Syncopation Read online

  Zavier understood stress. He hadn’t lobbed a bottle at Dimitri as Ray had at Kevin. He’d merely turned in his resignation and walked away.

  Three months later, he still hadn’t found another orchestral position. He’d never expected how fast Dimitri would poison the well. All Zavier had found during his job search were shut doors and dead ends.

  No one wanted a timpanist who fucked the conductor, then dropped him like a hot potato.

  During that time, he’d listened to the Twisted Wishes album, to Ray’s voice and clever lyrics, and wondered what would have happened had he said yes to that ballsy sophomore back in high school.

  Zavier stilled. Maybe it was time to find out. He’d kept his hand in drumming on a rock kit, and he did so love the beats underneath Ray’s songs. He could do worse than a tour around the country with an up-and-coming rock band, and that would solve both his problem and Ray’s.

  So. Submit his CV. Type up a statement of intent. And click.

  The tumble in his soul was the sheer opposite of regret—giddy anticipation.

  They’d call, he knew. They had no choice. Wouldn’t find a better drummer, mostly because there weren’t any. He leaned back and tabbed to the apology. Above it was a photo as haunting as that little melody all those years ago. Ray, his lovely brown hair all cut and jagged. He didn’t wear eyeliner like Domino did—didn’t need it. Not with those wide golden eyes of his, like the whiskey he’d thrown at the drummer. His full lips were pressed into a line, and the tension was so bitter and sweet in the set of his shoulders.

  No longer the gangly sophomore. Had Ray been older back then—well. Maybe Zavier would have joined the band, at least for the summer. Same amount of years lay between them now, but back then, Ray had been barely sixteen to Zavier’s well past eighteen. Too young to fool around with, even for a summer fling.

  Once more Zavier’s fingers itched, but for very different reasons. Except now he knew better than to lose control and fuck where he worked.

  He had no doubt he’d be working with Ray very soon.

  Chapter Three

  If there were a hell designed to punish Ray for kicking Kevin out of the band, auditioning for his replacement must have been it. He hoped his expression was schooled as the child at the kit whaled on the skins like he’d only been playing a few years. Maybe he had—guy couldn’t have been that long out of high school.

  Then again, not too many years back, Ray’d been the same. Granted, he’d never dreamed of auditioning to go on tour with a band. He hadn’t been ready yet. Hell, it took a few years and some singing lessons to settle his voice into a range he could belt out without scraping his vocal cords from his throat.

  The kid meant well. In a few years, he might be formidable. Ray gave a little nod to Domino and Mish, and they both struck some final chords.

  “How’d I do?” The kid was breathless and glowing. Eager as a puppy, but he also looked like he’d pass out in his food dish if given a chance, which—well, puppy.

  “Not bad at all.” Ray kept his tone light. “We’ll let you know within a week, as we still have some other auditions.”

  Once the kid was gone, Ray closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. No one they’d heard play was up to Kevin’s original quality. A few were serviceable drummers who could build up to the tricky rhythms, but they needed someone now, not in six months to a year. The kid was the last audition they had booked. “We’re screwed.”

  Domino took a breath before speaking. “Actually, there’s one more audition today.” For someone dressed in all black, wearing a studded leather collar and two-inch platform boots that could crush skulls, Dom looked remarkably sheepish.

  “Yeah?” Ray stomped over to the schedule and picked it up. “There’s nothing written down.” He threw the clipboard on the table.

  Mish blew out a breath and backed away, hands in the air. “This is between you boys.”

  “I should have written it down. Carl approved him this morning, but...” Dom fiddled with the strings of his guitar. “I didn’t know how you’d react.”

  “How I’d—” Except for Kevin, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d throw out the door. “Who the hell is auditioning?”

  “Me.”

  Smooth voice, like those images of melted chocolate in commercials. Vaguely familiar, too. Tingles ran down both of Ray’s legs, and he rotated toward the door.

  There, leaning against the frame, was Zavier Demos. Older, improbably hotter, and still as perfect as ever.

