by Cari Quinn
“Dumbass, it’s an Ace bandage, not a cast.”
“People can sign those. I’ve seen it done,” West said stubbornly. “Besides, if you get the chicks feeling bad for you, maybe they won’t notice when this one flames out.” He pointed at Mal, who showed no expression whatsoever. “No offense, dude.”
“None taken, dude,” Mal growled.
If that was Mal’s unoffended voice, Michael would prefer not to hear him pissed off anytime soon.
“Children,” Lila said mildly, raising her fist in the air. “Ready?”
Everyone stepped forward, forming a circle, and pumped their fists. Malachi was the last holdout, but when Lila stepped back, Elle reluctantly moved aside to make space. Finally, Mal stepped into the circle and lifted his arm too.
Outside, the crowd was stomping its feet. Already people were amped for the show, and they were just the opening act.
The back of Michael’s neck prickled as his nerves and excitement took over. This was going to either be epic—or an epic failure.
Ryan ran onstage first. “How you all feeling tonight, Vegas?”
The roar of hundreds of voices melding together washed over Michael’s skin. He glanced from Molly to Juliet to West to Elle, reading the anticipation and nerves in their eyes. He saved Malachi for last. He couldn’t believe he was standing with his brother backstage at their concert. That Mal would occupy the same space for the first time in forever. They had a joint goal. A joint reason to kick ass.
No matter what happened from here on out, he’d have this memory to take with him.
When they got the signal to join Ryan onstage, Michael hung back. Normally he was one of the ones racing out at the front of the pack. Tonight, he waited for his brother. He nearly asked him a million questions as they walked out together. He couldn’t help wondering if Mal knew any of their material, or if he’d wanted Ryan to introduce him by name instead of just “a friend who’s filling in and helping out.” Mal deserved name recognition, just like the rest of them.
Then again, if he sucked, maybe it was just as well he loom silently and namelessly behind the kit.
Mal leaped up and took his spot, surprising the hell out of Michael by tipping his hand to his head before dropping on to the stool behind the drums. The crowd cheered as the opening notes to “Undermine” began. It was a slow, bass-heavy build, the kind of throbbing song that would crank the energy up to fever pitch.
Michael grabbed his pink electric Takamine off a stand, then followed Elle into the song, smiling at the little licks she added to goad him into his own flourishes. They had an interesting groove during concerts, although they rarely spoke much off of it. He figured that was why they worked well together. Their focus was the music, and only the music. No messy interpersonal crap got in the way.
Molly’s husky voice started off as a whisper as she lamented the lover who wouldn’t cut her free, but undermined everything she did. The song wasn’t one of theirs, but one they’d been given by another musician. They were still finding their songwriting legs, with Molly and Ryan and West handling a lot of the melodies and arrangements.
He and Juliet were the more lyrically-focused ones. Their collaborations were how they’d started their flirtation—onstage and occasionally offstage, like the bar interlude Ry had mentioned. Meaningless, but fun.
The audience seemed to eat up their interactions. Juliet knew that, so she was already moving into position to give the crowd another show tonight.
There was no heat between them, no sparks except the kind that came from a beautiful woman moving her perfect ass up against Michael’s while she played the hell out of her Jackson. He glanced back at her as his own fingers rode the strings. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring everything but the sweet curve of her bare shoulder. He turned his head to the side and she turned hers until they were cheek to cheek, and they belted out the chorus together.
Undermine me, baby.
Take me down so deep, take it all away.
Til you’re all I’ve got.
All I’ve fucking got.
He was so wrapped up in his byplay with Juliet, and with Elle rocking out on his other side, that he only remembered it wasn’t Ry behind the kit when Mal’s drums crashed into the song. They were like a Humvee barreling through a wall, altering the song that had come before and reforming it into something new.
