Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (54 page)

Rousing enough to prop on the headboard of the huge bed, Gage glared, in no mood for humor. “Go downstairs then. To the bar.” He slid one hand beneath the thong of the woman on his right, and his other hand covered the tits of the woman on his left. With a look at the blond mass of hair spilling around his cock, he threatened, “I can’t promise I’ll be leaving this bed to let you back in though, if you leave.”

“Hey, Gage…” The lovely topless brunette spoke from a chair where she sat, feet propped on the bed, staring at her phone. “My friend wants to come up.”

Arching his brows, he returned, “Is she bringing a friend?”

“Um…”

“That’s the only rule of this party. Bring a friend.”

“Who brings a friend, who brings a friend.” Blonde Babe stopped playing with his dick long enough to giggle the quotation they’d all heard a few times during the course of the afternoon.

Little Miss Alcoholic forewent a trip downstairs to the bar and returned to the tangle. “You,” he snapped his fingers at her and pointed at Blonde Babe. “Trade places.”

“But I just got here,” Blonde Babe blinked in disappointment over the head of his cock.

“She’s better.”

“That’s just mean.” The lips on his chest mumbled in loyal sisterhood fashion.

“Yeah. It was. Sorry. Tell you what.” He reached down to ruffle Blonde Babe’s hair. “Stay.” To Little Miss Alcoholic he said, “Show her.” Swinging his eyes back to Blonde Babe, he encouraged, “Take turns. Do what she does.” His body melted down the headboard. Motioning, he addressed the woman who was putting her phone away. “You get that friend stuff sorted out? Bring those tits here.” And to punctuate that directive, he put his tongue out.

How many women were there? He wasn’t sure without opening his eyes for a headcount and was slightly ashamed. Reverting back to his old sex ways was the only way to get through his new life with no drugs and no Scar.

He let his mind go blank. Slipped into a world of sensation only. The last mental thought he let himself have was summed up in one sentence. “Remember. Everyone out when we’re done. Immediately. No exceptions.”

He woke alone
and freezing. Stretching an arm out, he felt around for the bed sheet but found no covering. When his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the suite, he discovered the bed linens on the floor.

Right. All around him was the aftermath of exactly what he’d sworn to himself to never do again that night in Arrowhead while waiting for Ivy to leave and Scar to return to bed. Treating women like toys felt amazing—until it felt shitty.

…
sometimes it didn’t feel right… threesomes… foursomes… degrading…
Ivy’s depiction of a day in the life had later come up between him and Scar. She’d asked him outright, and remembering the aversion in her eyes when she’d first arrived to his house, he’d all but denied his own orgies.

What a lie.

The thin sliver of light bleeding through the drapery seemed suddenly allegorical. Wasn’t his life lately one dark room with a glimpse of light here and there?

Anxious to escape the bed and shadows of his sins, he jumped to his feet and stumbled straight to the shower before caffeine even. Soaping up, he didn’t fight the blue eyes an inch from his own, the lingering sensation of Scar’s fingers on his dick despite it being forever since. What he did fight was the mental image of her with a faceless Derrick. He’d been in hell since Logan had told him of the other man’s visit.

Grabbing the pen and small spiral from his shaving kit—yeah, he didn’t desecrate hotel showers anymore—he began to scribble.

I dwell in hell
.

Winning her back is what he wanted to do. He could. He was sure of it. But would that be right? To pursue her until her name was again tied to his and his shady past?

Air drying beneath the heat lamp, he picked up his phone and typed her name into the search engine. S-C-A-R-L-E-T-T… On the second ‘t’ the correct auto complete suggestions appeared.

The first results were Wikipedia and a Facebook fan page. After that, various headlines—all good. The sex video was almost pushed to the next page by the goodness that was Scarlette Conterra.

Clearing the search, he typed G-A-G-E—Ahh that didn’t take long either.

The clusterfuck his life had always been to the public. Rehab. Inciting a riot charge complicated with hate crime. Arrest for possession of an illegal substance. Assault on a fan. Lyrics criminal threat suit dismissed.

It had been one thing when being with him was what she had wanted. And who was he to deny her what she wanted—especially when it was mutual. But now that she was no longer dirtied with him and no longer wanted to be, to beg her back would be selfish. Lastly, he couldn’t help the turn of his thoughts at times when he considered getting his career back on track. He was trying to put ugly headlines behind him and do his damndest not to create any new controversies.

He checked his messages while waiting on room service. Standing at the window overlooking the bodies baking by the pool, he returned one call out of the many.

“Hi, Jax. Sorry I missed your call.”

“Not a problem. Listen, I’m in town and I’d like to meet with you. Can you do this afternoon?”

“Sure.” He was bursting with curiosity, but he tried to keep his voice level and professional.

Jax asking for a meeting the same day rather than days in advance seemed unusual. But he wasn’t a man anyone in the business turned down. A knock followed by an announcement of “room service” drew his attention. Carrying the phone, he skirted the bed, moving in that direction.

“Oh. I apologize. Are you out of town?” Jax asked, clearly having heard the interruption.

No. I’m whoring in a hotel ten minutes from my house
. “I’m close. I can do this afternoon.” He swung open the door and watched as the server set up.

Although he’d done it many times, nothing ever felt as lonely as eating a meal in a hotel room alone. After they’d ended the call, he quickly consumed the ‘hearty country breakfast’ and checked out.

