. How long had it been since any of them laughed?
Cowboy Junkies faded into the psychedelic tones of an old Ted Nugent song. Simon sauntered toward the blonde he’d chosen for the night, dropped to his knees and crawled to her.
Her face was thrown into shadow, the meager light turning her features into a blurry haze. He had just enough booze in his system to make him horny rather than tired. He stretched out on his back and rested his head in her lap.
She smelled like roses and Tootsie Rolls. He grinned up at her, watching her face change from laughter to the sly knowledge of more. She brought her beer up, dribbling a little of the now warm liquid between his lips before curling over him to seal her mouth over his. He closed his eyes and sank into her taste.
And then boom, right there, Nick in his head at the worst moment. Damn. The memory of Nick’s closed off face as he drowned in fear and uncertainty superimposed itself over the lust crowding into his brain. Nick had an innate ability to piss him off more than anyone on the planet. He didn’t know how to help his best friend and it killed him.
When it came to the stage, they were yin and yang. Simon came alive, something switching on deep inside of him that lay dormant the other twenty-something hours of the day. While Nick could become completely paralyzed.
Part of him wondered if Nick even enjoyed playing anymore. But there were other times when Nick was so on, it was overpowering to see. Why couldn’t Nick find that one vibe and home in on it?
Realizing he was just kissing the girl by instinct alone—and that she was far more into it than he was—brought him back into focus. Distantly, he heard the other girl’s giggles as Deacon murmured something to her. About time Demon loosened up.
Simon rose, twisting until he was on his knees again. The promise of uncomplicated sex let him float on the moment. This he understood. He pushed the anger and worry from Nick’s abandonment aside, stashed the excitement of the following weekend in a corner of his brain and let it feed his increasingly happy cock.
He drew the girl to her feet and away from Deacon and the girl’s friend. She wound her arms around his neck, her knee bumping between his thighs until she was flush against him. Soft breasts, a slim waist and flared hips.
She smelled of roses and chocolate and crap beer. This was what an after party was supposed to be. She broke their kiss, leaning back to let him take her throat. He buried his nose into the heavy fall of her hair and nipped her ear.
The giggling purr made him smile against her skin. Wanting to draw out the pleasure, he ducked under her arm and led her to the open space just before the ledge that dropped into a steep bowl for the skateboarders.
Their hips bumped as the music changed to a sexy Kings of Leon song. Dreamy guitar riffs and a sultry bass line suited his mood. He dipped his head to her neck, flicking his tongue over her fluttering pulse.
They were far enough away from Deacon and his girl that shadows curled around them. She was skin and fun. As uncomplicated as a misty morning dream. The fact that her features were as fuzzy as her name didn’t matter.
She was a pretty distraction.
When she palmed his cock, he groaned and let her draw down his zipper. He looked over his shoulder at Deacon. But instead of the similar state of lips and skin, Deacon had her friend in his arms. “Time to go home, Melanie,” Deacon muttered with resignation.
Ah, that was the other chick’s name.
Stacy—he was almost sure it was Stacy—slid away from him. “I don’t want to go.”
Deacon stepped into the dim light from their phones. “Looks like your friend doesn’t agree. She passed out.”
Simon shook his head. That was definitely not on the menu. “Sorry, man.”
Deacon shrugged and smiled that lopsided smile that charmed many a pair of panties to drop. Stacy definitely wasn’t immune to it. Against his chest, Simon felt her heartbeat pick up. She’d probably be up for both of them if Deacon was in the mood. “I’ll take you both home if you want,” Deak added.
Stacy stroked Simon’s shaft again and he swallowed a groan. Good Christ. “Can you just take her home without me?” she asked. “You’re not going to hurt her or anything?”
Simon laughed through another groan. “Deak would sooner stab his grandmother than hurt a chick.”
Stacy flicked her fingernail over the head of Simon’s ready-to-go cock. “Can I trust you?”
“No.”
She giggled into his chest then nipped his collarbone. Dang. That only got him going more. “I know I can’t trust you, but Deacon?”
Simon slung an arm around her neck. “Give him her address, babe. He’ll get her home and tuck her in.”
“She’s going to be so pissed that she passed out before getting a piece of you,” Stacy whispered, looking up at him like he was a god. Simon couldn’t say he minded.
Deacon grunted and shifted Melanie in his arms. “Text me her address.”
“You got it,” Simon said to his retreating back.
“Oh, and Deacon?”
Deacon swung around at Stacy’s voice. “Yeah?”
“Come back when you’re done. I like to party and three is definitely not a crowd.”
Simon wasn’t sure if he was going to answer, but then Deak surprised him.
“Sure you can handle both of us, Stacy?” Deacon’s voice was as deep as the tones he plucked out of his bass.
Stacy’s fingers curled around Simon’s shaft tightly and he groaned. He did love a girl that was open to all the possibilities.
