Twisted(73)

She opened her eyes and he was in front of her, his grin a kilowatt of light capable of illuminating the darkest space. It crowded out the confusion and frustration inside her, leaving behind only joy.

“You did it. You fucking killed it, baby.” He came around the kit and hoisted her up off her stool, giving her no choice but to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. Like a pair of drunken monkeys, they spun around the room until they were so dizzy that they fell back on the sofa, laughing.

Tossing back her sweat-soaked hair, she sank into the cushions and let her exhaustion win. And smiled as his fingers crept across the space between them and forged a link. Such a small, seemingly insignificant gesture.

Nothing had ever meant more.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Now



Jazz hopped from foot to foot backstage, grimacing more than a little at the stickiness of the floor. Her own fault for needing to play the drums barefoot. Not that she’d let a bit of grime change her show routine. Musicians were notoriously suspicious, and she wore the badge proudly. Especially since she was pretty sure she might ralph at any time.

She rarely got nervous before shows anymore, but tonight she was. That probably had to do with Gray’s declaration that he was going to sing his song to her onstage, sight unseen. Or unheard. She’d only gotten a few verses out of the jerk, and those were plenty dirty. She couldn’t even imagine what the rest would be like.

But Nick could. And Simon. And Deak. Gray had slipped their bassist and lead singer the change in their usual setlist and he’d banned her from anything but a music-only rehearsal of that song, saying he wanted to get her “natural reaction” to the words during the live performance. Apparently Nick had helped him refine the song even before Deak and Simon had gotten a look at it. Everyone in Oblivion had contributed.

Except her.

And, you know, there wasn’t anything weird at all about her ex-boyfriend and her current boyfriend collaborating on an ode to having sex with her, or some variation on that theme. She couldn’t be sure since she hadn’t heard the stupid thing yet. The melody was freaking hot though. Lots of buildup on the guitar and a low, throbbing drumbeat that had made her squirm on her stool even without the matching lyrics.

Damn, she wanted to find out what he’d written.

She’d tried to tamp down on her frustration all afternoon. They’d agreed to throw a couple of new songs into the setlist to give the crowd at Tribute, a medium-sized club halfway between Santa Monica and San Francisco, an extra special treat. Lila had been appraised of the setlist change, with the exception of Gray and Nick’s last minute addition, “Sugar Kiss.”

That was their showpiece. Their crème brûlée.

Her Mylanta moment.

Screw it, she couldn’t wait anymore to find out some of the song. If it was for her, she shouldn’t be the last to know. If she had to, she’d put on her best pouty face and maybe flash a little boob Gray’s way. She had her own bag of naughty tricks, and she wasn’t above using them.

She marched toward the men’s dressing room, well aware that only Simon and Gray still remained inside. Nick had vanished with one of the more regular groupies, Tori, and from the look on the brunette’s face, she’d been prepared to take Nick’s mind completely off the impending show. Deak had disappeared with his phone, probably to check on Harper.

Leaving her two victims behind.

After knocking on the dressing room door, she pushed it open, her statement dying on her lips as she heard the conversation taking place within.

“Okay, now you gotta layer the second layer on top of the first. Curl your wrist on the downsweep. That’ll get more of it to cling to the end of your lashes.”

“It’s clumping. Is it supposed to clump like that?”

“Oh Christ, let me do it. Look up.”

Covering her mouth, she stuck her head around the door to get a visual to go with the dialogue. It was even better seeing it than hearing it.

Gray sat on the stool in front of the lighted mirror and Simon perched on the dressing table, one of his hands tilting up Gray’s face and the other deftly applying mascara to Gray’s eyelashes.

At least she assumed it was deft until she screeched and Simon’s hand slipped across Gray’s cheek, leaving a giant blue-black smear.

“Jesus, woman, a little forewarning, hey?” Disgusted, Simon grabbed a makeup wipe and attacked Gray’s face. Gray shoved him away but Simon wouldn’t be deterred, ambushing him with a knee damn near to the groin to hold him still while he cleaned up the mascara. “Stop squirming! If I crush a nut, it’ll be your own damn fault.”