Syncopation Page 3

  Well, at least he’d be able to watch Ray make love to his music. That would be treat enough.

  Chapter Four

  Ray guessed the record company signing Zavier hadn’t taken too long, because the very next day, Carl ordered them back at the same studio space to practice. They were all dressed casually, thank goodness. Dom tended to put away the stage persona for rehearsals. It was weird to play when he was all up in Domino and the rest of them were in ratty T-shirts and jeans. Threw Ray off to see Dom ready for stage when they weren’t performing.

  Apparently, Dom had told Zavier who he was—or rather Dom claimed Zavier guessed. Of course Mr. Perfect had figured it out. Ray resisted the urge to roll his eyes on the ride over from the hotel when Dom recounted the story.

  Mish watched the streets go by out the window. “He’s way better than Kevin.”

  Ray grunted. Yeah, he was. Always had been, even in high school. With any luck, Zavier’s playing would get them on the road again, and make the record company happy. Kevin’s departure and the aftermath still ate at him—they’d be watching closely. He owed it to Dom and Mish to get the band on track and Carl off their backs.

  She leaned back and fixed her gaze on him. “You don’t like him.”

  Dom squirmed on the seat next to Ray, but he ignored that. “It’s not that I don’t like him, it’s...” He waved his hand, because really, he had no reason to hate Zavier Demos.

  He just couldn’t stand the guy.

  Zavier was everything Ray had both wanted and wanted to be back in high school. Beautiful, outgoing, talented, sexy, and smart. Zavier could have had and, if the rumor mill had been anything to go by, did have anyone he wanted back then.

  Not that he’d wanted Ray, though. Not as a bandmate or anything else.

  Later, when Ray was getting his associate’s degree at the local community college and struggling with his music, Zavier was off becoming a professional musician and the toast of the fucking wine, cheese, and tux set.

  What galled Ray was that Zavier truly was that good. His playing during the audition yesterday had set that in stone—and that was without any rehearsals. With some time practicing together? They’d have a killer sound.

  The worst, though, was when they walked into the studio and Zavier was already there, in a tank top and jeans, idly twirling a drumstick. He met Ray’s stare and smiled.

  Back in high school, Zavier had sported one tattoo—a scene like one from a Greek vase with meandering patterns and a figure of a woman with an owl, but in brilliant colors—on his forearm. Ray had committed every line, color, and swirl to memory. Later, he’d realized the woman had to have been Athena.

  Now? Zavier was covered in ink. Sleeves up both arms, and more that disappeared beneath the fabric of the tank. Ray bit down on his tongue to keep from licking his lips. Last thing he wanted was to be caught ogling Zavier, especially with Carl in the room. He headed over to a table where bottles of water had been set out.

  Carl, standing over by the door, coughed in that fake way he did whenever he wanted their attention. Ray didn’t pay him any mind. Instead, he grabbed a bottle of water and cracked it open. Only when Carl coughed again did he turn.

  “Glad to see you’re able to be on time for once.” Carl’s smile was knife-sharp. “Though I bet that has more to do with your bandmates.”

  Dom flinched and Mish straightened. Ray spoke before they could. “Yeah, everyone knows I’m the slacker.” He took a swig of his water, and shrugged. “Drummer’s early.”

  Zavier stilled the stick he’d been twirling. “They say traffic in Los Angeles is horrible, so I gave myself extra time from the hotel.”

  “You could learn something from him, Ray.” Carl tapped his forehead with his finger. “Plan ahead.”

  Ray shrugged again. “Well, we’re all here, aren’t we?” They’d even been about five minutes early. Would have been earlier if Dom hadn’t forgotten where he’d put his phone. But slip-ups were always Ray’s fault. Bandleader, after all.

  Honestly, he’d rather Carl pick on him than anyone else.

  Ray stole another glance at Zavier to drink in his tattoo-covered glory, and caught Zavier watching him with a furrowed brow. No malice, though. Not like Carl’s twisted smirk and glare. At least with Carl, Ray knew exactly where he stood.