“Oh, yeah.” Her voice was low and smoky, her eyes as focused as her busy fingers.
“Then I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
Simon’s hips rolled against the sweet stroke of Stacy’s hand. “Mind if I start without you, man?”
“You probably should. She’ll need to be primed for what I have in mind.”
Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Deacon rarely joined in when Simon and Nick shared a woman, but clearly things had changed. Deacon had been bottled up for so long it was becoming a state of mind, not a reaction like it used to be. Looked like Stacy would be a well-timed release valve.
Amen to that.
Stacy laughed into Simon’s neck. “God, I can’t wait to get both of you inside me.”
Simon shuffled Stacy into the light. Before he could lay her down on the sleeping bag, she twisted him around and kicked his feet out from under him. They both landed hard, his elbow cracking into the cement. “Fuck.”
“I expect to get seriously fucked.” She grinned
down at him and shook her hair back before she caged him.
“That’s exactly what I intend to do. You sure you’re up for both of us?”
She scooted up until his back was cushioned on the thick, slippery material and her full breasts swung in front of him. He cupped both of them, his thumbs finding her stiff nipples easily. She rustled around in a bag above his head, took a swig of beer then settled back on his thighs with a condom between her teeth.
She leaned forward, dropping the condom on his chest. “Good thing I brought extra.” Cool fingers with sharp nails tore at his belt.
He grinned up at her and tucked his hands behind his head. “My kind of warm-up.”
Chapter Seven
Nick: Hard Target
All these hours, all these years…feel my joy, taste my tears.
Nick’s phone went off before they’d even made it inside. Figured. He couldn’t even bust a nut in peace. “Goddammit.”
Jazz laughed. “Should’ve left it in the bushes with mine,” she said as he reluctantly checked who was calling. He would’ve ignored it, had it not been the middle of the night.
“Only one bush I’m thinking about right now, and it’s not for phone storage.” While she choked on her laughter, he cursed and lifted his phone to his ear. “What do you want this time, Ricki?”
Jazz bristled at his side, but better she see who he really was before she fucked him. Nasty morning-after surprises led to trouble, and he already had enough to spare.
“It’s Dad. He’s about to get kicked out of his place,” Ricki replied in her typical nasally whine.
Nick jammed his key into the lock and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “So you’re calling me to tell me this at,” he glanced at his phone, “three-freaking-thirty in the morning? Not my problem.”
It hadn’t been his problem since he’d gotten the hell out of the wasteland where he’d spent his junior high and high school years. The only good thing about living in the Delta apartments—the projects—had been meeting Simon. One gain compared with too many losses.
“Oh, so you don’t even care about your own father? He’s not just mine, you know. It’s not my job to make sure—”
“You’re absolutely right,” Nick cut in smoothly, nudging Jazz into the basement ahead of him. “You don’t take care of anything else, including supporting yourself, so drop this too. Just crawl into the gutter somewhere and leave me be.”
Jazz stopped walking and he collided with her, letting out a colorful stream of curse words. “Who are you talking to like that?”
Nick ignored her. They were going to screw, not share personal confessions.
Ricki let out a long sigh. Jazz might be shocked by his behavior, but Ricki wasn’t. They’d come out of the womb fighting. “Are you back on that again? I do so support myself. I’m just asking if you could chip in a little to cover the rent for us ’til next month is all. I promise, that’s all we need.”
“Pushing smack isn’t a legal job, just FYI. And no, I can’t ‘chip in’. I live in a freaking basement with two other guys, in case the coke’s finally fried your remaining brain cells and you don’t remember.”
Before she could reply, he depressed the End button and tossed his phone at the closest armchair. He stabbed his fingers into his eyes and waited for the bite of pain to erase the plea echoing in his ears.
The worst part? Despite his big talk, he knew he’d be signing up for extra shifts he didn’t have time for so he could help them out. Again. They never called just because. Of course, neither did he. His days of hoping to bond with his family were dead and buried.
“Who was that?”
He started at Jazz’s soft question. For a second, he’d forgotten she was there. Watching him. She and Gray were alike that way. They could’ve been a pair of owls, unblinkingly observing their environment.
“My sister,” he said finally, dropping into the armchair and glaring at the now flat front of his jeans with disgust. Erection? What erection? Memories of that dank, seedy space he’d called home for way too long would probably act as a non-surgical vasectomy if he focused on them long enough.
“Your sister?” Jazz perched on the arm of his chair and leaned back to play with his hair. He was a little surprised she hadn’t hightailed it out of there yet. And was even more surprised her touch now felt like needles pricking under his skin.
Somehow he managed not to shrug her off. “Even better. My twin.”
