Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty 3)

“I did. I went home to change, saw my kit. It just kind of came to me.”

“Fuck, yeah, man!” Quinn let out a little whoop. “Every time that happens to you, we get another Grammy.”

“And another number one hit,” Ryder added with a grin.

“Yeah, well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Wyatt said, but he was smiling, too. And it was a real smile, one that had his cheeks creasing and his eyes sparkling with a joy she’d never before seen in him. It was a good look, especially since those same eyes were clear and unclouded by drugs. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“Yeah, well, that’s about to change,” Jared said, grabbing one of Wyatt’s hands to examine the damage. It must have been even worse than it looked from across the room, because he let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, man, it’s been a long time since you tore them up this bad.”

Wyatt shrugged. “What good is art if you don’t suffer for it occasionally?”

“Damn fucking straight,” Ryder said, coming over to stand beside him, too. “But before we hear that soon-to-be-award-winning song, why don’t you meet Shane? We’ve just been talking to him about the bassist opening.”

“Hey, Shane,” Wyatt said, holding out one bandaged hand to shake. Shane looked at it, a little horrified, but Wyatt just laughed. “It’s fine, man. Doesn’t hurt.”

Shane nodded, but he still took Wyatt’s hand very gingerly, like he was convinced the drummer would scream if he pressed too hard.

Then again, she didn’t blame him. The whole doesn’t hurt comment was a blatant lie—the parts of his hands she could see were raw. She’d heard about drummers messing up their hands during a particularly hard performance, had even seen the blood spatters across the occasional drum head after a show.

But what she saw in Wyatt’s hands—the raw sores on his knuckles, the broken blisters on a couple of his fingers—that wasn’t normal abuse from a hard session. Drummers built up callouses if they played often enough, so for Wyatt’s hands to look like that…he had to have played for hours, had to have played through agony to get them in that shape. And that was just what she could see. She couldn’t imagine what was actually under the bandages.

“So, what’s going on?” Wyatt asked the room at large as he ignored a seat in the circle of musicians and crossed over to sit next to her on the couch. As he did, it took every ounce of professionalism she had not to demand to see his wounds, to ask if he was really okay. But she was here as a guest, a social media coordinator in the eyes of the other guys, and the last thing she wanted to do was overstep her bounds.

At least until Wyatt rested one of his injured hands on his thigh and rubbed gently. When he grimaced at the friction, she couldn’t stop herself from picking his hand up at the wrist and bringing it closer to examine. “What did you do to yourself?”

“I played,” he said simply. “It’s what I do. Trust me, this is no big deal.”

She wanted to disagree, wanted to kiss his hands, to check and make sure he was really all right. But she didn’t know if it was her place, didn’t know how he was feeling after what had gone down at her apartment. So she kept her mouth shut as she let go of his hand and waited for one of the guys to say something.

It didn’t take long. Quinn stepped up, breaking the awkward silence by asking, “So, should we play something? See how we all sound together?”

Not quite what she’d expected him to say, but…if the others weren’t concerned, maybe she shouldn’t be either? Maybe this really was normal for him?

“Yeah!” Wyatt was the first one up and across the room. “Let’s do it.” He gave her one long, searching look as he stepped behind his kit, but then he was all business.

“Get your bass and come stand by me,” Jared instructed Shane as he headed to his guitar. “There’s an amp over here you can plug into.”

“Sick,” Shane answered, scrambling to follow directions.

So he’d definitely decided not to run, then, Poppy thought, amused as she watched him all but salute in his haste to do what Jared had said. It was a very smart move on his part. Shaken Dirty was a band to be reckoned with under any circumstances. But with Wyatt on and sober and writing songs ’til his hands bled? They were epic.

“What are we playing?” Ryder asked.

“You’re not playing anything,” Quinn told him, playfully jostling his shoulder as he walked by on his way to his keyboards. “You’re just going to stand there and wait for the rest of us to make you look like you know what you’re doing.”

Ryder flipped him off, but he was laughing while he did. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta front this band of miscreants and make you look good.”

“We should probably call Jamison, then, huh?” Wyatt joined in the teasing. “She’s way better at looking good than you are.”

“She totally is,” Ryder agreed with a grin. “Too bad she wants nothing to do with the rest of you losers.”

“Obviously not,” Jared deadpanned. “Must be why she demanded I come over for breakfast this morning. And made me blu

eberry pancakes while you were out on your pathetic excuse for a run.”

“Those were leftovers from when your sister made me breakfast in bed this morning. One of these days, you’re just going to have to come to grips with the fact that you’re not her favorite anymore. In fact—”

Wyatt cut off the good-natured teasing with an extended drum fill that had everyone in the room turning to stare at him, eyes wide and ears ringing from the powerful display.