by Kim Harrison
The edge of the sound board caught her in the thigh and the pain brought her back to herself. As she gasped, the guitarist, sprawled in an Adirondack chair, flashed her a satiated smile and waved a sloppy salute with his nearly empty bottle.
The Noman brothers were nowhere around. Nor was Tom Hartmore. If they were together…
Pleasantly startled by the images that evoked, she hastily dropped a ten in the cash box, shoved a CD in her purse, and slipped back through the crowd to the exit, ignoring the moments of warmth as bodies brushed against hers. Definitely past time to leave.
Once outside, she took a deep breath. The smell of grease and cotton candy wafting over from the midway combined with the odors of large farm animals and diesel fumes cleared her head and she felt like she was thinking clearly for the first time since Travis Noman had set bow to strings. Thinking back, the concert seemed wrapped in sensation, her memory of everything but the way it made her feel already fading.
It wasn’t the strangest concert experience she’d ever had, but considering it had happened in a sunny field in the middle of the afternoon, it was in the top ten.
It shouldn’t have been so hard to find the car. After all, it was parked in a field—a big, flat field full of lines of cars parked nose to nose that all seemed to look alike. After wandering around for nearly fifteen minutes, Ali spotted what she thought was the rusty pickup Glen had parked beside and headed toward it, skirting rear bumpers.
She spotted the cowboy hats first.
Realized who wore them as she moved closer, finding a path between two ancient Buicks.
Realized they weren’t alone when she’d gotten too close to turn back.
Didn’t actually think of turning back.
Brandon and Travis Noman leaned back against the hood of the pickup, side by side, shoulders touching. Kneeling at their feet in the strip of grass between the truck’s bumper and the bumper of the car parked facing it were the pair of blondes from the front row. Although the car blocked all but the top of their heads, it was obvious what they were doing and from all the giggling, they certainly seemed to be having a good time doing it. Travis was still wearing his sunglasses and his head was back, exposing the long lean line of his throat. Brandon’s head was tipped forward and Ali knew he was watching.
She shouldn’t be watching.
She couldn’t stop watching.
It wasn’t like she could actually see anything…
Travis moaned—the sound broken, on the edge of shattering and his fingers, long and tanned, threaded through golden hair as his hips came up off the truck.
No, not a moan. Or not only a moan. Brandon was humming one of the songs from the show while Travis added a weirdly erotic bass line under it.
The girls’ heads moved to the beat.
Hardly aware she was doing it, Ali slid her hand down into her jeans, past the edge of her underwear. Still aroused from the concert, she fell easily into the rhythm of Brandon’s song, fingertips moving in unison with the quartet filling her vision. And then she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing because quartet made her think of chamber music and they weren’t in a chamber, they were in a field and anyone could walk by just like she had and God, the memory of the music left her feeling stoned.
And close.
Really, really close.
Both men were breathing hard, the rhythm of the song beginning to stutter. The girls sped up and Ali sped up with them, linking her finish to theirs. Tension was building, low and sweet…
When it happened, it happened like flood waters finally breaching a levee. Brandon. Travis. Then both girls. A heartbeat behind them, Ali trembled on the brink until Brandon looked up—his pupils dilated, his irises reduced to a pale, narrow ring of blue—and the open, fucked-out expression on his face pushed her over the edge.
Riding the wave, Ali sagged against sun-warmed metal and concentrated on keeping her knees from buckling. The world went white around the edges and she closed her eyes, just for a moment. Just long enough to draw in a long, steadying breath. She opened them again as she eased her hand from her jeans and she may have made a noise because Travis raised his head and smiled at her over the honey-blond curls of the girl in his arms. Something in that smile said he—they—knew she’d been there all along. Still smiling, he slid his sunglasses forward…
A flash of gold.
And she was standing alone, facing the rusty pickup parked next to Glen’s car. Power chords blared from the midway’s speakers, nearly drowning out the screams of children riding the ancient Octopus and Scrambler. The world no longer wore the sheen given it by NoMan’s music—the sky was more gray than blue and the grass underfoot dry and yellow. If not for the evidence of her own body, she’d have thought she’d imagined the whole thing.
Glen was right. If Bedford Entertainment could sign these guys, they were saved.
The CD wasn’t bad but it was strangely flat.
“Not evoking much of a reaction,” she murmured as they sped back to the city.
Glen laughed. “After that performance, I’d be amazed if you had a reaction left in you.”
He had a point. And he hadn’t seen the encore performance out in the parking lot.
NoMan had a barebones website that held a picture of the band, a headshot of the brothers—Travis had his sunglasses on—a song list, and an order form for the CD plus a link to their mailing list. There was no concert schedule and the mailing list was the only way to contact them. Ali added the email address for Bedford Entertainment, including in the body of the message their business number, the URL for the website, their MySpace address, and an assurance that Bedford Entertainment was definitely interested in representing them. Professional bases covered, she paused a moment, remembering, then typed We nearly met in the parking lot.
“They’re twins.”
She hit send before looking up to find Glen raising a brow in her direction. “What?”
