Page 120 of Naughty Dreams
“Isn’t that in your job description?” DJ asked.
“Only if you scratch my belly.” Roy fished out the glasses he’d had Mike pick up for him while they were at Gilda’s. Ugly, heavy black frames with masking tape wound around the middle. “The glass looks thick, but it’s clear. They were part of a nerd costume.”
“Which explains why they look likeRevenge of the Nerdsmeets Buddy Holly.”
“Buddy Holly is a rock icon, so it fits, right?”
Roy leaned over the console and put them on DJ’s face, caressing his ears before he sat back and gave DJ a thorough assessment. “No one’s going to recognize you. They might think you bear a lucky passing resemblance to the great DJ James, and if your necklace comes out from under your shirt, they’ll think you bought a knock off. A lot of amateur musicians out there co-opt your look.”
DJ was still underweight, a man suffering from something eating him from the inside out. The loss of those three souls, ashe’d said. But since that was one part of the disguise Roy had no interest in maintaining, he hoped his plans for DJ tonight would help fix it.
Roy left the car and circled around to the passenger door. DJ was staring at the club’s neon sign. The two ducks blinked in quick, alternating succession, so it looked like one duck rocking back and forth on blue waves. The parking lot was overflowing, a full crowd.
“Roy…”
Roy kissed him hard. DJ gripped his wrist, nails digging in. Desperation, not aggression. Aplease don’t make me do thiswhich told Roy that DJ was deferring to him. He wasaskingRoy not to make him do it. Not refusing him. It was the difference between safewording and trusting where he was being led.
Roy just had to stay in his hardass Master mode to see it through. Not giving in to the desire to coddle and comfort was proving harder than he’d anticipated, but neither of those things would make things better for DJ. The truth of it gave Roy the ability to step back.
“Let’s go, Dory.”
As DJ walked beside Roy, he could hear the music inside, feel the size of the crowd. His blood stirred, his heart rate increasing.
No. He didn’t want to be here.
Yes. He totally wanted to be here.
Roy paid the cover charge, shaking his head when DJ reached for his own wallet. Then he opened the door for him. A colorful and prominent sign proclaimed:No recording the bands. If you try, we will feed your phone to our pet dragon. Just enjoy the music, dickheads.
“You’re a very chivalrous date,” DJ told him. Roy gave him a shove over the threshold. It eased the spiked barb wire cinched around his stomach.
The club was packed, smoky, small. Up front, the band was crammed onto a small stage, but the music was large and filled every corner. Energy pumped through the room. The band was in the middle of a jam at the end of a song, and the standing room crowd was dancing, jumping in place, fists pumping the air.
He couldn’t help but get pulled into gauging the band’s skill as a musician would, evaluating how tight they were, how they balanced groove and aggression, and what they were able to do with their tone and interpretation in these cramped circumstances.
As soon as he went down that road, the past dragged him under. Tal throwing out sweat as he banged on the drums, DJ and Steve trying to watch the stage edge as they rocked and bounced around with the beat, Pete tying together rhythm and melody on his bass.
The likely secondhand amps for this band sounded muddy and overdue for an adjustment or three. He remembered those days, too.
A pressure on his arm tuned him back into Roy and the people around them. As his bodyguard drew him to the wall and moved them forward with his size and broad shoulders, women scoped out DJ the way they would any stranger. Even with the Buddy Holly glasses and redneck hat, chin scruff and shorn hair, they were intrigued by what they were seeing, but not like they normally would be. Being unrecognizable was reassuring.
Roy had reached the section of wall closest to the stage, which let DJ get a closer look at the band members.
The drummer was a black man with dyed gold locs. The bulk of them were wound onto the top of his head, a few drapingonto his broad shoulders. Beads strung into the locs flashed as he performed, lashing his broad shoulders like a flogger driving him. He was roped with muscle as a drummer who dedicated himself to his craft would be. Tribal tats rippled over his biceps.
The guitarist had shaggy brown hair, vivid blue eyes, and was at least six feet tall, a desirable target for groupies. His muscle T-shirt was faded and had holes. The front showed a trio of skeletons playing instruments around a New Orleans Frenchmen Street sign.
The drummer and guitarist were good, and would push themselves to do their best and get better, maybe not to be famous, but because they belonged to the music, and that was what the music demanded.
The bassist was a chubby guy in jeans and T-shirt with mussed hair and a beard. While he didn’t have the talent of the other men, he was loving what he was doing. In the current sea of performers manufactured and autotuned by commercially driven producers, DJ would take honest desire but no innate talent any day.
The lead singer was handsome, had a decent voice and enough showmanship to be a draw. The smiles he threw to the women at their high-top tables said he was aware of his appeal.
As the band finished their set to whistles and clapping, the singer announced a fifteen-minute break. Roy lifted his hand, drawing the drummer’s attention. The black man smiled, showing white teeth and genuine pleasure.
“The drummer is Sy, the guitarist is Trey,” Roy told DJ over the noise. “They’re friends of mine from New Orleans.”
Sy came out from behind his drum kit and spoke to the bassist before gesturing to Trey, drawing his attention. The men came over to knock fists with Roy and give him a thump on the shoulder.
