by Desiree Holt, Lisabet Sarai, Lily Harlem, Elizabeth Coldwell, Wendi Zwaduk, Imari Jade
“And it gives me a chance to spend time with the boys,” Mark continued. “God knows I haven’t seen enough of them over the last couple of years.”
The boys were Mark’s four-year-old twin sons, Gunnar and Sky. He carried photos of them everywhere, dog-eared from being pulled out of his wallet and looked at repeatedly, and their names were embroidered on his guitar strap. A combination of touring and the breakup with Jeannie meant he’d missed their first steps, their first words. Furious as I was with his decision, I couldn’t fail to appreciate his need to watch them grow up.
For a long moment, the five of us exchanged awkward glances. The tension in the room enveloped us like a clammy blanket. Then Davey, always the most forgiving soul, stepped out from behind his bank of keyboards and enfolded Mark in a huge hug.
“All the best, mate. I really hope it works out for you.” Davey pulled back, regarding Mark with a rueful look. “And remember, whatever else happens, we’ll always have that night in Prague with the strippers and the Danish tour guide.”
Stefan’s farewell to Mark was curt, but given the history between the two men, it was hardly surprising. Paul, summoning up his trademark crooked grin, shook Mark’s hand and told him, “Just fuck off and don’t come back, you old bastard,” in a tone conveying the exact opposite.
I almost couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Mark. The announcement of his departure had hit me like a physical blow, and I was afraid if I started telling him how I felt, I’d never be able to stop. But he pulled me into his arms, once such a safe haven for me, and simply murmured over and over, “I’m sorry, Aimee. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I replied, certain he knew I wasn’t just referring to the fact he was leaving. When we finally broke the embrace, we both had tears in our eyes.
With one last affectionate ruffle of my hair, Mark turned and left the room. His slamming of the door seemed to echo for an age after he’d gone.
It was typical of Paul to break the silence. “So that’s us fucked, then.” He glanced at his watch. “The Miller’s Arms should be open, if anyone wants to join me for a pint. There are worse places we could have a wake for the band.”
“Someone should speak to Martine,” Davey pointed out. “The press are going to be all over this as soon as they find out. She can put out the official statement saying the tour’s off.”
Stefan shook his head. “No, she can put out a statement saying we wish Mark all the best in his future career and we’re starting the audition process for a new guitarist as soon as possible.”
Paul spoke for all of us. “Are you out of your mind? Do you seriously expect us to find someone to replace Mark before next week?”
“Of course. We might have to reschedule the first couple of dates on the tour, but I’m sure the fans would rather see us later than not at all.” He pulled his bass lead out of the amp, a sign we would not be rehearsing today. “But Paul’s right. We all need a drink. Come on, I’m buying.”
As we followed him out of the rehearsal room, I couldn’t help admiring Stefan’s confidence in our overcoming this unforeseen setback. It was one of the things I loved best about him, along with his soft hazel eyes and his deliciously firm arse. But somehow I found it impossible to share that confidence. Mark had been such an integral part of Sweet Lies, I simply couldn’t imagine life without him.
* * * *
I was still thinking about Mark’s departure when I stepped into the shower that evening. Stefan, Paul, Davey and I had decamped to the pub for a couple of hours, though we’d spent more time reminiscing about our more outrageous adventures on the road than discussing a potential new guitarist. We’d managed to let Martine know the bad news before it popped up on the cyber-grapevine. A no-nonsense Geordie, she took it in her stride, as she always did everything. As the band’s PR officer for over ten years, she’d grown very practiced at dealing with our various upheavals, whether musical or domestic. As the only girl in the band, I sometimes needed to get away from the boys’ club atmosphere that could take over, particularly when we were on tour, and I’d come to regard Martine as my closest female friend. She’d been a shoulder to cry on when relations between Mark and I had become strained, and I’d shared secrets with her I didn’t think even my husband knew about. But though I could discuss Mark’s departure with Martine on a purely emotional level, I doubted she would really understand how the arrival of a newcomer—always assuming we managed to find one—would affect the dynamic within the band.
