Syncopation Page 4

  That’d been all over the internet. “Pretty certain that rumor is false.”

  A chuckle. “Darling, of course it is.” He could almost envision her waving her hand. “A different rumor says it was the old drummer who drank too much.”

  Which would account for Kevin’s downhill playing. “More plausible.”

  “Mmm. I can’t wait until they see you. Those rumors should be delicious. Dark, handsome classically-trained drummer with tattoos that make you weak in the knees...if you’re lucky.”

  He couldn’t help the laugh. “I’m benign.” Though he wouldn’t mind seeing Ray kneeling.

  “Says the man who can’t get a position in any orchestra in North America because he was fucking and flogging his conductor, then didn’t have the decency to be a kept boy like a proper young musician.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Zavier swallowed a breath, counted to three, then exhaled. “Oh, is that what they’re saying?” He shivered, despite the heat of the day, but didn’t let an ounce of fear or anger slip into his voice. “How droll.”

  “He would have showered you with gifts and flowers.”

  “You know exactly how much that means to me.” Not a damn thing. He didn’t comprehend that kind of love—or the trappings of it. So much of romance seemed downright silly.

  Though, had it just been Dimitri falling for him, that wouldn’t have been as bad. No, Dimitri had wanted Zavier on his knees with declarations of love. Zavier had been so clear about that the first time they’d fucked. Sex without attachments. They hadn’t even been friends.

  “Oh yes. You’re every submissive’s dream and every romantic’s nightmare.” Nadia’s laugh was light. “You didn’t call to hear about yourself.”

  No. He hated when she told him the gossip about himself. Ignorance was bliss, and all that. She, of course, told him anyway. A bur under his skin to remind him that he was young and still had much to master. “I was wondering what you could tell me about Carl Roberts. He’s Twisted Wishes’s band manager.”

  There was a pause—one that was long enough to mean he’d surprised her. “The band manager? Interesting. Your impressions?”

  “I’ll keep those to myself for the time being.” He’d rather have the information unbiased by his opinion. While Carl seemed to be an unmitigated asshole, Zavier couldn’t be certain that Ray hadn’t done something to make the situation worse. Though, Ray was too open in his pain to be hiding anything.

  “It may take me a bit. Managers are so less interesting than musicians.”

  He kept his chuckle inside. Unlike Nadia, he’d bedded more than musicians. All sorts of people were fascinating. “Whenever you can. I don’t want to impose.”

  “Of course you want to impose, darling. It’s why you called.” She practically purred the words.

  He purred right back. “But you adore it when I call.” He’d owe her. Not sure what he’d have to give up—that always changed—but it would be worth the trouble.

  “True.” She paused. “Do take care, darling. The music industry can eat you alive.”

  It was already chowing down hard on Ray. “After my last misstep, I’m certainly more cautious.”

  “Good. You were my best student, Zavier. I’d hate to see you fodder for tabloids.”

  He didn’t quite swallow his laugh this time. She’d love to see juicy tidbits about his life spread out for all. They made their goodbyes, and as he hung up, the band’s lunch arrived in a beat-up white four-door sedan. He helped the driver carry their order upstairs. Surprisingly, Carl had pre-paid and even given a decent tip.

  So being an utter asshole only extended to the band—or maybe to just Ray. Hopefully whatever Nadia dug up would make sense of that.

  Once the driver had left and they set about eating, Ray asked the question Zavier had been waiting for. “You talk to Carl?”

  “He blew out of here so fast, I didn’t even make it to the parking lot before he was gone.” He took a bite of his sandwich—and closed his eyes against the flavors. “Shit, this is actually good.”

  Murmurs of agreement, and for a few minutes, they were content. Food did that—eased pain and frustration.

  But as they finished eating, the tension inched back into the air. “What are we going to do about the studio space?” Dom crumpled his wrapper and stuffed it into a bag. “We can’t tour on three days of practices.”

  Ray screwed up his face. “I know. I don’t—” He stopped and his expression smoothed out and became distant. Calculating. Beautiful.

