In a Chord (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Beth D. Carter

  In a Chord

  Keaton Gates and Ashland Lance are lovers and musicians in a band called Endymion. Keaton believes there is something missing, not only from the sound of their music, but also in their lives. When he hears Momo Willows singing Endymion’s signature song, he knows she’s the muse he’s been waiting for.

  At first, Ash Lance is jealous of the new girl in Keaton’s life until he meets her. Momo is unlike anyone he’s ever met, and they soon discover that they connect on many levels. But he’s reluctant to take her away from Keaton, just as Momo refuses to come between them.

  Keaton is quick to assure them he wants all three of them to learn to be in a ménage relationship, but as they learn how to live and love together, another threat is moving between them, threatening to take Momo away…forever.

  Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre

  Length: 27,847 words

  IN A CHORD

  Beth D. Carter

  MENAGE AMOUR

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Amour

  IN A CHORD

  Copyright © 2012 by Beth D. Carter

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-800-5

  First E-book Publication: June 2012

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of In a Chord by Beth D. Carter from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Beth D. Carter’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Carter’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  My thanks to Amy Binda, who is the leader of the Beth D. Carter book club (current membership is two). You never bat an eye at the content, which makes you an awesome friend.

  And for Lark, who always manages to read what I write despite her busy, jet-setting lifestyle. I love ya, girlfriend. Now, let’s go try on those Louboutins.

  Author’s Note

  Endymion’s song that is frequently mentioned is called “Space,” and it’s a poem that I wrote. This is the poem in its entirety.

  The black outside my window

  teases me no end.

  As far as it can reach

  to as far as I can bend.

  It’s infinite, unnerving,

  not able to behold.

  To the depths of your beliefs

  too sacred and too cold.

  To touch the glass of ice

  with the heat I have inside,

  Would melt the frozen solitude

  that’s here with me beside.

  I back away to give you room

  and turn away to hide,

  The tears of all my emptiness

  that’s bruised my battered pride.

  So in this world I give to you

  the only gift I know.

  Not my heart and not my love

  but the freedom to let go.

  Just float on by with never mind

  to the realm devoid of light,

  And to the space I pledge my love

  I’ll keep that out of sight.

  IN A CHORD

  BETH D. CARTER

  Copyright © 2012

  Prologue

  Keaton gave a moan as Ash slid into him.

  The music from the band currently on stage vibrated through the walls, washing over him with an electric beat that matched the possessive thrust of Ash’s hips. In and out, the large cock pounded him, giving him what he needed, what he craved, and he pushed back as much as he could to meet the demand. His hands flattened on the wall, giving him leverage, and Ash’s answering groan gave voice to the exquisite pleasure each found in the other.

  The small closet that Ash had pulled him into a few minutes before enclosed them in darkness, amplifying the precious few seconds they had left before they were called onto the stage. They hadn’t even enough time for kissing or teasing. Ash had spun him around, unzipped his pants, and started tugging on his cock. And then, before the pleasure had even registered, he had felt the blunt head of Ash’s dick probing for entrance, saliva their only lubrication.

  But the franticness of their fucking did not, in any way, diminish the ecstasy Keaton felt. In fact, it was always like this. Mind-blowing erotic sex. Ash had only to look at him, say one word, and Keaton’s blood heated to near boiling. And it had always been this way, ever since they had been kids stealing the nudie magazines and ogling over the girls. Breasts had turned them both on, and when they had discovered masturbation, one thing led to another until Ash had suggested they try it on each other.

  Their sex had nothing to do with being gay. Keaton liked to think they had no labels because, even though they loved each other, they still fucked women when they wanted to. Although, lately he didn’t find the thrill of bed-hopping as entertaining as it once was. He and Ash had been playing music for as long as they could both remember so there had always been groupies around, even back in high school when their music sounded like shit. He and Ash had never lacked for female companionship.

  But lately Keaton felt as if something was missing, something vital. In the music, in himself…hell, even in Ash. But just what it was he didn’t know. He hoped that he found it soon.

  The band on stage was reaching its crescendo, and Ash started thrusting his hips faster, knowing they had only seconds left.

