Chapter 3 #2
He locked gazes with Ray, and power surged through him. Ray wanted him. It was written in the words and drawn in every line of that body. Zavier had always wondered a few things about that particular song, who Ray had written it for.
There was no hiding the bulge in Ray’s pants, nor the spark of lust that woke Zavier’s own cock.
He took a moment to come down off that high and get his desires under control before dropping the sticks into their holder on the kit. When he could think straight, he peered out past the kit and sought Ray again.
Same smoldering gaze, one that spoke of anger and lust. Ray lifted his chin.
“Now the asshole says yes to joining the band.” He swung away, peering around the room.
“Where the fuck is Carl?” A moment later, he set down the mic, grabbed his cell phone, and stomped off, muttering something about their fucking worthless manager.
The bang of the door echoed in the silent room.
Asshole. Zavier swallowed against that lingering taste of regret. Yeah, maybe he was. But he was the asshole who was going to save their band.
God, he wanted a piece of Ray. A chance to tame that anger, or pitch it higher until they were a tangle of limbs and sheets in a bed. The age difference had been too great in high school, but they were both grown men now.
He rose and joined the other two members of the band.
“Don’t let Ray’s snippiness get to you,” Mish said. “He’s had a stick up his ass since Kevin left and the label came down on him for it.”
Zavier met her smile with one of his own. “Oh, I won’t. Plus there’s history there.” He gestured at the path Ray had taken. “And he’s right. I am an asshole.”
She laughed. “You’ll fit right in, then.”
Zavier had already decided he liked Mish, but that quip sealed it. A treat to behold, she was an excellent player. That she’d not even blinked at his off-color comment, had called him fucked up, had welcomed him as an ass—well. She could hold her own.
Then again, he expected nothing less from a woman who could tower over her bandmates and play a mean bass while dancing around the stage in high heels.
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the silent Domino.
While both Ray and Mish wore jeans and T-shirts, a far cry from their stage outfits, Domino was in full gear, as if this were a concert.
A great guitarist, but no one really knew much about him.
“Please don’t tell me you always dress like that. ”
Domino swallowed and ran his fingers over strings and frets. “Whenever I’m in public.”
Zavier surveyed the room. “This is hardly public.”
Domino gave a shrug. His spiked hair shook and the studded collar around his neck bobbed. “Public enough.” He paused, and wonder crept into his voice. “You do know our songs.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Mish said. “Are you a fan, or can you just—” she waved a hand “—pick shit up?”
“A little of both. I have your albums, watched a bunch of tour videos people snuck onto YouTube, but I also have a knack for learning by ear.”
“Musical prodigy,” Domino said.
That comment, the nod, and something about the timbre of Domino’s voice made Zavier take a closer look. He peered behind the eyeliner and makeup. “Do I know you?”
A laugh and Domino looked down, his smile timid and hauntingly familiar. “I doubt you would remember me. I was pretty invisible at school.”
Then it clicked. The talent show in high school. That beautiful song. There’d been a guitarist with Ray, the shy nerdy kid. What the hell was his name? “Dominic. Dominic Bradley.”
Brown eyes, clever thin lips. Yes. Older now, but weren’t they all?
Domino nodded, awe evident. “It’s a bit of a secret.”
Understanding washed over Zavier. Domino—the persona—was armor. “Safe with me.”
That shy smile again. “Thanks.”
He was about to say something more when the door banged open. A blond man—trim and built, with a round face that might have been lovely had he not been scowling—strode in. Behind him sulked Ray, a bundle of tension.
The blond stuck out his hand. “You must be Zavier Demos. I’m Carl Roberts, the band manager.”
His shake was slightly too firm against Zavier’s hand, a sure sign of someone desperate to be in charge. “Nice to meet you,” Zavier lied.
“I don’t know why someone of your caliber wants to play with this lot. But we appreciate you stepping in.”
That comment raised Zavier’s hackles. A manager putting down the band? Though he focused on Carl, Zavier spotted Ray’s twitch and frown. “I needed a change of pace.” He paused. “Do you want to hear me play?”
Carl waved the suggestion away. “Ray said you’re the best. He might not know much, but he does know music.”
Ouch. Zavier schooled his face. This man was a complete dick. “I take it there will be paperwork to sign?”
“Of course.” He gestured to the door. “Why don’t we go talk about it elsewhere?”
Zavier nodded, but when Carl turned, he stole a glance at Ray. Pale. Shaking. Obviously furious. This wasn’t good. He caught Ray’s attention and gave a wave he hoped was assuring.
Sign with the prick, then sit down with the band and find out what the deal was. Perhaps he could lend a hand with whatever friction lay between Ray and the manager. He followed Carl out of the room.
Maybe he could help in another way, other than being the replacement drummer. He couldn’t be anything more, even if Ray’s desire was so obvious Zavier wanted to drink it right in. Wasn’t going to happen, which was an astounding pity.
But the debacle with Dimitri had burned too many scars into Zavier’s soul. Last thing he wanted was another mistake like that one. Better no sex at all or one-night stands than anything that involved expectations.
Well, at least he’d be able to watch Ray make love to his music. That would be treat enough.