Taste Me (9 page)

The song ended. Michael stripped off his Argyle sweater and stretched from side to side. Joe simply stood, waiting for the abbreviated set list Garrett would call on the fly. Tansy made eyes with her bondmates standing in the wings. Devotion and lust drifted over to him, and the beast in his chest stirred.

Shit. Not now.

“Okay, showtime,” Garrett said, eyeing each member of the band.

“Did Scarlett give you a set list yet?” Michael called. “Are we playing any originals tonight?”

“Not yet, and I don’t know. So let’s be ready for anything.”

Stephen watched Garrett’s thumb twirl over the iPod in his hand, a duplicate of the one they all carried. Every band member had to be ready to play any song stored on the damn thing, and there were thousands upon thousands of them, spanning folk to death metal. While Scarlett had a marked preference for ’80s New Wave, Garrett, being a sadist, would as likely call out a Broadway show tune as something that Scarlett might actually choose for them to play, just to keep them sharp. Stephen wasn’t about to admit that this practice had saved their asses any number of times during the last few months, as Scarlett deviated from the set list more often than not, or took requests from the crowd.

Stephen listened as Garrett rattled off the five songs he’d chosen: “Barely Breathing” by Duncan Sheik, a medium-paced rocker to get them warmed up. “Ice” by Sarah McLachlan. Restraint and delicacy, and hardly any drums, thank gawd, but Stephen saw Tansy grimace at the thought of the vocals. Next was Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer,” Joe’s preferred song to test-drive his synthesizers and computers. Tansy’s grimace turned to a grin as Garrett called Duran Duran’s “Rio,” with its raucous bass lines, and damn it, a drum workout too.

There was a pregnant pause as Garrett looked directly at him, his thumb twirling slowly, a fucking Catherine Wheel.

“Call it,” he called from his riser, stretching his arms overhead.

The slightest smile stole over Garrett’s face. “Foo Fighters’ ‘Come Alive.’”

The man was trying to kill him. Really, he was. The song Garrett had chosen, about how a man’s life changed forever with the birth of his child, was deceptively difficult. The drummer didn’t have much at all to do for the first two minutes of the song, but the second half was a fucking drummer’s showcase, and would tax his abilities even at full strength.

“You suck,” he called up to Garrett, who now leaned urbanely against the rail.

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “So I’ve been told. Ready, Randy?” he called down to the sound booth. “Nice and easy to start. Michael, Tansy, nothing fancy, just mark the vocals.”

“Thank you,” Tansy muttered with a look to the heavens. Michael and Tansy sang harmony with Scarlett when they performed, but someone needed to handle lead vocals during sound check so Randy could verify the microphone levels and set the balance where he wanted.

Michael counted them down. “Five, six. Five, six, seven…”

And Stephen missed the opening cymbal riff on the second half of eight. “Sorry,” he called.

“Again,” Garrett replied with a steely look in his eye.

Stephen flexed his hands and wrists. His forearms and thumbs were so sore he wondered if he’d be able to hold on to his sticks. An amp crackled again, and he took a deep breath, wrestling his thoughts back to the task at hand. He met eyes with Michael and nodded.

And they were off.

He held it together as the band plowed through the abbreviated set list, but thankfully there were no paying customers, because he was flailing away like an eighth grader in his first garage band. “Rio” was galloping to a close, and his stomach was already rolling, thinking about the song to come. He almost wished he didn’t have to wait out the first portion of the song, because now that he was moving a little, he felt better. It was when they stopped between songs that everything tightened up again, when everything snapped and sparked like a live wire.

He jerked as he heard Michael’s light touch on his guitar, starting “Come Alive.” Having several minutes to wait, he moved and stretched, chose sticks, adjusted his headset and wrist bands. Took a deep breath as he joined in at about the two minute mark with a soft kick drum, then subtle snares. The song layered and built as it went on, as he supposed labor pains did. His body struggled and strained as the volume picked up, and he gritted his teeth as he crashed cymbals on every one-beat. More pounding, more fills. In the original, Foo Fighters’ front man Dave Grohl practically shreds his vocal cords screaming his daughter into the world, but Michael was not about to do that, especially just before the show.

