Bang (Hard Rock Harlots Book 5) Page 8
I rub my eyes.
Toombs steals glances at me in the mirror, setting me further on edge. The corners of his lips curl upward into the same knowing smile from before.
Fucker.
Am I the last to know I’m an uninitiated member of a covert, submissive society that recognizes its members by their “bottom” pheromones instead of secret handshakes? What kind of conspiracy is this?
I park at the thirty-five-bucks-a-day lot and shack up my cheap-ass rental. It’s a short walk to the homestead, which is a gorgeous antebellum number that’s way too good for the likes of Killer Buzz Float, but these kids need some mood for the new record, and NOLA reeks of it.
The dynamic drummer duo follows me up the steps with their suitcases. I storm into the place with a grumble.
“Navigating the goddamn airport and getting through the shitty post-Mardi Gras fallout blew half my day. Next time I’ll send a taxi and let someone else deal with it.” I hurl a meaningful look at Toombs, smacking him right between the eyes. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy jacking up an alpha male peacock puff, pawing at Jinx for Rax’s sake as they make a pass of the kitchen.
The whole crew’s here. Letty in a belly shirt and flannel PJ bottoms, Shades with his fucked-up hair sticking out everywhere, and Rax. For a fleeting second, my heart bleeds for him. His eyes are exhausted, lined, and very red. He looks ten years older than he did yesterday. Whatever drives him to drink is gonna kill him one day if he doesn’t get his shit together.
And Jinx and Toombs’s collective body language has totally shifted since they saw him sitting at the kitchen table. The sickly sweet, lovey-dovey shit from the car has soured into something stinky and chunky.
Their personal lives are not your business, Jillian. Business is your business.
Still, I can’t help but hurt for Rax. Sometimes, I watch him when he’s not looking. A sad, lonely man lives under the smart-ass, bad-boy façade. He likes to wisecrack and pretend he owns the world, that he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself, but deep down, he cares more than he’ll admit. Especially about Toombs.
Letty and Jinx catch up and head upstairs.
The vacation has ended. I shift gears into first, full-speed ahead, and assume my Mommie Dearest attitude. I wave Toombs into a seat and read the boys the riot act.
“Mardi Gras is over, and it’s time to get serious about recording this album. We’re scheduled in the studio in a couple of hours. Griff, the new producer, wants to share his vision for the record. Give him input. If you don’t like something, tell him. He knows what works and what sells, so I want you to be open to trying different things.
“Rax, I need you sober for the next couple weeks.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I’ll let you off the hook on the weekends, as long as I don’t get any more calls from the police station or hospital. But I’m dead fucking serious. You fuck this up for the rest of us, and I’ll put your ass on a plane back to Athens and find someone who can handle it.”
The petulant child flings himself against his chair, barely suppressing a fit. Well, at least he has the courtesy to try to control himself.
I point a finger at him and then Toombs. “And whatever this silent treatment shit is, get the fuck over it. As guitarists for Killer Buzz Float, you two have the tightest musical relationship in this band. I want to feel every harmony, every lick, and every syncopated rhythm like an orgasm in my ears. Audio jack-offs. Got it?”
Avoiding each other, they both nod. I pull out a real cigarette (I think I’ve earned it), exit the kitchen, and head for the courtyard, shaking all over.
God-fucking-damn it.
The door shuts behind me, and I nearly drop my Bic while lighting up. The tobacco catches fire and flares red. I hug myself around the middle with one arm and suck in a long drag, savoring the burn on the way down.
My phone rings. Miles.
I blow out a long breath and hit the answer button.
“Hello, darling ex-husband,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel. How am I more drained than usual after everything that happened last night?
“Ex-wife. How are you this lovely morning?”
“These kids, Miles. These fucking kids. If I didn’t love them so much, I’d be plotting their murders tonight. Well, maybe not Shades. He’s the least abrasive of the bunch.”
“So, work is treating you well?”