  Oh, Ray, what do you have up your sleeve?

  A sly little smile, then Ray glanced around—and focused on Zavier. “I’m finally going to get you into my garage band.”

  Delight slithered all the way down to Zavier’s core. “How many years have you been waiting to say that?”

  Oh, and there was the lovely blush, right on schedule. “Too many.” He didn’t look away. “The house we’re staying in has a big-ass garage. Not ideal, but it’s space.”

  Zavier gave Ray his most charming smile. “You finally have me, Ray.”

  Mish looked like she was about to choke on her cheesesteak. “You two are going to end up screaming at each other. I know it.”

  “I don’t scream.” Not even when Dimitri had thrown a vase at him for not buying roses after their first month together. Raise his voice? Sure. Ordered a man to his knees? Yes. Scream? Nothing so uncontrolled.

  “I don’t, either. It strips my vocal cords.” Ray shrugged. “Also, I don’t have to like someone to work with them.” He stared at Zavier.

  Ray didn’t like him? Zavier gazed back until Ray turned away, all reddening neck and catching breath. Not true, that. There were, after all, many different kinds of like.

  Mish was trying not to laugh, and poor Dom looked decidedly uncomfortable when he spoke. “Um. Maybe we should get back to work?”

  Ray gave a grunt. “Let’s see what we can do until Carl kicks us out tonight.”

  Despite Ray’s mood, once they all got back to their instruments—and Ray to the mic—practice went well. Felt good to play like this again—continuously, passionately, and controlled. Twisted Wishes sometimes spun close to chaos during their songs, with layers upon layers of timing and chords, but Ray had written songs that worked, and his voice carved out sense from the chaos and brought the mess together into a beautiful whole.

  Music like this was Zavier’s true passion. He didn’t understand the hearts of humans, but this he knew and felt. He modified Kevin’s lines on the fly, bringing them closer to what he knew as true when he listened to that lovely voice singing.

  They managed three more songs before Carl returned and their bodies gave out. Both Dom and Mish were stretching their hands and Ray spoke with gravel between sips of water.

  Zavier’s back felt like fire. Last time his muscles had complained this much was after he’d spent a night in a club flogging three subs. At least there he’d been able to find an outlet for the buzzing in his blood and the fire in his veins. Tonight he’d have a cold shower and his hand, and Ray Van Zeller’s voice in his head.

  Fucking hell.

  But he wouldn’t have changed anything at all. This wasn’t the symphony, but it was so much closer to a space Zavier might call home. His mind swam with rhythm and his vision with Ray swaying to his music.

  Zavier downed another bottle of water and approached Carl. “So why only three days in the studio when you knew there were two months before the tour?”

  To Zavier’s left, Ray lifted his head. His back was to both Zavier and Carl.

  Carl frowned, but that hid something—fear? Anger? Zavier couldn’t tell. “The songs aren’t that complicated.”

  Yes, they were. Zavier didn’t say anything, just stared at Carl. Ray turned slightly, his torso corded with tension.

  Finally, Zavier murmured, “You didn’t think
they’d find a drummer.”

  Carl lost color. Bingo. Zavier being here, the label signing him, that had thrown things into disarray for Carl. Zavier snorted and turned away.

  Maybe Carl thought Zavier could learn the songs in three days, which was possible. He knew the music. But knowing and playing it with the rest of the band were two entirely different situations. They needed to learn to play with each other, and that took time.

  Zavier clasped Ray on the shoulder. “You’re getting your wish.”

  Those whiskey-colored eyes were wide and his breath as smoky as the drink. “Lucky me.” Heat there. A touch of ire, too.

  Catnip to his lust. Zavier dropped his hand. Working with Ray was dangerous.

  Carl cleared his throat. “Better get your bags from the hotel, Demos. You’ll be joining them in the house.”

  Zavier’d figured that. There’d been an itemized receipt for checkout slipped under his door in the middle of the previous night. “They’re in my rental.” He kept watching Ray, since the view was better.

