Ruin Porn (14 page)

Miah rotated on his heel and Sid grabbed his arm, bringing him to a stop. “You should give Finn time to cool off.”

Miah stared Sid down until he released him. “He’s a professional. He’ll deal.”

G
ERMANY
LOVED
Resonator. Rez’s first fan club, the group that had coined the term Rezors, had been formed in Berlin five years ago. The boys owed everything to the fans here for putting in motion the social media juggernaut that had propelled them to international recognition.
Everything.

Ritchie sighed. They were going to totally fuck over the original Rezors during their first live concert
ever
in the city.

He clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and put so much pressure onto the drumstick in his left hand that it groaned but didn’t snap. In front of him, Finn’s shoulders were pulled back, spine yardstick straight, his playing perfunctory, emotionless. Finn cracked his neck and turned his back on Miah. Check that: not emotionless. Finn was playing with cold, detached fury. His demeanor wasn’t doing any favors for the flat, aggressive notes coming out of his amp.

On the other side of Ritchie’s drum kit, Evin came across like a scared duck—lips pursed, eyes bugged out, flapping his arms as he tried not to be drowned out by Finn’s aural hammering. The whole scene would have been comical if Ritchie wasn’t sure they were going to have a suck-ass show in the one city that deserved a flawless performance.

They ran through the song three times with Miah picking it apart, analyzing and trying to make them sound more cohesive. It didn’t matter what he did, none of them were feeling the love, and there was no way to force it on any of their stubborn heads.

Regardless that playing a new song was a great idea, Miah had to be second-guessing whether or not they could pull it off. Even Miah wasn’t self-involved enough not to hear the level of sucktacity they were operating under. But their lead singer had chosen to lead by fear. Ritchie confronting him would only make the situation worse.

When Miah called stop thirty minutes later, Finn’s arms were turned as if he was going to chuck his prized Les against the wall. For a second Ritchie thought he might be pissed enough to do it too.

“This is going to be a fucking disaster,” Finn seethed, lowering the guitar and glaring at Miah.

Miah stepped up to him, making use of every bit of the three-inch difference in their height to look down on Finn when he bit back with “It will not.”

Left to hash this out themselves, the confrontation was going to escalate quickly. Ritchie had to intervene even if it meant being beheaded before the concert by one of his best friends. Miah was going to have to leave the room for de-escalation to begin.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said to Miah.

“Me? Get out?” Miah snarled.

Ritchie left the safety of his drum kit and approached Miah. “Leave me to clean up your mess. As usual.”

Miah cracked the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb, staring Ritchie down. He stormed out without another word.

Fucking great.
Ritchie would be paying for that comment for years to come if this didn’t work.

He faced Evin and Finn and waited for the door to slam. Once he was sure the three of them were alone, he backed Evin and Finn into the wall. Miah wasn’t the only one who had a few inches on them.

“You two calm the fuck down, behave, and play the best damn concert of your life. For just a fucking minute, put your anger for Miah aside, because you know he wouldn’t ask this if he didn’t believe you could do it.”

Finn pursed his lips and averted his eyes, his body tense.

“Fine, don’t do it for Miah, do it because if we pull this off, then I’ll blow you both at the same time after the show.”

“Holy fuck,” Evin breathed out in barely a whisper.

Ritchie locked eyes with his best friend. “Have fun tonight, Finn. I want to see that smirk lighting up the stage.”

It was no surprise when Finn raked his eyes over Evin’s lean body and swallowed hard. The pissed-off vibe spontaneously morphed to lust. “Yeah.” Finn agreed, snaking his tongue out and running it along his bottom lip. “I can do that.” At that, Evin’s hand curled into Ritchie’s shirt, and consciously or not, he mimicked Finn’s licking his lips.

Ritchie shivered as he watched the intensity between Evin and Finn ramp up. This had to be what standing in the middle of an electric current felt like.

B
Y
THE
fourth song into the set, Finn had forgotten he was supposed to be pissed and begun to have actual fun. Which worked to take the edge off the last couple hours until he remembered why having fun was important. Blow job. From Ritchie. With Evin’s dick touching his.
Right.
How the fuck was he supposed to stay cool? On a normal day, he thought little of the positioning of his guitar during a concert, focusing more on where he was on the stage in relation to the fans and the rest of Rez.

