Ruin Porn (7 page)

“Why do you like it so much?” Evin urged, putting his hand on Finn’s thigh in a gesture that wasn’t intimate by any measure of the word, but sure as shit, Finn snapped to attention as Ritchie predicted he would. He tensed, took a breath, and refocused on Evin.

Fucking bingo.

“I don’t. But unlike that twat on the other end of the couch, I didn’t have a choice about acing all my classes. My parents would’ve had my head if I fucked up in school. I tried to drag Miah along with me, because that stubborn fuckstick actually adores all those tedious dates and timelines and political intricacies of world history, but he never did the work. It was, and still is, infuriating.”

A never-ending debate from hell averted by the newbie, Ritchie tipped back his beer, took a big gulp, and relaxed.

Finn continued, “Our dads are all as blue-collar as auto workers come. They worked on the muffler assembly line together and weren’t going anywhere else in life. For my parents and Ritchie’s mom, that meant education was important. We weren’t allowed to make the same mistakes they had. Miah’s dad….” Finn shook his head and glanced at Miah as if he was asking permission to even mention that piece of shit, but Miah had gone into full-on retreat mode, his arms crossed. Finn changed his track right quick. “Anyway, didn’t take long until it became a weekend tradition for our families to hang out. How old were we, Miah? Like two? Three?” Finn asked.

“Yeah, something like that,” Miah replied, his voice soft. Fond, even. The two of them had known each other the longest, and therefore had the most ammunition to use against each other. But they also had a trust between them that could only be built with time and loyalty. Miah eased up out of his hunched position and cracked open a bottle of whiskey. He pointed it at Ritchie and grinned.

“Ritchie didn’t come along until a couple years later. He lived in a neighborhood across town and his dad was in and out of the picture, so we didn’t go to the same school or see him quite as regularly until his mom, Barbara, started bringing him over whether or not his dad was around.”

“I mean, I’ve heard some of these stories. I knew you’d known each other pretty much your whole lives….” Evin trailed off and wiped his palms on his jeans.

Ritchie caught Miah’s gaze. Miah passed over the bottle, then climbed back into Ritchie’s lap so they could share. Miah tapped at Evin’s forehead. “And where’s that thought train going? I see the smoke, there’s gotta be movement somewhere in there.”

Evin swallowed and his eyes darted between all of them. “I heard that the three of you started Resonator because you needed some way to work through your violence without it consuming you.”

“I’m going to need beer to chase this whiskey if we’re going to take
that
stroll down memory lane,” Miah announced and jumped up.

Pain radiated through Ritchie’s groin when Miah pushed up, and he winced. He rubbed his aching nuts and readjusted his dick, which was bent at a painful angle. He started to make a comment about Miah’s bony ass, and then thought better of it. One debate had already been averted, no sense causing another one.

“We grew up in post-riot Detroit,” Ritchie told Evin. “It wasn’t a peaceful or happy place. But we had each other, and music was always a big part of our weekends together. Scratchy vinyl and cigarettes. Finn’s parents let him bang on the guitar before he could even walk. Our parents gave us instruments to keep us occupied and off the streets. The name Resonator came later—junior high, I think.”

“Ol’ Finnegan here”—Miah piped in as he cracked the seal on his beer—“wanted us to be the next Backstreet Boys or *NSYNC. He’s a closeted boy band lover.”

“There is no shame in my game. Dude, look where Timberlake is. If you would have taken my advice, you’d be dripping in pussy but instead….” Finn let the comment linger a moment until Miah started to protest before Finn turned his attention back to Evin. “My dad figured the best way to keep me out of trouble was to chain me to the guitar and fill my downtime with music lessons. I’m first-gen US born, and they wanted better for me than twelve-hour shifts as a shop rat. All-American dream, right? He reasoned that if I had the work ethic to master an instrument, then I could translate that to school and eventually work. Miah’s and Ritchie’s dads thought it was a damn good idea because it took them off their lazy-ass dads’ hands. So I had these two knuckleheads banging away on their own instruments right along with me.”

“And nothing has changed.” Ritchie propped his feet up across Evin’s and Finn’s laps and put his arm around Evin’s shoulders. “The three of us sitting in a stinky room with worn furniture and rugs, drinking Irish whiskey and cheap beer. My mom is so proud.”

