Except him. He always saw all of her.
“And a drummer and a bassist and a…Simon,” she trailed off, worrying the 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.