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There was a story there, Wyatt thought, even as he tried to wrap his head around the fact that Poppy had just brought Shaken Dirty one of the best bassists in the business. How had she landed him? How the hell did a social media director have the connections to get a star like Drew Fitzpatrick to a club in Austin for a public audition? Just the idea of it was crazy.
Sure, the guy wasn’t a rock star—he played country/rock light, but his fingerings were fucking legendary. Then again, so was his temper.
As the other guys introduced themselves to Drew and got his story, Wyatt wrapped an arm around Poppy’s waist and pulled her to him. She looked up at him with a grin, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, which made him relax even though he still wasn’t sure if what was happening here was a good thing or a bad one.
“You brought us Drew Fitzpatrick.”
“I did,” she said with a smile. “I mean, he’s no box of rare, first edition vinyl, but I’m hoping he’ll do.”
He grinned and shook his head. “You liked the records?”
“I told you last night, I loved the records.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “But thank you again. So much.”
“Hey, lover boy.” Ryder elbowed him in the ribs. “Wanna join the conversation at the grown-ups table?”
“Absolutely. Any idea where I can find it?”
It was Ryder’s turn to flip him off, and Jared just rolled his eyes, but Quinn and Drew laughed. He shot a look at the bass player, who seemed pretty relaxed considering he was about to go on stage and play in a music genre he had no professional experience with. Wyatt didn’t know if that made him ballsy or suicidal, but he felt a reluctant respect for the guy, whichever it was.
“Seriously, though,” Quinn said when everyone was paying attention again. “How many of our songs do you know?”
“I know the last album really well—I practiced it most of the way here. I’m pretty sure I can keep up with any of those songs. I can probably fake my way through the first half of the second album, but the only song I feel comfortable playing off the first one is ‘Closer.’”
“‘Closer’ it is, then,” Ryder told him before listing off a bunch of songs from their most recent album. “Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Drew answered. “When are we on?”
“Ten minutes ago.” Jared clapped him on the back before heading for the door. “Come on. Let’s go fuck this place up.”
“Not my favorite thing to fuck,” Drew said as he followed him through the door. “But it’s a close second.”
Quinn was cackling by the time he hit the hallway, and Wyatt was left staring at Poppy, his brow quirked meaningfully.
She shrugged, shooting him a grin that made his dick stand up and the blood rush from his brain even as he tried to get his head in the right space to go out on stage.
“Think of it this way,” she whispered against his lips as she pulled him down for a kiss. “How badly could it go?”
“You didn’t just say that.” He shot her the darkest look he could muster, considering all he really wanted to do was drop down on his knees in front of her and make her come. “Now it’s guaranteed to be completely fucked.”
She reached for his hand, held it tight as she brought it to her lips and kissed his palm. “It won’t. I promise.”
“It really will. Don’t you know anything about backstage superstitions at all?”
“I don’t, no.”
“Well, take it from one who does. Once you tempt fate like that, it’s guaranteed to be an absolute, unmitigated disaster.”
She shook her head with a laugh. “It really won’t.”
“It really will. Mark my words.”
He bent to kiss her but before he could do much more than brush his lips against hers, Jared was sticking his head back through the door. “Pretty fucking hard to be a rock band without a drummer, man.”
“That’s what I keep telling him.” Poppy kissed him, hard, then shoved him toward the stage.
…
It wasn’t a disaster. Wasn’t even close to being a disaster.