I sigh. “Sorry. It’s been nonstop since I woke up.”
“I won’t keep you,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And I need to apologize.”
“For what?” We both know what, but he can say it for clarity.
“The setup. I didn’t mean any harm by it.”
“I know you didn’t.” My voice softens. I take a quick puff and flick my ashes on the ground. “And I’m fine.”
“You’re smoking again?”
“What are you, outfitted with bionic hearing? Jesus.” I consider the cigarette and start to throw it away, but then I think the better of it.
“The scene last night was supposed to de-stress you, not make you chain smoke. Did I fail to achieve my goal with you yet again?”
I laugh. “No, I’m pretty sure you hit the jackpot.”
He laughs too.
Silence fills the airspace.
“But, in all seriousness, if you ever want to try something like that again—”
“I’m good. And I appreciate what you did. It was … fun.” That’s not a lie. It was fun. But my session with Miles confirmed that we really aren’t compatible anymore, despite how much I wish we were. It’s a good lesson to learn. Hard, but necessary.
“You gonna be around tonight?” he says.
“No, I’m booked solid for the rest of my stay,” I lie. “The band. Recording. Negotiating contracts. You know the drill.”
It takes a few seconds for him to answer. “If you change your mind—”
“No, thanks. I’m done with that scene.” Remembering Siren’s face as she came, I remove the card from my pocket and touch the end of my dwindling cigarette to its corner. Smoke wisps around my knuckles with a sudden breeze.
“Okay,” Miles says grudgingly. “Call me before you leave?”
“Sure.” The fire gains a stronghold over the paper and devours the numbers one by one until they’re all gone. “Goodbye, Miles.”
Take Five … Hours
“No, no, no.” Griff unhooks his headphones and tosses them aside. The control room is way too fucking small, especially considering the size of this guy’s ego. I cringe at the thought of another “lesson” for the band. They’re getting irritated, and so am I, but for different reasons.
Griff leans in to the mic broadcasting to the live room and says, “Everybody stop.”
The music crashes and burns. I don’t have to look through the window to see the discouragement on the band members’ faces. They’re projecting it like a sonic boom.
“Shades, that bass line needs to syncopate more boldly with Jinx’s drums. And Jinx, can you drop some more runs into the last phrase you did and change up the accents? Like dum-dum-DUM-dah-DUM?” He bangs out the rhythm with his hands.
Jinx nods and messes around with some different beats while Shades follows her lead, chasing her up the frets of his bass. This goes on for several measures. They stop and exchange a few quiet words I can’t make out. Shades tunes his bass for the umpteenth time. He’s gotta get better strings for that thing.
Letty hitches her hands to her hips and huffs loudly into the mic. “Mom, I’m borrrrrrrred.”
“Christ,” Griff mumbles under his breath.
“Let’s take five.” Losing my headphones, I throw Letty a cool it scowl and beckon her to the booth with a crooked finger. She stomps around to the door and flings it open. Arms folded across her chest, she stares me down from the other side of the threshold, daring me to cross it. I step out of the booth while Griff walks Jinx and Shades through the rhythm section hang-up.
She pouts. “You said I could stay with those fuckers.” She points to where Shades and Jinx are tits-deep in a discussion about accents and time signatures.
“Providing you don’t make trouble, which you’re doing. Again.”
She shoves a sucker in her mouth. Where the hell did that come from? “But my middle name is Trouble.”
“Do I need to take you to the doctor for some calmy-downy meds, young lady?”
Her gaze wanders thoughtfully across the ceiling and then flits back to me. “Maybe?”
I spin her around and march her to one of the couches in the hallway. “Sit.”
Her pink-and-black-checkered Vans fly up as she falls into the cushions and sucks loudly on her lollipop. I snatch it away. “That’ll fuck up your voice.”
“Meanie!” she shouts and sticks out her red-stained tongue at me.
Time to get her out of here.
