Rockstars, Babies & Happily Ever Afters Page 4

  “A waste on some of these guys.”

  Jazz blinked at the muttered response from Lila Shawcross, Ripper Record’s PR person and all-around right hand woman. The coolly professional blonde never complained about anything in Jazz’s presence, but Lila looked positively peeved right now. “True enough,” Jazz agreed cheerfully. “But I love it.”

  Lila blinked and the little wrinkle between her cornflower blue eyes vanished. “You have exceptional taste.” She linked arms with Jazz and motioned to the spread of food being set out by Harper, Deacon’s wife and her band of merry food-making men and women. “Speaking of taste, Harper made these jingle bell deviled eggs that are just to die for. Want?”

  “Oooh, yes, I do. But I have something else to add to the festivities first.” Jazz waved the roll of silver-and-gold streamers she’d brought along with a sheepish smile. Lila was the type of woman who seemed flawlessly perfect from head-to-toe and probably wouldn’t think much of Jazz’s decorative help. “I saw this at the pet store and had to get it.”

  “The pet store?” Lila’s forehead wrinkle returned as she seized the roll of streamers. Her grin transformed her face from merely pretty to flat-out gorgeous, mainly because it was so unexpected. “Ah, I see now. There are little animals on here. A cat, a dog, a ferret—”

  “Any rodents?” Simon strutted up and threw his arms around them. He looked like he’d been rode hard—or done plenty of riding of his own. Long dark hair mussed around his head, blue eyes sleepy and satisfied. “Can’t leave out our favorite rat.”

  “He’s not a rat.”

  Simon scratched the happy trail on his bare belly. That belly happened to have an serious six-pack going on, but since he was the closest thing to Jazz’s brother—or had been before a few months ago—she only noticed with a flicker of lashes before focusing on his face. “So why’d you name him one?” he asked, the question a low, lazy drawl.

  “Ratt is for the band, not because he’s a rodent. For the fiftieth time, he’s a guinea pig, Slutmaster.”

  “Instead of worrying about rodents, perhaps you should re-consider your wardrobe choice for tonight, Mr. Kagan.” Lila arched one perfect brow in Simon’s direction before striding away, her full hips swaying in a way Marilyn Monroe would’ve envied.

  “I love dirty librarian types.” Simon stared after Lila. “I bet she’d fuck you without taking off those little round glasses.”

  “I don’t think she’d fuck me like that,” Jazz said drily, dragging Simon’s gaze back to hers with obvious reluctance.

  “Don’t put that picture in my head, Purple Princess.” Simon snatched the roll of streamers and started wrapping the sparkly thin paper around his torso like a sash. Considering all he wore beneath the streamers were a pair of jeans that could’ve doubled as two-sided tape, she considered it a major upgrade.

  So much for classing it up at a country club.

  Jazz understood where Lila was coming from, considering how many music industry bigwigs might be in attendance tonight, but Ripper Records must be insane if they expected anything better from a band like Oblivion. Or, for that matter, any of the other talent invited to this shindig. A bunch of guys—and a girl—in their early-to-mid-twenties couldn’t be counted on to know anything about decorum.

  Especially when one of them really liked being naked. At all times.

  Jazz wrinkled her nose as Simon swayed a little too close. “God, go shower, you pig.”

  “Come with?” He waggled his brows and she couldn’t help laughing. Things had been strained between them for a while—between the entire band, truthfully—but it was almost Christmas and even fractured families didn’t fight then.

  She was counting on that this year, big time.

  “In your dreams, perv.” She giggled as he snatched her wrist and began binding them together mummy-style with the streamers. “I need to start carrying a pocket-sized air freshener for you. Which do you prefer? Pine-fresh or Cherry Banana?”

  “My banana would love a crack at your cherry, Pixie Dust.” Grinning, Simon folded her arms in tight to her chest and pulled on the streamers as he leaned down to take a loud sniff of her hair. “Mmm. You smell good enough to—” He stopped, straightened. “Hey, Gray.”

  Jazz stopped wriggling against Simon and sucked in a quick breath. Relax. Don’t freak.

