Bedded Bliss (Found in Oblivion Book 1) (8 page)

Chloe hugged her back. “Yes, we are.”

By the time they got back down to the main level where the House of Blues was, music was pumping out of the mouth of the entrance. They showed their laminated passes and were handed off to the next checkpoint.

Black walls, a black stage, and a steel support system crammed with twirling lights offered the perfect ambience. Huge screens packed each available corner to make sure no one had a bad seat. The iconic heart was flushed with purple and red flames. House of Blues—every musician's dream, no matter how famous.

She didn’t have a musical bone in her body, but the heady power of the building itself was enough to send her pulse skittering. Her blood heated and fizzed the deeper they moved into the venue.

The place was packed. Now that they were inside, voices overpowered the piped-in music. Heat from too many bodies packed together made her suddenly very thankful she was wearing practically nothing. They were passed along to another staff member who looked over their passes and checked a clipboard.

Jinx and Ivy squealed when they moved down yet another section. The stage was right there. They’d be eye level with the series of instruments set up along the stage’s edge. A gorgeous pink guitar was anchored into a stand. She recognized the Takamine, the Les Paul, the Gibson, the Jackson, the Stratocaster, and the gleaming polish of the drum set. Scarves flirted around a microphone stand, catching the breeze from the fans working overtime above.

The murmur of conversation crashed around her as they found their seats. The front row was dotted with people, but this wasn’t the main event. Warning Sign was the opener and still very new to the scene with only a few hits under their belts.

The VIP section would fill up as the night wore on. Local radio winners, along with ones from Sirius XM’s contest would add still more people to the section. The high rollers who forever seemed to have access to the best that the hotel could offer would take over more than a few seats as well. This was Vegas. The big time that her fiancé had longed for.

He’d never quite made it.

The lights flickered. Dejá vu kicked hard.

The stage had been part of her life for so long. This was a helluva lot bigger than the dives that Snake had played in, but the feel was the same.

That sense of anticipation, the hum of energy in the audience. Everyone was waiting for those opening chords.

Including her. For the first time in a long time, she couldn’t wait for the show to begin.

M
ichael tugged
at the vintage KISS T-shirt he’d paired with worn jeans and combat boots and scanned the backstage area one last time.

It wasn’t looking good. Not for Malachi showing up, and not for him making amends anytime soon with Lila.

Oh, he knew eventually she’d forgive him. Their relationship was built too strong to be blown apart by the careless words he’d thrown out when he’d still been smarting from the Tabitha situation and Ryan’s injury. But she was going to make him sweat for a while.

That was the Lila he knew and loved. And occasionally growled at.

“We’re going to have to do it without him.” At his side, Ryan rubbed his wrapped wrist with the fingers of his other hand. “I can play one-handed. It won’t be pretty, and y’all will have to carry my ass, but we can make it work.” When Michael didn’t reply, Ryan added, “Hey, it’s just an hour, right? Barely even that.”

“An hour of your biggest hits, played in front of a crowd that is excited to hear Brooklyn Dawn and Oblivion.” Lila strode up to them, impeccable as always in a pale blue business suit and black pearls. “This is not the time to phone it in.”

Michael pivoted toward where Elle was warming up on her beloved Gibson. Her blond head was bent, and the flowy peasant top she wore dipped off one shoulder as she concentrated on her fingerwork. His gaze drifted to Molly, doing stretches in one corner, then to Juliet, who was pacing and texting on her phone. West was doing air keyboards to the piped-in music through the sound system. And Ryan was at Michael’s side, as always.

They all had their pre-show routines, and that hadn’t changed because one of them was hurt. Maybe they’d hadn’t locked up tight yet as a group like Brooklyn Dawn or Oblivion, but they were making progress.

One show wouldn’t make them. Nor it would break them. It was just a show.

“We won’t be phoning anything in.” Michael cracked his knuckles and nodded at Ryan, who looked a lot less confident than Michael would’ve liked. Ryan always kept his eye on the prize. He never faltered. At least he hadn’t before tonight.

Michael shut his eyes. Fuck, he wasn’t used to being the group’s backbone. His role was to support not to lead, and that was the way he liked it. He was just a guy who played guitar.

And lines up for free booze and plentiful pussy.

Yeah, well, not tonight. He wasn’t planning on getting loaded or finding a chick. He’d have to be on point to help his band through the show, and afterward, he’d be there to pick up the pieces if needed.

After all, he’d been the one who’d rejected Lila hiring a studio musician for the night to fill in for Ryan. As long of a shot as it was, Michael had held out hope that Mal would show. He might not want to, might curse his little brother mightily after, but Mal wouldn’t let Michael down. Until it was actually happening, he hadn’t truly believed it would.

Now they were about to go on the stage, and Mal wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, finally opening his eyes.

Ryan and Lila were gone.

