“What?” he says, looking at the guys and then back, expectancy in his voice.
“I’m not sure if I’d even be able to feel you stick it in,” I deadpan as the guys behind me erupt into laughter. Hawkin falls off his chair and knocks over his bowl of candy he’s laughing so hard, Rocket spits out the beer he was drinking, and Vince pounds the table in his laughter, the poker chips rattling with each thump.
“Ah, man … fuck you, guys!” Gizmo says, shoving back out of his chair, the sounds scraping across the patio.
“I’m sorry,” I say through my own laughter. “They put me up to it.”
“Dude, paybacks are a bitch,” Hawkin says as he pulls himself off the ground, still laughing, and pats Giz on the back.
“Okay, okay,” Giz says and shrugs Hawke’s hand off him in annoyance. He looks at the four of us in our uncontrollable fits of laugher, and I can see him fighting off his own smile before lifting his hands in surrender. “I deserved that after the shit I pulled last tour.” And I don’t know what he did, but obviously he’s conceding to it so it must have been pretty bad.
Hawkin pulls my chair backward at an angle so my feet lift off the ground and he looks upside down at my face. “That was fucking perfect, Trixie,” he murmurs, flashing me a megawatt grin before closing the distance and kissing me backward, his chin to my nose.
And holy shit after the day we’ve had, this little taste of him makes me want to take him upstairs right now and get the rest of him.
“You taste good,” he whispers, unshaven cheek scraping along mine.
“Hmm, I taste even better somewhere else.”
I love the groan he emits at my comment, but it’s short lived when Gizmo slaps him hard on the back so that he almost drops my chair. “What the fuck, dude?” Hawke yells.
“I’ve got the feeling, man.”
“It’s about damn time! Been forever since one of us has.” Rocket slams his hand on the table, startling me. “Let’s get on it!”
Chapter 22
HAWKIN
The rhythm owns my soul.
Rock and Vince are playing off the beat that Gizmo’s pounding out like it’s a song we’ve practiced time and again. My lips are stretched in a wide grin as I bob my head, fingers drumming on my leg, because we haven’t just jammed for the sake of jamming in forever and the music we’re making off the cuff right now is fucking killer.
Just like the good old days.
I adjust the soundboard to make sure we’re recording this just in case we link notes we want to keep for anything new. We’ve had some killer shit come out of jam sessions before. Quinlan’s sitting on the arm of the couch, head angled to the side, eyes steadfast on mine, and a smile on those sexy-ass lips of hers. Goddamn, the music’s calling me, but hell if that sleepy smile and those bedroom eyes don’t have me wanting to say fuck the music for the first time ever in my life.
With my guitar in my hand, I walk over to her, needing one taste to tide me over a little bit longer. A thrill shoots through me, tightens my sac, at the sight of her sitting up a little taller when she notices my approach. I take the back of the body of my guitar and place it against her back and pull her into me. Her tits pressed against my chest, her nipples so hard it’s impossible not to notice the feel of them, make me doubt my decision about the music when I could be fucking her instead.
Damn. I have a serious weakness for this woman.
When I look into her eyes, I try to read what’s there but we’ve either had too much to drink for me to comprehend it or she’s guarding what she feels. Regardless, I notice and love the way her breathing changes the minute I touch her like this. It tells me she feels whatever this is too.
I press my lips to hers and sample what I plan on taking later. Damn if the warmth of her tongue, the taste of her beer, the softness of her lips doesn’t have me swearing as she pulls away from me and against my guitar still pressed to her back.
I release her, and she falls to the couch behind her. And I can’t help but glance down to her tits, her legs, and what’s in between before flashing her a smirk and looping the strap over my neck. Ideas of just what I can do with my favored instrument and my hot woman later flash through my head as I walk over and plug my guitar into the amp.
Fuck. I just might have to cut this jam short with that image floating in my head.
I close my eyes, feel the music for a minute—the beat, the rhythm, the notes—before I can jump in. My body rocks to it instinctively as I find my chords to join the guys. And it’s easy enough to do because we’ve been playing together for so long that I know where Vince is going to go with his riff and how to come in when it starts to fade some. Gizmo leads me into the jam, and Rocket rolls in right after me.
I concentrate, fingers moving to hit those first notes in synch with the guys, and I open my eyes for a moment to glance over at Vince to make sure he’s good with where I took it on my side. He nods his head as he chimes back in. Knowing we’re in sync, I close my eyes again, let my head hang down, and allow the world around me to slip away with each passing note as I become a part of the music that has saved and comforted me most of my life.
Losing myself in the music, I let go all of my anger from the fucked-up phone calls tonight from Hunter begging for money to probably get his next fix. The beat erases my past, bit by bit, memory by memory, sadness by sadness until all that’s left is the here and the now: my best friends around me, Quinlan watching me, the music cleansing me from responsibilities I never asked for.