One Kiss from the King of Rock (The One Book 2) Page 3

  Shit. He felt the idea of it there already.

  Need to back this up hard, dickhead. There wasn’t going to be a repeat performance of the Jay and Evie show, because that would be doing something stupid.

  He needed to do a better job than pretending to listen to what was being said because Abel opened his mouth for the first time.

  “Our fans will want to see Jay on stage with us. A guest appearance to play the PoP hits together,” he said.

  “That is a good idea,” Mum replied. Jay waited for the but. It would be a thing of beauty. “There are a couple of reason why we might want to reconsider that,” she said. “The first is simply Jay’s time on stage. He needs to be fresh for his set and he won’t be if he plays with you first. Secondly, frankly, Abel, you don’t want him on stage crowding your time to star.”

  There it was, practical wisdom wrapped in the shiny paper of you don’t know what’s good for you and tied up with a ribbon of we’re not doing that.

  Abel frowned. Isaac radiated death threats. Oscar sucked oxygen from the room; Jay swore he saw the lights dim. Errol said something reasonable about needing to accommodate fan expectations and Evie looked up with eyes of fire and ice.

  “It would be better if we did joint promo before the first show, so we create a buzz and cash in on last-minute ticket sales,” she said.

  One of the marketing suits agreed with that and there was excited cross talk about it. Evie was focused on Mum, not sparing Jay a glance. Despite his height, he wasn’t tall enough to reach her with a foot under the wide table. Couldn’t make an innocent, accidental nudge happen, even by slumping in his seat. Couldn’t think of any other not obvious way to get her attention either, having tried picking up his water glass and throat clearing.

  Was it jet lag making him into a pathetic worm? Had to be, he wasn’t all that sure what day it was.

  In the middle of the ideas brainstorming, Evie said, “PoP should play a gig at the Grumpy Fiddler.”

  One of Jay’s lungs stopped working.

  “That rotten old pub,” said Errol, cocking a shocked look at Evie.

  Abel groaned. Isaac got verbal. “Why would we do that?” he said.

  Oscar shook his head in way that probably caused a tsunami somewhere.

  Mum said something diplomatic.

  Jay coughed trying to draw a breath that didn’t strangle him.

  What did Evie remember about their first gig at the Fiddler. It was memorable because they were awful that night. Abel and Isaac warring, Oscar sulking. Errol furious. Grip clowning and Jay and Evie trying to peace-keep. They sucked on stage and the pub patrons let them know it. Their shitty van broke down so they were forced to stay the night in the equally shitty motel attached to the pub.

  But that was the night they realized how badly they wanted to succeed, and what they’d have to do to get there.

  It was memorable because that was the first night he and Evie kissed. The first night they got naked and explored each other’s bodies, pushing pleasure till the sun came up.

  They weren’t a couple then, but they were sick for each other from that first lip lock. Running a fever so high for so long untended, it was a wonder the whole motel didn’t combust when they came together.

  They played the Grumpy Fiddler six months later, debuting their first hit single. He and Evie were still burning up the sheets, lovers but also best friends. He’d thought they were soul mates. Whatever they were, it was kickstarted with a kiss at the Grumpy Fiddler.

  Evie had to remember that, because it was embedded in Jay’s bone marrow.

  “Why that pub?” Mum asked. She’d never attended the early gigs. She’d always liked Evie and had been distressed by their breakup.

  “It’d be a security nightmare,” said Errol.

  “Rattrap of a venue,” said Abel, but he was smiling, and so was Isaac.

  “It’d be a stealth gig. No advertising. No promotion,” said Evie. “No security issue we couldn’t manage.”

  “A guerilla gig,” said Abel and there was a rumble of support in the room. “That would be way cool.” Even Oscar’s lips twitched in a vaguely pleasant fashion.

  “We don’t care who attends, how many. We want the story, the visuals,” Evie said.

  “Like surprise subway gigs,” said Mum, and from around the room people chipped in the names of artists who’d done stealth gigs. U2, Miley Cyrus, Maroon Five, Linkin Park, Prince, Green Day, The Stone Roses, Radiohead, Coldplay, the Sex Pistols, Kanye West, Hozier.