  “No.”

  Fucker flashed a gorgeous smile. “Nice to see you, too, Ray.”

  No wonder Dom hadn’t put him on the list. Ray would have crossed his name right back off due the lingering anger from high school. Zavier had been everything he’d wanted to be. Born with rock-star looks and a rock-star name, and a musical prodigy to boot. Fucking asshole had laughed all those years ago when Ray had asked him to join his first band.

  “I thought you went to learn to play real music at Juilliard.” He let bitterness slip into his voice.

  “I did go to Juilliard.” Zavier pushed off the doorframe and strode into the room, right up to Ray. Close enough that his black hair glinted in the overhead lighting. “All music is real. Yours especially.”

  He’d forgotten how blue Zavier’s eyes were. They’d hardly crossed paths back in the day—seniors with scholarships didn’t hang out with dorky sophomores with garage bands. Zavier’s words threw him, though. “I—Thank you.”

  Zavier smiled, as if Ray had given the correct answer to some unknown question, and every bit of Ray lit up, as if he were still a pining sixteen-year-old. Fuck that to hell. He pushed the giddiness away.

  “Shall I play for you? Or do you want to play for me?” Zavier’s words stroked over Ray like a lover’s fingers.

  Holy hell, it was a good thing Carl had gotten bored early in the day. That was a line. Would have fallen for it back in school, too. “Well, you’re here to play for us.” He gestured to Mish and Domino.

  “A ménage, then.”

  Dom had this odd expression, halfway between fear and wonder, but then he had probably had it worse for Zavier back in school. Not by much, though.

  Mish was grinning her head off. “Oh, you’re fucked up. I like you.”

  Zavier laughed, and even that was bell-like.

  How fucking perfect can one man be? Guess they’d find out. “You wanna play? Kit’s over there.” Ray pointed at the drums. “How much of our music do you know?”

  No answer until Zavier sat behind the drums, adjusted the stool, and took stock of the equipment. He tapped on the snare with his finger. “All of it.” He looked straight at Ray. “Well—all that you’ve released.”

  Flutters of hope skimmed through Ray’s chest, mixing with the tumult of emotions already churning there. He swallowed. “That’s all we need.” He’d been working on a few new songs, but without Kevin sober, there’d been no hope of anything beyond lyrics.

  Zavier nodded, then picked up a pair of sticks and ran through a round on the kit, testing each instrument. It was stunning. Unlike the puppy before him, Zavier had a calm, determined demeanor, and he played—even for the few minutes it took to drink in the equipment—as if he owned every single inch of the kit.

  When he finished, he flicked one stick around in his hand. “What would you like me to play?”

  Everything. Anything. God, those hands. “Since you say you know them all, why don’t you pick?”

  Domino raised an eyebrow. Yeah, unorthodox, but Ray wanted to know—wanted to hear from those lips—which of his songs Zavier Demos would choose.

  A flicker of a smile, then Zavier spoke. “‘White Hot Midnight.’”

  That song. Oh fuck. Wasn’t even on the album. It had been on a demo tape, but had been deemed too challenging for mainstream, whatever that meant. They played it in
concert anyway and the fans loved it. There were even some people with lyrics tattooed on them. Blew Ray’s mind every time someone showed him in the autograph line.

  It also contained some of the most complex drumming Kevin had ever done. They hadn’t played it much recently, for obvious reasons.

  Ray surveyed Mish and Domino. “You guys okay with that?”

  Dom nodded. Mish saluted. “Just give us a moment to tune,” she said.

  They did, and everyone stared at Ray expectantly. “You going to sing?” Zavier cocked his head.

  He hadn’t been, not much anyway, because he’d wanted to hear the drumming, not his own voice. “Yeah. I’ll sing.” He took up the mic, tapped it to make sure it was on, and nodded.

  It started with the drums—nearly every song did—and after three taps of the sticks, Zavier hit it.

