CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Gizmo
T he first chord rings out, vibrating through the walls of the soundproofed studio, and I let the rhythm settle into my bones before tapping out the beat on my thigh. It’s instinct, muscle memory, the only thing that’s ever really made sense to me—music.
Hawkin strums again, frowning at his guitar. “Something’s off.”
“It’syou,” Vince says, barely looking up from where he’s leaning against the amp, bass resting against his chest. “You always overthink the first few chords.”
Hawkin flips him off. “Eat shit, asshole.”
“Great, now we’rereallygetting somewhere,” Rocket mutters from his stool, playing his fingers over the keyboard.
I smirk, shaking my head as I tap a quick rhythm against the rim of my snare. “We need something dirtier, grittier.” I glance at Vince. “Play it heavier. Let it drag.”
He follows my lead as I try to show him what I’m hearing in my head, slamming into a darker, more deliberate rhythm. Hawkin and Rocket shift the melody, Vince picks up the bassline, and suddenly, we’resomewhere.
I close my eyes, letting the sound settle under my skin. Yeah. That’s it .
Then, Rocket ruins it.
“So,” he says over the music, way too casually, “how’s married life treating you?”
I miss the beat.And then still my drumsticks as I level him with a glare.
Vince barks out a laugh. Hawkin doesn’t even pretend he’s not interested, turning toward me with a slow grin.
“Dude.” I sigh, shaking my head. “We’renot really married.”
Rocket waves me off. “Technically, youare. I mean, if you’re not thinking you are, I’m sure she’d be fine with being Mrs. Rocket and fulfilling my every fantasy.”
My smile is lethal despite knowing he’s fucking with me. “So long as you can figure out how to have those fantasies with my drumstick shoved up your ass.”
“Worth it,” Rocket says and grins.
Hawkin’s still watching me, too damn closely. “So? We’re back to this conversation again, huh?”
“Yep. Like you three are expecting the answer to change,” I say.
“You still pretending it’s just casual?” Hawkin asks.
I tighten my grip on my sticks. “Itiscasual.”
Three pairs of eyes stare at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“What?” I frown.
Rocket snorts. “Oh, Giz.”
Vince leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “So, let me get this straight. You’re ‘fake married’ to a gorgeous woman whodefinitelykeeps you on your toes, she’s living with you, and you’re still telling yourself this is just about sex?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Which is exactly the reaction these assholes were hoping for.
Hawkin grins, tilting his head. “Holy shit. Youlikeher.”
I scoff. “Not in that way.”
“Oh my God,” Vince says, eyes widening. “Jase. Jasey-boy. Our residentlove ’em and leave ’emdrummer hasfeelings in that way.”
I shake my head. “It’snotlike that.”
Rocket smirks. “No? Where do you start your night? In her bed? Where do you finish your night? Still in her bed? I mean... sounds like it is like that.”
My jaw clenches.
Their expressions shift instantly.
Vince lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
Hawkin chuckles. “Yeah, you’re screwed, man.”
I toss my drumstick at him. He dodges it easily.
“This isn’t a thing,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. “Hendrix and I—we’re just playing the game. It’s working. The marriage serves a purpose to ensure our band can tour. So what if we’re having incredible sex to help pass the time?”
Then why do I feel so shitty selling whatever this is between us short with a crappy explanation like that?
Rocket raises a brow. “But?”
I exhale through my nose, dragging a hand through my hair.
But she makes my house feel warmer.
But I know the exact way she likes her coffee.
But I listen for her footsteps when she comes in late.
But she fits next to me, in ways I never thought someone could.
Fuck.
“There’s nobut,” I say, a little too quickly.
Vince and Rocket exchange a look before Hawkin leans in, smirking. “Uh-huh. Sure, man. Keep telling yourself that.”
I scowl. “Can we get back to the song now? This new material isn’t going to write itself.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Vince stretches. “But just for the record? There’s no shame in wanting more.”
I ignore the comment and start the beat again, letting the music drown out the truth I don’t want to admit yet.
Because they’re right.
I think I do want more and that scares the shit out of me.
Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me. Scarred me. Hurt me.
I refuse to open myself back up to that, regardless of how good it feels now.
It never lasts.
Ever.