  “Fuc
k me, Ash,” Keaton ground out, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. The closet might have been small and intimate, but there was no ventilation. “You like pounding my ass? You like my puckered hole squeezing your cock so tightly?”

  “Keaton…God!” Ash’s rhythm stuttered.

  Keaton felt him swell and then the hot splash of Ash’s cum as he lost control. He reached down to tug his own cock, but Ash beat him, fisting him and milking him in time with his own squirts of passion. It was too much, too raw and powerful. Just as the music crashed, so did Keaton. He cried out as he let himself succumb to Ash’s warm hand and the hot breath on the back of his neck.

  The two slumped over, Keaton with his forehead against the wall and Ash against his back. Their breathing was harsh and labored as their hearts raced.

  “I want you to go on stage and perform with some of me inside of you,” Ash murmured into his ear. “As it runs down your legs and only you and I will know it’s there.”

  And then he pushed off Keaton, and the sound of a zipper could be heard in the darkness. Ash placed a small, quick kiss on Keaton’s cheek and opened the door, peeking outside to make sure the coast was clear.

  He left Keaton alone to gather himself and follow after a minute, keeping up appearances that they hadn’t been together. No one realized they’d been conducting an affair in the back of every bar and venue for years. And they preferred to keep their love life private.

  Chapter One

  The crush of people as they tried to rush the stage, the beat of the drums as they tried to overpower the bass guitar, the smoky hue that lingered heavily in the air, all of it made Keaton’s heart thump with excitement. He sang into the mike, grabbing the stand as he purred his way through the melody. The set he and his band, Endymion, was performing was the last for this night, and for the two hours or so that he had command of the stage, he was a god. Heaven couldn’t be any better than right here, right now.

  The song came to a crescendo, and Keaton growled the last note. Amid the noise of applause, the screaming for more, Keaton gave one last wave before heading off stage. Byron George, Endymion’s manager, clapped enthusiastically.

  Byron was not the typical person normally seen at a heavy-rock-with-punk undertones concert. His brother was a cop and his mother a judge. No matter how hard Byron tried fitting in, there was this air about him that screamed “arm of the law.” Still, they figured having a little police contact in their pocket wouldn’t be bad at all.

  “Awesome!” Byron said. He looked a lot like the other members of the band who were dressed all in black with black accessories highlighting their clothes.

  The four members of the band each gave Byron a high-five as they passed, leaving the tiny backstage area for the changing room provided for them.

  “Another great night!” Mike, the keyboardist, said as he flopped down onto a chair. He sprawled out his long legs, forcing the others to step over them. Mike certainly was different from all the rest, even Byron. He stood out like a sore thumb in his standard dress of button-up shirt, vest, and khaki pants. He wore thick glasses that caught the lights, reflecting back the odd colors like a smooth mirror.

  The drummer, Taylor Thomas, twirled his sticks around his fingers. “Sure. Could use a brewski to wet my whistle. Anyone wanna come along?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Mike said. “Wouldn’t mind finding the fine looking legs I was looking at earlier.”

  “They’ll take one look at you and start running the other way,” Keaton said.

  “Now, now, don’t mess with my boy here,” Taylor warned teasingly. “I can assure you he’s a lady-killer.”

  Keaton snickered.

  “I got another fan letter for you, Keaton,” Byron said. “She told me to personally hand deliver or she’d squeeze my balls off. Since I rather like having my balls,” he said, holding out an envelope in one hand and a small recorder with another, “here you go.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and pocketed the recorder. The envelope he opened and read quickly then tossed.

  “Your girlfriend?” Ash smirked.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “What’s that?” Taylor asked, pointing to Keaton’s pocket.

  “I asked Byron to record us tonight,” Keaton explained. “I want to listen to our performance, see where we can improve.”

  “Man, you’re gonna worry yourself sick!” Taylor said, his voice sharp. “We’re the best band on the Strip.”

  “And how long can we last with the same beat as the next up-and-coming group?” Keaton retorted. “I’ve been saying for months, there’s something missing in our sound.”

  “You’ve got a fabulous voice,” Ash protested in a subdued voice, flipping a guitar pick in between and over his knuckles. It was an old habit he did with what he considered his lucky pick, the first one he had ever bought when he decided to learn how to play many years before.

