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“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Chris fumbled with the pocket of his baggy cargo shorts, pulled out a phone, dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again. He took a deep breath and retrieved his phone from the doorstep once more. “Sorry. I’m kind of nervous. Holy fuck, Steve Aimes!”
Steve backed into the house and set the pizza on the tiny dining table that could seat two uncomfortably.
“Come on in,” he said, beckoning Chris with one hand. Steve flipped open the box, and Zach descended upon the pie as if he hadn’t eaten in the past century. “Got time for a slice and a beer?” he asked Chris. As far as Steve was concerned, all fans were friends and welcome—one at a time—in his house. He didn’t have room for a crowd. That was what the beach a block over was for.
Chris looked back at his car parked at the curb and the pizza delivery sign affixed to the roof. “I am going to be so fired,” he said, but he stepped into the house and closed the door.
Chris stayed only for one slice of pizza—refusing the beer because he couldn’t afford to get fired from another job—and half a dozen pictures of him and Steve, and him and Zach, and Steve and Zach, and the Neil Peart autographed drumhead on the wall that was “too cool.”
“I’m a drummer too, you know,” Zach muttered.
“I guess I need an autographed drumhead from you to add to my collection,” Steve said, smirking at Zach, who wasn’t usually the type to feel sorry for himself. It was Sam’s fault that Zach’s ego had taken such a hit. The ass had called Zach’s band mediocre. That was as bad as being told flat out that he sucked. It was their bassist who sucked. Steve gave Logan a hard time about how replaceable he was, saying that he was only a bassist, but without a good bassist, the music was hollow. Zach’s bandmates were too loyal to send Gavin packing. Steve had stopped pressing the issue a long time ago, but maybe now that they’d been fired as an opening band, they’d be more open to suggestion. Not in front of Chris, though.
“For the pizza,” Steve said, slapping a fifty into Chris’s hand as he gave it a hard squeeze in farewell. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks! You rock so hard!”
In that case . . . Steve pulled out a hundred. “This is for any pizza that got cold while you were in here bullshitting with us. And you can keep the change on that one too. Now, I have one rule for new friends. Don’t stop by without calling first.”
Chris’s wide smile faded slightly. “But I don’t have your number.”
“Exactly. Hope to see you around sometime. At a bar. At the beach. Not here, though, unless I order a pizza.” He hoped Chris got the message as he closed the door behind him.
“You’re just asking for trouble,” Zach said, picking up Steve’s discarded pizza crust and nibbling on it.
“Haven’t had any yet.” Which was mostly true. He’d had to get stern with a few fans who’d found out where he lived and loitered in front of his house for days. But he just had to make them feel entirely uncool for doing it, and they left him alone. Fans didn’t want the rock stars they idolized to think they weren’t cool.
“Didn’t Dare have some naked chick in his pool one time?” Zach bit off another bite of crust.
“I’m sure he’s had lots of naked chicks in his pool,” Steve said. “But yeah, he had a stalker who invited herself for a skinny-dip without his permission.” Dare had called the cops. Steve most likely would have banged her first. Good thing his yard was too small for a pool.
Zach was in fairly good spirits for the rest of the evening. They sat in the backyard sipping beers and talking most of the night. Often Steve’s thoughts drifted toward the East Coast and one redheaded babe who lived there, but he didn’t mention Roux. He was certain Enrique was on Zach’s mind, and he didn’t want to rip open recent wounds by talking about their love lives. Sometimes it was nice to forget the outside world existed and just chill with a trusted friend.
“So what’s your band meeting about tomorrow?” Zach asked.
Steve wondered how long he’d been chewing on that question.
“Some audit our accountant did on the record label.”
”So they have been ripping you off. That tiny royalty check of Max’s wasn’t a fluke.”
Zach had that right, but Steve shrugged. He’d been warned about the nondisclosure agreement that was in their contract. They were not allowed to tell anyone that royalties were improperly handled, even if the record label was at fault. But if they had to sue the company, it would all come out. If the label agreed to pay without a fight, no one would ever know but the parties involved, and that meant they wouldn’t be able to warn other artists about Sam Baily and his crooked corporation. He hoped they could take the case to court. He went so far as to cross his fingers for added luck. He’d love to see Sam destroyed due to his own greed.