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.” It wasn’t. “Who are twins?” Like she didn’t know. Like she’d been thinking about anyone else for the last twenty-four hours.
Glen moved a stack of eight-by-ten glossies out of the way and perched on the edge of her desk. “Travis and Brandon Noman, twenty-seven, born in Tarpon Springs, Florida.”
“So they’re American.”
“They’re carrying American passports,” Glen allowed. “Their mother was a Greek national named Thea Achelous. Travis is older by nine minutes.”
When he paused, Ali frowned. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. And getting that much was like pulling teeth. They’re living almost entirely off the grid.”
“You said you heard about them from a friend…”
“And that’s who told me what I just told you. He’s a fan in the whole fanatic sense of the word and if he can’t pull information on them, well, it’s not there to be pulled. I’ve left messages with the people who booked them for that fair but we’re talking volunteer labor and they haven’t called me back.”
“All right…” Staring at the exceedingly unhelpful webpage, Ali tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear. “The good news is, if we can’t find them then Mike can’t find them and…”
The intercom buzzed. Wondering what was up—she had nothing on the books until after lunch—she hit the connect.
“What is it, Brenda?”
“There’s a Michael Richter to see you.”
“Speak of the devil,” Glen muttered.
“Don’t even joke about that,” Ali told him, more than half seriously.
She didn’t get the chance to ask what Mike wanted before Brenda added, “He wants to speak with you but he has no appointment.” Her tone, while polite, suggested she’d never heard of anyone named Michael Richter and couldn’t imagine why he’d be dropping by. Mike had heard some of Brenda’s voice work and wanted Vital to represent her until he discovered she weighed just over three hundred pounds. Too much work to make p
resentable had been his final judgment.
The position of office manager at Bedford Entertainment had been a part-time gig to fill in the corners around bookings but gradually the two jobs had evened out and, currently, office manager was slightly ahead. Unfortunately, it was also about to be made redundant unless they could find an act that actually paid the bills.
“You have an hour open Wednesday at nine,” she announced. “Shall I schedule Mr. Richter for then?”
Glen mouthed an exaggerated, “Burn!” as Ali rolled her eyes. “I’ll shuffle some things around and see him now, Brenda. We don’t want him to have to come back.”
“Alysha.” Arms spread, Michael Richter walked into her office like he owned it. Given that he probably could have bought the building for the cost of his wardrobe and accessories, he had grounds and the shaved head only added to the whole Daddy Warbucks/Lex Luthor vibe. He was entirely unruffled by Brenda’s little one-act play but that was hardly surprising—he had Tom Hartmore to be ruffled for him.
Ali came around her desk and moved into his embrace, skin crawling. Appearances were everything to Mike, and she knew she couldn’t win if she declared war. Enveloped in a cloud of expensive cologne, she touched each cheek gently with her lips, felt his touch in return, and backed away, gesturing toward the more comfortable of the two chairs facing her desk. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure,” she purred as he sat.
“Tom here…” A slight nod indicated the man who’d followed him into the room and now stood glaring behind him. “…says we want the same thing.”
“Peace on earth? A little less David Hasselhoff? A really kick-ass pair of black ankle boots?”
“NoMan.”
“Ah.” Neutral expression locked on her face, Ali changed her mind about walking back around the desk and perched on the front edge instead. She crossed her bare legs, dangled one high-heeled sandal, and smiled down at the man who was trying to put her out of business. “It appears we both have excellent taste; but then…” Her smile flicked up to Tom and grew edged. “…I knew that.”
“I’m not here to drag up old conflicts, Alysha.” Mike’s voice had always made her think of that velvet glove over the iron fist. “I’m here to offer you a proposition.” To his credit he smiled when she raised both brows. “You flatter me, my dear.”
He was eleven years older than she was, not nearly enough difference to be so damned patronizing.
“I want you to leave NoMan alone,” he continued. “In return, I will open up a weekend at the Hazard. You know what that kind of exposure would do for one of your…acts.”
The Hazard was currently the place to be seen, the place to build the kind of buzz that led to major recording deals and Vital had bookings locked down into the next decade. Mike was right; she had people signed who could turn a gig at the Hazard to a solid career, their success becoming the little engine that dragged Bedford Entertainment out of the red. Ali, a firm believer in the bird in the hand over two in the bush—no matter how extreme her reaction to the two birds in question—would have taken him up on the offer except for two things. The first was the disdain in the moment of silence before he said the word, acts.
The second…
“That’s very generous of you, Mike, but I have no desire to become a subsidiary to Vital, living off scraps from your table.” No matter how bad it got, she wouldn’t sell her people out to a man who saw them as inferior product.
He spread his hands, the movement graceful and predetermined as though her response hadn’t been entirely unexpected. “I respect your choice, of course, but perhaps you should take a moment to think about it. My scraps, to beat the metaphor vigorously about the head and shoulders, have more substance than any meal you can provide and I know you hate to see your people starve.”
“No one’s starving.”
“Yet.”
