Bad Habit, page 15
And Scott.
Because that was all that mattered. As long as he got to have music and Scott, everything else was background noise.
His breath came easier now. He took a deep one, started the car, and popped it into Reverse.
“Just give me a second to get in.” Scott shut the driver’s door and started around the hood, but Liam had already taken off the parking brake and started idling backward down the driveway.
Scott took two steps after him and froze, his hard stare way more expressive than the finger he held up.
Liam shifted his foot to the brake at the end of the driveway. Compared to trying to work out the right pressure on the pedals with his prosthesis, this was cake. He craned his neck around and then backed into the street. He’d take a lap, like Quinn had suggested, since getting one of these for himself was going to run three bills.
Despite that initial panic, by the time he made it to the corner, his cheeks hurt from smiling. He could do this. His chest opened wide on a deep breath. He could have sworn it was the first time since the accident that he was doing something by himself. He knew it wasn’t technically true. It was only that everyone trying to help had felt like being buried alive. He cut his eyes to the passenger seat, suddenly wishing he hadn’t left Scott in the driveway. Scott would understand what Liam meant. He’d know how it felt—how Liam felt.
He pulled back into the driveway and rolled to a stop. Jamie, with his hands on his hips, was talking at Quinn. Scott stood off to one side, leaning against the garage door. As Liam cut the ignition, Scott arched that one brow.
Liam grinned at him.
Scott nodded and pushed away from the peeling wood before disappearing around the corner of the house.
By the time Liam managed to get himself out of the car, Quinn and Jamie were in Liam’s face with descriptions of the different kinds of left-foot setups, permanent, portable, adjustable. Quinn entered Liam’s email into his phone, promising to send along a form he could use to apply for help paying for it.
“Though I’m guessing you won’t have to worry much about labor costs for installation,” Quinn added with a wink.
Scott wasn’t in the yard. The dog was curled up asleep on a chair, and the table had been cleared. As Liam started for the house, Gavin met him on the steps.
“I take it your drive was a success?” he asked as he maneuvered around Liam. The dog shook herself awake, jumped down, then yawned before trotting over to Gavin. She cocked her head at Liam.
The expression was so similar to Gavin’s when he’d asked his question that Liam pressed his lips together against a laugh. Then he realized Gavin was waiting for an answer.
“Yeah.” Liam bent to offer a hand for Annabelle to sniff. “It’s surprisingly easy to get used to using my left foot.”
The dog made a quick survey of his hand, almost as if she were only being polite, then sat and cocked her head again.
“Uh, she’s cute,” Liam added for something to say.
“I’m sure she appreciates the sentiment.” Gavin smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.
Liam had no idea how someone like Gavin ended up hanging out with the rest of these guys.
Jamie strode into the backyard. “’Ey, Montgomery? You ’bout ready? I gotta be at work at three.”
Liam looked sharply at Gavin. Gavin Montgomery? Like one of the Montgomerys?
Gavin met Liam’s stare and shrugged apologetically. “I’m nothing more than a piece of flotsam that washed up on a fortunate shore.”
Jamie snorted, and Annabelle bounced to her feet. “C’mon, then, Flotsam. I don’t want to be here when Jetsam starts another free show. Text him later.”
Gavin bent and scooped up the toy-sized spaniel. In a soft voice, Gavin said, “There’s nothing they won’t do to help if you ask.”
Liam pointed his chin at Jamie. “So, um, thanks.”
“Save the thanks for Quinn.” Jamie fluffed under the dog’s ears. As he and Gavin headed for the driveway, Jamie cranked his head around to add, “And Scott.”
Chapter Seventeen
FOR SOMEONE who’d just had a pretty big problem solved, Liam was in a bitch of a mood on the drive back to the bar, and Scott was tired of silent glares.
He shot a glance over and then looked back at parkway traffic. “What’s up?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right. You’re fine.”
Liam’s breath huffed out. Scott started a mental countdown to when Liam would crack. Five, four, three, two—
“I’m jealous, okay?”