  She’d just treat Gray as if he was her buddy, like Simon. He might as well be, since he barely even hugged her anymore. Even occasional kisses on her forehead were practically unheard of nowadays.

  It had been a long eight months since the day in that basement apartment in Carson where everything had changed between them. Yet way too much was the same. She didn’t know how that could be possible, but it was.

  She lifted her head and glanced toward the doorway, inhaling again at the sight of the guy who had been her best friend for so long that seeing him was like looking at her own face. His spiky dark hair framed his stormcloud eyes and his left lip curled under just a smidge as he smiled. When he smiled.

  He didn’t give her a smile tonight. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at her and Simon. He was focused on his phone, his thumbs moving so fast that they were barely a blur as they danced over the keys. Guitarists fingered fast, all right.

  She knew that from really personal experience.

  “Thought he looked over here,” Simon said against her cheek. “Guess not.”

  “Maybe he did.” She shrugged and pushed off the solid wall of male muscle behind her, breaking the streamers that held them together. “Why don’t you go soak in some Clorox while I get some eats?” Refusing to look Gray’s way again, she pasted on a smile and turned around just in time to catch Simon’s surprisingly pensive expression.

  If Simon knew something was up, things were worse than she thought.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll even go spray down the apartment with Lysol, just for you, baby.” Simon patted her on the head and toddled off, still wrapped in the streamers she didn’t have the heart to take back. The oversized man-child sure liked his toys.

  A tall redhead wearing a tissue-sized dress beelined for Simon and he palmed her ass as if he wasn’t draped in pet-festooned streamers. The redhead barely blinked a false eyelash before they meandered off, probably to the closest bathroom.

  God. Men.

  Sighing, Jazz reached down to adjust her scarf. It wasn’t like it was cold in southern California, but she’d tucked her knitting needles in her purse in case she got bored and needed to kill some time. Normally she would’ve just hidden behind her iPhone and taped everything to put up on Oblivion’s YouTube page, but she’d dropped the stupid thing in the shower last night before their throwback show at Frenzy and it was currently stashed in a bucket of dried fried rice on the counter in their apartment.

  Old Chinese food probably wasn’t the kind of rice she should’ve dried her phone in, but they didn’t have actual rice at the moment. When Harper didn’t cook for them, no one cooked. Leftover Chinese no one had touched in a month was a different story. Besides, waste not, want not, right?

  A pair of beat-up boots appeared at the edge of her vision and she glanced up, shocked to find herself eye-to-eye with Gray. Well, more like eye-to-holy-fucking-impressive-chest on account of her midget status, but whatever. “Hey.” She gripped her scarf and tilted back her head, sending one of her mass of tiny braids tumbling into her face. She shook it back and smiled. “Didn’t know if you were going to show. You don’t have to work tonight?”

  Gray shrugged, the movement emphasizing how his black vest hung on his shoulders in a way it hadn’t a year ago—also known as pre-Oblivion days. He wore the vest with a crisp white shirt, creased khakis and heavy black boots. The look was better suited to an office drone than a kickass guitarist, but he’d always moved to the beat of his own drummer.

  Her fingers flexed around the scarf, tapping reflexively. She wished he’d move to her beat now and then, but good frigging luck there.

  “I texted Vito and they do
n’t need me tonight,” he said after a moment, slowly bringing his gaze back to hers. His gorgeous expressive eyes were hazy and unfocused with dark smudges beneath them that sleep never seemed to improve.

  An unnamed fear curdled in her gut the longer she stared at him. He was right there, so close she could touch, but he might as well have been on another planet. “What I don’t get is why you need them.” Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended. “You’re making money now at a real job. Why can’t you just relax when you have a couple of weeks at home?”

  Gray’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t guaranteed. None of this is.” He gestured to the banquet hall. “So we have a little cash right now. It can be gone like that.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she jerked back, stumbling into yet another hard body that she figured must be Simon. Had he circled back around somehow?

