8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
T ate stuck close to Alder’s side as they crossed the lot, hunching his shoulders and tugging at his hood when he saw North. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking again. North’s presence was like the most powerful magnet on earth, tugging insistently at him as though being this far was unnatural. The ache already in his chest tightened when he saw North had disappeared on the other side of XVI Hours’ bus.
North didn’t want to see him. Which was good. Exactly what he’d wanted.
Not what he needed, but his needs stopped mattering a long time ago.
Fuck, he’d give anything to go back to what they’d had for those few precious weeks. They’d been sneaking around, not wanting to piss off the members of both bands—mostly Tate’s, because the guys were overprotective and North was everything they tried to keep him safe from.
Only…North hadn’t been the unfeeling player with him. He hadn’t tried to use Tate, then toss him aside.
No, you’re the one who did that.
He forced himself to keep moving. To nod at whatever Alder said to him. But his thoughts slipped too easily to when life was actually good. To when he’d been happy.
“We’re gonna get caught.” Tate’s laugh was cut short by North’s hand over his mouth. He stared at North, who’d pulled him between the buses of two bands who likely wouldn’t be back from the club anytime soon. When North moved his hand, Tate grinned. “You being spontaneous is hot, but the guys will notice me missing in about five minutes. Not long enough to—”
North’s lips covered his in a deep kiss that sent his pulse racing. He let out a rough, needy sound as North curved his hand around the back of his neck, delving in with his tongue, letting it touch Tate’s, guiding him, tasting him, stealing all the air from his lungs. The way North kissed him promised so much. Not just sex, but moments like this, where they were so close and nothing else even existed.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” North’s voice was breathy as he rested his forehead against Tate’s. “Just that. I told you, there’s no rush.”
“But I want more.”
North’s lips curved at he brushed another kiss over Tate’s lips. “You’ll get more. The question is, how much do you want?”
With anyone else, Tate would have pushed to get fucked. After the too brief, too callous and cold threesome with Brave and Connor, Tate thought he wanted sex that would be satisfying and uncomplicated. Being with North was complicated, but he craved everything the man had to offer. More meaningful than a random hookup, which had always seemed out of reach.
North made him believe it wasn’t.
“I want everything, North.”
“Then wait, just a little longer.” North framed Tate’s jaw with his free hand, holding his gaze. “This is…new to me. I’ve never wanted to prove myself before. Might sound fucking cheesy, but…can I keep you?”
Warmth filled Tate’s chest. He tugged North close, even as he let out a soft laugh against his lips. “Doesn’t sound cheesy. Sounds like a quote from Casper and that scene was sweet.”
Red tinted the smooth curve of North’s cheeks. “Damn. Forgot about that. Probably where I got it. Sounded good in my head.”
“Sounded good out loud.”
“Yeah?”
“So long as I get to keep you too.” Tate brought his lips to North’s, knowing they were running out of time, but more than ready to let his man know they were on the same page. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The clang of a snare reminded him where his focus should be, but he struggled to go through the motions of replacing Derrick at the drums and test the sound himself. As always, everything was set up perfectly. Derrick was good at his job.
Right here in the recording studio, behind the drums, Tate could usually shut everything else away. Lose himself to the music. But he wasn’t feeling it. Warmup was lackluster, and he sensed the rest of the band’s eyes on him as he motioned for Derrick to come in and bring him a bottle of water.
“You good, man?” Derrick crouched down beside him. “I’ve never seen you this out of it.”
Fiddling with the strap of his eye-patch, Tate shrugged. “It’s just been a while, you know? Things will be better when we’re on the road.”
“I hope so. Everyone’s so damn uptight.” Derrick shook his head and sighed. “Thought we’d get to have fun, like we usually do, but Jesse got all pissed off just because I tried to get some action.”
Tate’s brow lifted. “Dude, what action? All the roadies besides you are straight.”
“Believe me, I know .” Derrick glanced around, continuing when he saw everyone was distracted tuning guitars and adjusting the amps. “North wanted to share a joint and…more.”
Throat locking, Tate lowered his gaze. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s fucking hot. Didn’t think I had a chance—Jesse hunted me down though.” Derrick let out an irritated huff. “Spoiled everything.”
Of all the people North could fool around with, he had to choose the fucking drum tech? The person Tate worked with the most? Was this his way of getting back at Tate for pushing him away? Rage and loss twisted together in his guts and he tightened his grip on his drum sticks so hard he was surprised they didn’t snap.
All this guilt, all he’d gone through over the summer, and North was gonna pull this petty shit?
“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances.” Tate nudged his kick pedal until it was positioned just right. “Be careful though. Not sure he handled his… problem yet.”
Derrick leaned closer, speaking in a whisper. “His ‘problem’?”
“Look, I don’t wanna spread rumors. Do your thing, man.”
As expected, the drum tech wouldn’t let the implication slide. “You can’t tell me to be careful and not give me more. Come on, I thought we were friends.”
“We are.” Tate let out a heavy sigh, glancing around to make sure the rest of the band was still distracted and XVI Hours hadn’t come in yet. “He’s got this skin condition. Poor guy. It’s pretty contagious—he thought he had crabs at first, but no such luck.”
“I wouldn’t call that lucky either.” Derrick shuddered. “Are you for real?”
Tate lifted his shoulders. “Hey, I didn’t buy it myself at first, but this guy he was fooling around with on the last tour had these sores all over his mouth and his cheeks. Looked painful.”
