Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Having Zavier in the house with the rest of the band was distracting as fuck. His presence tapped on every last one of Ray’s nerves. His voice was like a caress and the sight of him was a constant reminder to Ray’s libido that he hadn’t gotten any in months and months.
Didn’t help that Zavier watched him like he was an item on a menu.
Fucking around with the crew was one thing; fucking a bandmate was another.
Plus—and he had to remind himself constantly—he didn’t like Zavier.
Desperation for sex wasn’t a good reason to throw yourself at someone.
Especially not at Mr. Perfect Zavier Demos, drummer extraordinaire.
While the living arrangements were frustrating as fuck, the practices were incredible.
Every piece they worked on, they elevated to a new level and Ray gained a serious appreciation for how talented Zavier was.
Wasn’t smoke and mirrors. Zavier worked hard.
Despite the twinges in his features and the shoulder rolls between sessions, he never faltered behind the kit or complained about their marathon practices.
He also quietly backed up all of Ray’s musical decisions—or not so quietly when Carl was around.
Yeah, Zavier’s playing showed he deserved to have gone to Juilliard.
Hell, he should’ve been in some world-class orchestra or a multi-platinum headlining rock band, but here he was, drumming for Twisted Wishes.
Ray didn’t understand why. What did Zavier get out of the deal?
He didn’t trust Zavier, even if his body screamed to get closer, especially after Zavier stripped off his tank after one intense session.
All that ink on Zavier’s back. Saint freaking Michael the archangel descending down to slay demons.
More tattoos that dipped below Zavier’s waistline.
All of it only made him want to stare longer at that unreal body.
Still, they made it halfway through their first album by the middle of the last studio day, thrashing, playing, and meticulously going over every note and beat.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering with all the songs,” Carl grumbled. “It’s not like you play them all on tour.”
Ray hid his wince by grabbing a bottle of water. “That was with Kevin. I need to know which songs are the best with Zav.”
“Zav?” Carl’s sneer deepened.
Fuck Carl. Ray’d known Zavier longer than anyone in this room, save Dom. He called back over his shoulder, “You don’t mind Zav, do you?”
A laugh. “Zav is absolutely fine.” Zavier took a seat at a stool next to the table and grabbed one of the water bottles.
“It’s what everyone called me at school.
” The Zavier now was so much more than the Zavier in high school.
Same fucking eyes peered back, though. “You can even call me asshole, if you want.” Sly-ass smirk.
Fucker. Ray turned back to Carl and shrugged. “You want us at our best, I need to figure out what the new best is.”
Mish joined them. “Hey, Carl.” Her words and grin were too bright, but Carl wouldn’t know that. He’d never caught on.
He smiled back at her, with that look hetero men got when she turned on the charm. “Hey. You sounded outstanding today.”
“Thanks,” she drawled. She stood over him—all six foot one of her—and there was the hint of discomfort the same hetero men got when they realized Mish could break them in two. “Did you find us another studio space?”
Carl had to crane his neck to answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed. “No. There’s nothing available.”
“In all of L.A.?” Mish tapped her lip with a finger. “Huh.”
Carl focused on Ray rather than Mish. “You’re something else, Ray.”
Ray gave another disinterested shrug, and ignored the burning in the back of his throat. He had as much control over Mish as anyone else—not a damn ounce.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, darling,” Mish said. “We’ll be ready for the tour.”
“You’ve only worked through half an album and none of your newest material—you know, the songs that charted?” Carl leaned back and crossed his arms. “And you’ll be ready?”
Ray took another swallow of water. “I know what I’m doing.”
“That’ll be a first,” Carl murmured.
The calm Ray had been so desperately trying to hang on to broke suddenly, and he slammed the water bottle down on the table. “Now look here—”
He made to rise, but Zavier clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
Not hard, but enough to zing through every nerve.
Ray sank back down onto the chair. “I’ve gotten us this far.
” A single in the top five. Sales that were decent.
Tours and signing lines that were crowded enough. Fan mail. A gold album.
In the beginning, Carl had been so full of praise, even when he’d offered suggestions and picked at every one of Ray’s decisions. Now? The praise was gone. The critique remained, though.
“Oh yes,” Carl said. “You’re A-plus material. Drive your drummer to drink. Throw a bottle at him. Make the news in such a stellar way. Your band’s playing on tour has been shit. It’s a wonder the label gave you this chance.”