With the water beating down and the glass door of the shower cubicle steaming up, I wasn’t aware of Stefan’s presence till he pushed open the door.
“Room for one more?” he asked.
As he joined me, I drank in the sight of his gorgeous naked body. A couple of years shy of forty, he still had an enviably thick head of chestnut hair and the solid, muscular build that first attracted me to him. He’d been working hard in recent weeks to get in the best shape he could, in preparation for an extensive, gruelling tour, and the results were clearly visible.
Even though he spent most of the set lurking towards the back of the stage, laying down a simple, steady beat on his bass, Stefan still needed to be fit. We all did. We simply had different approaches to fitting the necessary exercise into our lives. I took weekly classes in jazz and contemporary dance at the Pineapple Dance Studios. Stefan went jogging in Hyde Park. Davey rode his horses, Butterscotch and Bonnie, in the countryside near his Rickmansworth home. Paul claimed he kept fit by chasing women.
“Need a backrub?” Stefan joined me beneath the almost tropical spray.
“Mmm,” I replied. His fingertips might be calloused from years of pressing against the thick bass strings, but there was magic in their touch. Martine swore by her aromatherapy massage sessions at her favourite day spa in Covent Garden, but as far as I was concerned there was no better masseur than my husband.
“Wow, these are serious knots in your shoulders,” he commented, working his fingers in hard, circular motions. “You’re tense, Aimee.”
“Wouldn’t you be, after the day we’ve had?” I relaxed into Stefan’s caress, feeling his cock stiffening against the small of my back. “But you know what, the more I think about it, the more certain I am we’re going to find a new guitarist.”
“Really?” Now his hands moved round in front and gently squeezed my breasts, squishing citrus-scented bubbles between his fingers. “Why’s that?”
“I just know someone’s out there. Think about it…we have at least two tribute bands doing the rounds, pretending to be us every night. They must know our songs at least as well as we do.”
“But how would you feel about someone taking Mark’s place who didn’t just sound like him, but looked like him, too? Wouldn’t you find that a little weird?”
“Maybe.” Until Stefan mentioned it, I hadn’t considered that aspect. I turned around to face him, standing on tiptoes as he bent over me, so our faces were almost on a level. My fingers traced the tattoo on his right shoulder, the interlinked letters S and L that made up the band’s logo. “But I could live with it. And anyway, there’s a place in my heart that belongs to Mark. No one else could ever take it.”
“Really?” Stefan quirked an eyebrow. “I thought I did a pretty good job of that.”
Our lips met, softly at first, then with a passion all our years together had never managed to dim. Stefan’s tongue traced the contours of my mouth, probing deeper, tasting me, possessing me intimately. When we finally pulled apart, I threw my head back, exposing my throat to him. He nipped at the skin there, while his thumbs brought my nipples to hard, tight peaks. My fingers twined in his wet hair, liquid heat building between my legs. It had been a while since we’d had sex in the shower, but it had been one of our favourite places when we’d first been together, trying to find places to be alone, away from Mark and all the drama of my failing relationship with him.
“You have all the rest of my heart, Stefan. Now and for always. You know that.”
I grasped his cock, pulling at it gently, soft skin sliding over the steely inner core. “But let’s not talk about Mark or the band anymore. Let’s just fuck.”
“God, I love it when you talk dirty.” Stefan pushed me up against the wall of the shower, his long cock jutting up, demanding entry to my pussy. “You look so innocent, Aimee, but you have the filthiest mouth…”
The coldness of the tiles on my back sent a sharp thrill through me. “Take me, lover,” I murmured. “Show me how much you want me.”
He lifted me up, using all his considerable strength to hold me in place while I reached down and helped to guide his cock between my wet, puffy lips. Gravity pulled me down on to his length, and I clung tight—arms round his neck, legs locked around the small of his back—as I welcomed him all the way inside me.
