Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
After the intensity of that night’s show, Zavier was glad the band was staying at a hotel tonight.
Sleeping on a tour bus had been all right, but the cramped conditions were wearing very thin on him.
After yet another incredible concert full of energetic fans and Ray outdoing himself, Zavier was more wired than ever.
Yet exhaustion had seeped deep into his bones, along with a growing frustration with the very man making each and every Twisted Wishes concert better than the last.
He hoped a bed that didn’t vibrate and shake with the movements of a bus and some downtime off the road would help them all, especially Ray.
The more Ray pushed himself, the more volatile his emotions became.
He was either sullen, an anxious mess, a glorious rock god, or angry as fuck.
Zavier missed those few moments when Ray had been relaxed and hopeful and there with the rest of the band.
Tonight Ray wasn’t there. He’d been moody on the bus, quiet before the concert, astounding on stage, and then snappish after a short conversation with Carl.
Since they’d all opened up about the manager and what they knew, Ray hadn’t filled anyone in on what the fuck Carl was saying to him. Zavier saw that wear on both Mish and Dom, and gritted his teeth.
The trip from the outdoor arena to the hotel was uneventful, thank goodness, though Ray fidgeted in the limo, probably still burning off some of the energy that coursed through them all.
Tonight’s concert had one-upped all the rest. Each time they played, they outdid themselves.
Hell, at this rate they’d be headlining by the time they reached California.
Zavier knew his playing was part of that. The band could trust that he’d be there and blend, that they could improvise and still stay together—all the musicality that had fallen by the wayside with Kevin. Twisted Wishes flowed and built on the strengths of each musician.
Wasn’t all Zavier—far from it. Like with the symphony, a band was a team.
He’d replaced a member who hadn’t functioned well, and they’d all taken it up a notch in response.
Especially Ray. God, over the past few concerts, he’d become a firebrand on stage, his voice clearer and sharper, his interactions with the crowd energetic and stunning.
Ray was a beautiful sight to behold, half naked by the end, and covered in sweat.
They were all coming down from the high now, but when Ray dropped, he hit bottom fast, as if the concerts were the only time he wasn’t full of anxiety and worry.
What had happened? He still didn’t know why Ray had flipped him off—was it only a few days ago?
Didn’t matter. That and Ray’s behavior afterward had been for the best. He’d enjoyed Ray’s company and the tenuous friendship they’d built.
He still admired Ray and thought the man beautiful, but he couldn’t become wrapped up in the tumult that was Ray Van Zeller, no matter how temping that thought was.
He’d dealt with Dimitri’s violent moods. No more.
When the limo pulled into the hotel, they were each given their own rooms—nice ones, too.
An entire floor was dedicated to the band and the crew, though Carl had vanished like he normally did.
Zavier didn’t know for sure, but he had a suspicion that managers usually stuck with their band.
Carl came and went when it served him. Usually after he’d had a word with Ray and crushed his spirits even more.
You know he lies, Ray. Why are you listening to him? Why aren’t you talking to us?
Zavier carded himself into his room and tucked the card into his pocket. There was everything he needed—a big-ass bed, a bunch of bottles of water, and a room-service menu. The only thing it lacked was ice; he liked his water cold, not tepid.
Well, that was why there were ice machines in hotels, after all.
He grabbed the bucket and headed out to find where they’d stuffed the icemaker in this place.
It was, of course, as far away from their rooms as humanly possible.
A positive, since he wouldn’t hear the contraption dumping ice all night, but he couldn’t help being a bit grumpy about the distance.
He wanted to toe off his shoes and lie down on that huge bed.
On the way to the machine, he walked by a kid in a hoodie and jean jacket slouching past in the way only youth and attitude could manage. The guy gave him a glance, then folded into himself deeper.
Ah, the righteousness of the young. He’d been there once and had been a complete brat, too.
It wasn’t until Zavier was holding a bucket full of ice that his brain pondered what a kid like that would be doing on this floor—the one that was entirely occupied by Twisted Wishes’s band and crew.
“Shit.” Groupie. Or stalker. Looking a little young, too.
Every muscle tensed. This could be bad—especially if the guy was heading to the obvious place. Mish had her head on straight. Dom was too damn scared of not being Domino. Zavier was too new to the group to have picked up that bold a fan and besides, the kid would have stopped.
That left only one person.
Zavier picked up his pace back to his room—he, Mish, Dom, and Ray all had rooms near one another, separate from the crew, who all had rooms on this side of the floor.
