Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (26 page)

Pondering the excited and alive feelings coursing through me when I played, I only took a moment to decide. “I want to really play.” His face lit up the second my answer resonated. “But tomorrow.” I hopped up to replace the guitar on the wall.

“Yeah. Early bed tonight.” His husky tenor caused my heart to pound. Deluged with bed images involving him, I didn’t turn to face him right away. Thankfully. Because he went on to finish his thought, and it had apparently been innocent. “I hate when they schedule these things early in the day.”

“One p.m. is not early.” I swiveled around and relished teasing him about his sleep habits.

“Least it’s not before noon,” he conceded of his upcoming session with the band. His eyes were sliding all over my face. I felt silly standing there, but couldn’t make myself join him on the couch, so I pretended an interest in a framed array of guitar picks. “Those are all from musicians I’ve jammed with over the years. I’ve got a box full that need to be added.” I nodded and moved to a platinum record. Self-explanatory, so instead, he said, “Dad invited us to dinner tomorrow evening. Want to go to the studio with me and then we can meet him? Or I can send a car back for you once we’re done at Noise City.”

“I’d like to go. To Noise City.” I jumped at the chance to visit the studio while the band did their thing. “If I won’t be in the way.”

“You won’t.” He seemed pleased I had chosen to go with him. Or maybe he was happy I was finally meeting his eyes. “I’m not sure I can sleep without a kiss goodnight.”

Smooth. He’d answered the awkward question I wouldn’t ask and had put me at ease with that one goofy line. My feet shuffled automatically to him, and he reached a hand up, catching mine. His thumb caressed my fingers before he gently tugged, and I curled with surprising ease onto his lap.

Leaning his forehead to mine, he mused, “I wonder where we would be if we’d been best friends for several years who met up again? Instead of fighting something we felt because of a label our parents put on us?”

“Probably in this same place right here.” I whispered a fraction from his lips, desperate to feel them again.

“But sooner. Way sooner,” he agreed. His breath fanned my sensitive lips and I swallowed a groan. “I want you. So much. But even more than that, I want the full experience. The dates. The kisses that may or may not lead to more in that moment. Mostly, I don’t want to screw this up.”

It stunned me that the irresponsible rock star could be perceptive enough to realize we should hold off on sex while we were both in our own dark places. Or was he being ‘Gage the big brother best friend’ and sensing my caution and hesitance about moving ahead?

“We won’t screw it up.” My words were as quiet as his were, but they were firm with a certainty I hadn’t felt since the kiss at the hiking trail. If there was anything I did know, it was that Gage and I were an unfinished song, one that had nothing to do with those he was teaching me on his expensive guitars.

We sealed that pact with a very hungry and very cherry-flavored kiss. I wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted, because time fell away, and there was only him and the sensations evoked by our fused mouths. Eventually, my body ached for his touch, but he kept one hand twined in my hair and the other splayed on my back just above my waist. My arms rested, one on each of his shoulders and gradually, my hands slid downward to rest on the warmth of his tee shirt as we exchanged a last goodnight kiss. I went up to my room, while he slept, as he had the last few nights, on the couch in his studio.

N
oise City wasn’t at all what I expected. At least, not at first glance. Gage drove past the entry, which was in a strip of businesses on a busy boulevard and after shooting down a narrow alley, parked the Lotus in a tiny lot behind the matchbox shaped building. Several other cars were already parked, and as we crossed the asphalt, I admired a couple of them, wondering if they belonged to his bandmates.

The door swung open right before we reached it, and I wondered if he had texted someone, or if there was a camera monitoring our approach. The middle-aged man held the door, greeted us, and shook Gage’s hand as we passed through. Without slowing our steps, Gage introduced me as ‘Scarla Smythe,’ and the man babbled politely that it was nice to meet me.

Gold and platinum albums and singles covered the walls on both sides of the narrow hallway. Peppered among them were photos, many of them faded and blurred with age. A few times, my eyes were drawn for longer than a swift glance, when I recognized an extremely younger likeness of an iconic figure.

Gage paused in the threshold of what appeared to be a cluttered office. Behind the desk and a dinosaur of a computer was a striking woman who leapt to her feet and squealed. “Gage, love! It’s been forever!” Mail fell to the floor when the female circled the desk in the tight confines and threw herself at him, giving him the same style peck on the lips Colt had given me the day before. Paybacks were a bitch.

“Hey, Jenni. How’s life?” He released the girl and reached back to tug me in front of him as Jenni quipped a polite response to his inquiry. “This is Scarla. I made her come along. If you find her wandering around bored out of her mind, can you save her?”

“Of course! Hi, Scarla.” After flashing a hasty but warm smile, Jenni turned back to Gage. “Everyone’s already here. You’re late, as usual. While you’re here though, I need to grab your siggy.” She passed him a pen and clipboard. “The auto deposit renewal. I put the original there if you want to compare and make sure I’m not putting your money into my secret Swiss bank account.” She waggled her brows.

A door opened from farther down the hall and two men, both with shaved heads and scruffy jaws headed our way. Gage was concentrating on the paperwork and didn’t immediately look up when they slowed to all but a stop in passing.

“The lesbian-hating loser in the flesh.” One of them drawled with a mocking glare at Gage’s profile. “Jenni, keep your distance from that asswipe, baby girl. No respect for your sweet cheeks.”

The change of emotions on the other girl’s face reflected exactly what I myself felt, only Jenni was processing more quickly. I spent several seconds in the stunned phase before moving into rage. In the meantime, the two men chuckled between themselves and carried on with the hateful words.

With the pen poised, Gage stared blankly at the clipboard before lifting his gaze to Jenni. His eyes softened, and a flash of pain glimmered as he took in her reaction. “Dooley, you motherfucker. Apologize to Jenni.”