  She looked back and locked eyes with Oblivion’s other guitarist, Nick. Awesome. She took a hasty step away. When Gray was in a mood—as he was too often nowadays—her being too close to Nick wouldn’t help. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, since he didn’t seem to want to be near her very often himself, but God forbid anyone else tried to make a move.

  “Problem, kids?” Nick’s voice curled around her like smoke. “I heard you two bickering even over Pretty Boy trying to slide his hot sausage sandwich to some record company exec.”

  Jazz followed the direction of Nick’s glance to where Simon and the redhead she’d seen earlier were sharing appetizers off a tiny plate. He still wore her streamers in lieu of a shirt, but he’d added a pair of tiger slippers that poked out from under the threadbare hem of his jeans.

  “Those are my slippers, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Giant feet.” It was the first grin she’d seen from Gray in weeks, so she didn’t slug him in the stomach for making fun of her feet. Again. Weak spot, meet pointy stick.

  “Sexy slippers.” Nick smirked and tugged on one of her braids. “Though you’ll never want them back now. They’re infused with Simon stench.”

  She was halfway to Simon to demand he return her footwear when she remembered the two guys she’d left behind and cast a glance over her shoulder. Seeing Nick and Gray standing near each other, such complete opposites and both so mouthwateringly sexy, tossed her back to a night eight months ago when she’d had them both. Sort of. She’d had all of Nick—as much as he was willing to give anyway—and part of Gray. Not nearly enough.

  She’d been trying to pick up the pieces ever since.

  While she stood there, Gray shook his head and strode away, heading toward a couple of roadies who’d congregated near the end of the food table with Harper. Harper meant safety and sanity and Deacon, wherever he was.

  She could so go for a big bear hug now. Deak was her one slice of normal in all this crazy. The one person who hadn’t gone and changed on her or done something she didn’t understand, no matter how she tried.

  He was her friend, something she needed more desperately than she ever had before.

  “Took you too long.” Nick strolled forward and jerked a thumb toward where Simon had been only a moment before. Now only eau de skank remained. “Seriously, forget about the slippers until we install a decontamination chamber.”

  She laughed and faced Nick again, wishing she could roll back time a few months. Even after the super awkward threesome she’d never forget, things had sort of returned to normal between her and Nick. Sure, it was weird to sleep with a guy and break up with him after calling out another guy’s name during sex—especially when you were in a band together—but they’d dealt with the situation and moved on. Their thing had lasted less time than a New York minute and besides, Nick wasn’t serious about anything that didn’t have strings.

  Fine by her, since she wasn’t serious about anything she couldn’t pound into submission. Her drums were all that mattered. And yeah, her little fractured band family too.

  A little voice whispered at the back of her head. And Gray. Always Gray.

  The memory snuck into her consciousness, erasing the fancy hall and the snooty guests slowly mixing in with road-weary band types. In a blink she was standing on a sidewalk in San Francisco, inhaling misty air in big gulps, the back of her neck warm from the mid-afternoon sun.

  “So, what do you think? Do you like it here?” Strong arms encircled her waist. “C’mon, tell the truth. Is San Francisco all you thought it would be, Jazzmatic?”

  Gray’s teasing tone made her grin as she looked back at him. He knew the answer already. “I love it here, you jerk.” She laughed and twisted in his embrace, leaning up to frame his strong jaw in her palms. He had a face the angels had carved, all sharp lines and good bone structure offset with soft, full lips and eyes the color of the ocean when a storm was blowing in. But right now, those eyes glimmered like sunlight on the bay, full of amusement and pleasure. Because they were together, alone and far from home.

  The scent of his spicy aftershave overwhelmed her senses and the scruff against her hands rasped over her skin. His long hair lifted in the breeze, tangling with hers, his dark to her pink and purple, and seeing the strands wrapped together warped her brain. The impulse to move closer, to take a taste, rang through her before she snuffed it out.

  He was her best friend. Only her friend. And that was just the way it had to be.

  “Jazz?”

  She rubbed her forehead and glanced around, wondering how she’d ended up in a place where fake icicles hung from the ceiling and a rap version of “Silent Night” played from unseen speakers. The buzz of voices pinged through her skull, their laughter harsh and unsettling. Her stomach gave a hard twist and she cupped it, trying to place herself. This wasn’t San Francisco, and a smiling, flirty Gray wasn’t holding her tight. That boy didn’t exist anymore.

