4 Play

by Quinn, Cari

  What he didn’t like dealing with was knowing Chloe was at her house alone with her baby and probably swarmed by the blood-suckers. But what could he do? He’d asked her repeatedly to move in with him and she’d said no. Their marriage wasn’t real.

  His dick inside of her sweet pussy had been real as fuck, but yeah. Fine. Whatever she thought was best.

  He poured his frustration into his fingers racing over the strings. At his side, Elle was playing like the demon in his head was riding her back too. This club had meaning for her brother, so maybe it had meaning for her as well.

  Juliet and Molly got into some kind of dance, one of them moving toward the other as the other retreated. Even through the movements, Juliet never stopped playing the bass. She might as well have been on cruise control as Molly sang about wanting to be in her lover’s arms. Behind them, Jazz was slamming away on the kit, doing her thing. Ry had put down the blues harp to join West and they were playing hand over hand in an intricate choreography all their own.

  Halfway through the song, Michael glanced up. The last time he’d played it, he’d been staring at Chloe in the audience. Her red hair like a damn beacon, her eyes pulling him into her story. Almost strangers or not, they’d become involved with each other in a way that transcended alcohol and sex and stupid marriage licenses.

  Unconsciously, he sought her again in the audience, only realizing what he was doing when his gaze snagged on the second row. She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t. He’d asked her to come to the show, mentioned he’d left tickets for her at the door, but she hadn’t replied. For all he knew, she had to work. Or had Axl. She couldn’t just take off and come see him because he really needed her to be there.

  And then she was.

  He had to be imagining things. She hadn’t said she was coming. Hadn’t said anything at all. She couldn’t be there. He was hallucinating her like a dude in the desert might envision a spring arising out of the hot sand. His just happened to be his gorgeous, infuriating wife, looking up at him again with those melted chocolate eyes that spurred him to play faster, harder. Anything to impress her into staying just a little while longer.

  Please let it be you.

  As if on cue, the crowd parted and Chloe moved closer to the stage, dragging another woman with her. She turned away to speak to her friend and he swallowed, already missing her face.

  Jesus, he had it bad. And it was only getting worse with every hour and minute that passed.

  Once she turned back, he was sliding into the end of the song, nearing the part where he’d fallen to his knees the other night. Almost there. He climbed the frets, dueling with Elle, letting Molly’s rich, whisky-soaked voice wash over him as they approached that final pinnacle. And just as he was about to let the music suck him into the end, hell broke loose.

  Over his goddamn head.

  Literally.

  The crack above his head reminded him of the other night, as did the shower of sparks. But there weren’t supposed to be any pyrotechnics at this show. Definitely weren’t supposed to be screams as a large arm of lights swung down from the rafters, seeming to hesitate in mid-air before it landed on the stage—right where Molly had been a moment before.

  There was a hiss and a crackle as lightbulbs exploded, setting off more sparks, then another hiss and a snapping sound from the back near the control boards. The overhead lights in the club pulsed on and off and then went out completely an instant before a roar filled Michael’s ears. Water streamed from the ceiling, and he was instantly drenched from head to toe.

  Somehow he gathered his wits enough to pull the strap of his guitar over his head and set it down on a speaker. Then he grabbed Elle and shoved her toward where Molly and Juliet were trying to step around the shards of glass and still sizzling wires. “Don’t touch anything,” he shouted.

  He was about to make sure Ry and West and Jazz were okay when one overriding thought stamped out everything else in his mind. Obliterating everything else.

  Find Chloe.

  He’d just reached the steps at the side of the stage when a body slammed into his. Hair whipped across his mouth and he brushed it away, squinting to see in the murky darkness lit only by the emergency lights that had popped on over the exits.

  It was all he needed to glimpse the eyes he adored.

  Thank God.

  “Are you okay?” She touched him everywhere at once, searching for wounds. It was such a mom thing to do that even in the midst of insanity, he had to laugh—and lift her off her feet to kiss the hell out of her while water poured over them both.

  “Can’t—do—this—not—now,” she panted between hungry, frantic kisses. Already the lush, warm shape of her in his arms was familiar to him, refilling the oxygen he’d lost from the terror of not knowing she was okay.

  “Have to,” he chanted back, slanting his mouth over hers. “Fucking have to.”

  When the fear began to subside, he cupped her face and drew back. Absolute chaos had erupted in the club, with everyone running and shouting as the water poured down. And he might as well have been glued to the floor, stuck in this moment with Chloe.

  Someone tugged hard on his sleeve. “Gotta evacuate, now. Let’s go,” Lila commanded, reaching out for Chloe with her other hand.

  He swallowed hard and grabbed his Takamine—no way was he leaving Jimi behind, even if the guitar wasn’t anything but potential wall art now—and followed them down the short set of stairs to begin the arduous push to the exits.

  Once they were outside, Chloe wanted to find the friend she’d come with. He knew he couldn’t keep her with him any longer, and besides, he had band stuff to deal with. This was a clusterfuck, and the fire trucks were already screaming in the distance.

  “I’ll text you later.” He framed her face in his hands. “Promise me you’ll go straight home with your friend.”

