Bad Habit, page 16
There wasn’t a line now, but as they checked IDs and collected the cover, people bunched up, which was why Scott didn’t have any warning before he looked at the next customer and found himself asking Liam’s mom for ID.
She looked older, her skin tighter, lines deeper on her face, but there was no mistaking that look of stunned disapproval. “Scott? Liam never mentioned you working here.”
Scott forced a swallow past the tightness in his throat and nodded. “Mrs. Walsh.”
“It’s Becker now.” A quick hand movement indicated the tall middle-aged white guy next to her. “My husband, Greg.”
What was he supposed to say to that? Nice catch? I never expected to see you off coke for more than a month?
Scott kept right on nodding. His throat wouldn’t let him talk anyway. Least now he was pretty sure he knew the reason for Liam’s sudden twitchiness. And the reserved table.
“And this is Deon.”
Of course it was. Marilyn Walsh—Becker, that was—produced Liam’s ex-boyfriend with a flourish like a magician executing a trick.
“We’ve met.” Deon pushed the words out in a tight voice that didn’t give Scott any clue about what the fuck was going on.
Chai’s warning echoed in Scott’s head. And don’t punch anyone.
“What’s the holdup?” someone called from the crowd behind the Beckers. And guest.
“Thanks for covering.” Ford was back. “There a problem?”
Scott passed back the black light. “No problem at all.” He pushed past Deon and stepped outside. “They’re with the band.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I SAID I was fine with it. I just thought we should start harder and faster.” Liam watched Reeve stick the set list onto the curve of the Epiphone Casino. Once they were onstage, everything would be fine. It was just the waiting that was killing him. He wanted to start now.
Mac’s eyes were closed as she sat with her back to the van’s wall, fingers sliding up and down her fret board.
Reeve handed the guitar back to Liam and checked his phone before issuing the latest report from his grandmother. “Amma says we’re thirty away from capacity, but it’s slowed down.”
“Holy shit.” Dev leaned over from the passenger seat and snatched the phone from Reeve’s hand. “That’s, like, what? Almost three hundred people?”
“Two-twenty is our limit.”
“Okay, so two hundred. For us, man. Can you believe it?”
According to Dev and Reeve, Backward Gaze had been lucky to draw thirty people on their own, and when they’d opened for other bands, they’d been heckled. Liam was glad he hadn’t been around for that.
“Cool,” Liam agreed as Dev passed him the phone. As Liam turned to hand it off to Reeve, Scott’s name seemed to jump off the screen.
Under Reeve’s grandmother’s text about them approaching capacity was a second text. Anybody seen Scott?
Liam jabbed at the screen as he pushed the phone under Reeve’s nose. “Did something happen to Scott?”
Dev made a disgusted sigh. “Dude. Could you be more of a thirteen-year-old girl?”
“Speak for yourself, asshole.” Mac slipped a joint out of her shirt and lit it before closing her eyes again. She took a couple of hits before leaning to offer the joint to Reeve, who shook his head. Liam accepted it gratefully.
He didn’t know if the weed was that good or he just wanted it to be, but he felt better by the time Mac passed it to him again. Scott was probably just dragging a keg around, Reeve was right about the opener, and they were going to crush it tonight.
He couldn’t wait to get on the stage.
“We got this, right?” Reeve asked them.
Mac sucked a last hit. “Aye, aye, chief.”
LIAM CHECKED his mic, then stepped back, nodding in the direction of the soundboard. The stage lights made it impossible to see much more than shadows after the first ten feet. He didn’t need to see or even feel the crowd to know it was there, though. The expectant energy poured onto the stage, vibrating up his bones—even the ones made of carbon fiber—to fill his head with a rush of excitement. He wanted to feel like this all the time.
It was like sex. No, it was like sex with Scott. But the sparks from this intense connection were shared with a bunch of strangers.
Not all strangers. Right at the edge of his field of vision, Kellan’s blond head and height stood out. As Kellan raised a phone and thumb, Liam spotted Nate next to him.
Liam wished he could see Scott.
He let his fingers brush the frets to get ready for the first chord and heard the whisper of that friction echo in the amp.