  Now Evie looked at him. Storm front approaching. He sensed the temperature drop before she said, “But I guess you’re too good to play with your old band in a pub gig.”

  Bait taken but not swallowed. He had his breath back now. He pushed back from the table and stood. “A word, Evie?”

  She rocked in her chair, opening her hands out in a come-at-me gesture, but didn’t make any attempt to stand. “All ears.”

  He inclined his head towards the corridor. “Outside?” He’d play this out a little and see where it went. And he didn’t want witnesses. He quit the room, and then spent an irritatingly long time alone in the empty corridor waiting for Evie to follow, willing both lungs to keep doing their thing, no matter what she hit him with.

  When she was finally standing in front of him, away from prying eyes, he gestured back and forth between them. “What are we going to do about this?”

  She didn’t play dumb, that wasn’t an Evie tactic. She repeated his gesture. “There is no this.”

  Not dumb, but not above lying. “Why do you hate me? Everyone else in your family is going to come around. Get over it. Use the tour to smooth out the past.” He jabbed a finger towards the conference room. “Oscar almost smiled in there. What’s your problem? It can’t still be us. We were ten years ago. We were practically kids. We probably wouldn’t have lasted anyway.”

  “We would never have lasted because you flaked out.”

  “I flaked out.” He almost shouted that. He had plenty of air now. They’d started out with their backs against the opposite walls, but they’d both drifted forward. He could clearly see Evie’s goddamn barbell and shield nipple piercing. “What do you think you did?”

  She jerked her head up, shot laser beams from her eyes. “I didn’t run out on anyone.”

  “No,” he clapped his hands making her blink. “You folded like a bloody beach umbrella.”

  “Fuck you and the fame you rode in on.”

  He was breathing hard, his headbanging heart trying to eject itself from his chest and drag a lung with it. She was tight-lipped, both hands balled into fists. He got right in her face. “Fuck you and the promise you burned.”

  “What promise?”

  He felt the heat of her words on his neck. He saw the blood rush to her cheeks and the flare of her lashes. She hated him. Did she still want him? Down the corridor a door opened, a voice called, “Is everything—”

  They cut it off with a jointly shouted, “Fuck off,” not losing eye contact.

  “I want to kiss you so badly and that’s so fucked up,” he said, watching her face for answers.

  “You’re never going to kiss me again. I’m never going to trust you again.”

  He saw anger; the confused, everything hurts, passionate kind. “Tell me right now you don’t want to have rip-it-all-up angry sex.”

  “I don’t want to have any kind of sex with you.”

  “Liar.”

  Up came her hand, smack over his pec. “No, that’s your thing.” She leaned in and her caramel scent filled his head. Nothing sweet on her tongue. “I didn’t break any promises. That was all you. You were going to stand with me. You were going to love me forever.”

  That’s not what he’d meant about broken promises. He’d had no choice. They were almost pressed together now; glancing touches, his knee to her thigh, her elbow winging past his gut, her foot jammed between his.

  “Hate and love are a razor’s edge, Evie.”

  “You
already made me bleed out any feeling I had for you.” She pulled her hand away from his chest, but gripped his forearm as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.

  It might’ve been the only thing keeping him upright. “If that was true,” his voice came out a low growl, “we wouldn’t be shouting at each other.” Standing like a hug stalled; touching like damage desired.

  “I’m not doing this,” she whispered, eyes closed, sounding in some way broken, like he’d hurt her anew.

  He stepped back, appalled, and her hand fell away. “We should do the guerilla gig. It’s a sharp idea. I’ll do whatever you and the guys want.”

  She raised her eyes to his, searching his face for what? What did she want from him? He could shake her. He could stroke her hair and smooth the frown from her brow. It was fucked up but he’d give her anything she asked for.

  “We’re not friends, Jay. We’re not anything. Going back to the Grumpy Fiddler is nothing to me. I don’t want your apologies. I don’t need your approval. I don’t want to be singled out for your attention.”