They all seemed to stutter for a moment. Michael’s fingers faltered, and Juliet’s tripped. West missed a note on the keyboard, then two, but Ry jumped up beside him and they started hammering on the keys together—Ry one-handed, of course—as if they’d planned on doing just that all along.
Molly’s voice caressed the words, her voice more poignant than ever as she clutched the multicolored scarfs around her mic. It was part of the mystique she was crafting, just like her ethereal, slyly sexual outfit. When she bent to wail into the mic, the crowd screamed with her.
Undermine me, undermine me, undermine me.
And finally, as the drums crescendoed and then leveled out, she purred her bastardized lyrics over and over.
Under me, under me, you’re always under me.
The next song was even more raucous. Their first single, “All Night Long”, was about someone looking for a good time so she didn’t have to face the next day. West had written that one a million years ago, and they’d been playing it since their days in their crappy rehearsal space in Encino. Molly brought a whole new feel to it, winding one of her scarves around her neck as she prowled the stage. Once again, the song didn’t have a ton of drum work, since West had written it to suit his keyboard-heavy style of play and they’d adapted it to fit the band. But when Malachi’s part came, he nailed it, standing up and banging on the skins and the hi-hats with a flair that belied whether or not he was keeping time. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter. He had enough panache to make up for any fumbles.
And from the way the girls were screaming every time he flexed his gleaming muscles in his tank—finally whipping it off somewhere in the middle of song number three—they didn’t seem to mind any hiccups.
Michael let out a deep breath at the end of the next song, “Cascade.” They’d made it almost halfway through their eight-song set, and Mal was getting by. Not perfectly, not always on time, but he was blending with them in a way that even Ry hadn’t quite managed. He had the skill but not as much crazy style. Mal was leaning more on the latter than the former, and damn, was it working.
By the time “Delirious” started, the crowd was right there with them, bouncing and mouthing the lyrics if they didn’t have them memorized. When Molly stopped singing and held the microphone toward the crowd, they sang the words for her as best they could, amid a few enthusiastic choruses of, “We love you, Molly!”
She basked in their adulation, shedding her gauzy wrap and baring her tiny top and flowing skirt for the next song. The name “Lick” was fitting, since it was every bit as dirty as the title suggested.
Michael swapped his guitar Jimi for his battered Les Paul, letting Elle do her thing as he set it up to enter the song after her. She bent low, her blond hair streaming down her back as she made the strings sing. When he joined her, she flashed him a smile at a wattage he only ever saw from her on stage. High on it, and on the fact that his brother was playing behind him, and that somehow, somehow they were getting through the show, he let his gaze wander the crowd.
The redhead caught his eye immediately.
She was close to the front, dancing back to back with one of her girlfriends while the other gyrated against her side. They were definitely feeling the lyrics that Molly was rasping as if she were fifteen seconds away from an orgasm. Ryan and West were doing the joint thing on the keyboards again, crossing hands and all kinds of tricks that only emphasized the erotic nature of the song. They pounded on the keys like he and Elle and Juliet were shredding their guitars. Like Mal was steadily drumming the kit, slow, sinuous. Building, building, building, until the final explosion.
&
nbsp; The redhead turned and looked up on stage, playing with the strap of her halter top. For a second, he thought she’d flashed him some damn nipple. On purpose or accidentally, he didn’t frigging care. All he knew was her big eyes were on him while she nearly fondled her own breast, and her lips were wet and parted, and he couldn’t stop strumming his guitar the way he wished he could play with her. He’d sit her on his lap and slip under her skirt, then push aside her panties and slide one finger between the lips he knew would be soaked for him. While she watched, open-mouthed and silently begging, he’d suck on the finger that tasted of her until she was squirming against his rock-hard erection. Bouncing back and forth while he swelled against his zipper.
Christ, like he was doing right now.
Juliet came up behind him, sliding one hand in the front pocket of his jeans as Mal’s drums and West and Ryan’s keyboard faded. She jerked back and quickly shot over to the other side of the stage to set up for the next song, making him smother a laugh.
