by Cari Quinn
“Gray—”
“Let’s do it, Jazz.” He swallowed hard and focused on her face to block out the cacophony in his head. “You and me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Then
“Mmm, guess it’s a good thing I finally gave in to you.”
“You guess?” Gray teased.
“Well, you were so persistent. Coaxing me no matter how many times I said no…”
Gray grinned and lifted his head, staring down at Melissa Peachtree spread out beneath him on his bed. He’d been trying to get her there for so long that he wasn’t about to speed up the process, even if his mom was due home soon from work. Maybe he could make time stand still if he stared at the clock long enough.
Nah, scratch that. He’d rather stare at Melissa’s tits.
“I think it turned out to be worth your while.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” She lifted her shoulders off the bed. “Do that again. Harder.”
“Your nipples are already red enough to match your lipstick. Sure you want more?”
“You know it, baby.” She tugged on his hair, walking the fingers of her other hand up his chest to toy with the chain around his neck. She was a toucher, and he couldn’t say he minded. At all. “Though there’s something even better you could do for me with that mouth.” Her dark eyes lit up with her suggestive smile.
His favorite thing. Some guys hated going down on a girl. He thought they were idiots. If he had his way, he would’ve been happy to eat pussy for breakfast, lunch and dinner. From the tiny pink string bikini stretched between her narrow hips and the dizzying scent of her arousal, he had a feeling this one would be particularly delicious.
“Is there?” He thumbed her nipples. “I think you’re going to have to be a little more descriptive. Tell me what you really want. And don’t play coy like you used to do.”
She laughed, all throaty seduction, and leaned up on her elbows to study the movement of his mouth over her breasts. She wasn’t some high school chick who was too young to understand what he craved, never mind want the same thing.
Melissa was a freshman in college, one of his friends’ older sisters, and she’d drawn out their flirtation so long that his cock pulsed between his legs, thick and hard. He’d unbuttoned his jeans to give himself room, but he might as well not have bothered. There would never be enough room in his pants when Melissa was beneath him.
“So you want me to talk dirty.” She fisted his hair to drag his mouth to hers. “Before you do me dirty.”
His fingers continued working, unable to keep still. “Sounds about right.”
“I want you to use those wicked-fast fingers to make me come. Then when I’m coming, I want you to replace them with your tongue.” She bit his lower lip, dragging it between her sharp white teeth. “Slide it way deep inside my pussy until you lick me dry.”
His heart kicked hard. “I like the way you think.” He smiled and turned his head, burying his face in the thick ribbons of her blonde hair. She smelled like strawberries and sex. He didn’t want to forget a single detail about having her this first time.
“Oh, and don’t worry,” she purred. “I always return the favor.”
“I’m not worried.” He shimmied down her curvy body. “All I want is that sweet pussy on my mouth.”
A movement in the connected bathroom caught his eye and he shifted his gaze to the doorway, his hand fisting in the sheet beside Melissa’s hip. Jazz stood just inside the threshold of the other doorway, utterly still. With her pigtails, cutoffs and bare feet, she looked like a kid. All she needed were scuffed knees. But her eyes weren’t young. They watched him with an understanding way beyond her years.
Dull horror and embarrassment and something else, darker and edgier, coursed through his veins. He waited until Melissa turned her head and mouthed the word, “Go.”
She held her ground. Not moving. Barely breathing from what he could tell.
Obviously she needed a nudge to get the hell out of where she had no business being. Short of getting up to shoo her away—which would be bad on too many levels to count—he had no choice but to continue and hope she got the hint. Fast.
Melissa flicked her tongue over her teeth. “Do I need to draw you a roadmap? Go south.”
“I know right where I’m headed. No detours.” Bracing his hands flat on the mattress, Gray ducked his head and caught the eager tip of her breast between his lips. He sucked harder than he had before, more than a little off-center from the knowledge that they had a spectator.
