SIX

The phone rang yet again as the hinges rattled with Richie’s exit. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Jon ignored the shrill ring, but three minutes later it started up again. Before he could stop himself, he tore the cord out of the wall and heaved the heavy plastic against the wall.


Blind with anger, he stalked the length of the room. He was the voice of the band. He’d always been the fucking voice. There were few things in his life that he could count on but his pipes, and even they were failing him. At sixteen, he’d known they were the only thing capable of dragging him out of the factory town that threatened to swallow him.

Each note that he missed, each time Richie had to carry him, and each morning that he woke up with fire for spit, it killed him. Even the few phoners he’d done that morning left him feeling raw. Hurling up almost a pint of Jack at 3 am probably didn’t help either.

As if the insult of his own instrument turning against him wasn’t enough, he also had to contend with Jamison. Continually torturing himself with watching James walk away with yet another willing groupie, wasn’t smart. Knowing he was a step away from losing control didn’t make it any easier to ignore her, only more aware.

James could tempt even the most devout priest with those dark eyes that were part heaven and part hell. Christ knew his own dick was a tuning fork for her. Boundaries were becoming blurred, but he couldn’t tell if it was just the fact that he wasn’t supposed to want her, or if it was James herself. You didn’t poach on your friend’s sister—period.

Especially when Richie was the brother. There was a closeness between them that he certainly didn’t have with his own brothers. She was literally one of the most important people on the earth to Richie.

And now this thing with Alec? What, one secret wasn’t enough? Now he needed to worry about keeping Richie from killing Alec? If Richie found out that any woman was mistreated, he’d go ape shit. His own sister? Alec wouldn’t have to worry about remorse or rehab, Richie would rip off his dick and feed it to him as a first course, then Jon would have to worry about hiding the body.

How could they be on top of the world with album sales and a tour that seemed to be gaining speed, and still be this fucked up?

“Fuck.” Jon headed for the wet bar, Jack Daniels would take the edge off, but he couldn’t afford to lose control. Not with the anger practically foaming in his mouth, and lust throbbing inside him like a tooth ache. Instead, he dropped the battered tea kettle he kept in his bag on the hot plate in their room and steeped another cup of tea. He drowned the tea bag with a thick coating of honey, even as his stomach curdled at the thought of swallowing it.

He hated honey.

The silence of the room closed in on him. He snapped on the radio, immediately turning it off when the announcer mentioned that his interview was up next. He couldn’t stand his own thoughts right now, he sure as shit wasn’t going to listen to himself.

“Fuck it,” he grabbed the bottle, splashing a dollop of Jack into the tea. “Just get through today,” he said to no one.

For once he was happy not to get an answer back.



~



Jon stood under the spray, resting his head on the battered white tiles of the locker room. It was empty—just the blessed pounding of water on his neck to concentrate on. Richie had come and gone from the showers before he’d managed to get back there.

Al was absent.

He’d been chasing him all over the damn arena, but the rat-bastard made sure he’d stayed scarce. Hell if he didn’t run off the stage after the show before final bows, the little fucker.

The show had been shit. The energy came back at him like a hurricane wind, but being out of synch with Richie all night couldn’t make up for the awesome crowd. For the first time in well over a year, they’d been on opposite ends of the stage during Wanted.

The hiss and crack of a popped beer top echoed in the room. He glugged down half the can with a healthy stream of warm water as a chaser. He couldn’t do a meet and greet after that piece of fuck show. He didn’t have a single reserve inside of him to play nice with the fans tonight.

As he finished the beer, he tipped his face up for a full blast of hot water. The husky laugh of a female instantly tightened his balls. Not just any female. No, his luck was just going to fuck him sideways today it seemed. It was James.

Wishing for another beer, he stretched his arm over his head against the cool tile and pressed his face into his forearm. Please don’t come in here. Just walk away. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to fight her off today. Not when his insides were scraped as raw as his useless cords.

Bracing himself as her voice moved closer, he realized there was someone else with her.

“C’mon, baby. There’s no one here but us.”

“There’s someone in the shower.” He heard a low voice whisper.

“Nah, they’re always leaving the showers running to steam up the room. Why don’t you show me how you can steam up the room, Larry?”

“It’s Barry.”

Her husky laugh brushed off the mistake. Involuntarily, his cock hardened at the mere hint of anything to do with that woman. He should be used to it by now, but it still blindsided him. She reduced him to a randy fourteen year old for fuck’s sake.

Obviously, she was entertaining and had no idea he was there.

He had to get out of there. For God’s sake he couldn’t take anything else tonight. The muted thud of a body against the tiles on the other side of him was like a blow.

“Now, let’s get you out of these jeans and see what I have to play with.”

He wanted to blame her actions on drinking, but her voice was definitely on the sober side. His fingers curled into a fist. Jon knew James was definitely up with the partying aspect of touring. And considering the amount of women he’d been with, he had no room to talk, but nothing about James landed in the sanity column.

He couldn’t take that, not right in front of him—partition or not.

The throaty moan tugged at his already frayed nerves. Now was not the time to unravel. He stepped outside the stall, the tissue thin towel only made him that much more aware of his dick. It was a painful ridge against his belly.

Surely she’d stop if she saw him.

A man in leather and frayed jeans with what was supposed to pass for long hair, had her pushed up against the tile. One of her unbelievably long legs was hooked over his hip as he ground into her. Her neck was arched back, eyes shut, with his lips fastened to her neck like a starving animal.

Every muscle in his body tightened. He wanted to drag him off of her, to hammer him into the tiles until he was gone, until the fuck-tard wasn’t touching her. Rage blew in his ears like white noise.

Then she opened her eyes.

Instead of being startled or repentant, she smiled.

That was supposed to be him against her—inside of her, pounding out every single shred of aggression that was building inside of him. It was him that should be surrounded by the heat of her, the heady jasmine scent of her that haunted and taunted. The heavy fall of her silky hair should be twisting around his skin, along his belly as she rode him.

His chest heaved.

She was going to kill him slowly.

It was as if she’d known he’d been listening—watching—wanting her. Her nails dug into the thick leather of the fuckhead’s jacket as if daring him to do something about it. He could feel the tingle all the way down to the balls of his feet. The need for action—to drag him off her, to brand her as his—it took over everything in his mind.

It was exactly what she wanted.

She pushed and pushed, figuring he’d break down and let her have her own way. If she only knew how close to that edge he was maybe she might think twice about her games. But giving Jamison the upper hand was dangerous.

James wasn’t for him. She was the one thing he couldn’t have, no matter how hard he worked, and how much he sacrificed in his personal life. He couldn’t let hormones get in between what he and Richie had going with the band.

He took two steps back, then a third, forcing himself to turn around—turn away from her. Again.