“Jealous?” Scott gave an involuntary jerk of the wheel and then dragged the Mustang straight again. “Of what?”
“You and all your friends. I know it’s stupid. But you weren’t exactly socialized before.”
“Well, at least I was housebroken.” Scott rolled his eyes. “And they aren’t all my friends.” The memory of Eli grabbing Scott at the door to mutter in his ear “Please work out your shit. I’m counting on you guys” had him pressing the accelerator to whip around some asshole putzing along in the middle lane. What the fuck business was it of Eli’s? God knew they’d all be geezers by the time he and Liam worked out their shit. “I told you. I only really know Jamie.”
Liam grunted an acceptance.
“I didn’t expect it to get out of hand like that.”
“Or for anyone’s hand to get used like that.” Liam’s voice had a trace of humor.
“Jesus. I didn’t know what the fuck we were supposed to do.”
“Me either. I mean, I saw his wrist cuffs—”
“Is that what those things mean? I just thought that was some sweet leather, out of place on his preppy ass but—”
“Yeah. It’s kind of a sign for that stuff.”
Scott slowed as the traffic merged down to two lanes by all the mansions set way back from the road. He tried for casual as he asked, “You—uh—into that?”
“Nah. Met guys on the base who were into it. I didn’t know there were people who lived it twenty-four seven.”
Scott stared down at his hands on the wheel. That stupid, instinctive punch at the car show aside, he couldn’t imagine hitting Liam, even if Liam wanted it. And as for Scott—shit, he knew Liam didn’t need leather or chains to keep Scott anywhere Liam wanted him, the bastard. Liam had invisible hooks, deep under Scott’s rib cage. Worse, Scott wasn’t sure he wanted them out, even if he could figure out how to remove ’em.
Liam tapped at his phone as they waited at the light for a left on York Road. “All set.” He shoved the phone under Scott’s nose.
Scott focused enough to see an email from the Best Maryland Inn confirming a reservation for tonight. Swallowing the urge to head directly for the address and to hell with showing up to haul kegs at Schim’s, Scott managed a nod and a “Cool” that didn’t sound too forced.
After tucking a cigarette between his lips, he dragged out his lighter. The cool rush of smoke took away the anxious stink of hot tar and rubber. He exhaled out the window and took another drag before he remembered. With a guilty glance at Liam, he tossed the barely started smoke out the window. “Sorry.”
“It’s your car. I’ve never asked you to not smoke.”
“Yeah, but you’re singing tonight.” Scott was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that the Liam he’d known forever could front a rock band, hold a crowd of metalheads spellbound with his voice.
“Still didn’t have to do that.”
Given the price of a pack, Scott was half-tempted to open the door and grab the still-burning stick. But then the light changed, so he just rolled his head on his neck and made the turn, changing the subject as he did. “You ready for tonight?”
“The show or later?” Liam’s tone told Scott all he needed to know about the big grin on Liam’s face. “That reminds me.” Liam pointed at the Royal Farms gas station a block away. “Can you stop there? I’ve got to pick something up.”
Scott said he’d wait in the car and watched Liam stride off into the little convenience store. Maybe it was what Scott wanted to see, but Liam’s steps looked confident, more like the rolling swagger Scott remembered. Obviously, being able to drive again was going to make Liam’s life much easier.
Scott took advantage of the time to get in a smoke, climbing out of the Mustang to lean against the driver’s door. A green ’71 Stingray pulled in a space away. The girl who got out first gave Scott an assessing stare, so he made sure to give a friendly nod to the bearded guy with her. Last thing he needed was to get into it over that kind of nonsense.
He tapped the cigarette out against his lighter when Liam came back out, then tucked the half smoke away. Liam popped the tab on his twenty-ounce Red Bull as he approached the car. He stopped with a hand on the door and chugged. Scott watched Liam’s throat bob, mouth watering as he thought about how that sweaty, bristly skin would feel on his tongue.