Guess she thought her onstage seduction routine with him had worked a little too well.
“What’s her problem?” Elle whispered, trading her Gibson for her Stratocaster.
“Almost sure she thinks I like her butt too much.”
“It is a cute butt.” Elle winked at him, and he laughed.
“Hers or mine?” he asked, unable to resist. Hell, he had a freaking hard-on onstage from some sexy as hell redhead in the second row, who he was trying not to look at until the next song started so he didn’t tear through his jeans.
Elle pretended to think as she put the strap over her head. “Gotta say hers. Looks firmer.”
“You suck.”
She laughed again then dipped her head close. “He isn’t really your brother, is he? Tell me he isn’t.”
“Afraid so.”
“He’s a beast.”
At the dark, moody chords of “In Your Arms,” heralded by Ry on the blues harp, Michael glanced back at Mal. He was tapping the skins in almost perfect time. “Hell yeah, he is.”
“Men.” Elle snorted and surprised him by pulling her own Juliet-type routine, going back to back with him as they slid into the song.
Elle didn’t grind or dance, just challenged him to get his fingers moving as fast as hers. He kept up, rippling up and down the strings so fast that he didn’t dare look at the audience. His shoulders hunched and he bent closer to his instrument, cradling it, imagining again that he had the redhead in his arms. That hot, lush body he’d scarcely glimpsed curling against his as she pressed those glossy lips to his ear and said dirty things that didn’t fit such an innocent face.
Pure face, smokin’ body, hair like a goddamn siren. He wanted to hear her voice to see if it matched the sexiness of the rest of her. Perhaps she’d sing to him, maybe while he was going down on her. He’d part those creamy thighs and lean in for a taste—
A crack overhead caused him to jerk, then he remembered the shower of lights that they’d scheduled for this part of the show. A million colors arced and crisscrossed across the stage while his and Elle’s guitars screamed.
In the midst of the chaos, he sought the redhead again. He had to. She stood out for him like a jewel, glittering so brightly that even the dazzling array of lights that shimmered at the edges of his vision couldn’t compete. There were just those eyes, and those full lips moving as she mouthed the song.
He sang the lyrics too, and he was singing with her. To her. Imagining she was beneath him, silently pleading.
All I want is to be in your arms.
Make me yours tonight.
Every night.
Open up, take me in.
Close your eyes, feel me there.
Inside.
Sweat popped out on every inch of his skin, and just moving in the jeans and tee that stuck to him was torture. But he played on, singing for her. Making his guitar shriek so she’d laugh and jump and clutch her hands between her breasts. She was so into it, her body as electric as the instrument vibrating in his hands.
Shit, if this show didn’t end soon, he was going to soak the damn front of his pants. His cock was already so rigid that his usual stage embellishments were becoming a problem. But he had to keep going, had to perform for her, even sinking to his knees as he worked the frets.
Knowing she was watching every single thing he did.
For the rest of the set, he alternated between focusing on her and his brother. But Mal was doing just fine, and the redhead dominated every brain cell, swiftly crowding out everything in his head except her. Her wild hair, her seductive movements, and the longing in her eyes were his undoing.
His fucking personal Waterloo.
He hadn’t planned on hooking up with anyone tonight. Definitely hadn’t expected to be riding a high like this. But the buzz in his blood and the look of her ate at him, tempting him to seek her out for real after the concert ended.
Backstage pass, hell. He’d give her a bedroom pass, then tie her to his headboard right through the next morning.
She could be taken. Possibly even married. Could be a psycho. Damn, she might even be underage. She definitely had that whole schoolgirl thing going on, even with her hot clothes and gyrations. But he didn’t care. Oh, he would—later. After.
Jesus, there had to be an after with her or he was going to lose his mind.
