Steady Beat

Dedication

For Lila Dubois, whose manic energy makes me envious.

Chapter One

“How the hell do you replace Nick fucking Blackthorne?”

The surly question dragged Noah Holden’s contemplative gaze from the nearby waitress in snug black hot pants holding his attention. He blinked, turning to face the man slouched in the chair opposite him. Sitting here with the four remaining members of what was once the hottest rock band in the world, Noah let his confusion show. “Why are we talking about Nick?”

Samuel—the lead guitarist—scowled. “You too busy checking out the broad in the tight duds to follow the conversation, Holden? Levi’s writing the score for the sequel to
Dead Even
and the director is on the lookout for something different for the closing credit soundtrack. Jax suggested we get the band back together for it and maybe record an album as well, just for shits and giggles.” Samuel tossed the two men sitting either side of Noah an exasperated glare. “And
I
just pointed out finding someone to replace Nick was fucking impossible.”

“Not impossible.” The man to Noah’s left—Jaxon Campbell—leant forward with a grin, snaring Samuel’s beer from in front of the guitarist and taking a swig. Letting out a satisfied, “ahh,” he wiped away the thin line of foam on his top lip and turned to Noah. “Just bloody tricky, is all.”

Noah snorted. Jax reveled in taunting Samuel. The keyboardist thrived in seeing just how far he could push the man before Samuel lost it. It made for a turbulent relationship—but holy hell, it also made for an amazing dynamic on stage and in the recording studio. The two men loved each other like brothers—and antagonized each other the same way.

Plucking Samuel’s beer from Jax’s grip, Noah returned the sweating bottle to its rightful owner and tossed the man on his right a curious look. “So you’re thinking we can do this, Levi? Find someone to sing lead and hit the studio?”

Levi Levistan’s broad shoulders rose and fell. “Why not? We’ve spent the last six years fucking about, and none of us are truly happy. And I know the director is keen for us to record the track.
If
we can find someone to replace Nick, that is.” He shrugged again. “It worked for Alice in Chains. And Genesis.”

“Genesis?” Noah shook his head. “If we’re using Genesis as an example,
I
should become lead singer, and we all know I can’t sing lead for shit. Backup vocals, sure. The odd solo line when Nick worked the stage, but lead, nope. Not if we want to keep our dignity intact.”

Levi rolled his eyes and shoved a hank of dirty-blond hair from his eyes. “I’m not saying
you
should sing, Holden. I’m saying we go looking for new talent. Inject something different into the band. Surely we’ve had enough interaction with the music world to know what’s out there?” He tossed a peanut at Samuel. “You’ve been touring with the Boss this last year. You must have scoped out his talent. What are his backup singers like?”

“All girls,” Samuel answered. He threw the peanut back at Levi. It stuck in the bass player’s hair, dangling by his temple like an oversized bead for a brief moment before Levi snared it in his long-fingered hand. “Besides, what are we going to call ourselves? We can’t be Blackthorne without a Blackthorne in the band, can we? And we’ve only ever performed under that name.”

Jax waved a hand. “Semantics.”

Samuel cocked an eyebrow. “You want to call us Semantics? Really?”

Levi threw the peanut back at him. “Fucker.”

Samuel grinned, his blue eyes dancing with sardonic mirth. “I’m only repeating what Jax over there is suggesting.”

Noah chuckled. A wave of warmth swelled through him. It
had
been a long time since the band was altogether in one place, and he’d missed the sense of familiar mateship. They’d gone their separate ways the night of Nick’s swan-song performance in Sydney over six years ago, only coming together as a group again for his wedding a year after that.

Samuel had toured with various solo performers, filling in whenever a guitarist who knew how to wring out a note was needed. Jaxon had written a tell-all biography that had stayed on the
New York Times
Best Seller list for three years and ended the persistent rumours about his sexuality once and for all. Levi had become Hollywood’s latest musical darling, writing more than one award-winning soundtrack for equally award-winning films that somehow always involved an extreme level of angst and violence. And Noah…

Noah drew a slow breath, the warmth in his chest cooling. He let his gaze on his scotch shift out of focus. Well, Noah had had his heart ripped out. Figuratively speaking, of course. Eight years with the love of his life and she’d up and left him for their dog walker. Their dog walker, for fuck’s sake. If it weren’t so bloody painful, he’d be laughing himself silly right now.

“Oi!”

Something small and hard struck Noah on the nose and he blinked himself out of the bleak memory.

“Focus, Holden.”

Drawing his attention to Samuel sitting opposite him, he frowned at the word. “I
am
focused. Levi’s brought this opportunity to us, Jax’s keen to give it a try and you’re…what? Scared?”

Samuel scowled. “Blow me, Holden.”

Noah shook his head, his smile pulling at his lips. “Samuel,” he leant forward to rest his elbows on the table between them, “I think it’s a bloody brilliant idea.
If
we can find the right man to fill Nick’s shoes. If we can’t, I’m not interested.”

Levi slapped him on the back. “There you go! The drummer boy here makes three.”

Samuel slumped low in his seat, his fingers plucking at invisible strings on the table, an unconscious action Noah knew only occurred when Samuel was seriously weighing up options.

“C’mon, Gibson.” Jax threw another peanut at the lead guitarist, a cajoling grin on his surfer-tanned face. “It’ll be fun. The money is freaking easy. No live shows, an air-conditioned recording studio, we get to see a movie before the rest of the population, and who knows, you may even add an Oscar to that embarrassingly large award collection you’ve got. This
is
a Nigel McQueen film after all, and Chris Huntley can’t fart without being handed one gong or another at the moment. And Levi’s been making a shitload of money writing music for Hollywood. With him bringing this opportunity to us, you could buy your own island.”

