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“He’s been asked before?” I repeat dumbly.
“Yeah. Don’t know how many times, but it’s been a few. He’s written a lot of pop hits, which is kind of funny if you think about it.” At my look of confusion, he says, “Because his dad is the opposite. His dad shits on pop music.”
“Oh, right.” Sid Rees’s music is heavy on the guitar and light on the melody. It sounded more like screeching to me. So, yes—a far cry from the peppy, upbeat, bubblegum tunes that populate the radio stations. “Is that why he doesn’t sell his stuff?”
“Who knows? Rees is one of those musicians who has money, so he’s a little off. I can’t really read him.”
Ditto, apparently. In fact, I’d like to go clear some things up with Adam. I don’t need to know every single secret of his before we have sex, but I don’t want to sleep with a mystery, either. But I don’t have time, because FMK hits the stage. Mike leaves me in the middle of the set, but I barely notice. My eyes are glued to the band.
Davis is worked up, chatting with the crowd between songs, telling little stories which he must’ve cribbed from Adam and the rest of them since Davis wasn’t around when these songs were written.
“Love Scars” was the song Adam wrote after Rudd admitted he was afraid of dogs because he’d been bitten by a Rottie when he’d delivered food as a teen. The story, as Rudd tells it, is that as he ran toward his car, the dog bit him. The bite in the ass caused him to stumble. The pie went flying and some landed on his bare arm, burning him. He said his love of pizza was forever ruined after that.
He does have a strange pepperoni-shaped scar on his forearm. Hence the lyric, “my love left a mark on me.”
Davis regales the audience with the story and they are screaming their laughter.
He isn’t the only one who draws the eyes. Plenty of thirsty girls are positioned on Adam’s side of the stage, their faces upturned, their hands in the air. He walks to the edge, dips his shoulder low, making them scream with excitement. Davis is flirting with them and Adam’s teasing them. Ian and Rudd provide the beat and the bass to anchor the sex that Davis and Adam are selling.
And it’s working, because the once sleepy crowd is vibrating with excitement. I rub my hands between my legs, as if I can exorcise the heat Adam’s performance is generating inside of me. He’s too damn talented. My body doesn’t care that he’s a mystery. My body is just thrilled with the attention and the idea of all that muscle and sex appeal at its disposal.
“Austin, we love you. We’d play all night, but I know you’re excited to hear Threat Alert,” Davis shouts into the mic.
There’s a chorus of noes but FMK drowns them out by barreling forward into “Destiny’s Here,” Threat Alert’s hit song. As choreographed, Kevin strides out, playing his guitar. He stops next to Davis, who holds the mic out for Kev, and the two sing together, ensuring that the crowd is happy once again.
They jam together for two more songs—a cover of an old Fleetwood Mac song called “Landslide,” then one of their originals that Mike suggested, “Those Aren’t Tears,” before announcing that the set is over.
I join the guys in the back. Adam is the first to reach me. His eyes are lit up and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. His T-shirt looks drenched, too. But that’s hardly a turnoff. I lick my lips, wondering what he’d taste like.
His eyes darken knowingly. “Liked the show, did you?”
“A little bit.”
His laugh is rough and sexy.
I take a deep breath, barely able to hear myself over the pounding of my excited heart. “How long do we have to stay?”
His eyes gleam. “Not long at all.”
Chapter Nineteen
Adam
Landry looks like she’s ready to burst. I’m only a half step behind her and that’s because I’m exerting phenomenal self-control over my dick right now. Otherwise, he’d be standing fully upright, flying his eager flag for everyone and their brothers to see. And since we’re supposed to be keeping this from Davis, I’m thinking about amps and riffs and tour schedules. Basically, anything but how amazing she looks in her uniform of tight jeans and slouchy shirt, anything but how good she smells, clean and fresh.
Oh hell. My jeans get tight. Reluctantly, I turn away. The disappointed sound that sneaks out of her mouth makes me want to bend her over the nearest table and take her right there.
“If we ever want to get out of here without Davis knowing, I need to calm down,” I mutter.
“Oh,” she says, all wide-eyed and intrigued.
“Not helping.” I turn my attention to the stage and take a long draw from my water bottle.
“Sorry,” she says, but the quiet glee in that one word tells me she’s not repentant at all.
Threat Alert runs off stage which means I need to get out there to help break down our equipment and make room for theirs. It’s a much-needed distraction.
“Took you long enough,” Albie grouses as we haul our shit off the stage.
