by Karina Bliss
She gave an exasperated snort. “No one’s happy as they are, and tonight you’re the most miserable bastard on the planet. Spit it out, what went wrong with Mel? Was it the long distance thing?”
He hesitated, reluctant to open that can of worms. “No. Mel’s been traveling to overseas comps for years.”
“Comps?”
“Competitions. She’s a swimmer.”
“How good?”
“One bronze and a silver in the last Paralympics.” The ache in his chest became a gnaw, and he fed it with a shot of fiery tequila.
“That explains why you’re in such great shape, you’ve got a lot to live up to.”
He appreciated that she didn’t ask what made Mel eligible, but identified what made her extraordinary—her accomplishments.
Cunning returned to her expression. “Now if you just let someone style your—” The rest of her sentence was drowned out by a burst of music.
“Saved by the band,” Seth mouthed, grateful for the distraction. Thinking about Mel being extraordinary without him made him want to curl up into a ball and howl. He’d tried so hard to keep their long-distance relationship alive over the past fifteen months; tried so hard to have it all.
Clearly, he hadn’t tried hard enough.
With an effort, he refocused on the stage. Suck it up. You accepted the risks when you chose your career over her. He recognized the band, an emerging indie rock group called The Box Cutters who’d featured in a music festival Rage had headlined last summer.
It was always interesting to see who Jack—the bar owner—was promoting, particularly when Seth might be starting from scratch again, if Zander’s voice didn’t recover and they were forced to start a new band. He’d had weeks to reconcile himself to the possibility, and still the idea hit him like a gut-punch, forcing all the air out of him.
But he wasn’t going to consider worst-case scenarios in his career tonight, not when he was already dealing with Armageddon in his love life. As the musicians hit their stride he closed his eyes and let the belting melodies pulse through him, tapping out the drum beat on his thighs. Yes, soothe me, move me, remind me why I risked it all.
When the first song finished, Dimity leaned closer. His senses heightened, he caught the faintest scent of summer, berries, and flowers, so at odds with her ice queen persona. “Are you missing performing?” she called over the applause.
“Moss, Jared, and I jam every day.” Jared was Rage’s bass player and a brilliant songwriter, the only one of them married with kids. “But I miss that magical connection you get with an audience.” Understatement. He’d changed his whole life for it, pawned his whole future. And now it was time to pay up. Maybe he did need another drink.
She nodded and sat back, excusing herself a couple of minutes through the third number. He watched her walk away. No sway to the hips for this warrior-princess, yet every free man she passed—and a few with dates—did a double take. She was too hung up about what she ate, but no diet could destroy her apple-cheeked ass, which was truly a wonder. Small pleasures. With a sigh, he signaled the bartender and ordered another shot.
Not only would he have to watch Mel being happy with some other guy when he returned to New Zealand for a couple of weeks, he’d have to confront his dad, who hadn’t spoken more than a few words to him since he’d left to join the reality show.
With the band in hiatus through Zander’s recovery, Seth finally had time to remedy that, face to face.
Unfortunately, the scandal also made it highly likely that Frank saw Seth’s peace-making trip as his son crawling home with his tail between his legs to admit what a foolish, silly boy he’d been to ever leave his comfortable life.
And tonight, mourning Mel’s engagement to another guy, he couldn’t think of one damn thing that proved his father wrong.
Chapter Three
Dimity hunted Moss and found him sitting in a booth with a bunch of admirers.
“A word?” she said, and received glares from the two women hanging off him. “Down, girls. I’m not here to take your boner.”
Moss stood and grinned at her. He was high on something—his dilated pupils suggested coke. “Too late to change your mind, snow queen, I’ve made other arrangements.”
“Forget about that. If I arrange for you to jam with the band, will their instruments work for you?”
“Jesus, Dimity, take the night off.”
“Seth needs this,” she said.
He was silent a moment, then turned toward the stage, his gaze assessing. “Yeah, we could make do. Assuming they’re prepared to share. I’ll talk to them at the end of the set.”
