I hate that I've done that to him.
"Ok, Rike. Let's go home."
Chapter 25—: Before
It happens a few weeks before Christmas. We’ve been playing for increasingly busier crowds. More nights spent in bars and venues we’ve never been to than in Barrie’s. It’s caused a bit of a strain with him, but I’m following Scott’s lead—this is his dream, and I’ll follow wherever he chooses to chase it.
Ever since we played “Perfect Girl,” we've been growing. It's opened doors for Scott as a singer and me as a songwriter that neither of us expected. And the girls have cheered us along—Linds has worked almost as hard as Scott to find new venues and bands to open for, anything to get more exposure.
Anytime I wonder about her and how she feels about Scott, I remember that.
"See that guy?" she asks now, almost bouncing in her seat. "Black suit, red tie, looks like Simon Cowell's cuter younger brother?" I crane my head and see the dude she's talking about. The guy has been on his phone all night and Scott scowls in his direction. She raps the table sharply with one finger. "He's with an indie label out of Austin, up scouting talent in Nashville. I got a friend to pass him your demo."
"When did we make a demo?" I wonder, and Lindsay flicks me a longsuffering look. I hold up a hand in surrender.
"So he's interested in the guys?" Peyton says curiously.
"Yeah. So do good tonight." She leans into Scott, kissing him before she hops down and scurries for the bar. Peyton follows. They don't do bars alone, and they know we like a minute alone before we take the stage.
There are nerves in Scott's eyes when I look at him, unexpected nerves, and I lean forward. "Same shit, brother. Sing like we're still at Barrie’s.”
"We aren't though," he says, blowing out a breath. "This is real."
I nod. "But it's everything we've been working for. So. Embrace the real shit, dude.”
“The real shit is risky as hell,” he says.
I get it.
It's a risk every time we debut a new song, anytime we do a show anywhere that isn't Barrie's. There's comfort in the familiar old ruts but…"We get to decide who and what we are," I say quietly. Then I stand up and go to where the opening act is winding down, pulling my drumsticks. My koi winks up at me, a brilliant flare of color that grounds me while we ride the crowd's energy.
Scott bounds onto the stage a step ahead of me, and I let out a relieved sigh. The mood has passed and he's ready to perform.
***
"Gentlemen," a smooth voice says behind us. It cuts through Peyton's low murmur and Lindsay's excited chatter as they hug us and we order drinks. The set is over, just, and we're still surrounded by throbbing noise and the energy of the music. And the studio exec is staring at us with a smile on his face.
Real shit is scary as fuck.
"Hey, man," Scott says, disentangling from Lindsay and shaking the guy's hand. "Thanks for being here."
"It was a great set. I had a chance to listen to your demo. I don't think that last song was on it. What was the name?"
"Chosen," I say. Peyton's hand slips in mine and I smile at the dude, a tight, reserved smile, slipping easily into my role of quiet backup to Scott's cocky devil may care disregard "And it's new. We debuted it a few weeks ago."
Apparently, that was after the demo, but whatever.
"I think my bosses would like it. I'd like to arrange a meeting where you boys can play some for them and talk about what kind of future you have. Is that something you think you'd be interested in?"
Scott's tense and still at my side, and the girls seem far away. So does everything. Everything we've come from and tried to get past. He's not speaking, and I nod, for both of us. Taking that step that could change every fucking thing. "Yeah, dude. That would be fantastic. We'd love to talk."
The guy grins and slips us a business card and we exchange numbers, scribbling mine on the back of a cocktail napkin. He promises to call and then he's gone, slipping into the crowd and swallowed up, carrying the promise of so fucking much in his back pocket.
I look at Scott and laugh when I see the stunned look in his eyes. Sometimes, laughing is the only way to keep from breaking down.
It breaks the shock that's fallen over him and then he's screaming and I'm screaming, and the girls are laughing, shrieking as we pull them into the hug, celebrating everything that could possibly go right. She's got her arms around my neck, the scent of her hair in my nose, legs wrapped around my waist, and my best friend is happier than I've ever seen.
The real shit might be scary as fuck, but it's hella worth it.
“I love you,” she whispers, and my grip on her tightens.
Something I learned quick is that watching us perform turns both girls on. Sex with Peyton is always good—fucking fantastic—but when I’m coming off the stage, the girl can’t keep her hand off me. It’s the same as when we practice at home—they both love it and practice used to get cut short by one of us making out with one of the girls before someone ended up naked.
“When you’re rich and famous, you still going to want me?” she murmurs, and even though she’s teasing, it sends a fission of unease down my spine.
“Always, Fish. You’re it. My always. You forget me, and walk away and I would love you still.”
She pulls back, and stares at me, eyes wide and searching. “Do you think I could forget you?”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll remember for both of us, and I’ll make you remember too.”
She kisses me then, that deep kiss that I fucking love, the one she controls with her hands in my hair and teeth nipping at my lips before her tongue tangles with mine and everything falls away in a wave of sunshine and sugar and everything that is her.
“Want you,” she pants when she pulls back.
It’s all I need to hear. I’m moving before she kisses me again, and I hear Scott laughing behind me, but it barely registers as I carry her through the bar to a dark hallway. She squeaks against my throat, her teeth digging in just a little as I bump into a door and then we’re spilling into a stockroom that’s almost pitch black, and I’m letting her slide down my body, cupping her ass as she falls.
I fucking love her ass in those skin tight jeans she wears when I perform. She’s got a corset-looking top on over the jeans, baring a smooth sliver of her belly, and my fingers skim it before I skate lower and cup her, grinding the heel of my hand into her through the jeans.
“Not playing fair,” she gasps, and I groan as her hands cup my erection. Stroke and tug in that way she has—not too hard, but rough. Enough to remind me that she wants this just as bad as I do.
She unzips my jeans and drops to her knees, taking me deep in her throat before I can process, and then I can’t.
The girl is amazing in bed, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sight of her on her knees, her lips wrapped around my cock. She licks at my shaft, her hand slipping between my legs to cup my balls and I struggle to keep still. My hand is on her head, my fingers twisting in her hair and she relents, the suction of her lips tightening as she slides down, until my dick hits her throat.
“I’m going to come,” I mutter.
She pulls back and strokes my dick. “That’s the point.”
“Not like that.” I say pulling her up. “As much as I like fucking your pretty mouth, I want your pussy.” Her eyes close and she sways closer. I unsnap her pants and work a hand into her jeans and the door behind us opens.
It’s dark. Dark enough that they don’t know we’re here. But I can see her, all wide eyes and flushed skin.
And I can see them. For a heartbeat, I consider saying something. But she’s trembling against me, and I know Scott well enough to know he wouldn’t care.
I lift an eyebrow and move my fingers, brushing against her clit, and she jolts against me. I lean into her ear, and whisper, so low, I almost don’t hear it, “Stay or go?”