  He’d barely reacted to that with a blunt nod when she left him, going back to the conference room. He slumped against the wall. She remembered. She was anything but indifferent to him, but they were not friends and he didn’t want to see that confusion on her face, hear that hurt in her voice again. No more accidental touches. No more looking for explanations or spoiling for a fight.

  Back in the conference room, Evie was the only one who didn’t look over at him when he walked back in. He didn’t have to do this. World’s End were one of the biggest bands on the planet right now. He had his own social media marketing people. He could shove his own phone in his own face and post his own message to fans to sell more tickets that Lost Property would get the benefit of with their cut from extra shows.

  “It’ll be dope, Jay,” Abel said.

  He’d thought Abel would be in his life forever. It would be legendary. They must’ve renovated the old pub by now. It wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t be the reminder he didn’t want.

  “If the Foo Fighters can play a pizzeria, Property of Paradise can play the Grumpy Fiddler,” he said.

  Abel threw both arms in the air. Isaac high fived him. Jay could see Oscar’s lips curve up. Mum and Errol were in obvious agreement. His boys were happy, they’d get extra time off to play tourist while there were PoP rehearsals and the show.

  That left Evie, swiping her phone screen, as if this wasn’t something she’d set in motion.

  PoP would play a guerilla gig, but it was Evie who was all stealth.

  FIVE

  Evie was the only one not sweating and yet she felt the heat.

  Grip was shirtless and steaming. Abel’s tee was plastered to him. Isaac was red-faced and sweat dripped off Oscar’s nose onto his keyboard.

  And Jay?

  Jay was obscenely wet, his hair plastered back, his white singlet almost transparent, his jeans gone dark in patches at the waist.

  She was thirsty to the soles of her feet from staring at him. And the longer the rehearsal went on, the more she valued the hiding place she used to watch from, and the more she thirsted.

  Much as she didn’t want to admit it, Jay’s touch was part of her muscle memory and the way he held his guitar was sparking all kinds of responses. Goose bumps along her arms, a change to her breathing. She’d had to dump her jacket. Her nipples stung, and it was too easy to imagine herself stalking over to Jay, ripping the guitar out of his arms and slamming her lips on his.

  They’d started with a kiss like that. Long teased, almost rage-induced after a fight about the set list and Jay’s insistence they shouldn’t do covers. All the Fiddler’s audience had wanted was covers. She’d been right about that. She’d been wrong about the kiss. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was where her adult life started.

  The beauty of hiding in the upstairs loft of the old church hall was that Jay would never know the effect he was having on her. Abel had banned her and Errol, but she’d snuck in to watch the rehearsal, expecting it to degenerate into hopeless infighting and maybe an actual smackdown.

  There’d been a lot of snide comments and sideways looks and then they’d simply gotten down to it like professionals. Whatever resentment and angst they were feeling was being channeled into their instruments.

  Jay took a back seat playing rhythm guitar like the old days, letting Abel lead, even in vocals on songs he’d written where he’d once been up front.

  After the fact she hadn’t had to step in a break up a fight, that’d been the surprise of the morning. She’d expected Jay to be a dick about that arrangement. She’d expected him to be a dick in general. He was on rich lists now. Nothing he’d couldn’t buy, nowhere he wasn’t welcomed. He’d only agreed to play the Grumpy Fiddler because he was guilty as sin.

  Now sweating up a storm for a secret audience of one, he was sin personified.

  And she was damned to writhe in the flames of hell for all eternity because her mortal enemy was making her wet.

  Her phone chirped, and she tore her eyes away from Jay’s fret mastery to look down at her screen. Earlier she’d sent Teela a photo of him in all his hunk of rock god glory. She snickered over Teela’s reply, Sold. Haydn Delany was so last year.

  Evie responded Jay was so last decade

  Teela came back with Aged to perfection.

  Helps with tix sales. Besides you’re taken.

  I’m leaving Haydn. Besides you don’t want Jay.