When they reached the last minute of the song, Stephen played like his life depended upon it. His arm and back muscles burned as he drove, flew, pounded. Sweat dripped down his neck.
Okay, almost there. Just twenty seconds more.
He just had to find enough strength for the final push, for that last monstrous set of rolls, riffs, and crashes.

They arrived before he was ready, but he had no choice but to push through it.
This was it.
“Aah!” he groaned aloud, his body moving instinctively.

And then… it was over. His groan hung in the air along with the last soft guitar chord, and his arms dropped heavily, uselessly, to his sides. His sticks dropped from his hands to the floor, clattering onto the wooden stage below.

They waited.

“All right, then,” Garrett said after a pause, still eyeing Stephen but otherwise not making comment. “See you backstage in two hours. When I get the set list, I’ll zap it to you. And Randy, fix that damn amp, will you?”

Tansy approached and handed him a bottle of water, which he swigged gratefully. “Are you okay?”

He reached for one of the towels stacked in a pile behind his stool and wiped his sweaty face. “Nothing a shower won’t fix. I’ll pull it together by showtime.”

Yeah, right. This wasn’t something he could shower off. Was he going to be wrecked every time he…

Snap.

Every time you almost kill someone?

No, he assured himself. What had happened with Andi Woolf had been a horrible, horrible accident. It wouldn’t happen again. Couldn’t happen again. Now that he knew what to expect, he’d find a way to control himself.

He had to, because he couldn’t fathom not feeling that narcotic, orgasmic blast again.

High-heeled boots tapped against wood. A hot brunette joined Sasha Sebastiani at the soundboard, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. Stephen narrowed his eyes.
Yowza.
She looked vaguely familiar, but he just couldn’t place her. As the woman shook Randy’s hand, Stephen jerked his head toward them. “Who’s that?”

“Hmm?” Tansy looked up from where she wiped down the neck of her bass.

“Who’s that woman with Sasha and Randy at the soundboard?”
The woman tossing her dark hair over her shoulder, looking at me like I’m catnip?
His nostrils flared as lust bloomed across the empty dance floor.

“That’s Scarlett’s sister Annika, and don’t you even think about it.” Tansy put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed.

“Ouch.” Wow, that was Scarlett’s sister? While he’d never found Scarlett all that physically appealing—unlike most of the known world—her sister’s alluring smile tugged at him from across the room. He could feel her lips on him already.

“Stephen.” Tansy shook him. Hard. Snapped her fingers in front of his face until she was sure she had his attention. “We have a show in less than three hours, and you’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” he said to Tansy, the muscles in his midsection clenching as Annika Fontaine met his eyes across the expanse of the performance space.

Tansy just shook her head. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“Yeah, I am.”

But the beast gnawing on his rib cage was drowning her out.

An hour before the show, Lukas shifted his arms over his head as he walked the hallway leading to Underbelly’s third floor VIP rooms, punishing the fibers in the V-necked black cashmere sweater he’d swiped from his father’s closet. Though noticeably small, it would have to do; there was no way in hell Sasha would let him through the doors in the T-shirt he’d been wearing for over a day. There was no help for the jeans and boots.

Sasha should be thankful they weren’t spattered with blood.

Though the short nap he’d caught on Sasha’s lime green love seat—and the obscenely long shower he’d taken up in his father’s place—had refreshed him somewhat, the cost had been high. Sasha had painted his nails with shiny black polish while he slept in her office. Despite his picking and chipping, he hadn’t managed to remove the color worth a damn, though he should probably be thankful for small favors. At least she’d chosen black, not pastel pink. He’d considered stalking across the foyer, pounding on her apartment door, and demanding some remover, but enough of Scarlett’s residual fury saturated the floor that he’d thought better of it. No sense tempting fate.

Yet, anyway.

