Pure Iron (22 page)

He dropped a kiss onto her hair and carried the bowl to the table. The small muscles in Sonia’s upper arms bulged as she lifted the heavy pot and followed.

“What’s for lunch, Sonia?” Davis asked as he sniffed appreciatively.

“Beef stroganoff,” she replied. “Hey, would you set the potholder there for me?”

Davis slid the potholder beneath the bottom of the pot as she lowered it to the table.

“Thanks,” she said. “Mick, would you serve the noodles?”

“Sure, babe,” he answered and picked up Angelo’s plate. He dumped a load of egg noodles on the plate and held it near the pot. Sonia spooned the creamy stroganoff over the noodles. Five more plates followed in succession.

“Wine,” Jack said. “This needs wine.”

Sonia hopped up, but Mick set a hand on her shoulder and said, “Stay put, honey. I’ll get a bottle. Recommend something.”

“The Gewurztraminer,” she said.

“The what?”

“Gewurztraminer,” she repeated. “There are two bottle of white wine in the ’fridge; one’s a pinot grigio. Get the other bottle.”

He nodded and fetched the wine, opening it before he returned. Sonia found some wine glasses and brought those to the table.

“Beer goes well with this, too,” she commented to no one in particular.

Davis and Kris both rose to fetch beer from the refrigerator.

In a couple of minutes, the six people were happily eating their lunch, discussing the morning’s practice, and planning out the evening’s show.

“I heard Lorde is in Vegas this week,” Angelo announced. “She’s been dropping in on several acts.”

“Lorde?”

“Lorde is her stage name,” Jack explained with a slight grimace. “She’s …she’s … ugh. Sorry, folks, but I just don’t like her music.”

“She’s no Carrie Underwood, that’s for sure,” Angelo agreed. “I don’t think her music’s all that bad, but it’s monotonous. If you’ve heard one of her tunes, you’ve heard them all. Like the Beach Boys.”

“Hey, I like the Beach Boys,” Sonia protested. “My grandpa raised my dad on that and he raised me on that. It’s good stuff.”

“You probably like Fleetwood Mac, too,” Jack scoffed.

“Yes, I do like Fleetwood Mac. And C.C.R. and Little Big Town.” She sniffed haughtily and said, “My tastes are eclectic.”

Mick leaned back in his chair and asked, “Sonia, what do you think about Iron Falcon?”

She suddenly looked like a hunted rabbit. But she swallowed her noodles and said, “I like the music you’ve been composing lately.”

Mick raised one eyebrow and Kris tilted his chair back as he laughed.

“Well, that puts us in our place,” Davis commented with a grin.

“What are we doing after the show?” Angelo asked when the laughter died down.

“I’m coming home to sleep with my wife,” Mick said. “I don’t care what you guys do.”

“You don’t want me at the concert?” Sonia asked, her voice small and her expression radiating hurt.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” he said softly.

“But, of course, I want to come. I want to support you. This is a big night for you.” Then her expression turned pensive and she said, “But maybe you don’t want me there.”

“Baby—”

“She’s playing you, hotshot,” Kris said.

Mick shot him a disgruntled glance and turned his attention back to his wife. “Sonia, if you want to come, you’re more than welcome. All you’ve got to do is let me know.”

She nodded. “I want to come.”

“Then you will,” he said firmly, thinking,
Pun intended.

Davis tactfully steered the conversation to other topics. When they finished eating, the men helped with clearing the table, washing dishes, and tidying up the kitchen.

“You cooked, we’ll clean,” Jack said as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “And, as good as you cook, it’s no hardship to clean up after you.”

“You’re sweet, Jack.”

“I’ll happily give you a taste,” he quipped.

“Quit flirting with my
wife
, jackass,” Mick growled.

“I know he’s not serious,” Sonia protested with a small smile. “He just wants me to cook for him.”