  Evie paused. Jay had called her a liar and it would be lying to say she didn’t want him. I want the body. I don’t want the hassle of the man wearing it. And right now prowling around the rehearsal space like an erotic dream. There was simply no value in backsliding into a thing with Jay, even if it was only glorious angry sex. He was in the country for ten weeks and then he’d go on tour and back to wherever the heck he currently lived. It might as well be the moon.

  Need to protect my heart, Tee.

  Priority one. Fair call.

  It was sensible to sin bin Jay, and yet wholly unsatisfying, like finding your bubble wrap had already been popped, neither of you had condoms when you really needed them, or the wrong pizza got delivered.

  Phone still in hand, she risked filming the guys from over the balcony. Once she posted they’d know she’d been spying on them.

  “Sucks to be in a rock band,” she said. “Everyone wants a piece of you. No one sticks around to clean up the mess.” Except that was a part of her job and she loved every minute of it.

  She checked the footage. A little dark. Grip’s arms were a blur. Abel looked suitably in the zone, hot and bothered in a good way, and an arc of sunlight from the one window illuminated Jay as if he was an avenging angel come to save the world with an expertly laid riff.

  She wouldn’t be human if she didn’t still desire him. She wouldn’t be sane if she acted on the urge.

  He was self-taught where Grip and all the Tice kids had years of music lessons, scholarships and competition wins, layered over natural talent. Music was in their genes. That’s part of what stung about Jay’s defection and success. It was off the charts unexpected.

  Errol as much as told Jay he didn’t have the right stuff to make it, that his best bet was to play with trained musicians and stay in the background where he wouldn’t trip over his lack of experience. He saw Jay as a dreamer, a flake, a song-writing fluke who didn’t know he’d gotten lucky a couple of times and didn’t have the discipline to go the hard yards to turn chance into skill.

  He saw him as a starter boyfriend who Evie shouldn’t get too attached to.

  He was the only one not astounded when Jay quit. He’d had to eat his words since then, but not about Jay being the boyfriend you practice heartbreak on.

  She set the video to post on the fan page right after the one from yesterday’s media conference where the guys from both bands mingled with entertainment press to talk about the tour.

  Local boy made good, Jay had
been the star of that particular event. Evie had to stop Oscar leaving before it was over. Isaac got a migraine and Abel white-knuckled it, at one point saying think of the money to himself so loudly it was picked up by a hot mic and ended up on the seven o’clock news and a bunch of radio broadcasts, fortunately played off as a huge joke.

  There’d been no guarantee anyone was going to show up for rehearsals or if they’d remember how to play with each other, but the sound Evie heard rising up in the space was full of rhythm, melody and grunt. It wasn’t the original PoP sound, it was better. Jay was better, he played better, his voice was better, and everyone down there knew it.

  Her brothers might be a little sour in their grapes but they were also big enough to acknowledge the truth. That had to be the reason why when they quit playing and starting roughing Jay up, the pushing and shoving was all in jest and no one needed an ambulance.

  It was a relief to know she wasn’t going to have to mace anyone.

  She used their messing about as her cue to come down from the balcony and slip away unnoticed, only to be foiled by a sweaty, jubilant, half-dressed Grip and his broken zipper blocking her way.

  “Don’t you have any other pants, Mark Grippen?” she snapped.

  Grip threw his arms wide and his jeans slipped on his hips. “I don’t even care that you snuck in here. Did you hear that? We were fucking awesome.”

  It was impossible not to share Grip’s excitement. “You were.”

  “I didn’t trust it. I had to wear my lucky pants. Can you do your thing?” he said.

  That’s where Jay caught her, as everyone was heading for the showers. On her knees with her face in Grip’s package, wrestling with his zipper. Again.

  “Evie,” Jay said, voice husky and well-used.

  “Jay,” she answered, not turning to look at him and hiding behind the fall of her hair, going blind on the alignment of the zipper teeth.

  “Buy some fucking new jeans, Grip,” Jay said.

  “Good things happen,” Grip said, then winced when Evie tugged a bit hard on the placket, her knuckle gliding on his package through the denim, “when I wear these pants.”