Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
There are times in my life that replay over and over in my mind. Points when my life cracked apart, broke, and rearranged into something new and terrifying.
By now, you’ve all seen the video posted of an argument that occurred between me and Kevin Schmidt.
I don’t have an excuse. I want to. I want to tell you that it was a farce, that Kevin and I are fine. Best buddies. That he’s not leaving the band. I would love to explain that the pressures of touring for the first time ate at both of us, and that night was a spat brought on by stress.
It was more than that. There are some things friendship can’t endure. Times when splits must occur. There are unresolvable differences between Kevin and the band.
I let them happen.
Leaders are people who forge bonds, strengthen ties, and help those in need. I failed both as a leader and Kevin’s friend. What I had that night was anger rather than love. Nothing comes from anger but broken bottles and broken ties.
I apologize to all our fans, but most especially, to Kevin for my lack of control.
Anger is a personal fault and one I need to fix. For the love of the band, and all of you, I will, and I promise we’ll back on the road, better than ever.
—RAY VAN ZELLER
Well now, that was an interesting read. Zavier Demos studied his laptop screen and scrolled through Ray Van Zeller’s confessional apology one more time.
Ray could write. Zavier tapped his keyboard lightly, not enough to type, just enough for that soothing clicking.
Then again, even as a freshman and sophomore in high school Ray had worked wonders with words.
His poems had been regularly tacked up on the wall outside the English department, and he’d sung a hauntingly sweet song about pining after love for the school talent show Zavier’s senior year.
Came in first place, too. Lovely melody and elegant lyrics that even Zavier could appreciate, even if the sentiment wasn’t anything he understood.
Zavier had sat out of the competition. He’d already gotten a scholarship for percussion to Juilliard.
Not like he’d needed to impress anyone, and he’d had senioritis to the limit that year.
He was done and he’d let the entire school know it, especially Ray.
Turned him down flat when Ray had asked him to join the little garage band he’d been trying to put together.
Better things to do with his time than be a glorified metronome, even if Ray did have a lovely voice.
Zavier snorted. Ah, the righteousness of youth. That had served him well, right up until he’d set foot in New York City, where everyone was young and talented and no one gave a damn.
Oh, but Ray gave a damn, he was sure of that.
From the words on Zavier’s screen to the lyrics underneath the driving melody and impressive rhythms found in every song on the Twisted Wishes album.
A little rough around the edges, but that only added to the breath-catching charm.
He’d followed Ray’s career, mostly because he’d never quite gotten over the nerve of that cocky sophomore who’d asked a Juilliard-bound musician to play in his rock band.
The first incarnations of Ray’s band were mediocre—Zavier’d watched a few shows from the back of dark bars when he’d been home to visit. But over time, and with the right people, Ray had created something new and different and special.
Except now Ray had lost his shit and the band had lost a drummer.
The keys under Zavier’s fingers were smooth and warm. He ran his index finger over the little raised bump on the J.
The Twisted Wishes drummer had been getting worse and worse lately, so maybe there was more behind Ray losing his cool than “the pressures of touring for the first time” or any of the other reasons he didn’t want to lay claim to.
A touch on the track pad brought up the band’s call for auditions for drummers, and Zavier’s fingers itched. Hell, his arms—his blood—swam with the need to tap out those delicious rhythms. Embellish them. Improve on them.
He hadn’t been on any stage in three months, not since he’d walked away from his position as principal timpani of the Silverton Orchestra.
Damn Maestro Dimitri Ferbran. Regret was an odd thing. It stung and swirled and twisted against Zavier’s innards. He should never have tied Dimitri up and fucked him.
Conductors weren’t known for letting go of control, so Dimitri’s surrender had been entirely too sweet and tempting. Zavier had given in to that, lost his own self-restraint, even though he’d been clear at the start: this was fun and games and fucking. Not a romance. No ties. No future.
Dimitri had planned otherwise, of course. Expected wine and flowers and a long-term commitment. Romantic love. The one thing Zavier couldn’t give.
Saying no proved disastrous. He didn’t even bother to explain to Dimitri that he was aromantic, that he wasn’t ever going to fall in love or go out on dates or send him heart-shaped boxes of chocolates or whatever nonsense Dimitri wanted, not when the man was incapable of hearing anything he didn’t want to hear.
They weren’t even friends, just bed partners.
And while Zavier could master Dimitri in bed, the man was still a maestro outside of it, and he never let Zavier forget that.
Every rehearsal, every performance had become as much of a battle as their little sexual escapades.
Each practice had turned into a fucking lovers’ spat where Dimitri shouted criticism over the heads of their colleagues.
Zavier understood stress. He hadn’t lobbed a bottle at Dimitri as Ray had at Kevin. He’d merely turned in his resignation and walked away.
Three months later, he still hadn’t found another orchestral position. He’d never expected how fast Dimitri would poison the well. All Zavier had found during his job search were shut doors and dead ends.
No one wanted a timpanist who fucked the conductor, then dropped him like a hot potato.
During that time, he’d listened to the Twisted Wishes album, to Ray’s voice and clever lyrics, and wondered what would have happened had he said yes to that ballsy sophomore back in high school.
Zavier stilled. Maybe it was time to find out. He’d kept his hand in drumming on a rock kit, and he did so love the beats underneath Ray’s songs. He could do worse than a tour around the country with an up-and-coming rock band, and that would solve both his problem and Ray’s.
So. Submit his CV. Type up a statement of intent. And click.
The tumble in his soul was the sheer opposite of regret—giddy anticipation.
They’d call, he knew. They had no choice.
Wouldn’t find a better drummer, mostly because there weren’t any.
He leaned back and tabbed to the apology.
Above it was a photo as haunting as that little melody all those years ago.
Ray, his lovely brown hair all cut and jagged.
He didn’t wear eyeliner like Domino did—didn’t need it.
Not with those wide golden eyes of his, like the whiskey he’d thrown at the drummer.
His full lips were pressed into a line, and the tension was so bitter and sweet in the set of his shoulders.
No longer the gangly sophomore. Had Ray been older back then—well.
Maybe Zavier would have joined the band, at least for the summer.
Same amount of years lay between them now, but back then, Ray had been barely sixteen to Zavier’s well past eighteen.
Too young to fool around with, even for a summer fling.
Once more Zavier’s fingers itched, but for very different reasons. Except now he knew better than to lose control and fuck where he worked.
He had no doubt he’d be working with Ray very soon.