  Oh god, it was glorious. Even more so when Dom and Mish joined. Ray threw his voice on top, the words pouring out like they did on stage, in front of hundreds. Thousands. Except now he was only singing for one person. He closed his eyes and let it all go.

  Loneliness. Jealousy. Growing up. Letting go. Getting the fuck over things. He’d written the lyrics to “White Hot Midnight” when he’d seen a photo of Zavier in a tux in at his first concert after graduating from Juilliard. The poise. The sophistication. A guy completely out of his league. Ray had been out of high school two years then, in community college and struggling to create a band.

  When the solos started, Ray listened, eyes hooded, staring at the floor and the mic cord running against it. Dark against light. A hint of deep orange. Wasn’t Kevin playing—the rhythm in his bones told him that. Every beat, every syncopation, was deeper, more right, exquisite. New touches added here and there. Zavier had turned Kevin’s drum line into his own—and outstripped it.

  Fuck, this was going to work. When the chorus came again, he lifted his gaze to watch Zavier and sang.

  All the wilderness

  Here in my mind

  All I ever wanted

  You never knew

  The carnage left behind

  Alone I lie here

  In the white hot midnight

  Zavier was lost in a world of his own, playing with a grace and fluidity that made drumming look easy. Lips parted, eyes so bright, body alive.

  When Ray started in on the last repeat, their eyes met, and Zavier nodded, as if he were part of the band.

  As the last notes faded and silence fell on them, Ray realized he was. There wasn’t any other drummer at all. Zavier hadn’t auditioned—he’d taken them all on and won.

  Even Mish was speechless, which never happened.

  From behind the drum kit, Zavier still held Ray’s stare. No words, but he knew they were a band. That lay in that smile, the triumph written into his shoulders and arms.

  You bastard. The thought flitted through Ray’s mind, even as his soul melted from the fading echoes of music that he hadn’t heard the likes of since Kevin hit the bottle. You bastard. You knew that song was about you.

  Finally, he spoke. “When can you start?”

  That slick grin wanted to turn him inside out. “As soon as you need me.”

  Now. Ray needed him now.

  They had a band again. And he had another hard-on for Zavier Demos. Shit.

  * * *

  One song wasn’t enough. Yes, it had gotten Zavier the job, but he wanted to play on. Burned with the need to drum through every single Twisted Wishes song he could, just to watch Ray Van Zeller sing. The abandon, the way he moved. No wonder fans threw underwear onto the stage. Ray made love to every song with the cant of his hips, the twist of his hands around the mic, the way he rocked through the melody.

  “White Hot Midnight” was the most technically challenging song for drumming Twisted Wishes had. It was also an ode to lost years and lost dreams, full of longing and desire—and Zavier had made Ray sing it for him. At him. And god, he’d loved every second. The playing, the agony in that voice. The blending of Domino’s and Mish’s guitar and bass lines.

  He locked gazes with Ray, and power surged through him. Ray wanted him. It was written in the words and drawn in every line of that body. Zavier had always wondered a few things about that particular song, who Ray had written it for.

  There was no hiding the bulge in Ray’s pants, nor the spark of lust that woke Zavier’s own cock.

  He took a moment to come down off that high and get his desires under control before dropping the sticks into their holder on the kit. When he could think straight, he peered out past the kit and sought Ray again.

  Same smoldering gaze, one that spoke of anger and lust. Ray lifted his chin. “Now the asshole says yes to joining the band.” He swung away, peering around the room. “Where the fuck is Carl?” A moment later, he set down the mic, grabbed his cell phone, and stomped off, muttering something about their fucking worthless manager.

  The bang of the door echoed in the silent room.

  Asshole. Zavier swallowed against that lingering taste of regret. Yeah, maybe he was. But he was the asshole who was going to save their band.

  God, he wanted a piece of Ray. A chance to tame that anger, or pitch it higher until they were a tangle of limbs and sheets in a bed. The age difference had been too great in high school, but they were both grown men now.

  He rose and joined the other two members of the band.