To end the show, Michael changed things up and told Ry they were going to skip “Exile” and do something else. His buddy shook his head at him, but he quickly told the others. As Michael tore into the first chords of “In The Air Tonight”, Mal tipped his head. The band hadn’t practiced the song together, and a few of the members of the group weren’t familiar with it, judging from their what the fuck expressions. Luckily, Molly had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of songs from the eighties onward, though she wasn’t particularly thrilled at the unplanned set change. But between the two of them and Mal and Elle—who was a seventies and eighties fiend—West, Ry and Juliet soon caught up.
They ended up making the song something completely different than the original anyway. Something theirs that fit the insane energy of the night. Channeling the vibe from the audience, feeding on it. Bringing down the house even though they were just the opening act.
Fuck that. They weren’t going to just be the opening act for long. Soon, they’d have their own arenas. Their own crowds to chant and cheer and cry.
Just like his redhead was doing. Not the cheering or crying part, or even the chanting. She was singing along, her fingers laced together as if she were praying. Swaying with them. With him, as he leaned toward her as if she were the moon and he was the tide. Her pull was magnetic and inexplicable. He didn’t want to fight it.
He’d been waiting for this moment all his life too, just like the lyrics of the song.
They brought the house down with Mal’s frenetic drumming and the slashing guitars that bled out into only Molly’s voice reaching for the rafters. And the audience went wild.
Pushing forward, they all linked arms and took their bows while Molly hammed it up and blew kisses to her adoring subjects. Mal hung back, tapping his black wrapped drumsticks against his thigh. Michael gave his brother a second to decide to join them on his own. When he didn’t, Michael stepped back and grabbed Mal’s hand.
It was ice cold. Forget nerves. The guy must be made out of steel.
Michael lifted their joined hands and basked in the waves of applause and stomping feet. And he searched for his redhead, desperate to locate her one more time.
He found her—just in time to see her being pulled up the nearest aisle by her girlfriends. She glanced back and the strobing lights bisected her face like the Joker’s. Light and dark, known and unknown.
Fuck, she wasn’t just some beautiful girl at a concert.
So much for the mystery of why he’d been so drawn to her. She wasn’t random at all. In the chaos his life had become, he must’ve been seeking something—someone—familiar.
She was the absolute
worst person for him to get involved with for a million reasons.
“Chloe,” he murmured.
Chapter 8
Chloe Adams.
Her name followed him through a quick shower and change. He grabbed a Foo Fighters shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, stuffing his feet into a different pair of boots. These were shitkickers with steel toes, perfect for fending off the spike heels of clumsy drunk girls. He grabbed his watch, shoving it back on his wrist, and beelined for the mini bar to swig back a quarter of a bottle of the whisky he’d had specially stocked.
“Priming the pump already?” Ry walked into Michael’s bedroom carting a pair of black trousers and a white button-down shirt. So far he’d spent almost as much time in Michael’s room as he did his own, though their suite was so huge they barely even had to see each other. “You know they aren’t going to let you into the Foundation Room like that, right?”
Michael smirked around the mouth of his bottle. “Let’s see them try to stop me.”
Ry shook his head. “Dude, you’re feeling it tonight. Just don’t get arrested, all right?”
Still carrying the bottle, Michael went to the nightstand and rooted through the top drawer. “Nah, I have something else in mind.” He pulled out a strip of his preferred brand of Magnum condoms and stuffed them in his back pocket.
Ry’s eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. “So much for your supposed abstinence program, huh?”
“When did I say that?”
“You didn’t, but considering you claimed to be such a good boy, so misunderstood by the masses…”
“Hey, safety first. I am a good boy.” He flashed a grin at his buddy and checked his phone. “Get a move on. I need to get upstairs.”
“Hot date?”
“You could say that.” More like he needed to find Chloe, then they’d go from there.
Obviously he had hopes for how the night would go, and the half dozen condoms he’d just shoved in his pocket were proof. But even if things didn’t progress that way, he had to find her. To hear her voice, watch her laugh, feel her rub up against him.