Reeve tapped his mic and the crowd’s volume dropped. “We want to dedicate this first song to my grandfather—”
“Shut up and play something,” someone yelled from the dark, followed by shuffling and shushing.
Then Chai’s voice rang out from the bar. “Pop Schim!”
There were enough regulars familiar with the ritual. Echoed toasts followed, lots of people raising those little blue shot glasses.
Reeve went on. “And to everyone who’s sacrificed to serve this country. Including our lead singer, Liam Walsh.”
That had not been part of the set list. Liam jerked his head around to see Reeve pointing at him as the crowd cheered. Liam mouthed What the fuck? at him.
Just holding the guitar was all the memory he could handle of Ross. Hard enough to get through the lyrics of “Rooster” without picturing Ross crawling toward him. Now Reeve had to go and make people want to see if Liam got all tripped up with emotion?
He wanted to tear off the Epiphone’s strap and get the fuck out of there, but Dev tapped his sticks with the cue and Liam’s fingers settled on the strings instead.
Reeve’s bass hummed deep while Mac’s Gibson started the mournful whine. Reeve’s and Mac’s voices were naturally an eerie half step off each other on the backing vocal.
The audience crooned along, though an impatient voice started the lyrics and got shouted down.
Liam exhaled, then opened his chest to hit midrange, and everything was perfect again because it was about the music. The crowd screamed at the end of the first phrase, and Liam focused on that energy, slitting his eyes against the light, and poured the feeling back into every note. On the second verse, the audience screamed at every one of the trills and riffs Mac slid into the peaks and valleys.
He felt it all in his chest, the music somehow coming through him from someplace else. He barely flinched at the line about a dying friend, and by the time they were on to the Puddle of Mudd song, he wasn’t thinking much at all.
The last song before the break was one of Reeve’s, “The Art of Quitting.” Starting off with a drum solo that proved why Reeve put up with Dev’s shitty attitude, the bitter lyrics were all about betrayal. Reeve swore it wasn’t a romantic breakup but about the old lead singer and guitarist quitting the band.
Liam spat the verse in a harsh whisper and then opened his throat to scream the chorus. Had he ever been that angry himself? If he’d written the song, he’d feel like he was up here naked. Scott probably understood the feeling better. No shit. Liam had been the whining bitch the lyrics talked about, the one who threw everything away.
There was another instrumental section before the bridge, no melody, just Dev and Mac and Reeve passing around solos. He faded back as much as the small stage would let him, ducking out of the spots, grabbing a bottle of water out of the crate behind Mac. The warm fluid barely hit his throat before he felt it—a hard stare focused on the side of his face. Not someone watching the band. Just him. Scott?
He wanted to shade his eyes and peer back, but his cue was coming, the build of chords setting up the venom in the words of the bridge to the last chorus.
Since he didn’t have to play the guitar until the chorus, he held the mic in both hands. “And when you’re crawling, broken, bleeding.” He opened his eyes.
Fuck, not Scott. Deon glared from next to a poster-covered column ten feet back.
Liam shut his eyes again to get through the rest. “Don’t come to me.” His voice broke with emotion, exactly the way Reeve had wanted, but this was fear, not rage.
What the hell was Deon doing here? And what the fuck had happened to Scott?
IT WAS hard to slink close to the wall when you were hauling a case of liquor bottles through swaying bodies, but Scott was giving it his best shot. There was only so much hiding out in the storeroom he could get away with. He shifted his grip to step around two big guys who were throwing horns at the band—Liam’s band—and came face-to-frowning-face with the one he’d been trying to hide from all night.
“It was a surprise to see you here, Scott.” Marilyn leaned in to yell in his ear, but he still caught that assessing stare he’d become all too used to when surrounded by social workers.
He considered pretending he couldn’t hear her over the drum solo, but that would just make the moment last longer. “Yes, ma’am. I have to get back to work.” He hefted the case so she’d have to notice it.
“Liam mentioned he’d run into you at the car show, but not that you had a job here. Is there a reason he wouldn’t tell me?”
’Cause you’re his mom, not his girlfriend was what Scott wanted to say, but he didn’t. He also didn’t push through Marilyn to get to the bar. “Have to ask him.”