Fuck, if he closed his eyes, he would swear he could smell that watermelon-scented lotion Jazz was always smearing all over herself. She’d sat on his bed last week and he’d had to run his sheets through the wash twice to get every last trace of the scent out. Now she was filling up his bathroom with that same damn smell.
Whose bright idea had it been to move her into Brent’s old room? He couldn’t share a bathroom with a spy.
A spy who was still standing there, head tilted, eyes narrowed, as he slid down Melissa’s body and yanked at her panties. He rolled them over her uptilted hips and practically attacked her pussy, so pissed off and turned on he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
Jazz shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t be getting harder from knowing she was.
She was too young, a girl who’d seen and survived way too much. She wasn’t ready for this. If he wasn’t some kind of pervert, he’d get up and slam the door he’d accidentally left open.
Even though he knew she liked to come into his room that way. Even though he’d never locked a door to keep Jazz out in the months she’d lived in his—their—home.
Even. Even. Even.
Melissa moaned as he speared his tongue deep, completely without skill. He’d lost the rhythm. The beat to their movements was gone. He raised his head, not to seek his lover’s expression, but Jazz’s.
Their gazes locked. And held.
She fumbled behind her for the doorknob and stumbled into the room at her back. She looked for all the world like a doe who’d crawled off into the bushes to die after being hit by a car she’d never seen coming.
Fuck.
Shutting his eyes, he lowered his head to finish what he’d started.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Now
“You two can play your little song. Nice.” Nick snorted with obvious derision. “Too bad we’re a band and not Sonny and Cher, huh?”
“I’d like to hear it,” Deacon said.
Jazz dropped back into her chair and groped for the chain around her neck. Gray glimpsed the flash of purple she flipped between her fingers and smiled behind his hand. She’d never taken that guitar pick necklace off in all the years since he’d given it to her, though he’d never actually seen her use it for its intended purpose. “I’m not sure I remember—”
“I remember.” Gray hoped like fuck he remembered. Before, he would’ve been able to bring back the melody without even looking at the sheet music they’d scribbled together during those long nights in his basement. But before was a long time ago.
A wrinkle appeared between Jazz’s brows. If he’d been closer, he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to stop himself from leaning in to kiss it. “We set it up for two guitars.”
“We have two guitarists,” Gray replied, well aware of her nerves whenever the spotlight shifted her way. There was a reason Jazz had drifted behind a drum kit rather than choosing to focus on guitar, and it sure as hell wasn’t talent. She had it in spades with whatever instrument she picked up. Keyboards, drums, guitar—she was proficient in all three.
What she didn’t always have was confidence, though no one but Gray knew that. He would’ve bet his last dollar that no one in Oblivion had seen beyond her wild-colored hair and iPhone stunts and crazy antics to the girl beneath who still never felt quite good enough.
Except him. He always saw all of her.
“And a drummer and a bassist and a…Simon,” she trailed off, worrying th
e end of one of her braids.
“So we’ll make it work. We’ve adapted how many songs?”
She bit her lip, making his head throb in tandem with his dick. He’d had that lip between his teeth less than ten minutes ago. And where was he now? Surrounded by his band and Lila and his own insecurities, pretending he didn’t feel them pressing cold hands against his spine.
Unlike Jazz, he never doubted his talent. Everything else, yes. His worth as person, every fucking minute. But when he played his guitar, he was the drug. It was afterward, when he had to go over the same damn song sixty times, or when he had to sit across from the guy who’d screwed his girl right in front of him, that the darkness came back, tearing open the scabbed-over holes. So many holes. He didn’t even know where they’d all come from anymore.
Maybe it didn’t matter. He had a way to make them go away, so he used it. He went elsewhere to handle his shit, hoping she wouldn’t ever find out. That she would never look too close. If that made him pathetic, weak, he’d take the label as long as he got the cure.
“Yes, but that was before.” She implored him with her eyes to drop it, to let it go. Why she didn’t want him to share that song, he didn’t know. He couldn’t think straight when those San Francisco Bay-blue eyes leveled on his.