  He met Zavier’s stare. “We should get to work.”

  “That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said in weeks,” Carl muttered. “Guess getting you out of the bottle worked.”

  This time Dom straightened and Mish stepped forward, her voice ringing out. “Hey, you f—”

  Ray spoke first. “How long do we have ’til we’re back on the road?”

  “Five Asylum starts their tour in less than two months.” Carl strode over to the table Ray had grabbed water, pulled out a swivel chair, and sat his snarky ass down. “You’re getting almost equal billing and play time with them, so you damn well better be ready.”

  Jesus. Five Asylum was a huge band, chart-topping for more than a decade. And Twisted Wishes had six weeks, maybe seven? Brand-new drummer. No pressure there.

  Ray swallowed his fear along with a gulp of water. “Let’s go, then.”

  Both Mish and Dom picked up their instruments, and Zavier settled in behind the kit. For a couple of minutes, the three of them tuned, jammed, and warmed up. Ray had given his voice a workout before leaving the house and on the ride over. After the first few times Carl had snickered at him when he went through vowels and pushed his range—well, better to do that shit in private.

  “Let’s start with ‘Haze’ and see how that sounds,” Ray said. It was the easiest of their repertoire and one of the first pieces they played at shows, partly to get into a grove with each other. He glanced at them all, stopping when he got to Zavier.

  A flick of a drumstick and a nod. Felt more like approval than an indication he knew the song. Warmth flared in Ray’s belly, but not from embarrassment. Zavier seemed to understand what he intended with this practice.

  “Let’s see how we sound,” Ray said.

  Zavier counted out the beat, and they were off. The intro sounded good, and fuck, did Zavier look stunning behind the kit. When Ray threw his voice in, it blended well in and out of Dom’s riffs, like it always did. They sounded damn good for not playing for several weeks, especially considering Zavier had played exactly one song with them before now.

  But something niggled at Ray when they finished. “Mind doing that again without me singing?”

  No objections from the band. Carl’s chair squeaked and Ray gritted his teeth. But a moment passed without any comment, so he nodded to Zavier, who set the beat again.

  This time, Ray closed his eyes. He needed to see the music, not the performers, and especially not Zavier. The notes and beats washed over him and set bursts of color off in his head. Shapes. Lines. Exactly what he’d seen when he’d written the piece. Good. Very good. Mish’s bass sounded exactly right and Dom was his usual controlled chaos. Zavier was perfect. Utterly. When the change-up after the second verse happened—a tricky little twist in the beat he’d written in so long ago—that was when he saw it. A slip in Dom and in Mish—but not in Zavier. A little clash of hues.

  He opened his eyes and waved them to stop. “Can you play the transition again?”

  “It sounded fine,” Carl grumbled.

  Everything in Ray tightened. Thank god he had his back to the asshole. He spoke more slowly. “Can you play the transition again?”

  “Yes, of course.” That from Zavier. “As many times as you need.”

  Dom nodded.

  “There’s something hinky going on, isn’t there?” Mish ran her fingers over the strings of her bass.

  There was, and Ray thought he knew why, but he wanted to make sure. He waved his hand for them to start.

  That same clash was there again, an
d the next time they played, too. Ray blew out a breath and scrubbed the back of his head. “You’re too good.”

  Zavier’s sticks clattered as he gripped them in one hand. He grunted, but his smile was back. Approval. Understanding. Every time, it tumbled something deep inside Ray.

  Dom stared at Ray like he’d grown two heads, but Mish was laughing. “Oh my god. Of course.”

  “What the hell are you going on about, Van Zeller?” The chair creaked again.

  Ray turned to find Carl standing, hands on his hips. “I’m doing my job, Carl. What do you think?”

  “You asinine little—”

  Zavier’s voice boomed out over the room. “With all due respect, Carl—” His tone said the exact opposite. “Sit down, be quiet, and you might learn a thing or two.”

  A deep, dark place in Ray’s heart flared to life at Carl’s shocked expression, at the blush that crept up his neck to his face, and the step backward he took that had him tumbling into the chair.

