Olivia Cunning - Double Time

“You can help us decide then,” Dare said, drawing Trey’s attention from the way elevator-guy was gnawing on his lips and making Trey want to kiss him. “We’ve narrowed it down to five guitarists based on their demos, but there’s no way to know how many times they redid them before sending them in. They’ll all be playing live for us in about an hour. They can’t fake that.”

Trey stepped off the elevator, winking at Open Invitation before wandering toward the exit to find a cab.

“Okay, sure. Sounds like fun.” Trey’s phone beeped. “I’ll be there in a few. I’ve got another call.”

“Later.”

Trey disconnected and checked his phone’s screen. Mark? Shit. He considered ignoring him but knew Mark would just keep calling and calling until Trey finally talked to him. The guy could not take a hint. Might as well get this over with.

“Hey,” Trey answered.

“Are you in town?” Mark asked.

“I’m on tour. You know that.”

“The Sinners’ News Blog said you flew into L.A. this morning because Brian’s wife was in labor.”

Trey wasn’t sure how the owners of that blog knew what was going on with Sinners so quickly. Sometimes they knew more about Sinners’ goings-on than Trey knew and he was living it. He guessed he couldn’t deny that he was in town. “Yeah, they had a little boy. Adorable little shit.”

“Yeah, that’s what the site said. 7 pounds 9 ounces. 21 inches. Named him Malcolm Trey. Are you still at the hospital? I could stop by.”

Stalker alert! “Mark, we’ve been through this. I’m not interested in a relationship with you.” Men! They could be such a pain in the ass. Especially if they didn’t know what they were doing back there. Trey had slept with Mark more than once. They’d met in Portland over a year ago and after relieving him of his anal and oral virginity, Trey had taken him to get a tattoo. The guy had moved to Los Angeles a few months later. Trey suspected it was because of him, as Mark was relentless in his pursuit. Trey had no problem fucking him, but when Mark had started trying to forge a commitment, Trey was finished with him. The guy could not take a hint. Or blatant rejections. Or flashing neon signs that read: Go the fuck away.

“Who said anything about a relationship? I just wanted to congratulate Brian,” Mark said.

“Do whatever you want. I’ve already left the hospital.”

“Oh.” Mark hesitated. “Are you hungry? I could take you out for breakf—”

“No, I’ve got plans.”

“What kind of plans? Are you seeing someone else?” The jealousy in Mark’s voice was so fucking annoying Trey considered hanging up on him. But then Mark would just call back and blame a bad connection or some stupid shit.

“Yeah,” Trey lied. “I am seeing someone. I’m seriously dating a woman right now.”

“Bullshit,” Mark said.

“It’s not bullshit. I’ve sworn off men for the rest of my life.” When the lie had formed, Trey hadn’t meant it, but now that he’d said it, he decided it was the best idea he’d ever had. Women he could deal with. Men either broke his heart or complicated his life. Exhibit A was upstairs bonding with his son. Exhibit B was on the phone. Exhibits C through triple X were scattered across the US and Canada waiting for Sinners to pass through their area again.

“Whatever, Trey. Come over to my place tonight and I’ll make you dinner. Suck your cock.”

Mark was a decent cook. And he did suck good cock. He was also exceedingly easy on the eyes and had a spectacularly tight ass, but the guy needed to move on. Trey had tried to hook him up with a few different men, but Mark was too hung up on Trey to consider anyone else.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” he challenged.

“Don’t want to—how’s that?”

Mark sighed loudly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Mark, what do I have to do to convince you that it’s over between us?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Shit. Trey was going to have to get his number changed. Again. He honestly didn’t understand why some people couldn’t take a hint. He didn’t want to be in a relationship. Why was that concept so difficult for his sex partners to grasp?

Reagan leaned against the brick wall and clung to the neck of her red, electric guitar as if it was her lifeline. Breathe, Reagan, breathe. If you don’t win this competition, it’s not the end of the world. Maybe you were meant to be a barista for the rest of your life.

“You should have taken some Dramamine like I did,” an emo-punk hybrid, who was wearing more eyeliner than a three-dollar whore, said. He was also a finalist and set to go into the sound booth right after her. “You look like you’re going to hurl.”

She felt like she was going to hurl. Why was she here? She’d sent in that demo tape never thinking Exodus End’s manager would actually call her to audition for the band. Over five thousand guitarists had sent in a demo tape, too. How had she ended up in the top five? They were fucking with her. Had to be. She was a complete unknown. Of course, Dramamine guy was an unknown too, but that confident son of a bitch in the corner looked familiar. She was sure he’d been in some popular eighties band at one time.