  She nodded, her long ropes of wet hair hanging in her face. Even her lashes were starred with water. “I will. Be safe, okay?”

  “I will if you will.” He gave her one last hard kiss and tucked her soaked hair behind her ears. “Thanks for coming to the show. Maybe next time it won’t be quite so eventful.”

  She smiled and squeezed his wrists. “You were amazing. So good you tore down the rafters.”

  Laughing, he gave her a light shove and dipped his hands in his jeans pockets as he watched her walk back to her friend.

  He picked up his waterlogged guitar and returned to where Lila and the rest of his bandmates and Jazz were clustered near the smaller tour bus they used for local events at the back of the lot. Hunter and Tristan had joined them, as well as Harper and her brother, who seemed to be trying to extricate himself.

  “I have to get back to the crew. We checked and rechecked everything but Jesus, something went haywire.”

  “Let the firemen and women figure it out. That’s their job.”

  “Harp, it’s mine to make sure equipment is up to code and that everything is ready to go. If something goes wrong, it’s—”

  “Not an if something goes wrong in this case, Sparks. Something did go wrong in a big way, and I’d suggest you not try to get a job on our crew anytime soon.” Juliet marched past Randy, bumping into him as she went.

  Michael cleared his throat. “She’s wet and pissed. Her hair’s all messed up.”

  This time, he was the one who got bumped—by Molly, who beelined after Juliet. “Asshole.”

  Women. They always stuck together.

  Michael tipped back his head and stared at the slice of moon obscured by the thick dark clouds above. In the distance, more sirens were wailing.

  So much for being ready to rock.

  Twenty

  Chloe sent back a text to Michael. It was sweet that he worried, even if she wasn’t used to it. She let him know that she’d made it home before stuffing her phone back into her pocket.

  “You can stop here.”

  Wanda slowed and pulled over. “Are you sure?”

  “Ye
ah. It’ll be easier for you to get out of here too.”

  “I’m not worried about that. Fifty points if I hit a reporter.”

  Chloe snorted and swung her feet out. They were a full block away from her house. “Thanks for the ride, sweetie.”

  “Anytime, doll. Your man’s band is delicious. Extra points for excitement tonight and ingenuity.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Hope he brings that home too.”

  Chloe closed the door and leaned through the passenger window. “He’s not my man.” When Wanda gave her an arched brow, she rolled her eyes. “We’re still figuring stuff out.”

  “I saw what was left of the couch. You’re figuring stuff out just fine.”

  Chloe’s cheeks burned. “That was not on purpose.”

  “Never is. Me and Carl have busted up a few couches in our time. We Time is what we called it.”

  “Not sure I want that in my brain.”

  Wanda cackled. “Just because I’m almost twice your age doesn’t mean I’m dead.” Wanda’s husband was super tall, and she…well, Wanda was about Chloe’s size with five times the boobs. The only time Chloe had been busty was when she’d been pregnant. The girls left her again as soon as she’d stopped breastfeeding.

  Unfairness seemed to be a recurring theme lately.

  Then again, she didn’t have the aching back that most of the girls did at Rafferty’s. Small favors in this life evidently.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You got it, cupcake.”

  Chloe’s feet were aching like the very devil and she didn’t want to walk the five hundred feet up her driveway let alone another block, but her father had texted her with an update at the end of Michael’s show. There were still a bunch of vans waiting outside.

  Why the hell was she so popular?

  Because your husband was boning a senator’s fiancée. She was paying a stupidity tax for every move she made these days.

  She crossed the road, then cut through her neighbor’s yard and through the gap in the chainlink fence.

  A rustle in the bushes pushed her into a sprint. She really didn’t want to have it out with Daryl, the neighborhood mutt. He was part bulldog, part retriever, all interested in eating shoes.

  She got to the top of the lawn and a spotlight blinded her.

  “Oh, crap.” Chloe raised a hand against the light. Four more camera lamps zeroed in on her in the middle of Mr. Zulinski’s lawn. Double crap. Couldn’t be her neighbor on the other side. Nope, had to be her landlord’s cranky uncle.

  She stumbled back, tripping over the edgers along her neighbor’s garden.

  “How’s it feel to be married to a homewrecker?”

  “Did you have a quickie wedding because you’re pregnant?”

  “Is your son Michael’s love child?”

  “How long have you known Michael Shawcross?”

  “Are you getting an annulment?”

  “Are you divorcing him? Is there a prenup?”

  “Did you marry him for his millions?”

  Chloe pushed her way out of the circle of vultures known loosely as reporters. Another pack of them were trampling through the yard.

  “This is private property,” she said as loudly as she could.

  And shocker of all shockers, she was resolutely ignored.

  “Are you still sleeping with Nick Crandall from Oblivion too?”

  Her heart stopped at that question. As did her forward momentum. Which only prompted them to go at her harder with questions. They definitely smelled chum in the water.

  “Keeping it all in the family? You moved onto his wife’s stepson?” The voice was shrill and female.

  Chloe whirled around at that question. “You people should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “We’d love to hear your side of things.”

