Ruin Porn (18 page)

They sat at the table, shoulder to shoulder, as Miah and Finn continued with their shenanigans. Ritchie propped his feet up on the table, then grabbed a handful of candy and shoved it in his mouth, chewing happily.

They would have to deal with getting Schaffer off their asses. He wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of hanging out with a bunch of obsessive female fans who didn’t give two shits about them but wanted to be seen with a rock star, and Finn and Evin would be even less thrilled. He might have an issue with accepting any intimacy from strangers, but at least he didn’t have an aversion to girly bits. He shot a glance toward Evin who was watching the show before them intensely. Poor Evin, he was going to have to pay for their little naked roll in the surf, Finn too. But Ritchie’d be lying if he said it hadn’t been worth it.

He grabbed another handful and shoved it in. Yep. Getting wet and wild with Evin and Finn had been totally worth it.

CHAPTER TEN

Milan

“I
CAN
’
T
believe you’ve never seen this movie,” Evin gaped and hit the button on the remote to begin playing
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
.

“Some of us have been busy building successful music careers,” Miah responded without one hint of irony. Next to him on the bed, Finn punched Miah on the shoulder. Miah yelped and rubbed the spot. “Dude, his band was named Sock in the Sun. How did they ever expect to hit the Top 40?”

Finn smirked at that. “He’s got a point, Ev.”

Evin flipped them off and launched himself onto the other bed next to Ritchie, sending Ritchie fumbling for something to hold on to as he tipped off the side. Miah and Finn started to laugh while Ritchie rallied to his feet and began to protest. Evin shushed them all and hit the Pause button.

“Fair warning, there’s little I hate more than people who talk during a movie.”

Ritchie groaned as he climbed back into the bed. “You did not just give Miah that ammunition.”

Finn peered over his shoulder at Miah and caught the bird-eating grin on Miah’s face. But luckily for Evin, Miah was being charitable tonight. They’d done their postshow bar appearance and taken the obligatory pictures, but this was a night where even Miah had been tired of the increasing madness from the fans. Finn had watched Miah’s energy drain as the night wore on and knew he had to pull them all out of there for their own sanity.

When Miah and Ritchie had gotten back to their hotel to discover fans had found out which room they were staying in and started ringing the hotel phone off the hook, they had sought refuge in Finn and Evin’s suite.

They settled in and started the movie, with Ritchie’s soft snoring cutting in less than twenty minutes after it had started.

“Wuss,” Miah said, then yawned. Fifteen minutes later and just when Scott Pilgrim was kicking ass like a musical Jackie Chan, Finn felt the mattress dip and Miah’s head landed on his shoulder.

Finn kept his eyes on the screen as much as he could, but couldn’t help that his gaze kept wandering over to Evin on the other bed.

“That was badass,” Finn whispered to Evin as the credits rolled, so he wouldn’t wake Ritchie and Miah.

“Told you it was fucking epic,” Evin whispered back, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. “Thanks for staying up with me to watch it.”

Finn smiled and wished it was only him and Evin in the room so that he could spend all night transforming that satisfied grin into one of sated bliss.

I
RONY
WAS
being the lead guitarist for a band on the rise and yet uncomfortable in the spotlight, unless that spotlight was one he could ignore because he had a guitar in his hands. Finn could rise above the crowd, the place, the moment, when his fingers slid along the sleek metal strings, the rough frets. He could focus on bending the unbendable to his command. His goal, his gift as Miah called it, was to bring life to the unformed. To compose a melody of romance, a concerto of drama, a literary work of notes. He was a total guitar geek—to simplify it. He understood his instrument more than anything else in his life. Maybe he’d been born to speak its language.

He could write a fucking novel of sound on stage and be confident in every damn note. But sitting in front of a group of fans—in some bar in Milan he didn’t even know the name of—he was all raw nerves and shaky remembrances of being a scrawny teenager in the marching band. He was being asked intrusive personal questions, and the best he could come up with was
umm
, and
eh
, and the occasional shrug. Ask him about guitars and he was a walking talking fucking encyclopedia. Ask him about himself and he was a total dumbass.