And there, in the single word Tom dropped into her office, was the stick to Mike’s carrot. Ali waved Glen back and realized, almost as an afterthought, that she was standing. Tom looked down at her through narrowed eyes, daring her to react further. To move in closer.
Not going to happen. Except…
One of them had definitely moved, but Ali was sure it hadn’t been her. They were less than an arm’s length away now. She stared at the scar bisecting Tom’s upper lip and remembered the night he’d got it.
The lip in question curled as if he could read her thoughts.
“Play nice, children.”
The amusement in Mike’s voice moved her back until the edge of her desk digging into her thighs stopped her. No way was she providing entertainment by fighting with her ex in front of his boss/lover/who the hell knew.
“I’m sorry you weren’t able to accept my offer, Alysha.” Mike stood as he spoke and gifted her with a benevolent smile. “It would have made everything so much easier.”
“For you.”
“For all concerned,” he admonished, gently. “I can see myself out.” He was at the door before he realized he was alone. He turned in the doorway and the velvet glove slipped. “Tom!”
“Your master’s voice,” Ali murmured. As Tom closed the distance between them, she raised her right hand and laid her palm over his heart, flat against his chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through the black silk shirt. It matched the heat of his breath against her cheek. The heat in his voice.
“You’re going to lose this one, Ali,” he growled, “and I’ll be there to see you go down.”
“You’re going to pay for making Mike wait,” she purred back, her breath moving the dark hair curling over his ear. “And I wish I could be there to see you go down.”
He jerked away from her like he’d been hit, spun on one heel, and followed Mike out the door, slamming it closed behind him.
“Ali?”
Glen’s voice dragged her back to the here and now and she realized her hand was still pressed up against the space Tom’s chest had filled. Slowly, she closed her fingers and let it fall to her side. “That was interesting.”
“I’ll say.” His tone was so totally neutral she knew he wasn’t only referring to Mike’s offer.
“Let it go, Glen.”
His green eyes were worried as he watched her walk around her desk and drop into the chair. “Maybe you should take your own advice. It’s been three years.”
“I know.”
“You and Tom bring out the worst in each other.”
She thought about the scar. “I know.”
Glen stared at her for a moment longer then spread his hands in surrender. “Fine. Why do you think Mike was trying to keep us away from NoMan? It’s not like him to care if we’re after the same band.”
“No, it isn’t.” Usually he enjoyed the competition, secure in the knowledge that nine out of ten times, he’d win. Something about NoMan had made him try and tie up that tenth time. Try to buy her first, because that came with added benefits, and then threaten when she refused to be bought. It was a good thing he didn’t know just how bad their situation was or he’d have merely waited for time to take care of it and not bothered tipping his hand. “He can’t just be working off Tom’s report and the CD. He has to know something about the Noman brothers we don’t.”
“We know almost nothing so that wouldn’t be hard and I’ve tapped out my sources.”
“Then go at it obliquely. You were right when you said it wouldn’t matter who was backing them and, since they can’t be making much money, I’m betting there’s been a bit of a revolving door. Let’s start by finding an ex member of the band.”
Over the next ten days, a hundred small things went wrong. Not one of them could be definitively laid at Mike’s door, not one of them big enough to confront him about, not one of them that would allow her to take any kind of legal recourse.
“It’s like being nibbled to death by ducks while you’re drowning,” Ali muttered, hanging up as Glen came into the office. “An argument over a clause in a contract here, a sudden ren
ovation of a venue there.” She slumped down in her chair. “Do you know what I think? I think Mike has no more idea of how to contact the Noman brothers than we do and he’s trying to distract us. I think that’s why he tried to warn us off—there’s a chance we’ll luck out and find them first.” Glancing up at her partner, she realized he was smiling. “Why are you looking so happy?”
“I found a bass player.”
“When did you lose one?”
“I found a bass player who used to play for NoMan.”
“Oh man, there was all the pussy you could ever want.” Steve, the bass player, took a moment to grin at the memory. “We’d stop playing and the girls would meet us backstage, ready and willing. Boys too if that floats your boat. Me, not so much but Brandon and Travis, man, the two of them together, they could get anyone to do anything you know?”
Actually, Ali had a fairly good idea. She leaned forward, careful to keep her elbows out of the spilled beer. “Was it always the two of them together?”
“Always. When the two of them wanted something, they got it.”
“They couldn’t have always wanted the same thing,” Glen protested.
Steve shrugged. “All I know is what I saw, dude.”
“Was it always sex?” Ali wondered.
“Hell, no.” Steve grinned again, broadly enough this time for a gold tooth to flash in the dim light of the bar. “Sometimes it was pie. But usually it was sex.”
“Suppose they asked for money?”
“Long as they didn’t ask me, man. Shit, I could never keep two bills together.”
“I didn’t mean they asked you,” Ali sighed. “Suppose they asked the people who come to their concerts for money.”
Steve’s smile disappeared. “What part of if the two of them wanted something, they got it are you not understanding? But I never saw them ask for money, they didn’t really give a shit about that kind of thing. They just wanted to sing and drink and have a good time.”