Twisted(7)

Hesitantly, she slid her lips over the tips of his fingers and eased back. Smiled. “Yeah. Perfect.”





CHAPTER FOUR

Now



Jazz stepped inside the VIP room at Sharkey’s and smiled at the plastic palm tree covered with Christmas lights beside the entrance. Nope, it no longer looked like a dive. It also didn’t look like the typical Ripper Records shindig put together by their scarily efficient manager, Lila. In fact, after taking in the attire of the waitresses with their low-cut tops and skimpy red velvet skirts, Jazz did a double take to make sure she hadn’t wandered into a more upscale version of the strip club down the block.

Curved leather couches wrapped around low tables bearing flickering candles and lovely displays of poinsettias and greenery that were largely wasted on this bunch. Jazz wondered if Deacon’s new wife Harper, Oblivion’s in-residence chef, had helped out with the menu, because the offerings on the buffet table defied description. God, so much food. Colorful bottles lined the wall behind the glossy bar to her left. It nearly sagged under the festive Christmas lights that seemed to drip from every surface. Long ribbons of lights even hung from the ceiling.

And people were making out, approximately everywhere.

A pair of redheads had wrapped themselves around Simon. She’d seen one of them on their bus before. Monica, maybe? Deacon and his wife were kissing much less lewdly than Simon’s reenactment of a porno, but they were tangled up too. Even a couple of the roadies had cozied up with their conquests for the night.

Love and lust were everywhere. Except anywhere near her. Figured.

She needed a drink, fast.

Bellying up to the bar, Jazz plastered on a smile. “I’d like a Zombie, please.”

The bartender leered. “You like a strong drink, little lady?”

Oh Christ. One of those. She tried to keep her smile in place. “Sure. I’m really thirsty.”

He licked his lips. “Oh, I just bet you are.”

Though she rarely drank, she made an exception on New Year’s Eve. After he deposited her drink in front of her and disappeared down the bar, she took a hefty swallow. She grimaced. Rum. Ugh. She tried again with a smaller sip. Still toxic, but manageable. Why did people do this to themselves again?

Oh yeah, to have a good time. Right.

She sucked off a cherry on her swizzle stick and spun around on her stool to survey the packed bar. Familiar faces mixed with strangers. Still, the usual suspects stood out. Simon and his women had stopped playing tongue twister and were doing some jumping thing that Jazz supposed counted as dancing. Deacon and Harper had snagged a high-top table and were sharing a plate of chicken wings. Harper was gesturing wildly and Deacon was just grinning, looking utterly content. The new husband and father-to-be seemed pretty pleased with himself. Who could blame him? He was in the market for a cute little house for his family and he’d left the bed-hopping scene behind. Simon probably never would.

Donovan, the head of Ripper Records, had opened a bottle of champagne and was smiling as a perky blonde poured for him and a couple of the other execs. Lila watched the entire scene with a cool gleam in her eyes, waving off the bubbly in favor of bottled water. She gripped her ever-present tablet, but she’d ditched her usual business suit for slim trousers, a silky blouse and what looked like real pearls. Everything about her from her wardrobe to her bone structure gave her a haughty, sophisticated air. Even the purse of her lips looked regal.

Nick was around too, wandering from group to group, never landing anywhere for long. Since the show he’d been texting Jamie from Brooklyn Dawn, their opening act. He claimed he was scoping out the rest of Brooklyn Dawn’s winter touring schedule because they “brought a different dynamic” to the stage—AKA an excess of boobs—but Jazz hadn’t pursued the subject. She had other things on her mind.

Like where Gray was.

He’s probably showering with Busty Blonde Babe.

Jazz pried off her other cherry and chewed, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. The sensation had started in her chest, right where her racing heart was doing its best impression of a kick drum.

He wasn’t coming. Why had she pretended otherwise?

So what if it was New Year’s? He didn’t know she’d made a resolution to stop dancing around what she wanted and finally go for it. The it being Gray. She’d worn her version of something classy—a little black dress, patterned tights and chunky heels—and she intended to march up to him at midnight, grab that rock-cut jaw and kiss the holy hell out of him. Then she would strut away.

Lots of marching and strutting. The plan hinged on that. If he followed, well, they’d just see where things went. If he didn’t…