  For that matter, neither did that Jazz.

  “Are you okay?”

  Finally she made eye contact with the voice. “Hey, Harp. I was just about to come see you. Love your skirt.” It was harder to smile than it usually was, but Jazz made the effort because she wasn’t about to mope during the holidays. She had big plans and she refused to get lost in some memory spiral so she forgot what she’d set out to do.

  Operation Seduce Gray was underway. He just didn’t know it yet.

  “Thanks. It’s new.” Harper did a quick twirl that sent the tiers of velvety fabric fluttering then propped both hands on her hips. She was pregnant, but it was early days yet so all that showed was the glow. “You haven’t been over to eat yet. Don’t tell me you’re dieting. I’ll slap you.”

  Jazz had to laugh at her friend’s no-nonsense tone. Harper would follow-through on her threat too. She didn’t mess around. Hell, she had to be tough to keep a big guy like Deak in line. “Dieting near the holidays is basically self-torture. No thanks. I’ll worry about that on January first with all the other idjits.”

  “Good, because I come bearing gifts.” Harper gestured at the plate she held. “I made pigs in a blanket, but I wrapped the little hot dogs in hickory smoked bacon. Plus, there’s cherry honey mustard sauce for dipping.” Harp nudged the dish into Jazz’s hand. “You’re welcome.”

  Jazz took a hearty bite and groaned. “Oh God, I just had an orgasm.”

  “Damn, if that’s your O face, I feel kind of bad for you.”

  Jazz giggled. She felt bad for herself lately too. She hadn’t actually had a reason to have an O face since, oh, last April or so. Even self-stimulation was out, considering she lived with four males and Harper and existed in fear that one of them would overhear a moan at the wrong time. Besides, that night with Gray and Nick—as orgasm productive as it had been—had basically put her off sex for a while.

  Sometimes dealing with men was just too much trouble. Even sinfully hot guitarists with wickedly talented fingers. And wickedly talented…other things.

  Especially when you had to sleep down the hall from the guy you were crushing on—or fucking. Or guys, plural.

  Jazz s
huddered. Never again. She’d played and paid once because of an ill-timed hormone spike. And okay, yes, fear. That had played a huge role in why she’d pursued Nick. Nick had wanted her. Gray did not. Or if he did, he couldn’t quite seem to say the words, which made no sense. He’d never had trouble pursuing other women.

  For shit’s sake, she’d seen the scarlet red bra left behind in his bedroom a couple of months ago, hadn’t she? Evidence was evidence. It had been tempting to pretend Gray had turned to cross-dressing, but nope.

  He’d obviously dipped his wick after they’d been together. A night that had concluded with her having a very wet back and a whole lot of frustration in spite of the multiple climaxes.

  But that was then and this was now. She knew who she wanted and she wasn’t giving up without a fight. Curling up in a ball at the very thought of trying to tell Gray how she felt wasn’t an option.

  “Dude, you’re eating my food and shuddering. I’m not happy about this.”

  Jazz laughed again as she zeroed in on Harper’s cute little frown. The head chef on Oblivion’s tour was a whiz in the kitchen, and now she was saddled with them forever since she’d signed on the dotted line permanently with Deak. Her gaze dropped to Harper’s honking diamond and a sigh escaped. “God, I am so jealous of you.” She seized her friend’s hand and indulged in a good, long stare fest. “So damn jealous. You got yourself a fine man, sistah friend.”

  “I sure did.” Harper grinned brightly enough to compete with the twinkling Christmas tree in the corner. “So when are you going to get yourself a fine man? Like, say, one super-hot guitarist who has turned brooding into an Olympic sport?”

  Jazz let Harp go to pick at her other pig in a blanket. It really was delicious, as all of Harper’s creations were, but she had next to no appetite now that it was almost time to set her little seduction plan in motion. It had felt like a smart idea when she’d been concocting it in the safety of her bedroom. Now? Not so much.