“That she is,” Finn offered in his best Irish brogue, “but at least none of the ’rents have to smell us or listen to our clamoring anymore.”

Miah polished off the rest of his beer and clacked the bottle down on the table. “Well, this has been fun. But I’m ready for a little action. Where’s the best place to get a drink and burn off a lot of steam, Sid? Preferably someplace with a dance floor. And tits. Lots of creamy, bouncy Irish tits.”

“Oh sweet Jesus,” Finn huffed.

“Give me a bit and I’m sure I can arrange a private room in one of the clubs,” Sid answered. “Keep you out of sight.”

“No time, I’ll wear my shades,” Miah insisted and headed for the door. He tossed over his shoulder. “Y’all coming with?”

Sid shot Ritchie
that
look, a physical version of the plea Ritchie had made to Evin minutes ago. Sid wanted someone—i.e., Ritchie—to stop Miah from going out. Ritchie just shrugged and hoisted himself up. “Sorry, Sid, best I can do is follow and make sure he doesn’t end up facedown in a gutter.”

“You guys go ahead, I think I’m just going to stay here and chill a bit, then head over to the hotel room,” Finn said with a wave of his hand.

Ritchie stopped at the door and turned back to Evin. “You coming?”

Evin shook his head. “Nah, you guys go have fun. I’m more in the chill mood myself tonight.”

“Suit yourselves.” Ritchie hurried to catch up with Miah. He’d rather stay in and chill himself, but no way in hell was he going to let Miah go alone. Miah needed him more tonight. Finn was going to have to figure out this Evin shitstorm on his own.

E
VIN
FOLLOWED
Finn down the hall to their suite. He found it odd that he was in Dublin and instead of hitting the clubs with Miah and Ritchie, he was going to spend the evening in his room. Then again, the adrenaline rush from the show was wearing off, leaving him a bit weary. A night of quiet actually sounded pretty fucking good. Not to mention he was going to be rooming with Finn the entire tour, so he might as well learn how to deal now with the reality of sharing space with his crush.

“You sure you don’t want to hit the pub?” Finn asked as he slid the key card into the door.

“I’m sure,” Evin assured him. “Thought for sure you would, us being in Dublin and all.”

“I’ll be here with my parents next year. Have more time then to actually see something instead of getting pissed about the stuff I’m not seeing.”

“And the whole rock-star thing you said to Ritchie about getting fucked-up and banging?”

“Never really been my thing.” Finn didn’t elaborate, but Evin swore there was much more to his explanation than what he said out loud.

“What about hitting the restaurant or something? That local fare they had backstage didn’t look too appealing after the stagehands had their grubby hands all over it.”

“Oh gods, please tell me you’re not a germ-a-phobe,” Finn groaned. “I can only handle one Mom reminding me to wash my hands every thirty minutes, and Ritchie’s already got the job.”

“No one is as bad as Ritchie.” Evin chuckled and closed the door behind him. He threw his cap on the table and ran his hands through his matted hair.

“So damn true,” Finn agreed. “You want another beer or you ready to move up to the good stuff?”

“What’s the good stuff?”

“Hello, vodka,” Finn crooned, grabbing a fifth from the side bar.

“Sure. I’ll have mine with orange juice.”

“Screwdrivers are for wussies,” Finn laughed. He dropped a couple ice cubes in the glasses and poured a good measure into each. He brought one to Evin and clinked his glass against it. “On the rocks is the only way to rock.”

Evin brought the glass to his nose and sniffed. “Whew, never had it straight before.”

“Well you’re in for a treat.”

Evin eyed the drink for a moment longer.
What the hell.
He tipped it back and guzzled it. The liquor burned his throat all the way down to his gut. He scrunched up his face in disgust.

“Damn, dude. You keep drinking it like that I’ll be peeling your ass off the floor.”

“Don’t worry, there will be no ass peeling. I don’t think I’ll be having any more of those. That was gross.” He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

“There’s tequila and bourbon there if you’d rather,” Finn informed him. He took a seat on the couch and sipped his vodka before setting the glass down and picking up his acoustic guitar, the name Gabriel emblazoned across the bridge in gold.