Finn gripped his guitar tighter, his fingers itching to play, to calm his frayed nerves as the volley of questions were thrown at them. He did his best to shrink into the backdrop, knowing, yet dreading that the next question would be lobbed at him. He glanced at Miah out of the corner of his eye. Miah smiled and chatted happily about their tour, what was next on the agenda, their second album, how hot and incredible Rezors were,
blah, blah, blah
. There was a good reason Miah was the front man for Rez: not only could he belt out the lyrics to their songs, but he could charm the pants off of any of their fans.

“Hey, Finn, play something for us,” someone called out from the crowd.

Bless their hearts, that was one request he could easily handle on a normal day, but he was so far down his introverted sinkhole that he could only muster a shrug and a sheepish smile. This was a meet-and-greet to connect with fans, not a chance to lose himself in his music, no matter how badly he wished otherwise.

Someone else yelled, “C’mon, Finn, do it!”

Still another screamed, “Rock it, Finn!”

Finn cut a glance to Miah for approval. Miah nodded and added, “Come on, Finnegan. Show them what you got.” What other answer had he expected? Miah wasn’t one to deny their bread and butter.

“Okay, okay.” Finn coughed into the mic, his nerves taking over. “What do you all want to hear?”

“Anything.”

“Rock that fucker.”

The comments from the crowd merged into an indiscernible jumble and then a roar when Finn picked the first few notes of the intro of “Love Song” by Tesla—Frank Hannon was one of his idols growing up. The crowd went silent, swaying to the slow melody. This he could do. Finn had them right where he wanted them—he held the note with his free hand and encouraged the crowd with a “let me hear it” gesture. Arms raised over their heads, they screamed in response.

Finn picked the strings lightning fast, the audience spurring him on and screaming again, going wild when he transitioned back into the soft melody to finish the intro. As the applause continued, Finn ran his hands through his hair, flipping his fauxhawk back into place. He had no intentions of playing the rest of the song. It didn’t belong to him. Memories of last night spurring him on, he gestured at Evin to grab one of the three guitars Sid had placed behind them as props. Evin raised his eyebrows, hesitated, and Finn spoke three words into the microphone. “Scott Pilgrim me.”

Evin laughed, grabbed one of Finn’s electric guitars from the stands behind him, and plugged in. He broke into a George Lynch solo that Finn never would have expected, and Finn’s interest was immediately piqued. To the appreciation of the crowd, Evin hammed it up as his fingers flew over the strings, bending them to his will as he arched his back. He curled over the guitar, holding a lone note, letting it hang in the air. Evin looked up from under his long lashes at Finn, the unspoken challenge hanging there for Finn to meet.

“Well, I do believe I’ve just been schooled,” Finn announced.

“Show him how it’s done, Finn!” another Rezor screamed.

Finn stood, facing the crowd, his arm resting casually on the acoustic guitar. “Think I should teach this boy a lesson?”

The crowd went wild again, roaring
Do it!
and
Show him who’s the rock god!
egging Finn on. Fully back in his happy space because of Evin, he was only too happy to oblige. This was way fucking better than answering stupid questions like what his favorite food or color was or, worse, about his childhood. He pulled the guitar strap over his head, set the acoustic guitar down, and grabbed his baby, Beelzebub, waggling his brows at Evin as he slipped the strap over his head and set the axe in position.

Taking a lesson from Miah and how he worked the front row of every concert, like a predator stalking his prey, Finn kept his gaze on Evin as he moved into position directly in front of him. The audience was silent again, a collective breath held as they waited to see how Finn would respond. He let the moment draw out, allowing the excitement and anticipation to build.

“What’s the matter, Finn? You scared to get beat by a lowly fake bass player?” Evin taunted with a grin. Evin played some crazy mix of notes, unfamiliar yet the tone and rhythm pleasing.

Finn’s response was to play the exact same sequence of notes. When Evin’s eyes went wide, the crowd roared with laughter as Finn bowed. Evin was going to have to step it up a notch if he wanted to run with this big dog.
Woof. Woof.
He wouldn’t be opposed to Evin beating him in another arena, stroking other things—hard things—as much as he wanted. The idea made his dick twitch, arousal growing when Evin’s long fingers flew over the neck of the guitar, complex notes and chords stringing together.
Damn.
Those fucking fingers were talented in more ways than one.