  Maybe he could stand Zavier Demos after all.

  Ray put his back to Carl. “It’s not that there’s a problem,” he said. “It’s the lack of one.”

  Mish nodded. “Kevin never got the beat right at the change-up. He always flubbed it.”

  “And you and Dom covered for that, so it didn’t matter.” Ray eyed Zavier. “You can’t mimic Kevin’s mistake.”

  Zavier took a breath. “I could try. But no, not consistently. Not for a performance. I know how the line should sound. I fix it in my head every time I hear the song.” He gave Ray a sly grin. “Most people wouldn’t have noticed.”

  Ray straightened, the nerves along his arms tingling. Maybe he hadn’t gone to Juilliard or been a fucking prodigy like Zavier. Yeah, he only had an associate’s degree in accounting, but these were his songs. Every word, note, and beat. “I’m not most people.”

  “I know.” Zavier’s sincerity knocked the air from Ray’s lungs.

  He pulled himself together, though an echo of the teen he’d been wanted to yell, Took you a fucking long time to figure that out!

  He studied Zavier. “Can you play the drum line alone?”

  Zavier got this distant look, and it was a hell of a thing to watch—his intensity and scrutiny turned inward. Calculating, thinking, and studying every angle of some invisible chart.

  When those blue eyes focused back on Ray, a different heat tumbled inside him, because he swore Zavier gave him an up-and-down look before replying, “Yes.”

  Ray shoved aside anything beyond Zavier’s ability to drum because that was all that mattered now, not how much he wanted to see the rest of Zavier’s ink. “Dom, Mish—listen.”

  Zavier played, never missing a beat, and they all listened, maybe even Carl, too. No squeaks from his chair.

  By the time Zavier was done, Dom had his lips pressed thin and he was nodding. “Yeah. I get it.”

  “Might take a bit to undo,” Mish said.

  “Wanna try?” Ray knew the answer.

  “Hell yes!” A big grin from her. Determination from Dom.

  So they did. Ray didn’t sing the next time through, but he did after that. By the fifth time, they had it. When they played the song once more, Zavier added some flourishes that were intense.

  “Fuck, that’s good,” Dom said. “I can’t wait to get on stage.”

  Neither could Ray. “One down—”

  Lots more to go. He scanned the room. Carl was typing on his phone and Zavier—

  For once, Zavier wasn’t watching Ray. He brushed a lock of his jet-black hair from his forehead and had this shit-eating grin as he took in the drum kit and the room, like he was excited to be here, excited to play. When his gaze finally focused on Ray again, the subtle up-and-down was back and that smile settled into something deeper and so damn sensual it melted Ray’s bones.

  Fucking hell. The last thing he needed was Zavier having the hots for him, especially after all these years. He turned away. “Okay, let’s try ‘Dreams Unto You’ next.”

  As the next song started, Ray chewed his tongue. Thing was, in high school he’d have dropped to his knees if Zavier had asked him to. Wasn’t so sure he’d say no now, either.

  If he were reading those looks right, they’d probably find out eventually.

  * * *

  Zavier ran a towel over his face, neck, and hands. They’d been practicing all morning and his back, as conditioned as he kept it, was getting annoyed with him. Being principal timpanist and playing concerts had been tiring of course, but that paled to the intensity of this. When Ray had laid down his mic and called for a lunch break, Zavier was more than ready. He slipped the sticks into a holder on the kit, popped his ear protection out, stood, and stretched.

  At some point, he’d need to talk to Ray or Carl—or whoever did the stage layout—about his setup for concerts. He needed to stand once in a while or his back would bitch and moan.

  But now he was grateful for bottles of water and a take-out menu from a local sub shop. He opted for semi-healthy grilled chicken covered in cheese, rather than mounds of pork or beef covered in cheese. He downed one water, cracked open another, and wandered over to the window. Dom was already there and had done what Zavier had intended—opened the damn thing for some air.