Feet hammered behind him. Lukas whipped around.

“Calamity!” Antonia hollered. “You come here, right now.”

Scarlett’s huge black cat streaked around the corner, ears pinned against his head, big belly swinging from side to side as he galloped down the hall. Lukas’s body relaxed, but his mind flashed to scratches. Bites. Lawsuits.

His younger sister barreled around the corner, her butt-grazing hair flying out behind her, tottering a bit on her high-heeled boots. Lukas blinked as he registered the changes in the tiny sprite’s appearance. Since he’d seen her last, Antonia had made that inexplicable tip from girl to woman. Who had given her permission to grow up?

And when was the last time he’d seen Antonia? Really talked to her? Antonia’s whirlwind teenage social life kept her busy, and away from home on the weekend evenings when Lukas typically stopped by his father’s place to cadge a meal that wasn’t takeout.

What a shitty brother he was. Catching the cat could wait.

“Hey, hold on a sec,” he said, snagging her arm before she could pass.

Antonia looked at Lukas with a withering glance which teenaged girls the world over were masters of. “Damn it, I almost had him. What do you want?”

He picked his sister up under her arms, lifted so her face was level with his, and kissed her hello. “Do I need a reason to hug my favorite sister?” Her lips were slathered with aromatic pink bubble gum lip gloss, but her eyes were elaborately and expertly made up. “You have way too much shit on your eyes.”

She halfheartedly kicked her legs so he would put her down, and batted her mascara-blackened eyelashes. “Jesse did it,” she said, referring to Scarlett’s stylist-cum-bodyguard. “In matters of makeup, I trust his judgment, not yours.”

Yeah, well, she still had way too much shit on her eyes. His gaze narrowed on the black-edged Celtic knot tattoos bracketing her wrists.

She rolled her eyes at him and snapped her gum. “Don’t get your jock in a twist—they’re temps.”

The door to the VIP room suddenly opened, and laughter and chatter spilled into the hall. Calamity streaked into the room. Seconds later he heard someone say, “Hey, there’s a cat on the buffet table.” There were no shrieks of carnage. Yet.

Reluctantly, he put Antonia down, holding her shoulders until she was steady on her feet. When had his little sister sprouted curves? He could see a lacy black bra strap nestled in with the layers of camisole T-shirts she wore. How could so many shirts leave so much skin uncovered? Her jeans were a crime against circulation. “Are you wearing underwear?”

Antonia shrugged away from his grasp and said loudly, with theatrical projection, “Lukas Sebastiani, you are such a perv.”

Sound in the VIP room momentarily stopped. Lukas closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. She hadn’t answered his question—which answered it, damn it.

“Kayla,” Gideon Lupinsky’s younger brother Gabe said as he was tugged from the VIP room by his fiancée and backed against the wall. “Let’s wait until we get home.”

“Don’t want to.” Her voice was barely audible; she was busy nibbling Gabe’s neck, trying to change his mind. She leached reckless abandon, but it was clear to Lukas that Gabe wasn’t quite on the same page. Gabe worked for Alka Schlessinger at Sebastiani Labs, and Alka had invited Gabe and a guest to watch the concert from the VIP box, much to Lorin’s disgust. When he noticed Lukas and Antonia, Gabe pushed Kayla away with a muttered curse.

Definitely annoyed.

Gabe made the introductions. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Andersen,” Lukas said, extending his hand to the small werewolf female.

“Mr. Sebastiani,” she responded, shaking it with a respectful bow of her head.

“Please, it’s Lukas.”

Antonia also shook the woman’s hand. Her nostrils twitched. “If you want to have sex, the bathroom’s right down the hall.”

Lorin exited the VIP room. “Mind if I use it first?” she asked, shooting Gabe a withering glance as she walked past everyone.

Lukas lifted a weary hand to his forehead. Why was everyone so pissed off tonight? “Antonia…”

“What? They want to have sex,” Antonia said with a shrug. She glanced at Gabe. “Well, one of you does, at any rate.”