Samuel slid his gaze to Noah. Of the four of them, Noah and Samuel were the closest. They’d been with Nick the longest, the first to join him after he signed his first recording contract. Samuel and Noah’s names were on the back of every album Nick had released, from his first at the age of twenty-one to his last at thirty-seven. “So you really think this is a good idea, Holden?” he asked. “Re-forming? Finding a replacement for Nick? Pulling a Linkin Park and writing a song for a movie?”

Noah fixed him with an unwavering look, turning the questions over and over in his mind. Did he think it was a good idea? When Nick retired, Noah had removed himself from public life and focused on a sedentary existence with Heather. As focused as Noah could be, that was. All his life he’d struggled to keep his attention fixed on one thing. His parents had bought him a drum kit when he was eight in an effort to find him some kind of outlet for his almost manic energy. The trouble was, even now Noah had difficulty locking his attention on anything that wasn’t music, that wasn’t the beat. Hand-built yachts were never finished. Memoirs never completed. The interior of the house he’d shared with Heather for seven years never moved beyond three-quarters painted. The home theatre he’d begun to build had never had its first screening. Even their dog hadn’t manage to snare his constant attention—hence the dog walker. Heather’s last words to Noah as she left their partially painted home, with Maxie the mutt in tow, were four letters: A D H and D.

Playing for Nick Blackthorne had been the one true focus of Noah’s life. The only time he’d felt truly centred. Calm. Which, for a drummer, was bloody ironic. But was that focus due to the magic and talent of Nick himself, or was it music in general? Did Noah want to risk the hideous discovery it wasn’t the beat that had kept him sane, but the influence of a man no longer performing?

“Well?” Samuel asked, uncertainty clear in his blue eyes. “Do you?”

Noah drew a slow breath, his stare locked on the guitarist’s. “I do.”

“All right!” Levi shouted, drawing more than one curious glance from the bar’s patrons. “It’ll all up to you now, Samuel.”

From the corner of Noah’s eye, he noticed the cute waitress in the sexy hot pants cleaning the table beside them. She had bloody gorgeous legs. They went all the way up to her—

“Anyone spoken to Nick about this?” Samuel’s question pulled Noah back to his fellow band members. The faint whiff of delicate perfume tickling his nose told him the waitress was still there.

Levi pulled a face. Jax rubbed at the back of his neck, his expression sheepish. “Err, nope.”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “You don’t think he’d like to know?”

With a snort, Noah dug into his hip pocket and withdrew his mobile phone. “What’s the time in Australia, Levi?”

“Five p.m.,” the bass guitarist provided. “Tomorrow.”

“Still freaks me out how quick you are with shit like that, Levistan,” Jax muttered.

Grinning, Noah scrolled through his contacts until he reached Nick’s number. He lifted his attention to the men sitting around him. “Now, we’re sure about this?” He focused on Samuel. “About finding a replacement for Nick for a new album?”

Jax and Levi turned their stares on the lead guitarist.

Samuel studied Noah. On stage and in interviews, Samuel had played the bad-boy brooding guitarist to Noah’s slightly unhinged, manic drummer. The truth was, Samuel was more grounded and contemplative than the rest of them. Making a decision like this quickly wasn’t part of his nature.

Noah raised an eyebrow at his friend, thumb paused over the call key. “Strings?”

With a grunt, Samuel threw up his hands and dropped back in his seat. “Fuck it. I’m in.”

Noah hit dial. The phone rang three times. No one uttered a sound. Three sets of eyes watched him.

Halfway through the fourth ring, Nick answered. “Holden, you bloody bastard. How goes it, mate? To what do I owe the honour?”

Noah laughed, the sound of Nick’s voice at once calming and exciting. “G’day, Nick. Doing well. You?”

“Not bad. Currently watching Lauren waddling around the kitchen making dinner. Pregnant women are bloody sexy, mate. Never knew that before now. How’s Heather?”

Noah’s gut clenched. He balled his free hand in a fist, glad it was resting on the top of his thigh under the table where his bandmates couldn’t see it. “No more, I’m afraid. She finally got jack of me three months ago. We haven’t gone public with it yet.”

“Ah, fuck.” Regret cut through Nick’s curse. “I’m sorry, Noah. Shit, you should have called me. You okay?”

Noah drew a slow breath. “Yeah. Thinking of getting a cat. Or a fish.”

Nick laughed, but Noah didn’t miss the sorrow in the sound. Even in his wild groupie days, Nick had always believed in a happy-ever-after. No one in the band had realized how much until he’d found Lauren again and retired. He’d spent many a night when they were still touring in a drunken haze telling Noah how Noah had it all with Heather and to never fuck it up.

Despite all those inebriated words of advice and guidance however, Noah
had
fucked it up. Big time. By being—

“Where are you?” Nick’s question yanked Noah back to the conversation. “In Australia? Wanna come spend the week with me and Lauren? We’ve got plenty of room, what with Josh living in Sydney and Aslin happily entrenched in L.A.”

Noah chuckled. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to crash at Nick’s house to lick his wounds. However, Noah doubted he could survive a day watching the man who’d once made women scream with lust the world over dote over the love of his life. “Thanks, mate, but I’m in New York,” he answered, pulling a face at Jax who was waving his hand at him. No doubt in an effort to hurry him up. Behind the keyboard player, Miss Hot Pants took an order from two very gropey men in business suits. “With the guys.”

“Really?” Delight filled Nick’s voice. “Tell ’em I said g’day. What are they all up to?”

“Well, that’s the reason for the call. Nigel McQueen wants us to record the end-credit title for Chris Huntley’s next film, the sequel to
Dead Even
, and we’re thinking of saying yes. On the proviso we can find someone to fill your bloody big shoes.” He paused, picturing Nick’s face. “What do you think?”