“Wow. A twin.” He glanced up at the wistfulness he heard in her voice. It matched the naked want in her eyes—and this time, not for him. “I had a sister once. I always wished I had more siblings, real blood ones. I guess it was better I didn’t have them, considering my situation.”
Without fully being aware of it, he shifted toward her. His insatiable curiosity was a facet of his personality he’d never been good at shutting off. Songwriters were basically emotion funnels. Pain fascinated him, his own or someone else’s. It was the raw material he used to create his lyrics, and lately, his well had been dangerously low. He’d gone numb.
His music had paid the price.
So she’d had a sister once—whatever that meant—and she had trouble in her past. Who didn’t? Still, he was already engaging with her on a different level because of it. He didn’t trust people that were too happy. “What is your situation, Jasmine?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Now I’m suddenly interesting to you?”
The smile came before he could head it off. “I thought it was obvious you were interesting to me outside too.”
“That was different. After a show, you’d probably bone any groupie chick who raised her skirt.”
Deliberately, he let his gaze drop to her skirt, tightly bunched around the tops of her thighs. Her crazy patterned leggings didn’t disguise her curves in the slightest. “Speaking of skirts, I thought you were supposed to lose yours.”
She quirked a brow and lightly trailed one of her nails across the back of his neck. He couldn’t help the shudder that moved though him. “Yep, now I’m back in groupie status. Skirt up, panties down, pussy on your mouth. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Laughing into his fist, he eyed her with new respect. Though she was blushing, she’d gotten the words out and now met his gaze squarely. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I’m usually not so free with my mouth. For you, though, maybe we can work something out.” He winked and saw her flush deepen in the low light from the single lamp they always left on in the corner. It was practically Simon’s nightlight. He hated turning lights off when he left a room. At least he managed to turn off the stove.
Most of the time.
“I forgot myself for a second. You don’t please the groupies. They’re around to please you.”
Lifting his brows, he gestured to his jeans. “So get to it then.”
Jazz snorted. “Dream on. If there’s no reciprocity going down here, neither am I.”
He smiled. Hell of a thing, actually liking this chick. He’d been so determined to see her as the enemy, and here she was, looking eminently doable and trading barbs with him from that mouth he craved more with each passing moment. “Hard to call you a groupie when you lasted longer on stage tonight than I did.” The words only burned a little. It was the truth, after all. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
Her quick shrug didn’t hide the wariness that crept into her eyes. She drew her hand away from his neck and loosely linked her fingers in her lap. “Better than getting wasted every night.”
“Can’t argue there.” He grinned. “Though some of us manage to do both.” The lie rolled off his tongue as easy as the liquor he tried not to rely on. He’d seen what alcohol and weed and harder drugs could do to people. He had no desire to become another statistic.
So he smoked now and then. He’d quit at least fifty times. That had to count for something.
“You don’t. You didn’t even take a drink tonight. Not one.”
“How do you know?”
Her mouth tipped upward. “I watched you.”
“Right. Of course you did.” Not liking the spider-under-a-microscope sensation he got from her unrelenting gaze, he reached for his belt. “So we gonna do this or not? The guys might be back soon.”
“God, your sense of romance is killer.” Despite her words, she turned her avid attention to the movements of his fingers. “How soon are we talking about?”
“After a show, usually around sunrise. So an hour or so yet. If we’re lucky.”
Biting her lip, she looked around the cramped, messy living room. The place needed to be shoveled out with a damn backhoe. “Don’t you have a bedroom? With a door?”
“I have a bunk. Deak has the other bunk. Simon has the closest thing to an actual bedroom, and trust me, you don’t want to use his bed unless all your vaccinations are up to date.”
Her ripe laughter made his hand falter on his zipper. Christ, she was pretty. Under all the makeup and the hair dye and sexy clothes, she looked so frigging young. Lipstick bitten off her mouth, mascara smudged, shadows heavy both in and beneath her eyes.
Trouble.
She leaned over him, her hair falling forward from its precarious twist, curls tickling his chin as her lips brushed his. Neither of them closed their eyes. He could’ve used a shower after the show, and he should’ve brushed after the cig. But she had to be just as sweaty and tasted faintly of smoke too, though her grape bubblegum flavor masked most of it.
As for how she smelled? Like sex and strawberries, with a chaser of you-freaking-know-better.
Then her tongue stroked over his and he forgot all about being minty fresh. She sure didn’t seem to mind his taste, judging from the steady diet of moans she was feeding into his mouth.
He tangled his hand in her hair and yanked her down into his lap. She let out a giggle as she wound her arms around his neck and sank right back into another kiss, her butt making enthusiastic circles on his cock. His already halfway-to-hard cock, thank you very much.
Flipping up her skirt, he slid his hand between her thighs, encountering her sleek, curve-hugging leggings. He traveled higher, anticipation searing the back of his throat. Bare, wet skin met his fingers, so hot that he growled. “What the fuck?”