But tonight was different.

Tonight he wielded his guitar like a shield. Damn the heat from the spotlights. Damn the excitement churning off the Rezors. Damn his crotch-hugging skinny jeans. Damn Ritchie I’m-Gonna-Suck-Your-Dick Myer. All of it anchored him firmly into the present and to how alive he was. How deep he was into this
exact moment
for every second that ticked by.

But most of all, damn Miah for being right—the Berlin Rezors deserved to hear their new stuff first.

They were at the halfway mark of the Made in Americana tour, and this was the best concert they’d performed so far. The fans were keyed in, vocal, moving. Miah was on his altar, being worshipped by the fans, and buoyed by his apparent success, his voice carried, filled the spaces between bodies. He slinked across the stage like a stalking tiger, marking off his territory. Ritchie sat on top of his percussion perch and preened like the manipulative do-gooder he was. He kicked up a precise yet punch-drunk rhythm that held them all together and rocketed them forward.

While Evin….

Finn had to keep his eyes on anything else other than Ev.

Which turned out to be much simpler when, during “Curb It,” Miah hopped on top of one of the speakers, then jumped into the crowd with his microphone. Finn’s jaw dropped, and he looked to Ritchie to see if he’d known that was coming, but Ritchie’s brows were stitched together in anger and his neck was taut, craned as he tried to get a glimpse into the pit of fans. Miah went out of their view for a measure, the crowd pulsating, reaching out for him and helping the spotlight finally find him. Theater security surrounded Miah and the sound guys moved with him.

They all kept playing since Miah was still singing. Evin planted a foot on a speaker and surveyed what was happening on the floor. He was biting his bottom lip, feet set like he was ready to pounce into the fray too. But he kept his hands on his guitar as he tracked Miah through the audience.

Rezors reached out to Miah—touching his hair, his shoulders, his mic, his hands—the crowd bowing and swaying around him as he pushed to get through the fans and back to the stage. It wasn’t that he was meeting any resistance from the fans, there were just so many people on the floor, packed in tight, and movement of any kind was a fight. When Miah finally jumped up on the set of speakers on Finn’s side of the stage, the song wasn’t over yet, but Finn had to have held his breath for the full three minutes he was off the stage. Miah had proved himself the grandest of asses that night, but he was their ass, and seeing him come off the floor and back onto the protection of their stage made Finn’s heartbeat tick down a couple notches.

Sid was all smiles and offers of food and alcohol when they stepped off the stage after “Flywheel,” their second encore. “Schaffer loves the new song,” Sid yelled over the still-roaring crowd.

It had taken Finn a few years to understand how the record execs decided what they loved and didn’t (because the merit of the music had little to do with it), but he had the dirty truth unwrapped by now. If Schaffer loved it, that meant label execs loved it. If the brass loved it, then that meant fans had loved it and were viraling it out all over social media right then.

“Of course he does,” Miah said and took a swig of water, emptying the bottle and tossing it into the recycling bin Ritchie opened for him. He wiped the sweat off his brow, slicking his hair out of eyes. Being right looked damn good on him, and Miah was aware of that. “Hotel, then drinks?”

“Not tonight,” Sid interrupted. “We’re on our way to Prague once the gear is all loaded up. You’ll be sleeping on the bus tonight.” He threw a stack of towels at Miah. “You take first shower. We need to go over studio time schedules before we take off. The guys can clean up while you and I get that finalized.”

Miah started for the green room, but stopped short and turned around to look at Finn. Not Ritchie, not Evin. Not Sid. Just Finn. “We have anything to follow up on here?”

Just like that, Finn’s postconcert happy bubble was popped. He wasn’t going to hold a grudge and be a bitch about their tiff, but he wasn’t going to let Miah’s actions go without a discussion of some kind. Miah probably wanted to avoid it for the moment, so Finn would play along. If they didn’t talk at the theater, they would have the whole ride to Prague to get straight.

“You ain’t got nothing to say right now, I ain’t got nothing.”

