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Dev kept his temper. Barely. “Casey is neither little, a boy, nor a toy, and he is the last person on earth who would ever be spiteful. Whatever’s got your boxers in a bunch has nothing to do with him.”
“No? Go upstairs then. Look at what he’s done to my bed.”
Dev really didn’t want to waste time with Nash, not with the clock ticking down to his first public performance in almost two years, but he didn’t want the asshole to take his beef—whatever it was—to Casey.
“Fine.”
He took the stairs two at a time, Nash stomping along behind him, and stepped into the bedroom. It smelled of Nash’s Tom Ford cologne with an undertone of weed. Nash shoved past him and struck an overdramatic pose, one hand on his hip and the other pointing at the pillows on his unmade bed.
“There! Are you trying to tell me that’s not a pointed attack on me, a blatant attempt to scare away the competition?”
“Competition for what?” Dev murmured as he moved closer. If the pillows held what he thought they did… Yup. “Mouse tails.”
“What?” Nash’s face could double for the vomit emoji. “He cut the tails off mice just to punk me?”
“For fuck’s sake, Nash. Casey didn’t do this. It was—”
“Hey, Nash. Oh, hi Dev. Didn’t expect to see you up here.” Owen beamed at them from the doorway, a smug and purring Randolph Scott in his arms. “Look who decided to visit us.”
Dev jerked a thumb at the cat. “There’s your culprit. And you’re right about one thing. It’s definitely a pointed attack.”
“A cat? You let your cat in my room?”
“First, he’s not my cat. Second, he goes where he wants and nobody’s figured out how to stop him yet. Third”—he pointed to the pillows—“he doesn’t like you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dev shrugged. “Well, he had three dead mice, and he didn’t even give you one. That definitely sends a message.”
Nash’s expression hardened. “You need to get rid of that animal. Shoot him, drown him, whatever, but get him away from me.”
“Aw, Nash,” Owen said, “don’t go all Miss Gulch on us.” He nuzzled the top of Randolph Scott’s furry head. “He’s just doing what cats do. You can’t blame him for that.”
“Maybe not.” Nash turned to face Dev. “But I can blame you. If this is how you treat your guests—”
“Hold up.” Dev folded his arms and drew himself up, emphasizing the four inches in height he had over Nash, something that always stuck in Nash’s craw. “I didn’t invite you. You demanded room and board as part of your fee. You’ve been here before, Nash. You know what Harrison House is like. If you didn’t approve of the accommodations, you could have stayed in town.”
“I expect that would have ruined his plans.”
All of them—Dev, Nash, Owen, even Randolph Scott—turned at the terse comment.
Haru stood on the balcony, clearly just emerged from his room, since he held his guitar case and his hair still looked damp from a shower.
“Plans?” Owen glanced from Nash to Haru. “What plans?”
Haru advanced, although he stopped at the head of the stairs rather than joining the crowd in the bedroom.
“His plan to replace the replacement.” His smile was thin. “We go on in thirty, Dev. I’ll meet you by the stage.” He walked down the stairs, his back straight and his tread measured. Randolph Scott mewed and pushed out of Owen’s arms to scamper after him.
Owen peered down the stairs and then back at Dev and Nash. “What just happened?”
“What did he mean, you’re on in thirty?” Nash demanded.
Casey stepped onto the lower landing, a grim-faced Haru on the tread below him, Randolph Scott cradled in his arms. “Manchester Blues is finishing up, Dev. It won’t take long to set up for you and Haru, but if you need more time”—his gaze took in Nash’s furious face, Owen’s bewildered one, and Dev’s, which, considering the annoyance spiking his insides probably looked like a thunderhead—“to, um, prepare, we can probably call a break.”
Dev edged past Owen. If he were honest with himself, he’d have liked a few minutes, preferably alone with Casey in his arms, to reset his mood. But he’d performed under worse conditions. Hell, he’d performed with Nash for years.
“If Haru’s ready, I’m ready.”
