Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (24 page)

With the first chord, he realized she’d unplugged the headphones and had the amp twisted low. She strummed out a few more chords, jumping around on the scale, and he realized why when she settled into a melody. The very same one he’d just played for her—only with enough disparities that he knew she wasn’t remembering it exact. When she came to his stopping point, she blazed beyond, taking him by surprise and working the melody into a crescendo and then back again like a crashing wave.

And then she stopped. Before he came out of the music fugue and found his tongue, she apologized. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean to. I swear. It just happened. And if it gets into your head and fucks up where you meant the tune to go…”

“It’s fine. It was straight-up sick. Beyond amazing. Maybe that’s where it was meant to go.”

“I doubt that. You’ll make something way better with it.”

“Play it again so I can record it.” He fumbled for his phone and realized it was still in his jacket, which was somewhere—likely still in the bathroom.

Her firm answer stopped his intent to fetch it. “No. Really. It’s your song. Do whatever you were going to with it.”

“That’s what I want to do with it. But if you don’t want me to record it…”

“I don’t. Okay?”

“You don’t want to write together.” He heard the way his realization came out. Flat. A fucked up truth he’d just been slapped in the face with. As numbing as the day hate crime charges had been filed against him, or the day the PI he’d hired had shown him the video of his wife with another man.

“It’s not that.” Her denial was hurried. In his opinion, way too quickly voiced.

“No?” Sarcasm coated the word, and he wished he could take it back and replace it with an unemotional answer.

“It’s something I’d need to think about.”

“Look. I get it, dammit. I can be stubborn when it comes to shit I want. But I get it. Finally.” His feet hit the floor, and he shoved them sockless into his shoes.”

“What are you doing?” His eyes had adjusted enough to see her gray shadow rise up against the white wall as her question rang out. When he didn’t answer, she persisted. “Is that your shoes? Are you leaving? Gage, what the fuck? I said I’d need to think about it. I didn’t say… Fuck will you stop?”

The strangled syllables of her last question paused his maniacal dance in the dark while gathering his things. Light filled the room, and reflexively, intent on shielding any emotion that might show on his face, he turned his back to her while zipping his bag.

“I thought about it. I’ll work with you.” There was desperation in her tone.

His shoulders shook, and he actually swiped a hand down his face to assess whether he was laughing or crying. “Forget it.”

“What do you mean ‘forget it?’”

“I mean For. Get. It.
I
don’t wanna work with
you
.”

“You said you did!”

“Because I did. And now I don’t.”

The moment his hand touched the door latch, she screamed. “Dammit, Gage. Don’t you dare open that door! Tell me what the hell is going on!”

“What’s going on is I think you have incredible talent, and I wanted to tap into it. To see what we came up with together. Then you made it into something it wasn’t. Twisting it all around like I was trying to tap your juicy ass!”

Behind him, her silence was probably due to shock. Never in their most intimate dialogues had he used the word juicy in reference to her. That word in his mind had always been reserved in reference to groupie sluts. Despite the twinge of shame, he didn’t apologize—or shut up. “Maybe I hadn’t fully accepted it before. But after this shit right here. I get it. Finally. You never meant to be with a musician and are making damn sure you don’t repeat the mistake. I know you think your reasoning on that is good, and I’ve tried to respect your feelings even though it’s hard to always think with my head when you’re around.” Satisfied he’d calmed enough that his face was stone, he turned, finding her huddled on the bed. Those beautiful blues were fixed on him, and they were brimming. Tears of anguish or anger, he couldn’t distinguish. “And that’s fine. Logically, I know if I ever want to get my career back, I’ve got to make sure I don’t revive the scandals I’ve created or make more. You and me together as a couple is a publicity fiasco waiting to happen worse than that video ever was.”

“Where are you going?”

His fingers curled, gripping the door latch, willing himself to give it a twist. To pull open the door and step out into the night and leave this part of his life behind. To leave behind the woman he loved and to meet up with his sister for breakfast. “Back to my room. You know. The one I’m stuck in with the drummer of an ‘on the rise’ band.”

“And back to the girls.” Her matter of fact words were choked as if she were forcing them through a closed windpipe.

Like the song they’d spontaneously created, tonight together had begun gently, crested and crashed, and now the thundering wave had shattered apart. The new mood descended with the softness of surf being drawn gently back into the ocean.

“No.” Dropping his bag, he took the two steps to sit beside her. “Landon will have to kick ’em out if they’re still there. Because fuck it all, I need some sleep.”
As if sleeping would be possible after the shit that had just gone down with Scar
. But he needed to try. He stroked a hand down her hair. “You need sleep too.”

Her head tipped into his palm, and her chest heaved a relaxed sigh, drawing his eyes of course to that thin excuse for a shirt and the curves beneath it. “Gage?”

“Hmm?” He jerked his guilty gaze above her neck.

“Lay the fuck down, and let’s get that sleep.” When she tugged, he let himself go down.

His head hit the pillow next to hers and when she turned, reaching up to flip the light off, she remained facing the wall when she relaxed. Using his toes, he slipped first one shoe and then the other off and they each hit the floor with a thump.

“Can you grab the covers?”

Feeling around, he snagged the edge of the sheet and blanket and drew it over them. He lay for a quarter of an hour, wondering if she too was wide-awake. And then he fell into the deepest sleep he’d had in more than a year.