Jesus.
“Enjoy the show,” he said to Gabe and Kayla, tugging Antonia down the hall by her arm. She inhaled deeply, her eyes drifting closed as she tailgated off the secondhand desire blooming in the hallway. Puberty turned incubi and succubi into walking, talking hormones.

“Lukas, you’re about ten years too old to pull off that nail polish.”

“Forget the nail polish. You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” she retorted. “I was right. Even though they’re fighting now, they wanted to have sex—she did, anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But that doesn’t mean you say anything about it.” Lukas paused, looking for the words to explain to his sister. “It’s important to give people at least the illusion of privacy, especially about sexual matters. And it’s especially important with people we don’t know well, or just met.”

“Gabriel isn’t a stranger.”

It shook him to hear that twist, that sexual liquor, in her voice. Had she and Gabe—nah. Lukas discounted the idea almost as soon as it winked into his brain. Gabe was engaged, and a devoted Sebastiani Labs employee. He wouldn’t touch his boss’s daughter, no matter how hard she worked her fledgling wiles. But if not Gabe, someone else. And if not already? Soon. At sixteen, Antonia had reached the age of consent, and for all he knew, she’d already had a lover. Lovers, plural. He certainly had at sixteen.

Okay, fourteen.

No wonder his father’s hair was gray.

“Hey.” Their brother Rafael stepped through the open door with Calamity in his arms, using some serious muscle to control the big animal. Calamity yowled his displeasure and clamped his teeth into Rafe’s shoulder. “Jesus. This isn’t a cat, it’s an anaconda.”

Antonia jabbed her elbow into Lukas’s rib so he’d release her. “Calamity! Bad cat. Let’s get you back upstairs where you belong.”

Rafe looked at his sister’s bare arms and held on. “Let me take him; he’ll scratch you to hell.”

“You won’t scratch me, will you, sweetheart?” she crooned to the cat, who leaped away from Rafe into Antonia’s arms. She grunted like she’d been tackled—not surprising, since the cat was about a fifth of her body weight—but once the cat settled in her arms, he purred like a motorboat. Antonia rubbed her cheek against the cat’s massive head.

Looking at his watch, Lukas considered escorting her to the penthouse, but throttled back on the protectiveness. She’d be walking from one secured area of the facility to another, and back again. Five minutes, tops. “Time to get him back upstairs, kiddo. The show’s about to start.”

“Be right back.”

They both watched as their little sister walked down the hall with a sway of her hips exaggerated by her high-heeled boots. Rafe turned to Lukas with a puzzled look on his face. “When did she…?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Looks, brains, and mean as a pit viper. Jupiter help us.” Rubbing at his shoulder, Rafe said, “Claudette wants to talk to you.”

“Did it look to you like she was wearing any underwear?”

“Claudette? Antonia is right—you
are
a perv.”

“Not Claudette,” Lukas replied between clenched teeth. “Our little sister.”

“If you’ve added Underwear Police to your long list of duties, you’re going to have a really busy night.”

“Just… shut up. I need to talk to Claudette.”

He and Rafe entered the dimly lit VIP room, where the party was low key but in full swing. Lorin, back from the bathroom, chatted quietly with Wyland back by the bar. Valerian and Alka stood in the back corner nibbling appetizers. His father and Claudette stood hand in hand by the waist-high rail overlooking the dance floor, talking with Annika. It gave Lukas a jolt to see them there, so exposed, but earlier this evening, Sebastiani Security staff had swept the place up, down, and sideways. He knew the metal detector was working, because they’d already snagged several knives and one gun at the front entrance. Bailey was wiring a few last-minute cameras backstage. Jack was down on the floor, coordinating the activities of the Sebastiani Security employees working the event who would mingle with the crowd. Sasha was backstage somewhere. He’d received a report that Scarlett was in her dressing room with her manager and her stylist. Once Antonia came back to the VIP suite, everyone on his mental checklist would be accounted for.

He sighed. The place was as safe as he knew how to make it. He approached his father and Claudette.

