Page 70 of Syncopation
He closed his eyes and did as told, folding forward and pressing his forehead against the leather of Zavier’s shoes.It was exactly as humiliating as he thought it would be. Naked and prone. There was nothing sexy or hot about Zavier’s order.
The bus lumbered on and the rumble of the wheels on tarmac vibrated through every inch of Ray’s bones. His muscles clenched and unclenched, and seconds dragged by. Zavier said nothing, though beneath Ray’s forehead and the leather on which he rested, toes moved, enoughto remind him exactly where he was.
On a bus, stripped and bowing to Zavier Demos.
Hehatedit, but not enough to move.Do you trust me?Yes. Plus, he wanted to see where this friendship with benefits went. What Zavier meant to do with him and to him. His flesh warmed at that thought even as he squirmed against it.
But the seconds and minutes ticked by without so much as a word fromon high. Hell, he couldn’t even hear Zavier breathe over the deep throb of the bus on the road. Infuriating. This was so damn dumb. What the hell did Zavier want? What was Ray supposed to do? Just bow here forever? He shifted and flexed. He should sit up, tell Zavier to fuck off, and go curl up in his berth.
Do you trust me?
No. He didn’t. Zavier wasn’t any different than that assholedickwad Carl, always on his back, always griping about something. Not good enough? Hell, the concert tonight had been perfect. Their best yet! He hadn’t been out of tune. Heknewhe hadn’t. And the fans had responded, screaming and dancing and singing along with Ray. The light in their eyes when he ran into the crowd. The signs. Mish leaping and twirling across the stage. Dom shredding every chord.Zavier—
Ray’s breath caught.
Zavier had played as if his very soul were in the music, his arms flying, his body soaked in sweat, ecstasy in his face. He’d played exactly like they all had, with love and passion and an intensity that made Ray ache to reclaim. They’d been aband. Twisted Wishes at their finest.
Afterward, Zavier had clapped Ray on the back, and his grin and the shinein his eyes speaking the words they could hear over the thunder of the audience clapping and screaming. They’d all done so fucking well. That had carried straight to backstage. The rest of the night had been a whirlwind of autographs and slaps on the back. Then Carl had pulled Ray aside and dumped a verbal bucket of ice water all over everything.
Ray needed to up his game.
Except he didn’tknow how. If tonight hadn’t been good enough for Carl and if the execs had been lying like Carl said...then they werefucked.
He sighed down into Zavier’s shoes. Maybe what the band needed was a different vocalist, because obviously he wasn’t cutting it despite doing his best. But that would mean leaving behind the very thing he’d spent years creating. God, he was so tired. He pressed hisforehead against Zavier’s shoes and let the rest of his body melt toward the floor until his skin hummed with the sound of the motor and his tears slid down onto the leather.
Theywerefucked. He didn’t know how to fix it. He couldn’t fix it. They were done.
The couch creaked and fingers stroked his hair. “Oh, Ray.” Zavier’s voice was a murmur of warmth and kindness. “What did that shitbagsayto you?”
Carl’s words flittered to the surface of Ray’s thoughts, and he spoke into the floor of the bus. “That our performance tonight was barely adequate. That I needed to do better. I’m barely pulling my own weight in the band.” He paused. “My singing was sharp.”
Zavier stiffened, even to his toes. Those pressed up against Ray’s forehead. A moment later, his hand cupped Ray’s neck.“Sit up, please.”
Ray did, moving slowly. The tiny world of the tour bus swam like he’d been drinking Kevin’s Jack Daniels. When he settled onto his heels, Zavier was before him, kneeling on the same floor. For a second time, Ray’s breath caught.
Zavier cupped each side of Ray’s face with his warm, rough hands. His beautiful drummer’s hands. Ray closed his eyes.
A thumb swept overhis cheek, and coolness followed. His tears. God, what did Zavier think ofthat? Weak. Pathetic.
“Look at me.” Soft, soft words, but a command nonetheless.
Ray peeled open his eyes and met Zavier’s earnest gaze.
“Where did I go to school?”
“Juilliard.”
Zavier nodded. “That makes me a Juilliard-trained professional musician, right?”
Fucking asshole. Ray ground his teethand tried to nod.
A faint, sad smile, and Zavier’s thumb brushed Ray’s cheek again. “I’m not saying this out of hubris. I want you to understand—I’ve spent years having music theory crammed into my skull. I’ve been trained by the best in the world and I’ve played with the best in the world, Ray.”
“Yeah?” He couldn’t keep the cocky snarl out of his voice. “Must be nice.”
“Sometimesit was. Other times it was absolute hell.” He paused. “You’re the most talented musician I’ve ever known. You’re certainly one of the hardest working. And you have never, ever sung sharp in any of our concerts.”
The bus swam around Ray and his lungs burned. “Fuck you.” He threw the words out like a shield, something to block the openness in Zavier’s expression, the honesty.