Hell, who was he kidding? He couldn’t think straight, period. The high was already wearing off, leaving nothing behind but exhaustion and misery.
“I have newer stuff.” She shifted toward the rest of the band with hope in her voice. “Let me show you.”
“Show us ‘Capture’. If Vapor over there,” Nick nodded toward Gray, “thinks it’s so adaptable, bring it on.”
She stared at her empty hands. “I don’t have my notebook.”
Gray smiled in spite of the anvil drumming at the base of his skull. She’d carted the same composition notebook around for years. Since Jazz had the smallest handwriting he’d ever seen, she’d filled those pages with hundreds of songs. If she ever lost it, she’d be screwed.
Someday he should scan it into a digital file for her. She definitely liked her technology, even if she went old-school when it came to her songwriting.
“It’s in the van with our gear.” Simon gestured toward the door. “If you need a couple of guitars, grab mine and Nick’s and run it through for us.”
“Here?” She shot a look at Lila, who nodded.
“I’ll get the gear.” Gray bolted to his feet, eager to get outside in the fresh smog. The air in this room was stifling him. Maybe the short walk would help him clear his head enough to fumble his way through the song.
He’d promised himself he’d never play high, and so far, he’d kept that vow. Practice, yes. God, he’d practiced high more than sober over the past year. But he’d never gone onstage with that buzz in the blood, even if sometimes he timed things all wrong. Some shows, the ones where even the music hadn’t been enough to carry him away, he shook so bad that he played like a demon was climbing up his back just to distract himself from the agony.
Now he’d have to play the song that he and Jazz had refined so long ago, repeating it so many times they’d worn grooves in the strings of his old guitars. She rarely touched a guitar anymore, but he doubted she’d require more than a couple of minutes to get back her groove.
The girl—woman—was a freaking wonder in so many ways.
He headed out of the room before anyone could stop him, letting the door slap shut in his wake. As he pushed through the teeming crowd in the VIP area, all the more frenetic as the clock ticked closer to midnight, he glanced longingly at the line of shots a pair of glammed-up girls were doing at the bar. He’d never been a big drinker, other than a few misspent weekends in high school and college. Still, anything was better than the dry, jittery sensation in his veins like dry leaves blowing over his grave.
Somehow he kept moving. Past the liquor, past the women with their candy smiles and hungry hands. It had been so damn long since he’d fucked. Weeks. Months. Who even knew? The days blended together, spinning out into an endless chasm of music and money and blow.
At first he’d only taken a hit during the long nights of practice to keep up his energy. He’d hauled around the baggie Ziggy had given him for weeks. It scared him enough he’d told himself he wouldn’t try it. After growing up with Brent, he’d seen exactly what kind of addictive genes ran in his family, even if his older brother’s poison of choice was alcohol. One mistress or the other, they always screwed you sideways. He knew better.
Then he’d seen Jazz come out of a closet with Nick before a show at the Blue Rhino, and lo and behold, all his reservations had fallen away.
Halfway across the parking lot to the van, a sleek black vintage Mustang pulled up beside him. The passenger window slid down and Cricket leaned across the seat, her lips curved with such pleasure he half believed she was happy to see him.
“Hey there, handsome. I tried your cell. Thought you might be ready for a lift back.”
“Phone’s off.” He scraped a hand over the top of his head, squeezing his palm until the prickle of his short, crisp hair centered his meandering thoughts. All the gel had a purpose. He could’ve cut glass with the spikes on his skull.
“What about the lift? I’m here now.” She waved a plastic baggie, her smile widening. “I even brought a party favor.”
He’d taken two long strides to the window before she let out a tinkling laugh and tucked it out of reach. “Not so fast, handsome. Come with me and we’ll share.”
Share. Yeah, fucking right. Like any good dealer, she never touched the stuff. She just used it as the powdery hook at the end of a very long rod.
Sucking in a breath, he tipped back his head. “I already partied tonight, remember?”