“Do you have Calamity in custody?” Annika laughed and kissed him hello on both cheeks, following it up with one of her exuberant hugs.

He hugged her back, allowing her uncomplicated happiness to give him a boost. She was easy to read—so different from her sister. “Calamity’s on his way back upstairs where he belongs. Antonia’s got him.” Looking around the room, he was relieved to notice that no one was bleeding out or cradling a mangled limb. “Did he bite anyone?”

“No, Rafe saved the day. And the spinach dip.” Despite his father’s lighthearted words, Lukas watched his father’s fingers tangle with Claudette’s tense ones, trying to comfort.

“I’m going to go get some of that dip,” Annika said. “Excuse me for a moment, will you?”

Lukas, Elliott, and Claudette silently watched the activity on the floor for a few minutes. Music, voices, and pheromones drifted, jumping noticeably when the house lights darkened slightly and the DJ turned up the music. People started to dance. In his earpiece, Lukas heard Jack giving their crew last-minute instructions about consensual touch, urging them to keep an eye out for anyone in the pit who might need help if things got rowdy.

He needed to get backstage. He turned his attention back to his father and Claudette.

“I understand Scarlett wasn’t very happy with you this afternoon,” Claudette said. “I apologize for my daughter.”

“Not necessary, Claudette,” Lukas responded evenly. Of course Claudette knew about the scene Scarlett had caused earlier in the day. Her information network was as solid as his own.

“How did she look? What did you sense?” A look of annoyance crept over Claudette’s face, there then gone. “She’s avoiding my calls and my mother-sense is shrieking.” She looked up at Lukas. “I know my daughter. If she doesn’t want me to hear her voice, something’s wrong.”

His stomach bumped. It wasn’t just him, then. But how did he answer Claudette’s question? The limited time he’d spent with Scarlett that afternoon hadn’t exactly yielded observations and impressions he was comfortable sharing with her mother. “She seemed tired. And it looked like she’d lost some weight.” He smiled ruefully. “But she was feisty enough to give me hell.”

“Please keep an eye on her, Lukas. I know what I’m asking you to do,” she said, gesturing to the music, the dance floor. The energy and pheromones leached off the crowd, swirling upward with their body heat. “But… something’s wrong.”

“I won’t take my eyes off her, Claudette.”

Truer words never spoken. You’re weak, Sebastiani. Weak.

The VIP room door opened, and Gabe and Kayla Andersen returned, tense and annoyed instead of satiated. Antonia was right behind them, with no new scratches or bites on her bare arms. She immediately butted in to the conversation Wyland and Lorin were having, certain of her welcome. Annika, PDA in hand and mischievous expression on her face, caught the door before it closed, calling back to her mother that she had something she had to take care of.

Lukas turned his attention back to his father. “Dad, I know that now’s not the right time, but we really need to talk about Antonia.”

“What about her?”

“She’s…” He watched Antonia talk with Lorin and Wyland. She was years younger than the two Council members, yet certain of her place. Lukas could only imagine the topic under discussion. Knowing Antonia, it could be anything from
Project Runway
to the G20. How could he put his complex concerns into words? “Would you make her go upstairs and put on some underwear?”

Elliott blinked, and Claudette’s laughter tinkled merrily. “Lukas Sebastiani, I’m certain you’ve seen a thong or two in your day.”

A thong? That seemed worse than her wearing no underwear at all.

“Lukas?” he heard Jack say in his earpiece.

After excusing himself from his father and Claudette’s conversation, he responded. “Yeah, go.”

“Is Stephen up there by any chance? Scarlett’s drummer?”

“No.”

He heard Jack relay his answer to Sasha, who swore ripely.

“Get down here. We have a problem.”

“Be there in a sec. I have to go,” Lukas said to Elliott and Claudette.

Claudette brushed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lukas. Thanks for giving Scarlett your personal attention. I know my daughter is safe in your hands.”

Lukas barely held back a bark of hysterical laughter.
Don’t be so sure of that, Claudette.