  Was a bit hard reconciling the image of Domino Grinder with Dominic Bradley. The same tattoos peeked from under the short sleeves of Dom’s button-down, but Dom had a far more subdued nature now that he was out of his Domino persona. Shy and thoughtful, except when he played.

  God, they were all gorgeous then, the three of them. Mish danced like she loved every note and every inch of the floor had been made to obey her. Dom got lost in riffs and moved like fire. Ray—the things Zavier wanted to do to that man. The fantasies.

  He sipped his water and rolled his shoulders. No.

  “Sore?” Dom shifted to give Zavier room to catch a breeze.

  “A little.” Not a hard admission—he preferred the truth all around. Soon he’d be living with these three for months and months, in very close quarters. They needed to trust each other. “It’s been a while since I’ve played behind a rock kit. Symphony work is different. More standing. More pauses.”

  A nod. “I bet. I watched you once when you were playing with Silverton, during that tribute to Prokofiev.”

  Interesting. “You know, if someone had told me Domino Grinder went to the symphony, I might have laughed...but now that I’ve met you...again... I get it.” Zavier shrugged. “Given your guitar skills, it makes sense.”

  Dom gave him a shrewd look. “How are we supposed to learn how to shred if we don’t listen to all the classics?”

  Yeah, this band knew music, no doubt about that. “How else, indeed.”

  “You haven’t lost your touch.” Dom gestured at the rock kit, then he lowered his voice. “Thanks for putting Carl in his place. He gets...irritating.”

  “So I’m learning. What’s his problem anyway?”

  Dom’s shoulders dropped as low as his voice. “Who the hell knows?”

  Huh. “I thought bands chose their managers?” His voice was as quiet as Dom’s—not that Carl would’ve heard anyway, given he was arguing with Ray.

  “He came with the record contract,” Dom said. “And the label made it pretty clear everything goes through Carl.”

  Weird. Zavier glanced at Ray, and the tension in that back vibrated across the room. Zavier slugged back the rest of his water and wandered closer.

  “...only have three more days of studio time.” Carl shrugged. “You figure out how to make it work. It’s not my problem.” He glanced at his phone. “I have somewhere to be,” he said, then marched away.

  Ray said nothing, but once the studio door banged shut, he put his palms on the table. “Fuck.”

  Zavier schooled his expression. “Did he just tell you we only have th
is space for three more days?”

  Ray’s anger was palpable, and entirely appropriate. “That’s about the size of it,” he ground out. “We can’t—” He straightened and turned. Fear. Panic and doubt. So many emotions flickered across that face. “I mean, you’re damn good. But we can’t get it all done in that time. There’s too many songs and—”

  They needed to run through every one of them. Hard enough in two months. Impossible in three days. “Maybe I can change his mind.”

  A glance at the door. “I don’t think any of us can. Just—don’t get yourself fired?”

  Zavier chuckled. “Oh, I won’t. I have a really good contract lawyer.” The record company would be in some pain if they let him go without due cause—and pissing off a self-important shitty manager wasn’t due cause.

  He headed out the door and down the stairs. By the time he got to the parking lot, Carl’s car was pulling out onto the street.

  “Fuck.” There went that plan.

  He needed more information. Probably should have gotten it before he stepped into this gig—but it was Ray’s band; Zavier couldn’t stop himself from auditioning and saying yes. Grown-up Ray was something else, like his music and band. All three plowed through Zavier in a unique way, but none of that helped the Carl situation.

  Zavier pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and hit Call before he had second thoughts.

  Three rings, then a familiar lilting voice answered. “My darling Zavier, what can I do for you?”

  Always darling Zavier. Anyone else, he’d have been mad, but she was older, wiser, and one of the very few to have ever put him in his place without reservation and rightly so. “Hello, Nadia. I’ve called to ask a favor.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Your little stint at rock-and-roll not working out?”

  Of course she’d known about that. Ties everywhere in the music industry. “Yet to be determined, though the band is quite good.”

  “Rumor says the lead singer has a drinking problem.”