Zavier hadn’t removed his hand, and that was the only thing that kept Ray from leaning across the table and punching Carl.
Thing was—everything Carl said was true.
That was the worst thing. Carl was right.
Ray’d failed Kevin. Failed the band. The burning turned inward and stabbed like daggers and he ground his teeth, face hot with shame.
Carl had even warned him, back at the start. Your songs are good, kid. But this isn’t like playing bars down at the Shore. It hadn’t been, either. Dude might be an asshole, but he did seem to know the business in a way Ray didn’t.
“That’s better.” Carl rose. “Your lunch will be here soon and you have the studio until eight. After that, they’ll be packing up your shit.”
“Send the drum kit to the house.” Zavier spoke low, but with force.
Carl jerked back. “What?”
“My kit.” Zavier slid his hand from Ray’s shoulder, and it took every ounce of control not to shudder. “Send it to the house.”
“Why?”
A huff that Ray recognized as Zavier’s are you stupid laugh. “Because I’m a fucking professional drummer.”
Carl stared at Zavier. “Right. Okay.” He swung around and headed to the door, already punching shit on his phone.
When the door slammed shut, Mish dropped into the seat Carl had occupied. “That man has no right being a manager.”
Another grunt from Zavier—this one neutral.
“It’ll be fine,” Ray said, though his gut told him a different story. Like it or not, Carl was their manager. The first label exec he’d ever talked to had praised Carl up and down. Said that Twisted Wishes couldn’t do any better.
“Will it?” Soft, quiet words from Dom. He’d been standing over by the window the entire time. “I mean, Zavier’s good—”
“Why thank you.” Zavier’s cocky attitude was back.
“—but this is shit.” Dom gestured around the studio. “They want us to fail.”
Zavier rocked back on the stool and rubbed his chin. “The label wouldn’t send you on tour with Five Asylum if they wanted you to fail.”
Dom finally crossed the room. “But Carl’s not giving us what we need.”
Ray followed Zavier’s hand from his chin to the table. Long fingers. Tats that ended at the wrists. In formal wear, you’d never see the ink.
Zavier gave off a rumble that fit somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and he flattened his hand against the table. “Carl’s not the record label.”
“He might as well be,” Ray said. “He’s our only contact with them.” Their gateway to the stars, Carl sometimes said.
Zavier arched his eyebrows. “Really? Is that typical?” Not a snide question—honest curiosity.
God, Ray felt like shit—he wasn’t smart enough for this gig.
Images of Kevin with his bottle of Jack flashed through his mind, and he rubbed his forehead.
“Maybe?” They’d gone into this blind, happy to have a contract and a label and some money behind them.
“This is so different than when we played in local bars and put out singles, you know?”
But Zavier didn’t know. He’d been off getting a music degree and touring the world with symphonies.
Ray pushed himself up. “I’ll go wait for lunch. I need some air.”
He followed the same path Carl had taken, but unlike Carl, he couldn’t jump into a car and drive away. Hell, he was such a fuckup, he didn’t know how to drive.
Ray stared up into the clear sky. Dom was right—this was shit, and he had no clue how to fix it.
As the days went by, Zavier watched Ray become more unraveled. When they played, Ray was fine, but as soon as music wasn’t flowing through the air, he turned moody and snappish, or still and silent—a statue sitting out on the deck, watching the sky.
The few times Carl stopped by to listen to them practice in their makeshift space in the garage, Ray had gone from the Zen, perfect singer to a destructive asshole in no seconds flat.
“Maybe,” Zavier murmured at Mish while they cleaned up a broken plate and glass, “we should switch to paper and plastic for a while.”
“He’s really stressed,” she whispered back. “He’s a good guy.”
“I know he is.” Ray was frustrated and scared. Only when he sang did he loosen up and breathe.
The urge to tame that energy and calm those fears gripped Zavier like a vice.
Ray was lithe, strong, and responsive to rhythm, exactly the kind of person Zavier loved to fuck.
But he had seen how a wild temper could play out between sexual partners who had to work together, and he’d had enough items thrown at him this year.
Maybe if Ray got his shit together...
No. Not a wise option.
“It’ll be better when we’re on the road. Less time to brood, and Carl’s happier if he can see results.” Mish dumped a dustpan of shards into the trash.
“If Carl cared enough to pay attention, he’d see the results.”
Mish grinned. “You’re starting to sound like one of us, Zavier, honey.”
“Honey?” He raised an eyebrow at Mish.