“When do you start your new job?” Angelo inquired to shift the conversation away from topics that would trigger Mick’s temper.

“Monday next week. I’m so excited!”

“Mick tells me that you’ll be working for that big-name chef … Kilrook, right?”

“Yes. He’s an absolute master in the kitchen. It’s really a privilege to work under him.”

“
With
him or
for
him, but not
under
him,” Davis corrected. “Let’s not put the poor man on Mick’s shit list before he’s even thought of doing anything wrong.”

Sonia looked a bit surprised and bewildered.

Davis patiently explained, “He’s a possessive kind of guy. Don’t touch his guitar, his violin, or his wife or he’ll break your face.”

“Mick, don’t you trust me?”

“Babe, I trust you. I don’t trust them.”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“Any other man who isn’t me, your dad, or your brother.”

She walked up to him, jabbing a pointed finger into his sternum, and said, “Then listen up, buster. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Don’t screw up, because I find I’m pretty possessive myself.”

Mick’s hand wrapped around her fist and he drew it down and behind her so that her back arched a little and she was pressed against him. He leaned down to kiss her. Her eyes were glazed over with heady passion when he raised his head just enough to say, “Get out of here, guys. I need to fuck my wife.”

They left.

Mick pulled his unresisting wife to the bedroom where he proceeded to make sure she screamed his name after begging him with nearly incoherent words of “more” and “please” and “harder.”

That familiar excitement thrummed through him as he showered and dressed for that first performance. Luckily, the players of Iron Falcon didn’t adhere to a certain costume or dress code, so street clothes served just as well on stage. The only concessions he made to the performance was to secure his hair in a low ponytail so it wouldn’t interfere with playing the violin and the fingerless leather driving gloves that would protect his instruments from his sweaty palms. He rolled his shoulders and donned the iron falcon pendant.

He retreated to the kitchen for a quick swig of juice. Minutes later, Sonia joined him, wearing the blue sundress that made her eyes look as blue as a summer sky. He smiled at her, remembering the last time she had worn it: their first day in Vegas. “You’re beautiful,” he complimented her. “So beautiful.”

She smiled with joy and pleasure, then turned and presented her back to him. “Zip me up?”

He did so, pressing a chaste kiss to the nape of her neck.

“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She nodded and took it. “Ready.”

Sonia tried and failed to prevent herself from gaping at the throng of humanity that strolled along the famous Las Vegas strip at night.

“Whooeee!” Jack cried out. “Would you look at that!”

Everyone turned to look out the other side of the limousine. A small group of men and women wearing little more than body paint were openly dancing—at least Sonia thought they might be dancing—to flashing strobe lights and loud music with a heavy, throbbing beat that made the vehicle’s windows vibrate.

“Only in Vegas,” Kristof murmured.

The vehicle pulled around to the concert hall’s back entrance and the group walked unmolested into the building where they were met with a Caesar’s employee. He greeted them with an empty, professional smile and led them back to the green room, appointed with comfortable furniture and stocked with an impressive array of beverages.

“Catering will deliver trays of hors d’oeuvres shortly,” the concierge promised. He gestured to a door and added, “Dressing rooms and lavatories are through there.”

“Thank you,” Mick said politely. “Is there a place where my wife can sit backstage during the performance?”

“Wife?” the concierge asked with obvious surprise. He checked his tablet, flipping through the pages of the contract and banquet event orders. “I see nothing about a wife, just the usual boilerplate concerning admittance of guests backstage after the performance.”

“We were married early this month,” Mick explained, “long after the contract was executed. We’re not looking for a free hotel suite or anything, just somewhere where she can watch the performance without being mobbed.”

The concierge nodded and rapidly typed in new notes. “We have a private viewing area that’s currently unoccupied,” he said. He looked up and added, “It’s not free.”

Mick nodded and replied, “I’ll pay for the space rental.”

“If he can’t cover it, then I will,” Kristof added. The other four men each nodded, silently expressing their support.

