Page 6 of Sycopation
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, whichneverhappened.
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 throughevery 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. “Nowthe 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 ina 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. Iaman 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. “Youdoknow our songs.”