Miah threw one of the towels over his shoulder and started to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “In the bus, then.”

“In the fucking bus, then,” he muttered to himself as he headed for the back door.

Ritchie caught up to him and tugged him into a one-arm embrace, lips teasing at Finn’s ear. “We’ll have time before Miah gets back.”

Finn didn’t answer. He held the door open for Ritchie and Evin, but waited until they were on the bus and the door was shut before he said what he had to. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m calling rain check on Ritchie’s postconcert offer. I give it twenty minutes, max, until Miah comes looking for me. And that isn’t…. It’s….”
Holy fuck.
Was he really strategizing how to fit in a gang bang? The three of them hooking up was long past an impetuous decision. No longer could be blamed on heat of the moment. This was deliberate—action with intention. And he had to know if Ritchie and Evin were all-in or if the reality was too much for them. He flopped into a leather seat by the table and snagged one of the beers Sid had left chilling in a metal bucket. He pried the top off and took a long, long drink. Only then could he ask them, “Are we really doing this?”

Ritchie shrugged. It was almost impossible to throw him. “I know Miah rained on your parade, but I’m still into it. I made a promise and Myers don’t break promises.”

Finn chuckled, but he couldn’t make eye contact with Evin until he heard him clearing his throat, then responding in a low voice, “Me too.”

Not counting Ritchie pinning the two of them to the wall before the concert, this was the first time Finn had heard from Evin’s lips that he wanted to hook up. With Ritchie sex was sex, but the addition of Evin jumbled the dynamics.

Warm breath coasted over Finn’s cheek as Evin leaned in. “But are you?”

Finn closed his eyes, curved his neck so Ev’s lips grazed his skin. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Evin nipped at his earlobe, stubble scratching against Finn’s jaw.

“Shit, you two are hot,” Ritchie added.

Finn opened his eyes to the view of Evin, with a shy grin, dropping into the bench seat next to him and Ritchie stroking himself over his jeans.
Such a lovable perv.

Finn flicked his beer cap at Ritchie. “Take a cold shower, man.”

“Come on, Ev,” Ritchie prompted. “Let’s leave Finn to wait for the wolves.”

“Wolf, singular,” Finn clarified. “I can handle him.”

“Just don’t kill each other,” Evin advised. “This whole tour thing is kinda cool. I don’t think Ritchie and I would make a very good two-man band.”

Finn snorted. He drank back the last of his beer and cracked another open as the guys took off for the back and he waited.

Miah entered the bus and lay out on the couch across from Finn, setting his forearm over his eyes. His hair was still wet, drops of water sliding off the leather and onto the floor, pooling as Finn waited for Miah to speak.

With each second, Finn resented Miah more. It was always someone else waiting on Miah, never him waiting for anyone—even Ritchie and Finn. That hierarchy was ingrained at this point. Even if Miah had any desire not to be such a selfish fuck at some point in his life, it would take years to break him of the habits Finn and Ritchie had been party to reinforcing all this time. Maybe Ritchie had enough patience to pull Miah back from the dark side, but there was no way Finn did.

Finn cataloged Miah’s tats as he drank his beer. Miah’s full sleeves—ink covering every square inch of skin from wrist to shoulder on both arms, framed by black bands on each end to keep the marks from going any further—were a vivid, visual reminder that when Miah said something, he meant it. Finn got more and more pissed as he stared at those tattoos and lingered over Miah’s comment that Finn needed to keep up or drop out. There was a parallel there that Finn couldn’t deny.

“We need to keep Evin’s song in the set list for the rest of the tour,” Miah finally opened with.

Alright. So we’re going to talk business.
“Uh-huh,” Finn answered. He wasn’t going to give Miah any more approval than that.

“I need you to pull your magic and find a catchier hook for it, though. Think you can do that?”

Finn stretched out his legs and finished off his second beer. “You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?”

“I get tired of hearing it.”

“Well, we get tired of dealing with it,” Finn struck back.

Miah put his feet to the floor and sat up to face Finn. “I won’t apologize for pushing any of you hard. We’re on our way up and that means there’s a lot more ways we can get cut off at the knees.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors, Thade.”