Okay then. Guess he was on his own, just like the band.

He reached under his shirt and pulled out the silver cross Lila’s mother had given him on his first Christmas at the orchard. He hadn’t been religious even back then, and neither were Lila’s parents for the most part. But Gram had told him that as a musician, he needed to have a higher power to call on for that extra little boost at the eleventh hour. Whether he was bolstered by spirit or self, with that cross, he would never be alone.

Ever since then, he’d always gripped the cross at the times he most needed a hand. The gesture always centered him and reminded him to count his blessings, not his failures.

There would only be blessings tonight.

Feet scuffed the floor behind him and the murmur of voices turned into something else altogether. He turned and glimpsed Elle being plucked up from the bench she’d been seated upon.

By Malachi, who lifted her as if she were a rag doll and he was the Incredible Hulk.

Holy fuck.

He set her down and took the seat she’d just vacated—not by choice. While she sputtered, he opened up what appeared to be a roll of fabric on the bench. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I need this seat for a second.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

He gave her a dismissive glance over his shoulder. “No, I don’t suppose you are. Too skinny for me. But cute enough in the right light. You should use more makeup on stage. Your eyes totally disappear under the glare.”

Glowering, Elle lifted her guitar. Since Michael wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t have broken it over his brother’s block head, he moved between them. “Hang on, Elle. No killing the talent, even if he deserves it.” Still facing Elle, Michael reached back and slapped Mal against the ear. “Asshole. Don’t talk to my bandmates like that.”

Malachi grunted, and when Michael looked over his shoulder, he realized the roll of fabric contained a selection of drumsticks.
Casual player, hmm?
“I’m part of the band tonight. So I guess that makes little Ricki my bandmate too.”

“It’s Elle,” she said, flexing her fist around the neck of her Gibson. “I’m not little either. You’re just a freaking giant.”

Having evidently chosen his preferred weapons of destruction for the night, Mal stood, drawing himself up to his full height. Michael had waited to get the same growth spurt that had sent Mal from scrawny up to mountain man, but it had never happened. Michael had made it to almost six-feet tall, but Mal was six-fucking-four. And he owned every inch.

“What kind of kit am I working with?” Mal asked Michael, though his gaze remained on Elle.

“You?” Lila walked toward them, flanked by Ryan on one side and Molly on the other. “You’re not working with anything.” Her accusing gaze shot to Michael. “This is who you bring on my stage?”

A muscle ticked in Mal’s jaw. “Hiya, stepmommy. Did you miss me?”

Even without glancing at Elle, Michael glimpsed her hand falling slack at her side. Elle was Lila’s husband Nick’s twin sister, which of course made her Lila’s sister-in-law. Evidently, she hadn’t heard much about the prodigal son.

The missing Shawcross son had finally come back—temporarily at least. Assuming Lila didn’t chase him away.

“He can play,” Michael said defensively.

“Oh really? Since when?” Lila glanced at Mal, but he continued tapping his sticks against his thigh and remained silent.

“He can play,” Michael said again. “Trust me.”

God, he hoped she could trust him. That the rest of his band could too. Right now, he just didn’t know.

That Mal had a selection of sticks was a good sign, but if he asked him anything too probing, his brother was apt to split. And it wasn’t like they had other options except for gimpy Ry, who would try but could only do so much.

This was as good as it got.

“Trust you,” Lila murmured. “If you say so.” She glanced at her iPad, then nodded at one of the stage directors who touched her elbow. “Time to get ready to go.” She glanced at Mal and back to Michael. “Good luck.”

She turned to wave the other members of Warning Sign closer. “You all ready to rock?”

“You know it.” Molly bounced up on her toes. She was wearing one of her costumes, all colors and filmy fabrics that hugged her sexy body. Her hair was a mass of curls, dipping over one eye.

Juliet tucked away her phone and grinned. “Vegas won’t know what to do with us.”

West leaned forward to shake out his crazy mop of blond and teal-streaked hair. “They won’t know what to do with you, Jules, that’s for sure. Or is it what you won’t do?”

“That’s an easy one.” Juliet popped her tongue in the corner of her mouth. “Nothing.”

“So I’ll warm up the crowd,” Ry said, cradling his sore wrist in the other hand. “Get them revved for you guys, maybe get the female sympathy vote for this.” He held up his hand.

“You don’t even have any signatures on it yet,” West said. “Tell the girls you want someone special to come up and sign it.”

“Dumbass, it’s an Ace bandage, not a cast.”

“People can sign those. I’ve seen it done,” West said stubbornly. “Besides, if you get the chicks feeling bad for you, maybe they won’t notice when this one flames out.” He pointed at Mal, who showed no expression whatsoever. “No offense, dude.”

“None taken,
dude
,” Mal growled.

If
that
was Mal’s unoffended voice, Michael would prefer not to hear him pissed off anytime soon.