The color left Derrick’s face. “But I pulled out his dick and I didn’t see—”
“Guess he took care of it then.” Tate flipped one of his drum sticks in the air, then the other, loosening his wrists and suppressing the urge to growl at the thought of Derrick with his hands on North. He was being pretty petty himself, but he didn’t give a damn. He refused to spend the whole tour listening to Derrick gush about North.
“Guess so.” Sounding uncertain, Derrick jumped when Jesse made a sharp motion for him to clear the set, quickly returning to his spot on the other side of the glass doors.
Where he jumped again as North approached, backing away so abruptly he almost knocked Jesse over in his haste. North shot him a puzzled look, then continued into the studio with the rest of XVI Hours.
The smirk that had been on Tate’s lips faded away as the impact of having North so close hit him. Unlike everyone else in both bands, North looked different. Paler, with dark shadows under his eyes, his wavy, golden-brown hair—usually worn in a carelessly sexy style—simple shoved off to one side, the longer part falling over one pale blue eye. The signature bad boy appearance, all carved features and scruffy jaw, came off as wary and worn out instead.
He’d lost some weight too, but still had those defined muscles that had felt so good under Tate’s hands and lips. He’d asked North once if he worked out and North had chuckled, asking if jerking off was considered exercise. Then he’d confessed to having a routine he did in intervals every day, whenever he got a moment alone.
He didn’t like people seeing him work out—didn’t want to seem even more vain than he already did—but he was afraid of what would happen if he let himself go, even a little bit. That people wouldn’t pay to be close to him anymore.
As arrogant as everyone thought North was, the man had some serious insecurities. He talked like it was his body being paid for, not his voice. And if he got compliments about his music, he redirected it to the band. He still had the ego of a lead singer, could still pull off one hell of a diva tantrum, but he’d shown Tate the man behind the brash exterior.
Or I thought he did, anyway.
Once XVI Hours was positioned and warmed up, the bands went through the cover of You May Be Right . Warped in a way to keep some of the fun, but also bring in a dark, twisted edge. The hairs rose on the back of Tate’s neck as Brave let out his signature throaty growl before the chorus. With minor chords, the song continued to degenerate until a dueling guitar solo between Alder and Kace brought it to a pulse-racing high, which Tate worked with Quinton to keep thundering for a few more beats.
The silence that followed had Tate trembling, and he wet his lips as North continued the second verse, the song completely deconstructed now. Dariel’s violin accompanying each note, lengthening it into a chilling pitch. North’s voice gained power as the guitars joined in. The drums mimicked a heart beating, faster and faster. Holding the rhythm was the only thing that kept Tate from messing up as North spun around, raking his hand through his hair. He caught Tate’s eye for a split second before returning to the mic to sing with Brave, their voices combining in a harmony the men never found when they weren’t singing.
Neither band had been sure they’d find it even then, but the smooth, haunting quality of Brave’s voice, combined with the sensual grittiness of North’s was fucking perfect. Alder and Annette added another pitch, an echo of the lyrics, fading in and out until the singing stopped and the guitars and drums were allowed to conclude with an organized riot of sound.
Sweat dripped down Tate’s back as he grabbed his water bottle, gulping every last drop and grinning as Alder glanced back at him with a smile of approval. Malakai looked over too and his lips curved, the sadness in his eyes gone. He almost seemed…happy.
“No offense to Quinton, but fuck, having you back where you belong is fucking amazing.” Connor slung his guitar behind him and leaned over Tate’s drum kit, clapping Tate on the shoulder and coming way too close to knocking over the bass. “I thought Annette and Alder were nuts when they suggested that song, but sounds damn good.”
Connor with his filter gone was exactly what Tate needed to push any lingering thoughts of North from his head. The guitarist seemed steady enough—no way would his boyfriend let him skip his meds—but his excitement killed his already shaky ability to read a room.
Not that Tate cared. He checked to make sure neither Alder or Annette looked offended, then leaned forward with a mock whisper. “Dude, I hadn’t ever heard the song. But I guess Brave getting his brother into old people music paid off.”
“Whoa there, kid.” Brave stuck his mic in the stand and folded his arms over his chest. “Billy Joel is one of the greats. And watch who you’re calling old.”
“Sorry.” Tate’s lips quirked. “Sir.”
Brave shook his head, but there was laughter in his eyes. He looked over both bands for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I think this one’s ready. Let’s do a run-through of Still Breathing , then get to recording.”
“We should already be recording.” North shoved his hands in his pockets, glaring at the carpeted floor. “Studio time isn’t cheap.”
“Renting another space to practice would’ve cost more.” Brave gave North a hard look, but his tone remained civil. “Besides, Clay ain’t charging us until he’s on the clock.”
In the recording booth Clay, the old man with the shiny bald head and kind brown eyes, who’d helped Brave refine his singing skills as a teen, tapped on the glass and gave the bands a thumbs up. Brave talked about the guy a lot, more now that he’d opened up to every member of Winter’s Wrath, and the recording engineer was his hero. While Brave had been neglected by his parents, and abused by his older brother, music had saved him.
After dealing with his own shit growing up, Tate knew exactly what that was like. His grandmother was the hero in his own story. The one who’d given him a new direction when he’d been so fucking lost.
Only…he was lost again. And she couldn’t save him this time. No one could.
But he had right now. Making something that would last even if he never found himself again.