“You need to apologize to our resident lesbian and to all―” Automatically, my brain tried to block the obnoxious term he used for that particular sexual preference, and the onslaught of ugly words made me queasy. The one Gage had referred to as Dooley went on to say all the things he hoped happened to Gage when he found himself locked up for his crime.

The older gentleman who had welcomed our arrival appeared and attempted to intervene. Another door opened down the hallway and Colt, followed by a few other men spilled into the hallway. At first, I didn’t realize what had happened when Gage doubled over, until he straightened and swung the clipboard until it collided with a thwack against Dooley’s skull. It was then I realized the other guy had thrown a punch first.

The pair ricocheted off the walls, bringing pictures down for several of the longest seconds I had ever experienced before the other men managed to break them up.

It was the fucked up part of the rock and roll world that I remembered. I’d lost count of the fistfights I’d witnessed when my mom dated these same types of losers. The revulsion I felt was trumped by my concern for Gage. Outwardly, he appeared to have come out of the brawl without a scratch. But I knew he’d taken quite a punch to his midsection.

The two were ushered out. Gage dropped to a chair inside the room his band had appeared from. Everyone who hadn’t seen the start of the fight wanted to be filled in, and Jenni provided them with an explanation. It was several minutes before the talk between the guys died down, but Gage had said nothing. He’d nodded when asked if he was all right and drained a water bottle before he finally spoke. “My axe make it out of that alive?”

“It’s in there.” Colt indicated the room beyond a wall of glass.

Gage relocated to the next room and extracted his guitar from its case. I breathed a sigh of relief when after a cursory examination, he began to strum.

Colt and the rest of the band included me in their conversation while Gage lost himself in whatever he was playing.

A man had left the room directly after the fight, and now he returned, settling at the soundboard. I wasn’t introduced, but deduced him to be the producer Gage had mentioned would be at this meeting. He was in a foul mood and laid into Gage for the altercation in the hall.

“Can we just get on with it?” Gage leveled a stare so dark, the other man was unable to hold it.

“This is a thot free zone.” The guy didn’t look up from the soundboard as he spoke.

At first, I was sure I had misunderstood. But Gage’s reaction—and even Colt’s—told me I had heard correctly.

Gage came up out of his chair and Colt moved in as well. Although, penned in by the two men and the equipment, the guy didn’t back down. Nodding my way, he gestured. “That’s your cue to leave, baby doll.”

“You fucking idiot.” Gage raged. “Have I ever brought anyone to the studio? That should be your first clue she’s not just anybody!”

Colt snickered. “Seriously. If you knew who you just dissed, you’d be shitting your pants.”

At this, Gage’s angry gaze washed over his bandmate in a warning, and Colt pressed his lips together, but they remained curled in amusement.

“I don’t care who she is, but fine. She can stay. And I’m sorry I assumed.” His wise but grudging apology had Gage and Colt backing off. I didn’t acknowledge I’d even heard. Despite his dismissive words, the guy continued to flick curious eyes my way through the rest of the session.

The rest of the band eyed me too, and I knew they would be questioning Gage and Colt later about my identity. The more immediate problem though was the asshole’s reaction to the composition Gage had worked on and Colt had been sure was ‘the one.’ The producer shook his head so vigorously and so much, I hoped he would get whiplash. Gage grabbed up the guitar again and played some variations, and their drummer hopped behind the set to change the beat up a bit. But the man declared it a waste of his afternoon and even lobbed the thumb drive into the trash for emphasis. When he began to suggest a publisher to work with, Gage went ballistic.

“That’s what this is really all about isn’t it? Credits on what you know will be a platinum album. You owe someone a favor—or want them to owe you. Well fuck you; no one is riding this gravy train!”

“Word is you may not be riding the train much longer yourself.” The words were a mutter, but distinct enough as the guy swayed cockily in his chair.

“What did you say, motherfucker?”

“I think you know.”

Gage bent, fitting his guitar into its case, snapped it closed, and snatched it up. He made a silent exit. I jumped from my seat and followed, my mind still reeling with everything that had gone down in little more than an hour.

He was quiet and once we were on the freeway, I asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks. He’s a dick. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He texted his father and drove a bit until exiting and maneuvering through traffic. The restaurants’ valet parking took the car. Another young man manifested and escorted us away from the main entrance and in through a private door. We made small talk with our host during a quick elevator ride. The metal doors pinged open into a hallway and we were shown into a private dining room. It was an elegant setup. A chandelier hung above a formally set table and a fireplace took up one wall. Another wall was glass and looked down into the main dining area of the restaurant.

We were fixed up with drinks from a galley off to the side. After fussing over us, taking appetizer orders, and offering music, television, or a movie, the server pressed the electronic tablet in his hand and the screen behind the bar came to life with a muted baseball game. The television remote and a server call button was left near Gage, and we were left alone.

“So this is how the rock stars dine.” I swirled my wine and watched him sip his water.

“This is how Dad dines,” Gage corrected, but he was enough at ease with the routine for me to be skeptical.

“Can they see up here?” I eyed the hive of activity beyond the glass on the ground floor.

“No. It’s a mirror from that side.”

We didn’t talk much. Mostly he watched the game with his ankle hooked around mine beneath the table. Sometimes his eyes seemed somewhere beyond the television screen, and it wasn’t hard to guess with everything that had happened that afternoon, what was on his mind.

It was at least a half hour before my former stepfather was ushered into the room, and I stood to greet him. He seemed ecstatic to see me, and I felt the same. During the time he had fulfilled the role of paternal parent, I had felt closer to him than to my own mother.