“No Rage numbers…we’re still too controversial. Maybe one of Jared’s?” The bass player had penned some original compositions, which had proved popular through the last tour leg. “Kayla’s Song,” written for his wife, was a bona fide chart-topper.
“This is a nice thing you’re doing,” Moss said.
She wasn’t comfortable with warmth, didn’t know what to do with it, so she deflected. “And good publicity.”
He shook his head. “Are you ever off duty?”
“Never.”
She slipped away to have a word with the manager. Zander hadn’t told anyone about his lip-syncing, including her—which still made Dimity sore—and when the story broke, had played up his role as Machiavellian mentor to protect his younger band members from fallout.
His band had responded by announcing their support. It could have gone horribly wrong. But still enamored of the guys from the audition reality show that had plucked them from obscurity, the public had read their loyalty as adorable naivety.
Zander might be a pariah, but the other guys in Rage could do no wrong. Particularly Seth.
Manager Antonio immediately saw the benefit and made a quick call to the owner, who backed his decision. Business taken care of, Antonio kissed Dimity on both cheeks. “I’ve been thinking about you, bella.” His dark eyes caressed her. “Have you been thinking about me?”
She looked at him blankly, then the penny dropped. Antonio was the last guy she’d sex with. “Every damn day,” she purred.
He stroked her arm, and she remembered he was competent. “Later?” he suggested.
The buzz of organizing an impromptu gig had eased her restlessness and she needed to keep an eye on Seth. “Unfortunately, tonight I’m working.” She kissed him with enough heat to keep him interested. “Another time?”
“I look forward to it.”
The bartender had given Seth another drink. And he needed to stay in the ballpark of sober for the performance. She picked up the shot glass and sculled it. Ugh. She hated tequila.
“I’m guessing my services are no longer required,” he commented, and when she looked at him watery-eyed, added, “Antonio?”
“I took a rain check.” She glanced over to Moss, who gave her the thumbs up. “It’s more fun getting drunk with you.”
“Okay, then. Order us another round.” He left for the bathroom and as he returned the band stopped playing mid-song. “We’ve got some talent in the house tonight. Reality stars and Rage musicians Seth Curran and Moss McFadden. Get your asses up here, guys, and jam with us.”
A whoop went up from the crowd. If only she could bottle that goodwill and spray it on Zander. On stage, the bassist handed Moss a spare guitar and the drummer relinquished his place to a delighted Seth. Dimity made a mental note to send the band a thank-you gift. Around her, phones were being pulled out to capture the action. Guerrilla marketing via social media. Perfect.
Seth unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. Underneath he wore a loose-fitting gray tank, the arm holes cut low to reveal pecs and ribs. He had a body like a dancer’s—graceful, loose-limbed, and honed to muscle. Cells flashed as women in the crowd snapped photos.
If you think that’s good, ladies, come to a Rage concert.
Midway through a ninety-minute gig, he invariably stripped off the shirt and played bare-chested. Like the Hulk
, no clothing could contain him when he was in the throes of metamorphosis. And that was his fascination for her, professionally.
The two Rage bandmates conferred, then Moss plucked the first chord of a power number, his mouth curving in a feral grin that promised the crowd a wild ride. The lead guitarist was sexy and dangerous off-stage and sexy and dangerous on it, his charisma all about I’m-broken-fix-me-if-you-dare brooding.
Seth was the enigma, the curiosity, the surprise.
He was good-looking but accessibly so, with an open face. Parents would instinctively trust him to bring their little girl home safe from the prom, with her virginity still intact. Put him behind a drum kit and he became mesmerizing, insanely compelling. Savage. There was the moment of change now, Seth’s grin sharpening and his nice-guy veneer falling away as his energy crystallized and his whole body exploded into performance.
