No Quarter (NOLA's Own #2) (52 page)

Connor had arrived early in the morning, having driven the twelve hours from Miami with all of his crap, carpooling with Jimi on his way back from his own deal. After sleeping the day away, Connor was ready to hang out with his favorite band, see some decent sets, and listen to some heavy tunes.

Over the Thanksgiving break, Connor had met and jammed with the guys, and the guys all loved him. It was kismet. Under the pretense of needing a new roadie for the upcoming summer tour, they had told Connor he needed to know the rhythm guitars for all of their songs. As far as I knew, he had done his part and had been in regular contact with all of them the last month. Jason and Flipper had even flown to Miami for a weekend, bringing him some of the new material they were working on and getting his input. Connor was in seventh heaven.

Jimi, would also be hanging out. The guys hadn’t met him yet, and we all needed weed. He
had
to meet his favorite heavy metal band so that he could drool over their asses in person.

Back at Phil’s place, I jumped in the shower, and he jumped right in with me. We were
supposed
to meet everyone there at six.

We made it by six thirty.

Upon entering the VIP lounge, we were engulfed in a scented cloud of weed and fried finger foods. Sheri had ordered a mad amount of buffalo wings, jalapeno poppers, shrimp cocktail, and assorted veggie platters for everyone to chow down on before NOLA’s Junk made their announcements.

Connor was the first to spot us, and his handsome face split into a huge grin. With a, “Whoop,” he jumped to his feet and tackled me into a rib-crushing bear hug. Laughing, I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“What the…” Andy looked between Connor and me, completely confused and maybe somewhat heartbroken.

“You dumbass,” said Phil.

Connor turned to look at Andy, taking me with him.

“He’s her brother.”

“Oh! Well, that’s all right then.”

Connor and I busted out laughing.

“Don’t ever break up with him, Kenna. You’ll be breaking more than just
his
heart,” Andy warned me before heading for the bar.

Rolling her eyes, Siggie came up and gave me a hug. “Vacation?”

“As of five o’clock!” I crowed, starting to feel that sense of freedom. “Someone, get me a shot and a beer!” I shouted.

There was Phil, pressing a frosty Jäger and a bottle of imported into my hands. He had the same for himself, so we
clinked
our shots and threw them back together.

Since we had met, Siggie and I would meet up at Bougainvillea on Fridays—with Phil, of course—unless Devil’s had a gig she couldn’t miss out on. She did a lot of promotion work for the guys here and had gotten them into some really good venues, just by pimping out their name. Phil and Our Boys had serious respect for the woman, and I thought they wanted her working for them even if Devil’s Advocate didn’t pan out.

Down below, the Bougainvillea staff were preparing for another Friday night. Connor told me Jimi was down there, talking to old friends who had worked here back in the day. Phil had gone to fill up a plate of food for us to share when Jimi made it up the steps.

“Sugar Tits!” he cried, throwing his arms out.

I rushed into them.

“When was the last I even saw you?”

Jimi had called me Sugar Tits since we were teens. When we had gone to homecoming together in tenth grade, I had had an emergency with my dress, and Jimi had rushed me to the restroom where he had gotten a good look at what I was so obviously lacking. He had told me big tits were overrated and that mine looked sweet, like two soft mounds of sugar. I thought he had just been incredibly stoned and had the munchies.

“When I bought a pound of your sweetest cheebah on my birthday?” I ventured a guess, not really remembering exactly
when
I had last seen my dear friend.

“Sugar Tits?” Andy gasped in outrage.

“Relax, Andy,” said Alys, coming up and hugging Jimi, too. “He’s gay.”

Andy’s eyes popped. “For real?”

Jimi didn’t fall into the stereotype. Jimi looked like a dirty hippie Creole—pale skinned, green-eyed, and a full-blown reddish-brown Afro. He wore round specs on his bearded face, ratty band shirts, baggy cargoes, and Chuck Taylors on his feet—sparkly
pink
Chuck Taylors.

“I’m MIA for a few months, and I come back to find two of my three girls have bagged hot rock stars—”

“Shh!” hissed Alys. “They’ll hear you!”