I duck my head into the live room. “I’m going for coffee. Anybody want anything?”
Heads shake. Rax glances at Toombs, unhooks his guitar strap, and sets the instrument on a nearby stand. He breezes past me. Toombs follows him with his eyes but continues silently fingering his frets to the song playing in his head.
“Whoa, where are you going?” I demand, stopping Rax with a hand to his chest. He’s sweaty. Dark circles puff under his eyes.
“You said we could take a break. They’re gonna be a lot longer than five.” Rax jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Text me when you need me.”
I grab his wrist and stare at him long and hard. “No booze.”
He meets my eyes. “No booze.”
The kid is a fucking liar, but I can’t stay on top of him 24/7. I drop my arm, and he wanders to the exit.
“What the hell is his problem?” I turn to Letty.
She shrugs. “He’s an asshole?”
“That’s a given.” I watch after him until the door to the parking lot closes. “Let’s go.”
“I hate coffee.”
“No, you don’t. Letty, you can’t run amok, wreaking havoc while everyone’s working.”
“I haven’t even flashed my tits yet.”
“I know,” I groan. “Please don’t do that.”
She strokes her breasts. “They’re pretty titties.”
“Come on.” I grab her arm and yank. She won’t budge. For as petite as she is, she’s solid as a steel drum full of rubber spaghetti with a side of fucking lead meatballs.
“I promise to be good if you let me stay.” Letty holds up a hand in pledge. She sucks at looking solemn. Comes off as more of a grinning wolf than an angelic Girl Scout swearing on her honor.
Sigh. “What are you going to do, then?”
“Read a dirty magazine. Shades hides ’em in his bass case and other secret places for me to find. It’s like a scavenger hunt. Whatever porn I find, I get to act out with him in the bunk—”
“TMI, sister. Say no more.”
Rax paces just past the door to the parking lot. He seems to be talking to himself. And probably stealing sips from the flask he thinks no one knows about. Which gives me an idea …
I sit next to Letty. “You said you’re bored? I’ve got a job for you. I want you to keep an eye on Rax for me while I’m gone.”
She lifts a brow. “You mean like, private-investigator-keep-an-eye-on-him?”
“Yes,” I say. “Spy on his ass. And report your findings when I get back.”
She leans closer and drops her voice. “You think he’s up to no good?”
“Absolutely.” I lower my voice too. “Be my eyes and ears on the ground.”
“Hell yeah!” Her face brightens.
Perfect.
Toombs hikes up his slipping jeans on his way out of the live room. I catch a glimpse of the barrel of a gun tattooed at his hip as he walks toward us. “They’re rewriting the entire bass and drum line,” he says quietly, glancing over his shoulder.
I rub my forehead. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
This could take hours. If Griff weren’t a musical genius, I’d tell him to shove Jinx’s drumsticks up his ass. Sideways. And unsanded.
“Don’t worry, boss. I’ve got everything covered.” Letty winks meaningfully. “Enjoy your coffee. I’ll hold down the fort.”
Exactly what I’m afraid of.
Toombs looks at her. Looks at me. “I’ll go with you,” he says.
Okayyy.
I cock my head to the side and check my watch for the date. Nope, April Fool’s Day is still several weeks away. I turn to Letty. “We won’t be long. No making improvised sex toys. No tit flashing. No disruptions of any kind, understand?”
“Yes, Mom.” Her mischievous grin promises she’ll have fucked this place up thirteen ways to Thursday by the time I return.
“We’d better go quick,” I say to Toombs.
He nods and follows me outside. Hands stuffed in his pockets and head bowed, Rax wanders the parking lot, kicking rocks.
“Go play your guitar or something!” I shout as Toombs and I slip into the car.
Rax counters with something indecipherable and throws up his middle finger. For a second, he and Toombs lock eyes. Hurt passes between them.