Scar apparently rested just as well, sleeping through the wakeup call from the tour manager when it rang his phone. He dug the phone from the pocket of his shorts and sent a confirming text. Next, he borrowed her shower, dressed, and when she still hadn’t woken, he climbed back into bed to steal a last few minutes with her.

He was playing with her hair when her eyes opened, and he enjoyed the lethargic disorientation in her gaze. Her eyes were relaxed and untroubled, her gaze roving intimately down his face before invisible shields shot up.

He mimicked, buffering his own expression and curving a deceptive smile. “Morning, Sis.” Bounding up from the bed, he dragged his bag to the corner next to hers and left it for pickup, knowing the next time he saw his things he would be in a new city and a new room.

With a flourish, he settled his shades on his nose. “And so it begins.” Waggling his brows as if he were speaking of pre-show interviews and a full itinerary, he let himself out the door.

And so it begins. Another go at siblings only
. Because if that’s what it took to keep her in his life, then that was to become a way of life.

“S
hit.” Expelling the curse to an empty room, I stared at the closed door. I had already failed at resisting Gage in off-tour mode. And Gage in full-on-rock-star mode was ten times more dangerous to my libido.

Rock stars were supposed to be obnoxious. Full of themselves. Reckless party animals. Where was obnoxious, conceited, fucked up Gage?

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Grabbing my phone, I viciously jabbed out a text and then waited, frustrated when an answer didn’t come.
Where are you Ivy? You’re never around anymore when I need you
.

The next text I sent to Landon.

I’d already scoped out the food vendors. All of these festivals had menus catering to special diets, making my job a lot easier than it was on the bus.

The picture of the greasy burrito he sent did look delicious.

I’d just finished cleaning out my room when one of the crew came by. “Got everything you need?” When I nodded with a pat to my giant shoulder bag, he tossed the luggage into a golf cart. I’d even taken a quick peek through Gage’s things to make sure he hadn’t forgotten something he couldn’t do without.

The eight loose condoms in the bottom of his bag stuck in my mind. Was he hooking up, discreetly enough that I hadn’t noticed? I could count the minutes on one hand that I’d been in his dressing room. And in hotels, I’d never know.

I wandered the grounds, waded in the lake, and caught part of a show from the VIP stand. I met Gage and their tour manager for a bite to eat. I replied some inconsequential response when Ivy finally texted back, ignored a text from Henni, and sent a text to Logan with a picture attachment of a couple wearing frog leg boots.

And I drooled over Gage in all of his rock godliness when Rattler took the stage.

By that evening, I was lying in a hotel bed in Croatia, thinking about those damn condoms again. Gage was back in big brother mode. All day he’d been sweet and funny, but no longer flirty. His eyes hadn’t lingered when we’d sat across from each other in the ride to the airport. We’d boarded the train and he’d chosen a seat a few down from mine instead of coming up with crazy excuses to ensure we sat together.

Turning my head to the window, I took in the stretch of turquoise sea beyond the rooftops. Iron bars just outside the glass sectioned the view into six neat rectangles.

I texted Ivy, but was no longer surprised or upset when no text came right back. Wayne Ketchum had somehow obtained my email, and after reading his threat over my ‘late payment,’ I saved it out of sight into a folder. Once I’d passed along the news of the DNA test to my mother, I’d honestly expected the slimy snake to disappear. I knew I needed to talk to my lawyers about the past extortions, but being on tour was like an alternate reality. With a last look at the clock, I texted my two clients.

To which Landon’s predictable response was ‘Just what are you offering, Bunny Pie?’ His reply was always suggestive, and I’d quit even humorously texting back ‘a chillaxing potion, Casanova’ or similar.

Gage, the un-obnoxious band member; Gage, the brother texted back: ‘I’m okay. Thanks, Sis.’

In a lethargic mode, I swung my legs from the bed and stripped off my jeans en route to the bathroom. I showered the traveling grime from my weary body and dawdled, thinking of Gage until my knees went weak, and I grabbed the showerhead for support. No hotel robe hung at the ready, so I wrapped in a towel and padded back into the main room. After turning off the lamp, I grabbed a couple of random mini-bottles from the fridge and stood in the darkness before the window. The sun had been replaced by city lights, the glow curving around the inky blackness of the sea and horizon.

Trying the clasp, I discovered the windowpanes drew open and the night air caressed my still-damp skin and hair. I plugged in my amp and settled with my guitar in the confines of the windowsill.

I mixed up a potion for my mixed up emotions

And sat by the sea drinking to my misery

Pausing, I glugged the liquor until only a sip or two remained.

If I mixed an elixir; if one sip would fix us

Would you sip by the sea with me?

Not bad? Maybe the key to great lyrics was to drink while composing.

The festival in Croatia
was followed up by a few shows over the next couple of weeks in smaller venues. We traveled by bus. A sleeper coach is what I heard it referred to. Instead of the bunks being in the middle of the long vehicle, the bus was a double decker and our pods were sectioned off on the top story. It was roomier and quieter, yet terrifying to me for the same inexplicable reason the folding festival rooms had been. I couldn’t shake the feeling the bus was top-heavy, and I had more than one nightmare of a bus wreck.