Page 33 of Sycopation
So not a good idea, especially when Ray swung from one emotion to another. So he rolled over, and tried not to think about the naked expanse of Ray’s back and just how much he wanted to trace the lines of ink with his fingers. Or a crop. Or his tongue.
One thing he did need to do—find out more about contracts and see what the kernel of truth was that Carl had shoved deep in his shit sandwich of lies.
CHAPTER
TEN
Ray waitedfor the other shoe to drop from Carl, but it didn’t come. Not at their Chicago show and not today, though he’d finally received the spreadsheet from Carl in his inbox overnight, and he’d spent the better part of the morning on the bus poring over the numbers. Sadly, the information was limited and he had no way of knowing if any of it was correct, especially since the sheet was something of Carl’s own making and not an official royalty statement.
Man, he wished he had his contract so he could see when and how he was supposed to get those, but it were tucked into a lockbox back in a storage unit in New Jersey. Stupid not to have it, or at least electronic copies. He wondered if asking for it directly from the label would cause waves.
Probably. He wasn’t supposed to be bothering the label with shit like that. He rubbed his forehead and tossed his phone to one side. Trying to make heads or tails of a spreadsheet on a smartphone was an odious task, and he needed to focus on their next concert. He rose to fetch his notebook.
In Chicago, they’d played an amphitheater and had rocked that show harder than they’d played Detroit. Zavier had gotten his wish—another concert, but even better. Same screamingaudiences, and a larger line of fans waiting for autographs. So many had wanted selfies, including with the hot new drummer.
The press was pretty jazzed, too. Twisted Wishes had gotten a decent write-up in the Detroit area and the gossip blogs were even being somewhat kind, though too many still wondered when Van Zeller would lose his mind again. Truth was, he always hovered near his breaking point.
Ray sank back down on the couch where Zavier was stretched out. He had to figure out some way to get the band out from under the pile of red numbers in Carl’s spreadsheet.
“Meeting time?” Dom looked up from his book, one of his well-worn Oscar Wilde tomes he read over and over.
“Not yet. I wanna look over things. Think about what we’ve done.”
They’d used nearly the same playlists for both shows. Some changeups in the middle, to make sure they kept their hands in all the songs. Different outfits, too. Ray wasn’t sure whether Zavier looked better in tight leather or flowing black linen that hung nearly off his hips.
Zavier had kept the purple lipstick. He’d also been keeping quiet when not on stage, though it was pretty darn obvious he was watching Ray when not studying the screen of his tablet. Pity? Concern? Ray had no idea what was behind those looks. Didn’t care.Couldn’tcare.
Carl had made every waking moment like walking on cracking ice, so Ray bottled up his feelings. It was the only thing he could do and remain together. But too often there were moments when his stomach rolled and his head hurt and he thought he might hurl if he focused on all the ways Carl could screw the band. The ways Ray had already screwed them.
All Carl had done in Chicago was smile at Ray, and that had been enough to force Ray to hit the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before boarding the bus. He’d stayed upto celebrate with the band—albeit with water—and everyone, including Zavier, seemed to have bought his cheerful demeanor.
Not so much now, from the set of Zavier’s lips when his eyes flicked up from the tablet.
They were on their way south to St. Louis, then on to Oklahoma City, then Houston. They’d have a break after the show in Houston, two nights in a hotel before they hit the road again. God, he couldn’t wait. Privacy. A shower that wasn’t a shoebox. No rumble of an engine. Maybe he could find someone to fuck the tension out of his system and gain a piece of oblivion—at least for a while.
He shivered. Oblivion was what Kevin had sought. At least the occasional tumble wasn’t quite as bad as crawling into a bottle...he hoped, anyway.
Ray flipped open the last written pages of his notebook. Tight but messy handwriting. Playlists. Thoughts. Worries. Little snatches of lyrics, most of which wereterrible. But it got them out of his mind.
When blue shades to violet
And agony encompasses the moon
Will I find my heart or abandon my soul?
He traced a finger over the words and felt the weight of Zavier’s stare. Of all the people to become their drummer, it had to have been the one guy he never ever had a shot with. Worse, he was so damn grateful to Zavier for pulling them from disaster.
He looked up and met Zavier’s gaze. “Other than‘White Hot Midnight,’ what’s your favorite song?”
Zavier folded the cover of his tablet over to turn it off and rested his hand on top. “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”
Was that...embarrassment? “Promise I won’t.”
Zavier rolled his eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Ray shrugged. “Come on. I can’t think of any song that—” Oh.Oh. He sucked in a breath because he was about to burst out laughing, despite what he’d said.
They’d been joking around one night, Mish, Dom, and him—Kevin had been out somewhere—and they’d written a pop song: “Sprinkles on Top.” It was kitschy and came complete with an upbeat but utterly metronomic rhythm and cute lyrics about ice cream. Kevin hadhatedit. Refused to play it, and really Ray couldn’t blame him for that.