“You wouldn’t be having a band meeting about it if everything was in the clear, would you?” Zach pressed.
“I can’t say.”
“I’m not an idiot, Steve.”
“I literally cannot say. There’s a nondisclosure agreement in the contract to protect the corporation’s reputation.” Steve scratched at his beard stubble. He often let his facial hair grow on tour breaks, and it was currently at that annoyingly itchy length.
“You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul. How much money are you guys out?”
Steve pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell him anything. He refused to mess up this golden opportunity to finally fuck Sam Baily as hard as he’d fucked dozens of musicians in the industry.
“I bet it’s millions. Have you seen that guy’s shoes? Genuine fucking alligator. Probably made from the newborn babies of some endangered reptilian species. One pair costs more than I made all of last year.”
“There are things more important than money.”
“Like not being a greedy, cruel son of a bitch?”
Steve bumped his knuckles against the back of Zach’s hand, which was resting on Zach’s chair arm. Lazy bro tap, they called it. He was glad that Zach was always on the same page as he was when it came to Sam Baily. Perhaps tomorrow Steve would finally get Max and Dare to admit that they’d been wrong about him for the last ten years.
Steve snorted at the thought.
Twenty-One
The next morning, Steve found Zach sitting at the breakfast table staring into a bowl of soggy wheat flakes. Steve didn’t recall having cereal or milk on hand, so Zach must have done some middle-of-the-night shopping.
“You’re up early,” Steve said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Zach glanced up. His drooping eyes were surrounded by dark circles. “Late,” he corrected. “I never went to sleep.”
Steve had slept well after a short midnight call from Roux. She hadn’t even been taking a dump to hide her flouting of the no-contact-with-each-other plan, but she had gone outside on the fire escape so she wouldn’t wake Iona.
Steve was sorry Zach wasn’t having a better time.
“After this dumb band meeting”—which Steve was so looking forward to—“we’ll grab Logan and go surfing. How does that sound?”
“Enrique loves to surf.”
Ugh.
“He’s not invited.”
“I thought he’d call or text or . . .” Zach’s gaze returned to the gloopy bowl of cereal. “. . . show up here in the middle of the night and demand I come home with him.”
Steve moved to stand beside Zach and squeezed his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say. It was too soon for the “he’s not worth your time, you’re better off without him” speech, though both were true. Zach turned his face against Steve’s belly, his body quaking. Steve pressed a hand to the back of Zach’s head and let him cry it out. He’d have to change his shirt before he left—he wasn’t prepared to explain a tear-soaked belly to his bandmates—but he knew this emotional letting go would let Zach sleep, and he’d be thi
nking much more clearly after he caught some shut-eye.
Suddenly Zach pushed away, rubbing the tears off his face with both palms and then lifting the hem of his shirt to do a more thorough job. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell the press that you cry like a baby.” Steve shoved him none too gently.
Zach released a breathless huff. “Well, I will tell them that you snore. Dear God, I thought a lumberjack was clearing a forest in your bedroom last night.”
Steve grabbed Zach by the head and hugged his face tight against his belly. “It will be all right,” he said quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel that way now, but you’ll get through this even though you’d rather not.”
“If you make me cry again, I’ll kick your ass.”
Steve shoved him away, almost toppling Zach’s chair over backwards in the process. “I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m going to sleep in your bed while you’re gone,” Zach threatened.
“You’d better not.” Though he hoped he would. There were blackout shades on the windows in his bedroom, and it would be a lot easier for Zach to sleep there in the middle of the day. “Are you going to finish that cereal?”
Zach spooned up a glob of slimy-looking disintegrated wheat flakes and let them plop back into the bowl. “I made breakfast for you,” he said, grinning.
“I think I’ll pass.” He peeled off his shirt and tossed it into Zach’s face. “You should wash that for me since you got it all wet.”
Steve expected him to fire off some witty quip, but he lowered his head and pressed the shirt against his chest.