Evin pulled a beer from the fridge and popped the top. He’d never been much into liquor—he was a total lightweight—and he damn sure wasn’t about to embarrass himself around Finn. Evin sat in the club chair across from Finn and sipped his beer, listening to Finn strum a quiet melody. It sounded familiar, but no matter how hard he tried to remember where he’d heard it, he couldn’t place it.

“What song is that?”

“‘The Times They Are A-Changin’.’ Know it?”

“Hell, yeah, I’m a Dylan fan. Now that’s some old-school.”

“Dad had dreams of me being a concert pianist. He was always insisting I play Beethoven and Mozart. But Dylan is one of Ma’s favorites. It’s how she talked my dad into buying my first guitar,” Finn said with a slight grin.

Evin’s body heated, a tingling sensation running straight to his groin.
Shit.
That humble smile got him every time. His mouth dry, he took another big gulp of his beer and shifted in his seat. Maybe choosing to spend the evening alone with Finn wasn’t the best idea.
Stop focusing on your dick and this will be infinitely easier.

Evin sighed internally and set his beer aside. “You’re lucky that your mom was cool. I got stuck listening to Culture Club and New Kids on the Block.”

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,” Finn sang, then broke out playing a riff from “The Right Stuff.”

“Oh God. No!” Evin shouted in mock horror and covered his ears. “Please no, anything but that.”

Finn’s grin turned to just this shy of wicked, and then he started strumming and singing “Karma Chameleon.”

Evin grabbed the accent pillow from behind his back and threw it, hitting Finn in the head. “Hey!” Finn protested.

“Serves you right,” Evin said unapologetically. “Bringing back my childhood nightmares. Shame on you.”

Finn tossed the pillow aside and held up his hands in surrender. “My bad. Grab that other guitar and we’ll play some Dylan.”

“That’s better.” He grabbed Finn’s other guitar from its stand. Finn started to play “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” and Evin joined in.

Song after song they played until Evin’s fingers began to cramp, and still he played. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to. He loved being around Finn, but it was also frustrating as hell. He couldn’t watch Finn’s face too long, the expression of bliss as he lost himself in the music made Evin’s dick hard.

He also couldn’t stare at Finn’s hands too long without his mind wandering south, scraping the bottom of the gutter, and thinking of other things those magic fingers could be playing with.

Evin tried closing his eyes and concentrating on notes, frets, and strings, but those gutter images popped into his head, getting more vivid as his buzz settled in and making his dick even harder.

Fuck.

Just… fuck.

Everything about Finn made his dick hard.

He played the last note of “Hurricane,” held it, and stared up at the ceiling. He was so completely screwed. This was going to be the longest four months of his life.

CHAPTER FOUR

Amsterdam

I
T
HAD
taken too long for the label to set up the first official interview of the
entire
band. Miah let his distaste for their inaction show in his patent dismissal of the label PR rep attempting to coach them as they waited in the green room. Rez was three shows into the Made in Americana tour and they had yet to do any promo. With “Chene” moving up the charts, and “Assisted Blankicide” ready to drop midtour, that was poor planning
and
execution on PR’s part. Combined with the out of control social media reception to their
Live Lounge
appearance, the lack of public relations was a spectacular failure.

On a normal day Miah would have had no issue pointing that fact out, but today he didn’t have to. Sid was out in the hall of the radio station on his cell giving Schaffer hell himself. All of them, maybe the whole station, could hear Sid chewing him out. Besides making sure Evin was hired on, it was the first thing Sid had done on this tour that couldn’t have been done by a monkey. Harsh but true. Perhaps Miah needed to ease off him, though. Very few people dared to face up to Schaffer at all.

Josh—who had to be KMA Music’s youngest public relations person—glanced at the door as Sid let out a collection of creatively strung together insults and threats.

“Don’t worry,” Ritchie reassured Josh. “He can’t actually reach through the phone and rip Schaffer’s head off.”

Josh adjusted the tweed cap on his head and wiped the sweat from his brow.

In the far corner of the room, perched on the edge of a big comfy chair, Finn picked at the guitar in his hands and eyed Josh. “I think we’re more capable of handling this than you are, son.”

Miah barked out a laugh. A frustrated Finn was a bitey Finn. Much more fun for all of them, as long as he didn’t snap in their direction. It didn’t matter that Josh was maybe a year or two younger than all of the other members of Rez, Miah and his boys had been handling their own PR when this kid was still in middle school.