“Where’s Lili?” he demanded.

“Working with her equally famous rock star chef at The Duck Pond,” I replied.

“Shut the fuck up! She’s with
Lee
?”

“Yep,” Alys replied. “Let’s get you introduced to some rock stars.”

Jimi looked me in the eyes, dead serious. “I wanna see your man’s ass. Pictures and videos have only so much to offer—”

Andy choked on his beer.

Phil was busy putting the final morsels on top of a mountain of food on a plate. Dropping the plate off at a table, he looked up and saw the three of us standing there, staring at him, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. He smiled, and I thought even Alys gave a soft sigh when his dimples popped out.

“Oh,
hot damn
, Sugar Tits…” Jimi groaned.

“Right?” I agreed.

Phil’s six foot seven inch, two hundred and forty-three pounds of scrumptiousness made its way toward us. “Who’s this?” he asked as he came up to us, his baritone softening as he looked down on the five-foot-six Jimi—five-nine, if the Afro was included.

“Babe, this is our friend Jimi,” I told him. “He’s a
huge
NOLA’s fan.”

Phil smiled again. “The weed guy?”

“That, too.”

Phil stuck out his hand and engulfed Jimi’s, giving it a nice squeeze. Jimi’s eyes shot to mine, pleading.

I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Babe?”

Phil smiled again and looked at me. He loved it when I called him that. “Yeah, Baby Girl.”

“Would you turn around for me?”

Phil turned around, and Jimi gasped.

“Can I touch it?” Jimi whispered loudly.

Phil’s spine snapped straight. “Can you touch
what
?”

“Jimi wants to touch your ass,” I replied.

Alys and I cracked up.

“What?” He craned his neck and stared down at us from his lofty height.

“Please?” I wheedled.

His shoulders slumped. “Yeah, all right.”

People were starting to laugh, and I could
feel
Phil grinning even though I couldn’t see it. Jimi dropped to his knees, and like a true butt-cheek connoisseur, he placed a hand on each one and squeezed.

“Oh. My.
God
,” he whispered. “It’s…it’s rock-hard and
perfect
. Just a slight hint of bounce…”

“Oy, don’t be trying to poke nothin’ back there. Only Kenna gets to get squirrely with it.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth and went red while everyone busted out laughing.

Phil glanced back at me and cracked up. “That’s what you get for pimpin’ my ass out to your furry fairy friends. Is he done? I’m startin’ to feel vulnerable.”

Jimi’s face was upturned, his eyes closed, a look of complete rapture on his face. “Not yet.”

“You’ve got awfully strong hands,” Phil purred.

X had tears running down his florid cheeks. He was laughing that hard.

Heaving an almighty sigh of contentment, Jimi dropped his hands to his knees, bliss written across his fuzzy features. “Wow.”

“If you say so,” said Phil. “I think I need another shot.” My man was
way
too comfortable with his sexuality.

“Screw that! Who wants a Fuzzy Furry Fairy blunt?” Jimi cried.

Putting his arms around my shoulders and pulling my back against his chest, Phil looked at Jimi. “Dude, you had me at screw.”

Jimi busted the monster of all blunts.

“Oh, damn!” cried X. “Come sit with me, oh Fuzzy Furry Fairy godfather!” he said, patting his knee.

Jimi jumped up and plopped his whorin’ ass on X’s lap.

All smiles, I beamed up at my man. “You’re awesome.”

“Not as awesome as you,” he replied.

“Okay! Okay!” cried Jason, jumping up onto the tabletop littered with scraps of food and discarded plates and beer bottles.

We were all toasted and stuffed on finger foods, feeling lazy.

“Before doors open in thirty minutes, we got some announcements!”

Sheri stood and magically whipped out a stack of papers from under their table.

All eyes were on Jason—except for Phil’s. His were closed, and he was kissing my neck and sniffing my hair.

“We’re celebrating a few things tonight. We’ve finished the fuckin’ studio”—cheers erupted from everyone—“and we’ve got the label under trademark, so we’re finally fuckin’ official. As our first order of business, NOLA Records want you, Devil’s Advocate, to be the first band signed under our label!”