“Children,” Lila said mildly, raising her fist in the air. “Ready?”

Everyone stepped forward, forming a circle, and pumped their fists. Malachi was the last holdout, but when Lila stepped back, Elle reluctantly moved aside to make space. Finally, Mal stepped into the circle and lifted his arm too.

Outside, the crowd was stomping its feet. Already people were amped for the show, and they were just the opening act.

The back of Michael’s neck prickled as his nerves and excitement took over. This was going to either be epic—or an epic failure.

Ryan ran onstage first. “How you all feeling tonight, Vegas?”

The roar of hundreds of voices melding together washed over Michael’s skin. He glanced from Molly to Juliet to West to Elle, reading the anticipation and nerves in their eyes. He saved Malachi for last. He couldn’t believe he was standing with his brother backstage at their concert. That Mal would occupy the same space for the first time in forever. They had a joint goal. A joint reason to kick ass.

No matter what happened from here on out, he’d have this memory to take with him.

When they got the signal to join Ryan onstage, Michael hung back. Normally he was one of the ones racing out at the front of the pack. Tonight, he waited for his brother. He nearly asked him a million questions as they walked out together. He couldn’t help wondering if Mal knew any of their material, or if he’d wanted Ryan to introduce him by name instead of just “a friend who’s filling in and helping out.” Mal deserved name recognition, just like the rest of them.

Then again, if he sucked, maybe it was just as well he loom silently and namelessly behind the kit.

Mal leaped up and took his spot, surprising the hell out of Michael by tipping his hand to his head before dropping on to the stool behind the drums. The crowd cheered as the opening notes to “Undermine” began. It was a slow, bass-heavy build, the kind of throbbing song that would crank the energy up to fever pitch.

Michael grabbed his pink electric Takamine off a stand, then followed Elle into the song, smiling at the little licks she added to goad him into his own flourishes. They had an interesting groove during concerts, although they rarely spoke much off of it. He figured that was why they worked well together. Their focus was the music, and only the music. No messy interpersonal crap got in the way.

Molly’s husky voice started off as a whisper as she lamented the lover who wouldn’t cut her free, but undermined everything she did. The song wasn’t one of theirs, but one they’d been given by another musician. They were still finding their songwriting legs, with Molly and Ryan and West handling a lot of the melodies and arrangements.

He and Juliet were the more lyrically-focused ones. Their collaborations were how they’d started their flirtation—onstage and occasionally offstage, like the bar interlude Ry had mentioned. Meaningless, but fun.

The audience seemed to eat up their interactions. Juliet knew that, so she was already moving into position to give the crowd another show tonight.

There was no heat between them, no sparks except the kind that came from a beautiful woman moving her perfect ass up against Michael’s while she played the hell out of her Jackson. He glanced back at her as his own fingers rode the strings. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring everything but the sweet curve of her bare shoulder. He turned his head to the side and she turned hers until they were cheek to cheek, and they belted out the chorus together.

Undermine me, baby.

Take me down so deep, take it all away.

Til you’re all I’ve got.

All I’ve fucking got.

He was so wrapped up in his byplay with Juliet, and with Elle rocking out on his other side, that he only remembered it wasn’t Ry behind the kit when Mal’s drums crashed into the song. They were like a Humvee barreling through a wall, altering the song that had come before and reforming it into something new.

They all seemed to stutter for a moment. Michael’s fingers faltered, and Juliet’s tripped. West missed a note on the keyboard, then two, but Ry jumped up beside him and they started hammering on the keys together—Ry one-handed, of course—as if they’d planned on doing just that all along.

Molly’s voice caressed the words, her voice more poignant than ever as she clutched the multicolored scarfs around her mic. It was part of the mystique she was crafting, just like her ethereal, slyly sexual outfit. When she bent to wail into the mic, the crowd screamed with her.

Undermine me, undermine me, undermine me.

And finally, as the drums crescendoed and then leveled out, she purred her bastardized lyrics over and over.

Under me, under me, you’re always under me.

The next song was even more raucous. Their first single, “All Night Long”, was about someone looking for a good time so she didn’t have to face the next day. West had written that one a million years ago, and they’d been playing it since their days in their crappy rehearsal space in Encino. Molly brought a whole new feel to it, winding one of her scarves around her neck as she prowled the stage. Once again, the song didn’t have a ton of drum work, since West had written it to suit his keyboard-heavy style of play and they’d adapted it to fit the band. But when Malachi’s part came, he nailed it, standing up and banging on the skins and the hi-hats with a flair that belied whether or not he was keeping time. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter. He had enough panache to make up for any fumbles.

And from the way the girls were screaming every time he flexed his gleaming muscles in his tank—finally whipping it off somewhere in the middle of song number three—they didn’t seem to mind any hiccups.