He returned home long enough to shave and change clothes before setting off again in the Lotus. La Dolce’ Vida—-the Italian café where they’d arranged to meet—was busy although it was not yet the dinner rush hour. Absently rubbing a thumb over a razor nick on his jaw, he followed the hostess through the deserted dining room to a private room.

Jax slid from a booth seat, standing and greeting him with a firm handshake. “I hope I didn’t cut a getaway short.”

“Not at all. I caught the Vagrants last night. Did the after party at the Marmont. Got a room rather than go home.” He studied Jax, hoping he didn’t think he was partying chemically again. “Great show.”

“I saw them at Edgefest. You’re right. They’re entertainers.” The server came by, dropping off drinks and taking their orders. When she left, Jax folded his arms on the table. “How are things these days?”

“All right. I’ve got a few projects going while regrouping and figuring out what’s next. Green Envy needs a session guitarist. I haven’t confirmed though.”

Jax sipped his tea and set the glass down. “I signed an indie band with a large following earlier this year. Rattler.” Gage nodded, an indication he’d heard of them. “They’re beginning a tour in the spring. The guitarist is leaving. Just doesn’t have the commitment. There are two songs left to record too.” He pulled a storage device from the inside pocket of the bomber jacket he wore. “Here’s some promo videos, a live show, their songs. If you like it, I’d like for you to meet ’em.”

Accepting the USB drive, he ran a thumb over the plastic before nodding and pocketing it. “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll look at it tonight.” He fingered the cutlery as they were served appetizers, and gnawed at the inside of his lip trying to shake the big loser feeling. Stepping in as a replacement to an infant band rather than birth his own band wasn’t what he was looking for. But this was Beau Jax. Again, only an idiot passed on him.

As if reading his mind, Jax waited until the waitress vacated the room once more and leaned forward. “Who’s managing you these days?”

Gage answered, although the person in question had done little of nothing so far. The Green Envy gig had even fallen into his lap through his own connections.

“I listened to what you sent. What else are you working on?”

He summed up his current projects, picking at the food on his plate at first. And then not wanting to seem rude, he shoveled in bites with a little more gusto.

“You ever produce for anyone else? Besides your demo projects?” When Gage shook his head, Jax spoke of a band and asked if he wanted to sit in on a session with them. “I like what you’re doing with your stuff. And their producer is stumped with some of the arrangements.”

He arrived home more confused over his future than ever. He studied the business card he’d been given. A talent manager closely associated with Jewelstone. Jax’s nice way of saying ‘not interested but this guy may find you a new gig?’ And yet, Jax had offered him everything—a position in a band, an engineering gig—everything except the hope of signing him on as himself at some point in the future. Atop the card, he placed the thumb drive and stretched out on the couch, hoping to sleep through the night.

A
ll in all, this Christmas could have top billing of the Christmases of the last several years except for one thing. Despite the festivities a surprisingly sober mother without a crazy rocker boyfriend in sight had insisted on, Scarlette still had a Gage-sized hole in her heart that kept a damper on things.

Holiday seasons during her late teen years and early college years had always included Henni’s latest boyfriend, cheap takeout, and then Scarlette disappearing into her room. She’d always used the excuse of studying, but had more often than not ended up with headphones feeding her favorite songs into her head while she lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

This year, her mother had flown into Los Angeles and was bunking on Scarlette’s couch. They’d cooked dinner with all the trimmings for just the two of them. Henni’s cooking skills peaked at boiling water—and oftentimes in the past she’d forgotten that on the stove while getting her next fix. Scarlette’s culinary experience was limited to a blender—as in smoothies or hot sauce. So, their dinner was less than stellar, but they both enjoyed every bite.

“Do we have to wait until morning to open presents?” Scarlette felt ten years old when she asked the question. But the day had been going so well. They were on a roll this season, and she didn’t want to chance something spoiling it by morning.

“I don’t see why.” Her mother left the dishes soaking in the sink and skipped across the room. Kneeling beneath the tree they’d trimmed—another novelty her especially maternal parent had insisted on this year—Henni drew out three brightly wrapped packages. Very small. Medium. Large.

Scarlette couldn’t help laughing. “I feel like this is a test. One of those experiments we set up in psych class. Which should I choose first…?”

“You shouldn’t be thinking of class. You’re on semester break!” Her mother promptly pushed a glass of wine across the sofa table.

“Well, grab yours while you’re down there and let’s tear into these babies! Sorry I didn’t get you three.”

Her mother replied with a ‘pish’ sound she’d perfected through the years and settled Indian style on the floor with her present in her lap. “One, two, three, and go!”

The paper settled and while her mom screeched in excitement over each article of designer clothing separated from tissue paper folds, Scarlette’s focus remained frozen on what was inside the medium box.

The child’s size electric guitar was cherry red. She ran a finger down the frets, plucking terribly out of tune strings. But the real oddity—if a kid’s guitar to a woman in her twenties was not strange enough—was the deep, wide scuff on one edge. Looking up, she found Henni watching closely, even as she continued to pilfer the stack of trendy clothing.

“You remember anything?” Her mother paused for a sip of wine.

In a clear vision as if she were looking into a crystal ball, Scarlette saw the guitar smash from her own hands—which were strangely tiny—to a blue and black tiled floor. Suddenly, she remembered the floor well. It was the kitchen in a house belonging to a musician who was gone for months at a time while Henni and she had lived there full time. After throwing the instrument, six or seven-year-old Scarlette had vaulted over it and run to her room. Behind her, her mother’s musician boyfriend had managed to yell in the midst of his laughing fit. “Booyah!”