Devil’s Advocate started screaming and cheering.

Sheri handed out packets to them. “We suggest you guys find a lawyer to go over everything with you and have them contact our lawyers if there’s anything you feel needs addressing, okay? Don’t go all batshit crazy and start signing.”

“On another business-related subject,” Jason called out.

Phil quit his nibbling and sat up straight.

“Well, more of a brotherhood-related subject. NOLA’s Junk has been on the hunt for a fifth member for about two years now, and after some serious fuckin’ deliberation, we think we’ve found him.”

Jason turned and looked at Connor.

Connor looked up at Jason, and then after a few heartbeats, he sat up straight. His eyes flitted to X, who was looking right back at him. Flipper waved and beamed at Connor, and when Connor finally turned his face to Phil, my brother was about to cry.

“What?” he asked Phil in shock.

Phil swelled up beside me. “We want you, brother. We
need
you. You want in?”

“Is this…is this for fuckin’ real?” he whispered, his lower lip trembling a little.

Phil nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

Connor got up and threw himself across the table, skidding across it into Phil’s arms. Sheri grabbed me and yanked me out of the way as Jason, X, and Flipper pig-piled on top of them.

Andy burst into tears. “That’s so beautiful!”

Siggie then lost it, laughing at Andy’s antics. Thom, the strong and silent one, draped his arm around Siggie and smirked.

Jimi wrapped his arms around my waist, watching the manly lovefest. “I want in on that.”

“I think you might have a better shot with Andy,” Alys told him dryly.

Once the brotherhood unknotted themselves, everyone got a round of shots, and we all toasted the newest member of NOLA’s Junk.

“You ready, little brother?” Phil’s voice boomed out over us all.

“Fuck yeah, I’m ready!” roared Connor.

“That’s good ’cause…Devil’s?” Jason called out to their first label acquisition.

“Yeah?” answered Mojave.

“You ain’t headlinin’ tonight!”

“Huh?” grunted Andy.

“Naw, man! You’re
openin’
for us!” cried Flipper.

Devil’s Advocate jumped up and roared.

The doors opened, and the usual Friday crowd started milling in. They had no idea that they were about to be treated to the brand-new five-member band that was NOLA’s Junk.

The look on my baby brother’s face was enough to reduce me to tears. His genius, determination, and hard work had paid off. Recognized by one of the greatest heavy metal bands of our generation as the gifted musician he was, they had handed him his lifelong dream. It didn’t matter to him that he wouldn’t be playing his favorite instrument, he could do
all
of it. I was beyond proud.

After everyone else congratulated him personally, the only people left who hadn’t were Alys and me. Connor’s joy-brimmed eyes met mine, and his smile blinded me. Our hug was mutually strong and bursting with our combined elation.

“Thank you,” he whispered in my ear.

“It was all you, little brother,” I replied. “I’m only banging the singer.”

He put me back on my feet and scooped up Alys next, squeezing her tightly to his broad chest, whispering something in her ear. Long tattooed arms wrapped around me from behind, and my favorite scent filled my olfactory.

“Let’s go to the restroom,” Phil whispered in my ear, husky and heavy. “I’m startin’ to get nervous, thinkin’ ’bout goin’ up on stage.”

“You’re full of shit.” I laughed.

“Maybe. I might only wanna see why Jimi calls you Sugar Tits.” He dragged me off to the VIP restroom. Locking the door behind him, he faced me toward the mirror and lifted my NOLA’s Junk tank top with the moniker
Baby Girl
on the back, baring my tits for his viewing pleasure.

“Mmm,” he purred, his hands coming around.

We both watched as his elegant long fingers plucked and rolled gently at my nipples.

“The hairy fairy is fuckin’ right. Sugar Tits describes ’em perfectly.”

I grinned, and he smiled. The air around us thickened heatedly.

“I think I might need more than a blow job, Sugar Tits.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmhmm. I think I need to feel you come all over my dick this time. I wanna be on stage and be drippin’ out of you at the same time.”