She always made sure his publicity shots were taken at live shows when his hair and skin glowed the same copper-gold as the cymbals and his magnetism was on display—arms stretching, muscles bunching, and his hands on the drumsticks moving in a blur of speed. Tearing her gaze away, Dimity scanned the crowd. Yes, they were captivated, their attention darting between Moss’s original-sin genius and Seth’s bright kinetic-ism.
One song led to another, and at the end of the set they were mobbed as they left the stage, the normally cool crowd demanding selfies and autographs. Dimity sat back on her bar stool and sipped her champagne, enjoying a private moment of achievement. It wasn’t sex she’d needed, it was this. Reassurance that Rage could rise again. That her will and determination could make it happen. That we make our own luck.
Moss escaped quickly to his groupies but Seth continued to chat patiently with the public. After Zee, he got the most fan mail of all the band members, an approachable everyman with universal appeal. Female fans either wanted to marry him or corrupt him, but until Mel had dumped him, he’d never looked at another woman with anything other than friendship. In these turbulent times, he gave the band what it desperately needed—credibility.
When he rejoined her, he was still glowing, his dark-red hair dampened from his exertions. He’d shrugged on his shirt, but left it unbuttoned.
For no reason at all, Dimity moistened her lips.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting a glass of water from her. “I needed that.” Moss must have told him it was her idea. “How about we find you what you need?”
“Me?” Maybe it was the heat radiating off him, or the time lapse since she’d last seen him perform, but his sex appeal was off the charts tonight. For his sake, she hoped someone posted footage on YouTube, and his idiot ex saw what she’d given up. “Oh, the pick-up. No, still happy to get drunk with you instead. What time is it?”
He glanced at his cell. “Eleven forty-five p.m. Huh, I missed a message.” His expression darkened. “Mel. Eight hours ago. Hoping I’m okay.”
“What a stupid question.”
“Of course we still care about each other. We started dating when we were sixteen.”
“Next you’ll be telling me you’ll hang out when you’re home.”
“Our families have been friends a long time,” he said, defensive. “And it’s not like I’m the innocent party here. I knew when I left how hard the separation would be on her.”
“Oh boy.” Never mind that it was equally hard on him. The calls he’d made at ungodly hours, because God forbid Mel forgo her beauty sleep by getting up outside her time zone; the air tickets he’d offered to send.
She’d heard him one night in LA trying to talk Mel into meeting him in Hawaii for a long weekend. “Five hours’ flight for me, nine for you…isn’t any time together worth jetlag?”
When he’d mentioned later that they’d decided jetlag would “affect her training too much,” Dimity felt a stab of anger on his behalf. You mean, Mel had decided. Some people needed protecting and Seth was one of those—a kind, decent guy who wore his heart on his sleeve. “Pass your cell.”
“Why?”
“We’re sending Mel a selfie of you and me to show her just how okay you are.”
“It’s early morning in New Zealand.”
“Even better.”
She went to take his phone, and he resisted. “I’ve never played games with Mel and I’m not going to start now.”
“Don’t think of it as playing games, think of it as helping her to respect boundaries.”
“Fine.” He handed it over. “But I approve anything before you send it.”
“Agreed.” Pinning a sex-kittenish smile on her face, she flung his arm around her shoulders and leaned in close. “Raise your glass and say machin-ate.”
Seth laughed and she pressed the shutter, then tapped a message to go with it.
All good. Dimity and I toasting your happiness.
She showed it to him. He sobered, looking at their picture. “And they say the camera never lies. Looks like we couldn’t be happier.”
“Send it?”
He shrugged as he re-buttoned his shirt. “Go ahead. But don’t expect a reply. Mel doesn’t think that way.”
“Like a woman?” Dimity said dryly. She suspected Saint Mel wanted to have her cake and eat it too. “Trust me, we’re all territorial.”
Five minutes later, his cell beeped an incoming message. She read it over his shoulder.
Hey, you woke me up. So glad you’re coming to terms with this. I’d hate to lose your friendship. BTW, is that the honey badger?
The trail of crumbs was definitely leading to a cake hogger. “Honey badger?”