  Ray rolled his eyes and muttered, “Mr. Perfect.”

  Was that how Ray thought of him? “Not so much.”

  That only earned him a snort before Ray turned away. “Let’s pack up for the night.” He rounded and faced Carl. “How early can we get in here tomorrow?”

  “Eight a.m.”

  “Then we’ll be here. On time. All of us.”

  Carl snatched up his phone. “Good to see you finally taking this seriously.” With that, he was out of the door once again.

  Ray clenched and unclenched his hands, until Mish came over and rubbed his back. “Don’t let him get to you, hon. We did good work today.”

  Some of the tension eased from those shoulders. “Yeah, we did.” Once more Zavier found Ray focusing on him. “How do you feel about it?”

  Horny and turned on, like he did after any stellar performance. But that wasn’t anything he’d say out loud. “Good. Very good. You guys are great to work with and the songs are—” he whistled “—better live than anything else.”

  The rest of the stress fell off Ray. “You mean that?”

  “Every word.”

  A small smile played over shy Dom’s lips. “See?”

  Ray shook his head. “Let’s get back to the house.”

  Zavier followed the band down to the parking lot, then tailed the hired car back to a house in the hills. Gated, and yes, it had a big enough garage to play in.

  He set his bags down on the bed in the last unoccupied room—the one right next to Ray’s. For a moment, he considered that lithe body and sighed.

  Off limits. Completely. He didn’t want to wind up as gossip for Nadia, after all. Even if he did wonder whether he could make Ray scream.

  Chapter Five

  Having Zavier in the house with the rest of the band was distracting as fuck. His presence tapped on every last one of Ray’s nerves. His voice was like a caress and the sight of him was a constant reminder to Ray’s libido that he hadn’t gotten any in months and months.

  Didn’t help that Zavier watched him like he was an item on a menu. Fucking around with the crew was one thing; fucking a bandmate was another. Plus—and he had to remind himself constantly—he didn’t like Zavier. Desperation for sex wasn’t a good reason to throw yourself at someone. Especially not at Mr. Perfect Zavier Demos, drummer extraordinaire.

  While the living arrangements were frustrating as fuck, the practices were incredible. Every piece they worked on, they elevated to a new level and Ray gained a serious appreciation for how talented Zavier was. Wasn’t smoke and mirrors. Zavier worked hard. Despite the twinges in his features and the shoulder rolls between sessions, he never faltered behind the kit or complained about their marathon practices.

  He also quietly backed up all of Ray’s musical decisions—or not so quietly when Carl was around.

  Yeah, Zavier’s playing showed he deserved to have gone to Juilliard. Hell, he should’ve been in some world-class orchestra or a multi-platinum headlining rock band, but here he was, drumming for Twisted Wishes. Ray didn’t understand why. What did Zavier get out of the deal? He didn’t trust Zavier, even if his body screamed to get closer, especially after Zavier stripped off his tank after one intense session. All that ink on Zavier’s back. Saint freaking Michael the archangel descending down to slay demons. More tattoos that dipped below Zavier’s waistline. All of it only made him want to stare longer at that unreal body.

  Still, they made it halfway through their first album by the middle of the last studio day, thrashing, playing, and meticulously going over every note and beat.

  “I don’t know why you’re bothering with all the songs,” Carl grumbled. “It’s not like you play them all on tour.”

  Ray hid his wince by grabbing a bottle of water. “That was with Kevin. I need to know which songs are the best with Zav.”

  “Zav?” Carl’s sneer deepened.

  Fuck Carl. Ray’d known Zavier longer than anyone in this room, save Dom. He called back over his shoulder, “You don’t mind Zav, do you?”

  A laugh. “Zav is absolutely fine.” Zavier took a seat at a stool next to the table and grabbed one of the water bottles. “It’s what everyone called me at school.” The Zavier now was so much more than the Zavier in high school. Same fucking eyes peered back, though. “You can even call me asshole, if you want.” Sly-ass smirk.

  Fucker. Ray turned back to Carl and shrugged. “You want us at our best, I need to figure out what the new best is.”