The concierge nodded and glanced at his watch. “You’re on in thirty minutes. Yellow Ice is your opener. They’ll be taking the stage in five minutes.”

“Yellow Ice?” Angelo repeated under his breath, not recognizing the name.

“They’re a local band, sort of a tribute band for Metallica,” the concierge explained.

“Are they any good?” Davis inquired.

“Actually, they’re not bad. The name sucks, though,” the concierge added with a little grin.

“Yeah, it does. How’d they come up with that?” Angelo inquired, tilting his head in curiosity.

The concierge shrugged, easily admitting his ignorance. In the grand scheme of his world, the band’s unfortunate name wasn’t important. “Do you want to listen to them?” he asked, pointing toward a speaker on the wall.

“Not right now,” Jack answered. “Best not to before our own performance.”

The concierge nodded, typed something into his tablet, and directed his attention to Sonia. “Mrs. Hendriksen, I’ll return in twenty minutes to lead you to your box.”

She nodded and, with that, he left.

The five men of Iron Falcon found places in the room to lounge, outwardly displaying relaxation even as their discussion focused on technical aspects and any last minute adjustments to the set list. Sonia took a seat next to Mick. He took her hand and held it with both of his, allowing him to play with her hand as he fidgeted.

“Water?” he offered her.

“No, thank you,” she replied, her lips curling into a soft smile.

“Kiss for luck?”

“Gladly,” she replied and leaned over to lightly brush his mouth against his. His big hand cupped the back of hers and he held her so he could deepen the kiss and plunder her mouth.

“Now I’m ready,” he said softly as he reluctantly released her.

Sonia pecked him on his lean cheek and leaned back to her original position, only then noticing the four other men watching with hungry expressions.

“Get your own women,” Mick growled only half-playfully. “This one’s mine.”

Sonia felt something of a yearning for the others, a sympathy perhaps. She rose, gently tugging her hand from Mick’s. She crossed the room and gave each of them a hug.

“I know you’ll be great out there,” she whispered to each as they wrapped their arms around her and she shared her confidence in their talent and music.

Hugs finished, she snagged a bottle of Perrier and returned to her seat beside Mick.

“That was kind of you,” complimented her in an undertone.

“They’re lonely,” she observed shrewdly. “And each wants the closeness that you and I have.”

“You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“They can’t have you.”

“Not like you can.”

He frowned, not liking the inference that she could—and would—share herself, her goodness, and her kindness. But then, that was what he loved about her, right? That gentle and generous nature that softened his rough edges.

A knock at the door was immediately followed by the call of “Five minutes, gentlemen!” The five men of Iron Falcon rose to their feet and quietly left the room. The concierge met them in the corridor and introduced Sonia to the middle aged woman who stood beside him.

“Mrs. Hendriksen, this is Eleanor Bartle. She’ll guide you to your private box.”

Sonia smiled a greeting, which the woman returned, and followed her into the depths of the building. Mick stared after her.

“She’ll be fine,” Davis reassured him in a quiet voice.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Get your mind on track, man. Focus,” Jack hissed as applause accompanied the dwindling strains of the opening act’s last tune. The four men of Lemon Ice and their female lead singer trotted offstage, breathing heavily, sweating profusely, and vibrating with adrenaline. They grinned as they passed the headliners, shouting out cheery greetings.

“Good crowd tonight, dude!” one of them commented.

Kristof raised one eyebrow. He rather thought the audience’s applause polite rather than enthusiastic. Well, they’d see what they could do to change that. Over the loudspeakers, an announcer shouted a welcome and called Iron Falcon to the stage. As usual, Davis went first, followed by Angelo and Kristof. Shrill screams rose from the crowd. Then Mick strutted onstage and the screams grew louder as he slung the guitar strap over his shoulder. Finally, Jack bounded onto the stage with his usual energy. Intimate apparel flew through the air, some landing on the stage.