My gaze wandered over his broad shoulders, pausing to admire the flex and pull of his triceps as he adjusted his fingers on the fret before traveling along his tapered waist and landing on his ass. It was fucking perfect. Firm, tight, sexy. And that weird mental segue almost threw my rhythm to hell.
I closed my eyes and immediately refocused, letting the music pull me under until he stilled his guitar strings and sang, “I’m lost without you.”
The guys in the booth gave two thumbs-up, Charlie clapped and said something to make Gray smile. Maybe I’d imagined the earlier tension. I took off my headphones as I stood and high-fived Gill and Bobby J. See? Donuts worked.
Declan smiled, but he didn’t say a word. He seemed overwhelmed. I understood. Music did that to you sometimes. I made a small production of twirling my sticks, then slid them into my back pocket, giving him a moment to gather himself…because in spite of all the BS between us, I respected the creative process.
“That didn’t suck,” I offered.
Dec rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”
“No prob.”
He pushed the microphone aside as he stood and inclined his head toward Charlie and Gray on the other side of the glass. “Gray’s buddy is going to start helping us out at practice next week. You’re officially off the hook.”
I smiled wanly, inclining my head toward Charlie taking pics in my periphery. “What’s he up to?”
“Social media content. Look natural. This is probably going on our website.”
“Fucking social media,” I griped. “The business of making music isn’t so simple anymore.”
“It’s not that big of a deal. The hardest thing you have to do is pretend to like me.”
“That’s a tough one.”
“Likewise,” Dec huffed. “Can we just call a truce?”
I gave him a suspicious once-over. “Why?”
“Because I’m not going anywhere. We don’t have to be friends, but I’d rather not be enemies. We’re on the same team.”
“Until Xena calls.”
“She did call,” he replied woodenly.
“Excuse me?”
“She called. In the spirit of transparency, I’m telling you.…She wants Jealousy to open for her at Carmichael’s in exchange for her drummer and her manager.”
“And?”
“There is no ‘and,’ ” he scoffed. “I told you I’m not going anywhere. This is my best shot at making it in music. It might even be my last shot. I’m not going to jeopardize anything for anyone. Especially not Xena.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “The problem is, I still have a hard time trusting you, Dec.”
I walked out of the studio before I gave in to the urge to ease up on my asshole routine. I believed him…sort of. Dec had more to gain by sticking with Charlie than he did playing local dives with Xena. But if that old saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer was true, I was going to have to stick to him like super glue…without touching him.
For a couple of weeks, that was what I did. I watched Dec from afar—laughing with his bandmates, joking around with the receptionist, and singing his heart out while he poured coffee in the break room…like a fucking rock star.
But I noticed he was quiet a lot too. Very quiet. In a very non-rock star way.
Dec would sit atop an empty desk in the office, starring into space with a notebook on his knee and a pen in hand for hours at a stretch. I’d grab a cup of coffee, play for an hour in the studio then return to the kitchen to drop my mug off, and he’d still be there. I wondered what he was thinking and what he was writing and if he might be up to some kind of silent mischief. But I kept my distance…and tried to tell myself nothing had changed.
I was wrong.
The London was a bougie boutique hotel in West Hollywood with an understated elegant vibe. Something in between the Palm Springs fifties retro and a minimalist contemporary feel. Black walls, brocade furnishings, and modern lighting juxtaposed with crystal chandeliers. It was the perfect backdrop for pretty people who wanted to be seen in the right place with the right crowd.
“Tell me again what the fuck we’re doing here?” Bobby J grumbled.
I chuckled at his put-upon expression as I sidestepped the smarmy twenty-two-year-old boyfriends who’d introduced themselves as “taste-making thought leaders,” whatever the hell that meant…then spent ten minutes boring us to tears about social media algorithms. Ky, Bobby J, Johnny, and I sipped pink cosmos from tiny martini glasses, nodding like zombies until they finally moved on.
“Excellent question,” I huffed, idly scanning the uber-hip crowd for clues ’cause I had no idea what vodka, Instagrammers, and Zero had in common. “Where’s Charlie?”
Ky inclined his head toward the bar. “I see the top of his head from here.”
Johnny nodded. “Why are you hangin’ with us instead of him?”
“Charlie’s working. He doesn’t need his boyfriend to hover over him. He knows I’m watching out for him,” he replied with a sappy smile. “And…I hate this shit.”