  Mish joined them. “Hey, Carl.” Her words and grin were too bright, but Carl wouldn’t know that. He’d never caught on.

  He smiled back at her, with that look hetero men got when she turned on the charm. “Hey. You sounded outstanding today.”

  “Thanks,” she drawled. She stood over him—all six foot one of her—and there was the hint of discomfort the same hetero men got when they realized Mish could break them in two. “Did you find us another studio space?”

  Carl had to crane his neck to answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed. “No. There’s nothing available.”

  “In all of L.A.?” Mish tapped her lip with a finger. “Huh.”

  Carl focused on Ray rather than Mish. “You’re something else, Ray.”

  Ray gave another disinterested shrug, and ignored the burning in the back of his throat. He had as much control over Mish as anyone else—not a damn ounce.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, darling,” Mish said. “We’ll be ready for the tour.”

  “You’ve only worked through half an album and none of your newest material—you know, the songs that charted?” Carl leaned back and crossed his arms. “And you’ll be ready?”

  Ray took another swallow of water. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “That’ll be a first,” Carl murmured.

  The calm Ray had been so desperately trying to hang on to broke suddenly, and he slammed the water bottle down on the table. “Now look here—”

  He made to rise, but Zavier clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Not hard, but enough to zing through every nerve. Ray sank back down onto the chair. “I’ve gotten us this far.” A single in the top five. Sales that were decent. Tours and signing lines that were crowded enough. Fan mail. A gold album.

  In the beginning, Carl had been so full of praise, even when he’d offered suggestions and picked at every one of Ray’s decisions. Now? The praise was gone. The critique remained, though.

  “Oh yes,” Carl said. “You’re A-plus material. Drive your drummer to drink. Throw a bottle at him. Make the news in such a stellar way. Your band’s playing on tour has been shit. It’s a wonder the label gave you this chance.”

  Zavier hadn’t removed his hand, and that was the only thing that kept Ray from leaning across the table and punching Carl. Thing was—e
verything Carl said was true. That was the worst thing. Carl was right. Ray’d failed Kevin. Failed the band. The burning turned inward and stabbed like daggers and he ground his teeth, face hot with shame.

  Carl had even warned him, back at the start. Your songs are good, kid. But this isn’t like playing bars down at the Shore. It hadn’t been, either. Dude might be an asshole, but he did seem to know the business in a way Ray didn’t.

  “That’s better.” Carl rose. “Your lunch will be here soon and you have the studio until eight. After that, they’ll be packing up your shit.”

  “Send the drum kit to the house.” Zavier spoke low, but with force.

  Carl jerked back. “What?”

  “My kit.” Zavier slid his hand from Ray’s shoulder, and it took every ounce of control not to shudder. “Send it to the house.”

  “Why?”

  A huff that Ray recognized as Zavier’s are you stupid laugh. “Because I’m a fucking professional drummer.”

  Carl stared at Zavier. “Right. Okay.” He swung around and headed to the door, already punching shit on his phone.

  When the door slammed shut, Mish dropped into the seat Carl had occupied. “That man has no right being a manager.”

  Another grunt from Zavier—this one neutral.

  “It’ll be fine,” Ray said, though his gut told him a different story. Like it or not, Carl was their manager. The first label exec he’d ever talked to had praised Carl up and down. Said that Twisted Wishes couldn’t do any better.

  “Will it?” Soft, quiet words from Dom. He’d been standing over by the window the entire time. “I mean, Zavier’s good—”

  “Why thank you.” Zavier’s cocky attitude was back.

  “—but this is shit.” Dom gestured around the studio. “They want us to fail.”

  Zavier rocked back on the stool and rubbed his chin. “The label wouldn’t send you on tour with Five Asylum if they wanted you to fail.”

  Dom finally crossed the room. “But Carl’s not giving us what we need.”

  Ray followed Zavier’s hand from his chin to the table. Long fingers. Tats that ended at the wrists. In formal wear, you’d never see the ink.