Dramamine turned to look at Hair Band Hasbeen and sighed remorsefully. “We made it this far, at least.”

“I think I must be dreaming,” Reagan said. Dramamine’s hair definitely looked like something out of a bizarre dream sequence. How did he get it to stay sticking straight out to one side like that? And who thought the burgundy and green stripes through his jagged-cut bangs were a good idea? “How often does a mega-famous, amazing band like Exodus End let unknowns audition for their group?” Reagan continued.

Dramamine opened his mouth to answer, but Reagan prattled on. “Never, that’s when. I can’t believe I’m actually here. In Dare Mills’s house. Doing an audition with Exodus fucking End.” She checked a clock on the studio wall. “In twenty minutes.” She swayed and Dramamine grabbed her shoulder to keep her on her feet. She removed her guitar and set it against the wall. It didn’t usually feel heavy, but today if felt like she had an elephant hanging over her shoulder. She massaged her temples with both hands. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“You’re hyperventilating. Breathe more slowly.”

“I can’t help it.” She needed to keep talking about something to keep her mind off things. She patted Dramamine on the chest. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Pyre.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him. “No shit?”

“Well, that’s my stage name.”

Lame.

“It’s short for Vampyre,” he added.

Wow. Okaaaay.

“I’m Reagan. It’s short for Reagan. I’m not into vamps. What are you going to play, Pyre?”

“The three Exodus End songs we all have to play.”

“‘Bite.’ ‘Encore.’ ‘Ovation.’” She ticked the song titles off on one hand. She’d been practicing them for days. And every other Exodus End song ever released in case they threw a surprise at her. Like a pop quiz. They probably wanted to make sure whomever they hired could really take over the duties of rhythm guitarist—and what better way to do that than to request a surprise song? Reagan would rather play lead guitar than rhythm, truth be told, but Dare Mills wasn’t the one being replaced. Maximilian Richardson was giving up rhythm guitar and just sticking to vocals. At least, that’s what she’d been told. She hadn’t actually met him or anything. In fact, they’d been ushered into this studio and hadn’t had the opportunity to meet any of the band members. So much for her plan to win them over with her sweetest smile. Probably for the best. At the moment she doubted she could produce a decent grimace, much less a smile. “What about the solo of our choice? What are you going to play for that?” she asked Pyre.

“‘Temptation.’” Another Exodus End song. A great solo, heavy on technique, but not speed.

“Nice choice.”

“What are you going to do?” Pyre asked.

“Sinners’ ‘Gates of Hell.’”

“Are you foiking insane?” Pyre asked, his eyes wide in astonishment.

“What do you mean? That solo is awesome!” she said, her heart thrumming with excitement. She hearted Sinners. Their lead guitarist, Brian Sinclair, was an absolute god.

“That solo is impossible,” Pyre said. “Foiking Master Sinclair has seven fingers on each hand or something. No mere mortal can do that solo justice.”

Reagan grinned. “You can’t play it?”

“No one can play it like Sinclair does. You should pick something easier.”

“Let her play it.” Hair Band Hasbeen saw his way into their conversation. “If sweet-tits blows her chance, it’s one less piece of competition for us to worry about.” He grinned to himself as he stared at her ass.

Reagan bristled. “What are you going to play, dildo? ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb?’”

The guy rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. “It’s not like they’re going to want to hire a chick guitarist anyway. Who’d you sleep with to get an audition, baby?”

Reagan gave him a once-over and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Not you, old man.”

Pyre chuckled. “Ouch.”

“You got a problem, douche bag?” Hair Band grumbled.

Pyre’s stance turned threatening. Reagan supposed she could let the two of them get into a fistfight. It might make it easier for her to outplay them if they broke their fingers on each other’s faces. Might. But she stepped between them to try to defuse the bomb instead. Pyre looked like he hadn’t seen a protein-containing meal in months, and Hair Band had apparently subsided on a beer diet since he’d given up on wearing snakeskin-print spandex. It probably wouldn’t have been an interesting fight. More likely pathetic than anything. Reagan figured she was tougher than the two of them put together. “Easy, guys,” she said. “We’re all a little on edge here. No need for you to get your panties in a bunch. Mine are bunchy enough for all of us.” She pressed a hand to the center of Pyre’s chest. Though his stance was confident, his heart hammered out of control against her palm. Pyre wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer. Using her as a human shield, no doubt.