When he turned the corner of the hall, the guy was gone.
Damn it, Ray. Don’t be doing what I think you’re doing.
Stress relief or no, this was not the time to be fucking groupies, especially ones who looked too damn young.
Even if the guy was of age, the thought of Ray with anyone twisted Zavier’s insides.
Which said something about his own wants. He tried to ignore that.
Decision time. Zavier knocked on Mish’s door. When she answered she glanced at the ice bucket in his hands and gave him a look. “You lost?”
“No. I passed a kid in the hall. Groupie-type, but way too young.”
“Well, he ain’t here, sunshine.”
“Didn’t think he would be.”
Mish’s gaze shifted to Ray’s door. “Oh, hell.”
Okay, yeah, Zavier probably was right. Shit. He shoved the ice bucket into Mish’s hands and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.
“Nine-one-one isn’t going to do anything,” she said.
“I’m not calling anyone.” Zavier called up the memo app and hit record, then crossed the room and banged on Ray’s door. Better safe than sorry. “Ray.”
Nothing.
He pounded on the door again. “I’m not going anywhere, Ray. Open the damn door.”
A door opened, but not the one he wanted. Dom stuck his head out of his room. No makeup. Honest-to-god old-guy pajamas. “What’s going on?”
Mish answered, “We think Ray’s got an underaged groupie.”
“Fuck.” Dom’s eyes widened.
“He’s not opening this for me.” Zavier thumped the door with his foot.
“I have a keycard,” Dom said.
Zavier whipped around. “What?”
“Sometimes Ray sleeps really heavily and wears earplugs. He’s terrified of dying in a fire. Used to have nightmares as a kid, so...”
“Dominic,” Zavier ground out, and laid his hand flat.
He’d never seen that man move quite that fast. A moment later, the card was on his palm. A second after that, he was in Ray’s room. And yup, there was the guy, sans hoodie. Barely any chest hair. At least his pants were on and Ray was fully clothed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ray didn’t yell, but there was unmistakable malice in his voice.
“Likely saving your ass from a felony.” Zavier pointed at the kid. “How old are you?”
“He’s legal,” Ray said. “I checked his ID.”
“I’m twenty-one!” the guy growled.
Part of Zavier understood the appeal. Guy was broody, with dark hair and pale eyes, and had that whole rebel thing going. Might have been a baby-faced twenty-one-year-old, but he looked like he might be younger than that, too.
Jesus, Ray. What the hell are you doing with this guy? “Let me see this ID.”
The guy dove for his jacket and handed over the ID with shaking fingers.
On the surface, it looked legit. And yup, the birthdate placed him a couple months over twenty-one. Zavier stared at it, and the more he looked, the worse he felt. The ID was real. The guy was quite legal, and Zavier’d just blundered into a hookup.
“This is real,” he murmured.
“Of course it is.” The guy snatched his ID back. “Asshole.”
Zavier didn’t focus on him—he looked at Ray.
Pale. Angry. “Zavier...” A tremble in his voice.
Fuck. He’d jumped to a conclusion. “He looked young.” Had he? Or had that been a convenient excuse?
“I look young,” Ray said, his voice cold.
Not like his guy did, with his baby face and the scowl that looked more teen than twenty. But best to make a hasty retreat, and try not to think about these two fucking. “Fine. I’m sorry for worrying.” Ray could do so much better.
“Fucking freak,” the guy muttered. He wrenched his jacket off the bed—and a baggie went flying. It landed not two feet from Zavier.
Drugs. Pills and stamp bags and smaller bags of powder. A syringe. A spoon.
“What the fuck?” Ray stared at the bag like it was an alien creature.
Zavier’s gut lurched. Ray couldn’t possibly be doing drugs. No signs of that at all. Still... “You like to party, Ray?”
The guy grabbed the baggie. “You better turn your pasty ass around and get the fuck out.”
Zavier ignored the jerk and stared at Ray. Still pale, still angry, but there was a laser-like clarity when he looked up. “I don’t do drugs. Never have. I’m not the fucker Carl keeps saying I am.”
Some of the tension in Zavier bled away. “Ray—”
“Get out.” Ray’s soft voice cut through the room. “Just—get out. Both of you.”
The man grabbed his shirt, hoodie, and jacket. “Fuck the both of you.”
“Hey.” Zavier held up his phone so the guy could see the recording icon. “Don’t get any ideas about blabbing to the press.”
“Recording someone’s illegal.” The guy glowered at him.