Chapter 10
brODIE
After two hours of smiling and putting on a good face (and singing), I was done.
Don’t get me wrong, the adulation was always welcome, but I’d had all the peopling I could handle.
All I wanted was to be left alone.
After what happened on the ride over, I was uneasy and vulnerable like I rarely was.
And it was all because of Van.
Even though I’d been approached by several hot men tonight, I felt nothing. Not a spark, not a lick of desire.
But when the last guy handed me his card with an open invitation to get together later tonight, I took it.
Not because I was going to call him, no.
But because Van stared at the guy like he was ready to rip his head off. And I, of course, could not resist poking the bear.
I wasn’t above playing dirty to get through to him.
Was it my most mature moment? Hell no. But all’s fair in love, right?
Then I realized that doing such a thing only played into Van’s idea that I was only interested in getting in his pants. One and done, and on to the next guy. And that was far from the truth.
I handed the card back.
Lookit me, acting all mature and shit.
Suddenly, Van was by my side and introducing himself to… Leon… Liev… I couldn’t remember. The guy looked like a Norwegian model—all white teeth and icy blond hair.
“I’m Ivan Cross, Wayward Lane’s manager. I’m afraid that Brodie isn’t doing interviews until the night of the concert,” Van snapped and passed over his card. “If you want to set it up, you contact me.”
“Oh, I’m not with the press,” Blondie replied, giving me a flirty grin. “Not at all.”
Van’s expression grew darker, and his cheeks flushed.
“We gotta hit the road, but it was nice to meet you,” I held my hand out.
Blondie gripped it for much longer than a normal handshake.
Van’s scowl was downright lethal.
“Same. Are you sure you don’t want to get together later?”
“I have to rest up the voice, and I have an early morning, but thanks.”
“No worries, then. I’ll see you at the concert.”
Blondie winked at me, nodded at Van, and sauntered off through the crowd.
“Sorry, I thought he was media,” Van muttered and made to turn away.
I reached for his arm and held on, pulling him in close to me.
“I gave the card back. I’m not interested.”
“It’s none of my business.” He shook his head and glanced up at me.
Was that relief I saw in Van’s blues?
“Van—”
“Not now,” he echoed my earlier reply.
“Later?”
“Tomorrow.”
My stomach flipped over. He hadn’t walked away or said no. That was a win in my book.
“Can we get out of here? I want to head back to the hotel.”
Between the show of Van’s jealousy (whether he recognized it or not, that’s what it was) and the anticipation of spending time alone with him tomorrow, my sex drive was worked up. I had some serious jacking off to do.
“No club?”
I shook my head. “I was just running my mouth earlier, letting my temper get the best of me.”
“Hey, asshole,” Holls called out as he sidled up beside me. “Ready for the next party?”
“I’m heading back to the hotel.”
“Don’t be a bummer. Come on, man, live a little. You’ve been acting like a fucking monk lately, when was the last time you got your dick—”
“Shut it, Holls,” I bit out.
“He’s got a point,” Van interrupted. “There might be talk if the rest of the guys are out having a good time and you’re nowhere to be seen. The label won’t want the media or the fans thinking there’s been a falling out.”
I rolled my eyes. “We can’t fucking win. You want to limit our access to the press, but then we have to cater to them?”
“You know how it is. Let’s go for an hour, make an appearance, and then you can leave.”
“Fine, let’s get it over with,” I grumbled and chugged the rest of my drink.
“Don’t sound so put out. It’s a club, not serving time.” Van chuckled. “Also, I invited Killmine, the opening band. They’re a local act but up and coming. They’re looking forward to meeting everyone.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I replied. “For that reason alone, I’ll go.”
“Before we leave, let’s say our goodbyes to the host.”
A half-hour later, we were back in the SUV on our way downtown.
Van showed me the stats on the band he’d invited, or as much as he could between replying to the texts he kept receiving and the calls he answered.
“Turn off the notifications for the night and relax.”
He finally looked up at me. “There’s no such thing. And I’m getting the final press schedule done for the thirty-first so I can free up my schedule tomorrow.”
Oh. In that case…
“I didn’t fully think this trip through,” I stated, staring into his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re shouldering a shitload of stuff because it wasn’t in the plan, and I feel… guilty.”
He smiled at me, and my pulse began to throb.
“You’re sweet to be concerned, but it’s nothing I haven’t handled before.”
“Sweet? No one has ever used that word to describe me. How many drinks have you had?” I teased him.
“More than I should’ve,” he admitted and cocked his head, a lock of his hair falling over his left eye. “And take the compliment. You’re not a selfish asshole like some people I’ve worked with. Snark hides your sensitivity. And your bark is way worse than your bite.”
“You might enjoy my bite.”
Van coughed but didn’t reply.
Suddenly, our SUV came to an abrupt stop. Regan and Dawson got out first, as usual.
“Christ, there’s press here already. Someone must’ve blabbed,” Van sighed as he looked out his window. “No autographs before we head in. Just wave and keep moving.”