“Problem?” Liam asked. “Shit. I should’ve asked. I’ll finish the drink out here.”
“Just get in the car.” As good as he’d gotten the exterior and engine, the interior was another story. A cigarette burn—not even his—marred the driver’s seat, and the left rear seat had something melted and baked into the backrest. “It’s fine.”
Fuck if he ever wanted to have a car so mint he’d freak out over someone drinking in it. Like those guys who kept their classic cars under cover all year, hauled them on trailers to shows so they stayed like they were factory-new. Why have a car and not drive it?
Liam tossed a fresh pack of Newports on Scott’s lap. “They don’t sell singles, and I figured I owed you one.”
If Liam was going to insist on keeping score, Scott had to learn how to take the win instead of arguing about it.
“Thanks.” Scott nodded at the Red Bull. “That your preshow ritual?”
“Not really.”
Something in Liam’s voice made Scott sneak a glance at him before he pulled out of the lot. Between the grin and the expression in Liam’s eyes, Scott’s dick was ready to jump the gun. He squeezed the wheel and focused back on the traffic.
Liam went on, “I was hoping there’d be another reason to stay up tonight. Want some?”
They had to stop for another light. Liam waved the can under Scott’s nose. Scott tugged on the leg of his jeans. “I’ve never needed much help staying… up.”
The force of Liam’s smile hit Scott right on the side of the face and made his jeans even tighter.
IT WAS just sex. Scott readjusted himself, then bungeed the keg onto the handcart. Good sex. But he was building himself up for it like some virgin on prom night. Yeah, it was always good with Liam, but Scott’s brain—and his balls—were waxing it up with a shine of memories that were too damned good to be true.
And Liam wasn’t helping. He hung around after the band did all their setup and sound checks, looking at Scott like they were already alone, until Scott was ready to drag him into the storeroom to see what they could manage up against the wall, and to hell with the Best Maryland Inn. Scott still stopped to wipe the sweat off his face with his T-shirt before dragging the keg upstairs.
He recognized the uneven rhythm on the stairs before he heard Liam’s voice. “Jesus, Scott. Keep your shirt on.”
Smug bastard. Scott turned, pretending to continue to wipe his face, and let his other hand hitch his threadbare jeans a little lower on his hips.
“Fuck. That’s not fair.”
Scott let the shirt fall back down over his stomach. “Fair?” He stalked over to Liam. “Fair like the way you keep looking at me?” He grabbed Liam’s waist. “Fair like you following me down here when I’m supposed to be working? How ‘velvet-voiced’ do you think you’re going to sound after I shove my dick down your throat?”
Liam kissed him, grabbing the sides of Scott’s face, as if Scott wanted to be anywhere but there, where he could taste Liam, breathe Liam—God—feel the stroke of his tongue send a shock to Scott’s balls. He could stay right here forever. Until the pressure built and he couldn’t.
Fuck waiting.
Scott dragged Liam under the stairs. A quick hand job now was the only way Scott could survive the night. As he reached for Liam’s fly, a grin against his mouth told him this was exactly what Liam had been planning when he came down here.
Scott lifted his mouth enough to whisper, “Christ. How did I forget how pushy you are?”
“Because you like where I push you to.”
“Damn right.”
The door to the cellar banged open above them. “Scott. You’re bringing that keg up today, yes?”
If it had been anybody but Mrs. S., he might have snarled something back. Instead, her voice acted like an ice bucket on his balls. “Right now, Mrs. S.”
As Scott stepped back, Liam raised an eyebrow at him.
“Not one fucking word, Walsh.” Scott started wheeling the cart to the foot of the stairs. “Or you can figure out how to fuck yourself at that motel.”
Schim’s had filled up since Scott had gone downstairs. They were three deep at the bar, and people were already trying to stake out a spot close to the stage, though the band wasn’t playing for another ninety minutes.