  “Don’t let Ray’s snippiness get to you,” Mish said. “He’s had a stick up his ass since Kevin left and the label came down on him for it.”

  Zavier met her smile with one of his own. “Oh, I won’t. Plus there’s history there.” He gestured at the path Ray had taken. “And he’s right. I am an asshole.”

  She laughed. “You’ll fit right in, then.”

  Zavier had already decided he liked Mish, but that quip sealed it. A treat to behold, she was an excellent player. That she’d not even blinked at his off-color comment, had called him fucked up, had welcomed him as an ass—well. She could hold her own.

  Then again, he expected nothing less from a woman who could tower over her bandmates and play a mean bass while dancing around the stage in high heels.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the silent Domino. While both Ray and Mish wore jeans and T-shirts, a far cry from their stage outfits, Domino was in full gear, as if this were a concert. A great guitarist, but no one really knew much about him. “Please don’t tell me you always dress like that.”

  Domino swallowed and ran his fingers over strings and frets. “Whenever I’m in public.”

  Zavier surveyed the room. “This is hardly public.”

  Domino gave a shrug. His spiked hair shook and the studded collar around his neck bobbed. “Public enough.” He paused, and wonder crept into his voice. “You do know our songs.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” Mish said. “Are you a fan, or can you just—” she waved a hand “—pick shit up?”

  “A little of both. I have your albums, watched a bunch of tour videos people snuck onto YouTube, but I also have a knack for learning by ear.”

  “Musical prodigy,” Domino said.

  That comment, the nod, and something about the timbre of Domino’s voice made Zavier take a closer look. He peered behind the eyeliner and makeup. “Do I know you?”

  A laugh and Domino looked down, his smile timid and hauntingly familiar. “I doubt you would remember me. I was pretty invisible at school.”

  Then it clicked. The talent show in high school. That beautiful song. There’d been a guitarist with Ray, the shy nerdy kid. What the hell was his name? “Dominic. Dominic Bradley.”

  Brown eyes, clever thin lips. Yes. Older now, but weren’t they all?

  Domino nodded, awe evident. “It’s a bit of a secret.”

  Understanding washed over Zavier. Domino—the persona—was armor. “Safe with m
e.”

  That shy smile again. “Thanks.”

  He was about to say something more when the door banged open. A blond man—trim and built, with a round face that might have been lovely had he not been scowling—strode in. Behind him sulked Ray, a bundle of tension.

  The blond stuck out his hand. “You must be Zavier Demos. I’m Carl Roberts, the band manager.”

  His shake was slightly too firm against Zavier’s hand, a sure sign of someone desperate to be in charge. “Nice to meet you,” Zavier lied.

  “I don’t know why someone of your caliber wants to play with this lot. But we appreciate you stepping in.”

  That comment raised Zavier’s hackles. A manager putting down the band? Though he focused on Carl, Zavier spotted Ray’s twitch and frown. “I needed a change of pace.” He paused. “Do you want to hear me play?”

  Carl waved the suggestion away. “Ray said you’re the best. He might not know much, but he does know music.”

  Ouch. Zavier schooled his face. This man was a complete dick. “I take it there will be paperwork to sign?”

  “Of course.” He gestured to the door. “Why don’t we go talk about it elsewhere?”

  Zavier nodded, but when Carl turned, he stole a glance at Ray. Pale. Shaking. Obviously furious. This wasn’t good. He caught Ray’s attention and gave a wave he hoped was assuring.

  Sign with the prick, then sit down with the band and find out what the deal was. Perhaps he could lend a hand with whatever friction lay between Ray and the manager. He followed Carl out of the room.

  Maybe he could help in another way, other than being the replacement drummer. He couldn’t be anything more, even if Ray’s desire was so obvious Zavier wanted to drink it right in. Wasn’t going to happen, which was an astounding pity.

  But the debacle with Dimitri had burned too many scars into Zavier’s soul. Last thing he wanted was another mistake like that one. Better no sex at all or one-night stands than anything that involved expectations.