Shooting Toombs a sideways glance, I wait for an explanation that won’t come. The muscles in his cheek ripple as I turn the ignition. “You two gotta get over this shit. Whatever it is,” I mumble.
His subtle head shake tells me this topic of conversation is off-limits.
Fine. Silence it is.
The coffee shop is a ten-minute drive from the studio. Toombs stares out the window the entire ride. We go inside, and I order a triple espresso to go. “You want something?” I ask him.
“Just a cup of coffee. Black.”
The order placed and paid for, we move aside to let the next customers step up.
“So, what happened with the Domme?” Toombs asks.
Good thing I’m not sipping my joe yet, or Toombs would be wearing it on his face. It takes me a second to recover the pieces of my jaw from the floor and reassemble them.
Do I blow him off with a lie or admit the truth?
He already knows. Lying would just make me look foolish. I opt for buying time. “What happened with the Domme?” I repeat and lower my gaze to the fascinating tiles between my feet. “I wish I knew.”
“Was it your first time?”
I snap my head up. “Since when are you so nosy about people’s personal lives?”
He shrugs. “Like recognizes like.”
Never in a million years would I have pegged—no pun intended—Toombs for a bottom. Never.
Not that I’m a bottom. Just because I played one last night doesn’t make me submissive.
I meet Toombs’s silver eyes.
Does it?
I catch myself staring and sashay toward a table for two in the corner by the window. He follows. “Maybe we don’t have to rush right back to the studio,” I say. “We can drink our coffee here.”
He nods.
My fidgeting hands don’t know what to do with themselves. So I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table where I can see them, and to force them to behave.
I look up at Toombs. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Not in a creepy stalker way, but the way a cat watches a fish trapped in a too-small bowl. The paw poised over the lip of the glass lowers as if to give this goldfish a pass. Mighty kind of him.
“You seem to be handling the recording shit well,” I say, eager for a change of verbal backdrop.
“The rhythm guitarist has the easiest job in the band,” he says. “I’m basically the back-up singer. Just tell me what key we’re in, and I can jump in anywhere.”
I laugh. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“No, it isn’t.” Elbows braced on the table, he folds his hands and rests his chin on the tangle of knuckles. “When you tear something dow
n to its most basic elements, each piece is either a yes or a no. Yes, I can play that scale, or no, I need to practice more. Yes, I’m hungry, so I’ll eat, or no, I’m not, so I’ll pass on the escargot drizzled in bear bile. Yes, I need you to hit me with your belt so I can come, or no, thanks, I’m fine without the pain, but check back tomorrow.”
The table is too small for this conversation. The coffee shop is too intimate a venue. Yet, Toombs is the only person I know other than Miles who understands.
I study him for signs of teasing. I find no traces of devilment aside from his tattoos, which can’t be held accountable for his words or actions.
He leans a few inches closer. “Did she make you come, Jillian?”
“Jillian!” the barista shouts at the same time from the counter and sets our drinks down.
I startle, jump up, and scuttle over to grab the cups. How the hell does Toombs read me so well?
When I return to the table, I set his coffee in front of him and resume my chair. A quick sip of my espresso emboldens me. I have nothing to lose by coming clean. Toombs isn’t a blabbermouth like Letty. Total opposites.
“I got fucked by a guy getting fucked by another guy while a girl and a nameless guy watched the shit go down. How’d you spend your Mardi Gras?”
A rare, amused smile softens his features, but only for a couple breaths. “Not nearly as … vigorously as you did.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised.
Shit, his brain could be the Holy Grail of BDSM knowledge. Maybe Toombs can help me understand.
“But you indulged too,” I guess.
“You could say that.” A two-way mirror of truth settles between us. He’s on the inside looking out at me, but all I can see is my own reflection. Not fair.
I glance over the edge of the table toward his crotch. “That’s why you’re limping. She did a number on you.”
“I’m not discussing my private life. I’m discussing yours. You gonna fill me in on the details or make me use my imagination?”