  “So you can twist it? I’ve been there before, thanks.”As soon as she said it, Chloe wished she could snatch it back.

  “Did you receive a settlement from Oblivion? Are you still fighting for it?”

  “Did you use it for drugs?”

  “Why haven’t you left Carson?”

  “How many people were hurt at Warning Sign’s show tonight?”

  Chloe hunched her shoulders at the barrage of questions. She scanned for a hole in the wall of reporters. Snake’s case had been thrown out of court almost as fast as he’d started a petition. Watching him shut down after that had been hard enough. The fact that he’d died so soon after had nearly killed her.

  She’d lived through the media frenzy for that as well. Suicide? Accident?

  Baby on the way.

  Now she was right back in the middle of it.

  The first time had died down within a few days. Not this time. Everything seemed to have doubled since she’d married Michael Shawcross.

  The sirens in the distance didn’t have any effect on the hoard of reporters circling her, nor did the fact that they were currently trampling Mr. Zulinski’s prized rose garden.

  She made a circle, trying to find a way out. She could only imagine what she looked like under the harsh lights of a camera in the dead of night. The sprinklers at the show had ravaged her curls and makeup, and sweating in that tiny venue had done the rest.

  Oh, and the absolute lack of sleep from tossing and turning after having sex with Michael.

  Yeah, she couldn’t forget about that part.

  She probably looked like a bedraggled and cliched single mom from the projects right about now. And only her backbone with a truckload of pride kept her on her feet instead of curled up in the fetal position.

  The questions kept coming, but now they were just a confusing jumble of words.

  Finally, her name came from the distance. Her father on the front porch of their little duplex holding his shotgun.

  Three cruisers, full lights blazing—no sirens by some miracle—put what was left of her neighborhood on alert. Porch lights flickered on, and people came out of their houses in their robes.

  All of the curious there to see just how incredibly awful her life had become.

  Awesome. She was officially in an episode of Cops.

  Mr. Zulinski’s lights were blazing in the house and two of the police officers went up to his door. Chloe was left with the rest to disperse the reporters. Her saving grace had been the invasion of private property. They were no longer on the city street across from her house.

  In fact, there was probably going to be a bit of destruction of private property if she didn’t miss her guess.

  “Miss Adams?”

  She raised her hand. “Here.”

  “Ma’am, I need you to come with me.” Two female cops pushed through the crush of people, hands on their batons.

  “Gladly.” But instead of helping her make a path, one of the cops clamped a hand on her upper arm. “Hey. I’m the one being harassed here.”

  “You’re actually the one who is trespassing. The homeowner would like you charged.”

  “What?!” Chloe twisted. “What about the twenty reporters who cornered me?”

  “We’ll be dealing with that as well. For now, we’d like to take a statement.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Seriously. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  “If you could just come with me, ma’am.”

  “Are you arresting me? I have a child. I can’t be arrested.”

  “You should have thought about that before you trespassed.”

  “Do you see all these reporters? I had no choice.” Chloe felt her voice rising from anger to hysteria and forced herself to bring it back down to normal. Shrieking wasn’t going to get her anywhere. “And where were you when they were camping on my lawn for the last week?”

  “Were they on your lawn or across the street?”

  “Across the street,” Chloe said between gritted teeth.

  “Then they were only a public nuisance. And we were advised, and came to take care of the situation a few times. You, Miss Adams, have been a r
ecurring problem for your neighborhood.”

  “Me?” Chloe felt like a damn parrot.

  “I’ve been here several times in the last few years. I’m starting to recognize your street name.”

  The officer’s tone was dry, but Chloe still wanted to crawl right into the sewer drain. From the reporters after Snake sued Oblivion to the insane period after his death, there had been far too many reporters camping out on her street over a very short span of time.

  Now this.

  At this point, she needed to move to the other side of the country.

  The officer and her partner brought her down the sidewalk and turned onto Chloe’s property. Thankfully, her father had the intelligence to put the shotgun away. He stood on the porch, his hands on his hips.

  “Thank you, Officer. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get her out of there.”

  “And you are?” The officer held a tablet, a stylus poised over the screen.

  “Oh, yes. I’m David Adams, Chloe’s father.”

  “Do you reside here, Mr. Adams?”

  “No. I’m just here to watch my grandson.”

  “May I come in, sir?”

  “It’s my house, dammit.” Chloe stomped up the stairs and through the door. “Is Axl all right?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Small favors,” she muttered. Once inside, the fatigue that she’d been battling all night dropped over her like a tarp on a ninety-degree day. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  The officer’s eyebrow spiked. She cleared her throat. “That would be lovely.”

  “Dad?”

  “I’m good.”

  Chloe had a feeling she was going to need it.

  Trying to bank her frustration, she dumped coffee into the basket of her old school Mr. Coffee and brewed a pot. “Sit down. I’m assuming this is going to take a while.” She leaned on the counter in her small galley kitchen. “Or do I need to go with you?”

  The officer set her tablet on the round table Chloe had shoved in the corner. Usually, it was just her and Axl eating, so they didn’t need much room. The little duplex didn’t afford a lot of extra space. What little they had was used for a play area for her son.