Water poured down on us as Stefan thrust into me, droplets falling from his hair and trailing down his broad chest. Nothing felt better than to be joined to my husband like this, our whole world reduced to the places where our bodies connected. Here, now, I was able to forget about all our troubles with the forthcoming tour and Mark’s unexpected departure. I could lose myself in the feel of Stefan’s cock pumping in and out of my welcoming channel, the sound of his breathing, harsh and heavy in my ear, the subtle male smell of him that even the citrus shower gel couldn’t mask entirely.
Palms flat against the shower wall, he sped up his strokes, pushing me hard against the tiles. Every time he thrust, the friction hit me in just the right place, taking me ever closer to the point where my orgasm was inevitable. I didn’t often come without the aid of something touching my clit—fingers, Stefan’s tongue or one of my favourite toys—but tonight was going to be one of those nights. My body was as taut as one of Stefan’s bass strings, and the sweetest of pleasures was about to be plucked from it.
Stefan stiffened, arse cheeks clenching tight beneath my drumming heels, and with a mighty roar he came, flooding me with his seed.
“God, you’re amazing, Aimee,” he panted.
“Love you so much,” was all I could reply as waves of bliss rippled through my belly, spreading out till even my scalp tingled. Stefan held me as I rode out my climax, then gently helped me to stand.
We shared gentle kisses for a moment, both slowly coming down from the peaks we’d just reached. Eventually, Stefan turned off the water.
He reached for the robe he’d left hanging by the side of the shower cubicle. “I don’t know about you, but I could murder a bowl of cornflakes.” They were his favourite post-sex snack, sprinkled with sugar and drenched with ice-cold milk.
“Sounds good,” I replied. Sitting in our cosy kitchen, munching cereal with my husband, I could pretend everything wasn’t about to change, that our whole future wouldn’t depend on whether or not we could find a suitable replacement for Mark.
The two of us had come through so much together, within the band and outside of it. Whatever happened, nothing would change our bond, our love. We had to treat the audition process as an adventure, and trust in fate to bring the right person to us.
Chapter Two
When we arrived at the rehearsal studios two mornings later, a dozen potential new band members were waiting for us. As I’d suggested to Stefan, a couple of these would-be recruits played in Sweet Lies tribute bands, if their tufty black hair and neat goatees, so similar to Mark’s, were any way of judging.
Paul and Davey had already set up their equipment. “So how does this work, then?” Paul asked, between bites of the bacon and egg baguette he’d brought in from the cafe across the road. “Who’s the nice one who encourages them, who’s the nasty one who tells them to give it up and get a job in plumbing and who’s the smarmy one with his trouser waistband up round his armpits?”
I laughed, instantly recognising the popular reality show he referred to. Still, I could understand Paul’s reasoning. We’d never had to audition anyone to join our line-up before. When Sweet Lies had formed, it had been a simple coming together of two existing bands. Stefan, Paul and Davey had gigged on the London pub and club circuit as Local Heroes, gathering a small but devoted following. Mark and I had been trying to make it as a singer-songwriter double act on the folk scene. When we found ourselves on the same bill, Stefan realised what we could bring to his band. We’d been together ever since, building a camaraderie that had survived all our personal ups and downs. Who knew if it would be possible for any of the strangers who waited outside to fit smoothly into our little gang?
“Let’s just crack on with it, shall we?” Stefan said, obviously impatient to have the process over with.
In turn, each auditionee was ushered into the rehearsal room. Almost all of the twelve were ushered out almost as swiftly. The majority of them were session musicians, who would play for anyone as long as the money was right. They had the notes down pat, but there was no real passion in their playing, no sense they were interested in being part of the band long term. We might as well take a digital recorder holding all Mark’s guitar licks on stage with us for all they brought to the party.
More impressive were the two guys from the tribute acts. They cared about the music, and we knew they’d both be thrilled to be a part of the band, but Stefan’s words about the weirdness of taking on a Mark Deans lookalike still rang in my head. I honestly didn’t know whether I could spend so much time around someone who was almost Mark…but not quite. Still, given what we’d already heard, we were convinced one of the two would become our new guitarist.