  That heartfelt compliment soothed Keaton. He threw a small, thankful smile at him. “I just wanna listen to our playback.”

  “Dude, let it rest,” Taylor moaned, as if in pain. “We’ll get signed, and we’ll get rich. We’ll have girls. Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll!”

  There was an excited cry from Mike as he high-fived Taylor.

  “Really? That’s all you care about? Having money and a piece of ass?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Or two or three. I’m not choosy.”

  Keaton’s mouth twisted, though he wondered why he should be surprised at Taylor’s words. He pulled the recorder out from his pocket and plugged his iPod earbuds into it.

  “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he muttered.

  Ash rose and met him at the door. “You want me to go along?” he asked in a low voice.

  Keaton met Ash’s sky-blue eyes. His palms itched to pull Ash close and devour his full lips, but not with everyone watching. No one knew of his relationship with Ash. They had both agreed to keep their relationship on the down low, not because of any stigma, but because they wanted people to focus on their music instead of who they were fucking.

  So instead of kissing Ash, he gave a wry smile and shook his head. “I’ll see you later?”

  “Sure.”

  Keaton waved at everyone, put the buds in his ears, and left. As he walked out the bar’s side door, Taylor yelled behind him, “You’ll freeze to death!”

  Keaton just gave a wave of his hand. He had only known Mike and Taylor for a few years, having met through the bar scene at local gigs. First was Taylor. They had become friends through the music they liked to listen to. When they decided to look for a keyboardist, Taylor had mentioned his old friend from school, Mike.

  They had picked up Byron from one of their shows, a fan who said he could envision their future. So far, Byron had delivered, moving them from small gigs into the bigger clubs on the Strip.

  The music helped keep his mind busy. Sometimes the notes and lyrics played over and over so much in his head it kept him up at nights. He liked singing so hard that he was exhausted when he went to sleep. Did he want to make it in the big leagues of major musical stardom? Maybe. He knew the others wanted that, as well as everything else that came with fame. Keaton didn’t care about the money or having his name in lights. It was the music that kept him going.

  So he walked, hoping the long walk back to his apartment would tire him out enough so his brain would quiet. He listened to his band, knowing they sounded good but also knowing that they sounded like every other band out there.

  Taylor was right. It was really cold out. His breath formed white mist out of his mouth, and it wasn’t long before his nose started to run. His leather jacket was way too thin for December.

  A small coffee house across the street caught his attention, and the warm lights as well as the strong java smell convinced him to step inside to warm up. The first thing he noticed was that the coffee bar was actually part of a bookstore, so people sat around reading various books as they sipped their drinks. The second thing he noticed wer
e many people who moved toward a small area in the back where seats were lined up around a small, elevated stage.

  “What’s going on?” he asked the clerk as he placed his order for plain old coffee, black.

  “There’s a performance tonight,” the young man replied, handing Keaton his coffee with one hand and a flyer in the other.

  Keaton nodded his thanks and took the flyer, moving toward the back and finding a seat. Since the area wasn’t that large, all seats seemed to be good ones. He sipped his hot coffee and glanced over the flyer. It basically was a list of musical play dates and singers, poetry readers, and various other performers. And then a young woman walked out with an acoustic guitar, sat on the lone bar stool on the tiny stage, and smiled to the assembled audience.

  She was beautiful, Asian with dark eyes shaped like pointed almonds. Her black hair streamed down her back and had undertones of red and purple strewn through its dark hue. She was a tiny thing, her guitar almost covering her up entirely. Keaton felt his breath hitch in his throat.

  “Hello,” she greeted everyone in a singsong voice. Her dark eyes skimmed around the room in a brief glance but came back to him immediately. One eyebrow quirked a bit, and she seemed to give him a private, knowing smile. “My name is Momo Willows. Thank you so much for coming out on this chilly evening.”

  And with that, she adjusted her guitar, plucked a few strings to hear their tone, and then started to sing. Her eyes fell shut, and she sang about love, the words feeling as if pulled from her heart in an aching voice. Her pitch was a little lower than soprano, its natural huskiness giving an almost darker flavor to it.