The crowd watched in awe as Evin took his playing to the next level, stroking the strings and frets as one would a lover, the sound almost as sensual as the moans and whimpers he’d heard pouring from the man in a different type of battle.

Finn was thankful the strap on his guitar held the instrument at just the perfect level to hide the bulge growing in his jeans. This little competition was going to be harder than he’d anticipated, but he was more than up—literally—for the challenge.

Instead of playing what Evin had, Finn added a hook of his own, putting his whole body into the effort as he lost himself to the flow of notes and chords, moving closer and closer to his prey until the front of their guitars were nearly touching. He made the instrument scream and weep, holding Evin’s gaze, the lust for music having much the same effect as sex had on him. He had no doubt Evin saw a glimpse of his hunger.

“Play with me,” he whispered seductively, solely for Evin’s ears, and began strumming the fast tempo pace of “Crossroads.”

In response, Evin closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He listened for a few heartbeats, then he worked the strings, finding the perfect harmonizing rhythm. He lowered his head and licked his lips, head bobbing, hips taking on the same beat. Finn was fucking glued to the sight before him.
Jesus.
Evin was one sexy motherfucker when he gave in to the music, allowed it to fill him, move him. The sound that came from his passion was pure fucking sex.

But Finn wouldn’t be bested. He prided himself on being an exceptional lover and he complemented each movement, each of Evin’s strokes with one of his own. The crowd disappeared. Miah, Ritchie: gone. He floated with Evin in a perfect bubble of sound and movement.

Finn wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point the battle for supremacy shifted, no longer were they trying to outdo the other, but had forged an alliance. It was him and Evin against the whole goddamn world.

He was standing shoulder to shoulder against Evin, their bodies swaying in perfect harmony. Sweat rolled down Finn’s spine, his cock hard, his pulse racing as he made love to his guitar and the man next to him. The song reached its crescendo and just like that of a powerful orgasm, the ending left him boneless and breathing harshly as he came down from the mind-bending high it had produced.

The setting, the crowd, and basic fucking awareness came back to Finn like a slap to the face. His cheeks heated with the realization that he’d shared such an intimate moment with complete strangers. Only they had no idea what they had just intruded upon as they applauded and cheered, screaming for an encore. But Finn was spent, and from the blissed look on Evin’s face, he’d experienced it too. Evin gave a slight shake of his head, and Finn caught on that neither of them had the strength or the will for a repeat performance.

Finn brought his hands together as if he were praying and bowed to Evin, then the audience. He was careful to keep his back to everyone as he pulled the strap over his head and set Beelzebub on his stand. Without another word, he retreated, heading to the back of the stage and down the stairs. It took a moment for him to register that Evin was right on his heels.
Fuck it.
Let Miah do the rest of the talking, he was the front man.

Finn had exposed enough of himself for one day, and hopefully no one else was any wiser to what they had just seen. He was sure, though, that Ritchie had caught on and it would be the topic of a very interesting conversation later. But first, there was something that needed his immediate attention.

“Hey, where you going?” Evin called out from behind him.

“I need to get some air,” Finn tossed over his shoulder as he shoved through the back door of the bar and into the alley. He scanned the darkened area, the scent of rotting garbage, piss, and something sour that reeked of puke and God knows what else assaulting his nose.

“Jesus, it’s rank out here. What the hell, Finn? This is nasty,” Evin complained and covered his nose with the back of his hand.

Finn continued to walk down the alley, found an alcove, and slipped inside. He squinted to try and make out what was farther down the alley, but it was complete blackness. As soon as Evin stepped into the opening, Finn grabbed him and yanked Evin against his body. He slammed Evin up against the wall, pinning him there. He tangled his hands in Evin’s hair, holding him as he smashed their lips together. He didn’t have a second to wonder if Evin was behind the abrupt turn of events, his urgency was met and matched.