Partied. Talk about ironic. The parties she threw only lasted fifteen to twenty minutes, and the crash hurt like a motherfucker. But God, for that high, for those brief, golden moments where nothing hurt anymore, nothing crowded his brain until he couldn’t think…he would’ve sold his soul.
Maybe he already had.
“I do. But this is premium stuff. I saved it just for you.” She waved the bag between two slickly polished nails, that smile taunting and luring him both. It would be so easy to just go.
Why should he sit in that room with those jerks? He’d thought they were good guys once. Deak was, yeah. But the other two, they only cared about themselves. That was obvious after what they’d pulled with their old record label.
Nick was even worse. He didn’t only want to steal their music and hijack the band, he wanted to take the one thing away from Gray that had kept breath coming in and out of his lungs for years. He’d built a life out of taking care of her, out of righting all the wrongs that people he’d never met had done to her when she’d been too innocent to fight back.
And Brent. Fucking Brent.
He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing hard on the memory of Jazz’s mouth on his. So soft and wet. For that moment, she’d wanted him. Sixty seconds out of his life he would cling to with both hands, despite the promises he’d broke by even touching her.
“I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
For years, he’d waited for the day she saw him as someone other than her protector. Her buddy. Her music partner. He’d given her all the time in the world to make her move, determined not to force her hand by possibly guilting her into a relationship she didn’t want. He knew she loved him, but was it the way for her it was for him? Sure, she’d made what seemed like a few tentative steps in his direction. She just never followed through.
Eventually he’d begun to think she’d slotted him firmly in the big brother zone, with the occasional exploratory side trip into “what if?” That didn’t work for him. He couldn’t be her friend with benefits. He honestly didn’t think he could even casually date her.
After all these years, it was all or nothing.
Now, with the choices he’d made, even if she did want more, even if she could love him the way he loved
her, it didn’t matter because he’d ruined everything before they ever had a real chance. He wouldn’t let the drugs touch her, even peripherally. So he couldn’t touch her either.
His promise to keep her safe came before all else.
Gray cleared his throat. Rust filled his airway, gathered on his vocal cords. “So give it to me and get out of here before she sees you.”
“She?” Cricket laughed again, harder-edged this time. “That sweet little thing that was hanging on you at Frenzy? She’s Oblivion’s drummer, isn’t she?” She slipped her tongue in the corner of her mouth. “She also belongs to the group, so I’ve heard.”
He slammed his hand against the car, making her jump. “Don’t fucking talk about her like that. It isn’t that way.”
Images of that night with Nick and Jazz flashed through his mind, stark and bleak like the churning sky. Her undressing, tugging off her bra and baring her breasts. Crawling on Nick’s lap to kiss him, driving her fingers through his hair. Her slipping onto Gray’s lap, facing away from him. Gray helping her to open her legs wider so Nick could get a nice long lick.
Of his girl. His Jazz. The only thing he’d wanted for so long he’d had to become numb to the need or it would’ve killed him.
“Mind the car,” Cricket said in a low voice. “I like you, but if you dent my baby, you’ll be cut off. Because we both know you can’t pay, handsome.”
He rubbed against the pressure pounding in his temples. “I’m good for it. My money’s tied up right now, but once we meet a few benchmarks with the band…” He trailed off, hoping that would be enough.
He didn’t waste money—other than on blow—but there just wasn’t a whole lot of it to be had yet. They were still a relatively new band on an up-and-coming label. Ripper Records wasn’t Trident. They didn’t get to live in a swank pad rent-free. It wasn’t as if they were roughing it, but they were all paying and rent in LA wasn’t cheap.
Picking up a few overnight shifts at the transport company he’d worked at for the past few years helped fill in the gaps, but he was only in town for a few weeks at a time. This break between the holidays and the beginning of March—minus studio time, which would be extensive, and a short club tour to keep them visible—represented Oblivion’s longest break since they’d been signed. If he budgeted his time well, he’d be able to earn enough to pay back some of his debts. He just needed to juggle the separate halves of his life a little longer.