“The honey who badgers me,” he said. “Like your namesake, you’re fierce, carnivorous and have a deep ominous growl. The honey badger drops stink bombs—you drop truth bombs.”
“I like it. May I?”
Taking his cell, she tapped in a response and showed it to him.
Yes, the honey badger. Dimity’s been helping me through this. One door closes, another opens. Maybe you’ll meet her in NZ.”
Seth frowned. “I don’t think—”
“Oops, fingers slipped.”
“Give me that.” He confiscated his cell. But he’d barely returned it to his pocket when it chimed an incoming text. They looked at each other as he retrieved it. Mel.
Kinda crazy coming from me, but don’t rush into anything. I only want you to be happy.
Dimity smirked. “I rest my case.”
He re-read the text and frowned. “What am I missing?”
“No one only wants someone to be happy. There are always conditions. And the ‘don’t rush into anything’ comment. Clearly, she’s not ready to let you go.”
“I’m not ready to let her go, either.” His stubble glinted gold as he rubbed his jaw. “I’m too loaded to know if you’re talking sense or not, but I need to believe you. Okay, screw it. What do we say next?”
“Nothing.” Taking his phone, she slid it into the back pocket of his jeans, fleetingly aware of the tautness of his butt. “Stop being so accessible. If Mel’s chosen someone else’s bed, let her lie in it.” He winced and she added gently, “She doesn’t have a right to your business anymore.”
“I’m nowhere near drunk enough to handle the truth.” He was lifting his hand to signal the bartender, when a young guy tapped him on the shoulder.
“I hope you don’t think this is too pushy, but I’m a drummer and I’d love to learn how you do the drum fill on ‘Summer Daze’.”
“Sure.” But she noticed Seth struggled to find his friendly smile.
The muso finally moved on ten minutes later.
“You’ll get no peace now you’ve performed.” She should have considered that earlier. “Come home to Zee’s and we’ll finish the wake in private.”
* * *
As they left the club, fresh air hit Dimity like a tranquilizer dart and she swayed on her feet. Seth grabbed her elbow to steady her. “You’re a cheap drunk, Ms. Graham.”
It was that shot of tequila, she suspected, on top
of two flutes of champagne—three if you counted the one at her desk earlier. Which was why she rarely let loose—she disliked the loss of control. “How are you not falling over? You’ve drunk a lot more than I have.”
“Cast-iron stomach.” He patted his abdomen.
He isn’t wrong there.
“But trust me.” He hooked a supportive arm around her waist. “I’m feeling it.”
They caught a cab to the mansion. As Dimity keyed in a security code to disable the alarm system, Luther glanced out from his window and she gave him a friendly wave. There, that wasn’t so hard. He saw Seth and gave her an approving nod—good job, keeping him in one piece—and closed the blind. She tried not to let his commendation matter.
In the kitchen, she kicked off her pumps, while Seth opened the freezer compartment of the industrial-size fridge. With Zander abroad, Consuela the cook was on leave, but she’d prepared a dozen pre-cooked meals for Dimity and “my boys,” as she collectively called Luther and the band.
“Who do you think Luther’s secret love is?” Reaching past Seth, she retrieved the bottle of champagne she’d uncorked earlier. “Hey, maybe that’s why he’s spending his vacation in LA instead of New Zealand with his family. Because she’s an American.”
“Here’s my theory.” Removing a pack from the freezer, he shoved it into the microwave. “If he wanted us to know, he would have told us.”
“I forgot, I’m talking to a man,” she said, disgusted. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“I’m more interested in finding the tequila.”
“Pantry on the right.” Clearly, she’d have to do her own investigation. She found a shot glass and champagne flute, then settled on a stool in front of one of two marble-topped islands in the enormous kitchen.
Seth exited the pantry with a bottle of El Tesoro Reposado. Positioning it next to the shot glass, he pulled out his wallet, removed sixty dollars and laid it on the counter, then wandered over to check the microwave, which was emanating scents of tomato, cilantro and garlic.