As Scott straightened up from switching out the keg, he saw that a table near the end of the bar now had a sloppily lettered Reserved sign slapped on top. For the band? There were three chairs tilted to lean against it. The traveling bands usually sat in their vans until they came on. Reeve was helping his sister behind the bar; Mac and the drummer had disappeared as soon as they’d set up.
Reeve pulled a glass of Blood Orange Ale and snatched a twenty from the guy he put it in front of. “Scotty, my hero. You gotta thank that Brooks guy—wait, introduce him to me. He’s been tweeting and instagramming about the band, and just look at this place. How the fuck did you get in with him?”
Scott tore his gaze away from the sign and scanned the crowd for Kellan. “Don’t see him yet. And I’m not in with him. He likes the band.” He nodded at the reserved table. “You set that up for him?”
Reeve tapped at the cash register and stepped back to the bar to give the guy his change. “No. But please, man, whatever’s going on with you and Liam, can you just keep a lid on it until after the show? He’s skittish enough.”
Liam hadn’t seemed freaked at all ten minutes ago.
“What happened?” Scott turned his full attention on Reeve.
Reeve shrugged. “We had a set list and now he’s tweaking out about it.”
As good as Reeve’s songs and Mac’s playing were, any idiot could tell nothing mattered as much as Liam’s vocals. Scott crossed his arms. “So change it.”
“You know, if we hired a manager, I’m pretty sure I’d have known.”
“Am I the only person working here?” Chai hip-bumped her brother out of her way. “Scott, bring up some more Jäger and schnapps, those Moon Shots are going fast.”
Chai had repurposed a cocktail recipe into what she was calling Moon Shots in honor of the band. She was stressing the Jäger to the customers, but Scott bet there was more of the cinnamon and orange schnapps in the cocktail shakers.
“Jäger and schnapps, coming up.” The sooner he dropped it off, the sooner he could find out what had Liam’s shorts in a bunch.
Of course, nothing was ever that easy. As soon as he dropped off the case, Chai sent him down for another keg. By the time he was dragging that behind the bar, Reeve had vanished. Well, Liam was a big boy who didn’t need Scott to hold his hand—or fight his battles.
Chai grabbed his arm and, through yelling and sign language, told him to pour out a tray of her premixed Moon Shots. He handed the tray off to the waiting server and tried to get a look at the reserved table, but a crowd of girls at that end of the bar were holding up their phones for selfies. He pressed a palm against the bar for leverage as he tried to look around them.
“Scott. Hey.” Eli put a hand on Scott’s shoulder.
Scott saw the kiss coming and managed to duck out of the way.
Eli laughed. “So who do I have to blow in this place to get a drink?”
“Me.” Chai folded her arms. “So you might be out of luck.”
“Name the time and place, gorgeous.” Eli batted his eyes.
Chai shot a look at Scott, her brows raised in an is-this-guy-for-real question. He shrugged an answer.
“What are those pretty things in the blue plastic shot glasses?” Eli said.
“Moon Shots. One for five, two for eight.” Chai’s pricing had led to her raking in two-dollar tips all night.
“Gimme four. And keep the change.” Eli slapped a twenty on the bar.
Chai tipped her head toward the jug she was pouring the shots out of, and Scott set them up.
Chai had moved on to the next customer, so Scott had to hand her the cash.
“Remind me to train you on the register tomorrow, and cover for Ford at the door so he can take a piss. And don’t punch anyone tonight.”
He hadn’t punched anyone on Friday. He’d wanted to, but he’d only dragged that would-be stage diver outside. He saluted Chai and headed for the door. The reserved table was still empty.
“Thirty-five more,” Mrs. S. said from behind her cash box.
Ford handed him the pocket black light and gripped his shoulder. “Thanks, man. Be right back.”
The cover was only ten tonight. Chai and Reeve had argued over it, Reeve saying that would scare people away from an unknown band and Chai claiming they needed to act like they were worth it if they wanted people to care. Mac had said, “She’s right,” then disappeared before the argument started up again.