The back door opened and Van stepped out. I followed him, but we waited until the second SUV pulled up beside us and the rest of the guys piled out.
There were camera flashes and callouts, so we turned and waved. I gave the practiced smile and the shot that the press wanted.
Not really.
They wanted dirt—on who I was fucking, how much I was drinking, if I was fighting with my bandmates.
I didn’t have anything to give them, which was hilarious if you think about it.
Sure, I liked to drink, and yeah, I’d had my issues with pills in the past, and yes, I was a randy fuckboy, but not recently.
My salacious rock star persona was not living up to the hype. I couldn’t give a shit, but still, if the fans only knew…
There was a massive lineup of people waiting to get into the club, and once the flashes started going off, the fans spotted us. Screams erupted, and phones came out.
This part never got old. It was still a rush to be recognized.
“Keep moving,” Regan urged as we made our way up the stairs and into the club.
Crimson Bones lived up to its name, with red walls and gothic touches, including massive black chandeliers and artwork inspired by Mardi Gras celebrations. It was cool and funky, something I couldn’t say about many clubs I’d visited.
One thing was the same. The heavy beat of house music blasted through my body as we made our way up the stairs.
Van walked ahead, talking to the host. And then we were whisked down a long hallway that opened to a massive room, a balcony VIP that overlooked the main club below. We had our own bar up here and waitstaff to cater to us.
Then, I noticed the crowd already seated at the bar. A group of guys younger than us and all dressed similar to Holloway in 70s style.
These were the guys from Killmine.
Van, as usual, took charge and made the intros.
“Nate Filier, Xander Delaire, Heath Lang, and Otis Wayne.”
Nate was the lead singer, a tall, lanky guy with a brown shag and a deep voice that rumbled like a foghorn. Xander played bass, Heath drums, and Otis lead guitar.
“Nice to meet y’all,” Nate smiled and greeted us. “And thanks for the invite, Van. This club is the coolest place in the city, fantastique.”
“De rien,” Van replied.
Nate’s face lit up. “You speak French?”
Van nodded. “I don’t use it much day to day, but I love the language. I was raised in Montreal. Being down here feels like home.”
“Well, bienvenue à la maison.”
I had no idea what Nate said, but it sounded cool.
“Pleasure to meet you guys,” I held out my hand. “Van has said nothing but great things. Drinks are on us.”
Soon we were all shooting the music shit, downing shots, and chilling out. Van even joined us, taking a few shots while we hung out.
I was relieved to see him relax for a change.
Me and my band brothers could always handle a fuckton of liquor, but the boys from down south beat us, no contest. I don’t know how they managed to drink so much and still walk a straight line.
I tried to focus on the conversation going on around me, but inevitably, my focus was on Van.
An hour later, Holls and Ronin announced they were hitting the dance floor. Faise didn’t want to go, but Ronin hauled him over his shoulder, and that was that.
Our security team followed, along with the boys from Killmine.
I stayed behind with Van and Dawson.
“Looks like it’s just the two of us,” Van yelled out over the boom of the music as he ordered a bottle of sparkling water.
We sat on one of the leather couches overlooking the party below.
“Three,” I pointed over my shoulder to Dawson, who was standing guard behind us.
“Go on and dance with them. I’m fine up here,” Van held up his phone. “I’ve got work to keep me busy.”
I shook my head and moved closer, draping my arm across the back of the couch.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“No fucking way.” Van laughed and pointed to his shoes. “I’ve got two left feet. Swear to God.”
I’d never seen Van dance. Not when he was watching us perform, not at events. Never. He claimed he had no rhythm, but I didn’t believe him.
“I think you’re lying.” I stood up and held my hand out. “Get up.”
Tequila flooded veins had me ready to gamble.
“No,” Van waved me off, his cheeks flushing.
“No one can see us but Dawson, and he won’t tell.” I looked over at my security. “Will you?”
Dawson shook his head and turned to face the audience down below.
“Come on, dance with me.”
“Brodie—”
“Get your tight ass up off that couch.”
Van vaulted off the cushion and faced me. “Calisse! You just can’t let up, can you?”
“No, I can’t. You should know this about me by now.”
My heartbeat was louder and faster than the pounding pulse of the music around us.
But I didn’t get closer. I stayed where I was.
I don’t know if it was the alcohol or my brain finally clicking into gear, but I had a sudden realization. I would be clear in my intentions toward Van, but it was up to him.
I wasn’t gonna take something he wasn’t willing to give.
Even though I knew desire when I saw it, he was still holding back.
He wasn’t out? Or maybe he wasn’t comfortable with his sexuality? Then there was the fact that we worked together.
All of those reasons were sound.
And Van and I might be a fucking disaster waiting to happen.
Yet, here I was. My body sweating, hands trembling, waiting, fucking dying for Van to come close and touch me.
I never hungered for anyone like I did for him.
It was humbling and so fucking frustrating that I wanted to scream.
But I held back.
Until he took a step toward me.
Then all bets were off.