Then the last man walked into the room, and my heart missed a beat. He couldn’t have looked less like Mark, with dirty-blond hair that fell in shaggy waves to his shoulders and a deep cleft in the point of his stubbled chin. In his mid-twenties, he was by some distance the youngest person we’d auditioned today. And when he opened his mouth, his accent placed him from somewhere on the west coast of the United States. Yet the reaction I experienced on his arrival was every bit as powerful as the first time I’d seen Mark. I knew with absolute certainty that one day very soon, we’d end up in bed together.
I didn’t know whether Stefan saw the flush rising to my cheeks as I watched the newcomer shrug out of a well-worn leather jacket that appeared to be older than he was. Beneath it, he wore a sleeveless black T-shirt revealing honey-tanned, muscular arms. An intricate piece of knotwork circled his left bicep. I wondered whether that was the only tattoo he had, or whether there was something else, in a more intimate place where no one but his lovers would ever see it…
Dragging my mind away from the thought, enticing as it was, I heard him say, “Jake Anderson.”
“And are you playing for anyone at the moment?” Stefan asked.
Jake shook his head. “I was in a band till a couple of weeks ago, gigging most nights of the week. We were just on the verge of signing a pretty sweet deal, then the record company decided they only wanted our lead singer. So here I am, looking round for a break, and you guys announce you need a guitarist. I don’t believe in fate, but seriously, the chance to play in Sweet Lies…”
His mention of fate echoed my own thoughts on the situation so closely, I managed to find my voice. “Why is it so important to you?”
“Because… God, you guys have been such a big part of my life. My dad bought Same Destination when I was thirteen, and the first time I heard it, it changed everything for me. I must have played that CD till it wore thin. Hell, I learned to play the guitar because of Mark Deans. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, imagining I was on stage with you guys at Madison Square Garden. Oh, it sounds crazy now, but I always believed that one day I’d make it happen for real.”
The fervour in Jake’s voice was unmistakable. He had all the passion for the band the session musicians lacked, but did he have the same knowledge of our back catalogue as the tribute acts, or the facility to learn the songs from our latest album in time?
Stefan invited him to plug his guitar into the amp. It didn’t surprise me in the least to see Jake owned a vintage sunburs
t Stratocaster, just like Mark’s.
We’d asked everyone to learn Guinevere’s Garden as their audition piece. It was the first track Stefan and I ever collaborated on. He’d taken the simple, stately tune I’d picked out on my portable keyboard and built it in a steady crescendo, driven by his galloping bass line and Paul’s tightly controlled drumming, to a monstrous finish that had crowds yelling along and beating the air with their fists when we played it live.
The acappella opening of the song showcased the tight, three-part harmonies that characterised our sound. Mark had a classic English rock tenor voice, almost heartbreaking in its purity, which blended perfectly with Stefan’s soulful baritone and my soaring three-octave range. We loved to perform the song as our final encore of the night. When the lights came up for the last time—after we’d let the fans chant our names and demand more for a good couple of minutes—and we launched into the opening lines, the effect could be spine-chilling. Whoever took Mark’s place not only had to be able to nail those harmonies every single time, he had to be a guitar virtuoso, too, ready to let loose as the bass and drums pushed the song to its climax.
“So walk with me through the garden,
We’ll watch the wildflowers bloom,
The light that fades too soon,
Still serves to guide the way…”
Upon hearing Jake’s smoky voice for the first time, weaving with mine and Stefan’s in an exquisite tapestry of sound, my skin goosepimpled. Davey must have felt it, too, because he missed his cue. His keyboards failed to chime in with the melody, leaving the three of us staring in confusion at each other.
Stefan grinned like a maniac. “All right, Jake! Let’s take it to the bridge…” His thumb strummed the strings, going into the heavy riff at the end of the song. Paul picked up the beat, foot hammering his bass pedal.