“Scott, goddamn it. Where’s my liquor?” Chai probably could be heard even next to the amps, and Scott had never been happier to see anyone as she jostled Marilyn out of the way.
Scott held on to the case and followed to take refuge behind the bar.
“Who’s that?” Chai put her mouth close to his ear as he unpacked the bottles.
“Liam’s mom.”
Marilyn was still at the service gate, watching them instead of her son.
Chai shot over another look as she made change for a drink. After slapping the cash in front of a customer, she grabbed Scott’s ear again. “What’s her issue with you?”
Scott snorted. “Long fucking story.”
Chai glanced down at his hands and Scott followed her gaze. His left pinky had been caught in a chain and almost ripped off one time, but he didn’t think that was what she was staring at. The light over the register showed up the scrapes on his knuckles, skin lost to contact with the rough cellar wall.
Not on purpose, though. He’d almost lost control of a keg earlier. Hell, his knuckles were often more swollen than not, though it was usually from trying to work a wrench inside an engine instead of contact from something like a wall. Or a jaw. He’d never hit anyone who hadn’t attacked first—except those two times with Liam. Shit. Maybe Marilyn was right to look at him like he was a monster trying to steal her innocent child.
“No punching, right?” Chai shoulder-bumped him.
“No punching.”
A burst of screams and applause was followed by Reeve’s amplified voice. “Yeah. All right. Thank you.”
More screeches from the crowd.
“Thank you,” Reeve said again. “Stick around. We’ll be back in ten.”
Liam probably needed a few minutes to soothe that voice of his, to wipe off the sweat, and do whatever else musicians did when they took a break, but Scott had to know what the fuck Liam’s maybe-not-so-ex-boyfriend was doing here. Marilyn had abandoned her post at the service gate.
Scott started off in that direction, but Chai yanked him back with a grip on his T-shirt.
“Not you.” She pushed him toward the taps. “Pour what I tell you. Two Blood Orange.”
Pouring beer into plastic cups didn’t require a lot of focus. Scott peered through the taps. Between the height and the braids, Deon was easy enough to get a fix on. He handed off the cups.
“Two Doggie Style, one Salty Crab.”
Scott froze with his hand on the Salty Crab tap watching Liam land awkwardly as he charged off the stage and headed straight for Deon.
The beer splashed over his hand, and Scott released the tap—along with the breath he’d been holding. No way was this turning out to be some joyful reunion with hearts and flowers and shit. Liam’s jaw was tight enough to crack a molar, and he looked more likely to strangle the dude than to hug him.
Scott finished the order and slid it to Chai. Marilyn joined Deon and Liam. Based on her hand movements, she was trying to calm things down.
With every breath squeezing past the tightness in his throat, Scott sidled to the Honeydew Jalapeño, then back along to the Bare Ass Blonde tap, while Chai kept snapping orders. Thank fuck she’d kept him from doing something stupid. They weren’t kids at St. Bennie’s anymore, and Liam didn’t need Scott fighting his battles for him. Liam had goddamned been to war.
Or maybe at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Scott had wised up to the fact that the only person in the world more stubborn than him was Liam fucking Walsh.
Liam shook off his mom’s hand while shaking his head and stomped toward the bar, proving Scott’s point for him.
He stalked up to the service gate. “Can I get a couple of waters for the band?” He stared straight at Scott, though Chai was closer.
“Earth to Scott. Where’re those Bare Asses?” Chai cut in.
Scott made the handoff. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Marilyn come up behind Liam. Loud enough for Scott to hear, she said, “Deon was the one who encouraged you to audition. He drove you to all of the practices. Why wouldn’t I invite him?”
“I told you why.” Liam’s sigh was weighted with frustration.
Filling the next order took Scott out of earshot, but when he stepped back, Liam was ducking his head away from his mom. “His decision, Mom. Hey, Scott, can I get those waters now?”
Scott turned and opened the fridge door. He was a good six feet away, but Marilyn’s voice easily cut through all crowd noise. “Don’t tell me you’re back together with Scott?”
One of the plastic bottles almost slipped out of Scott’s hands, but he pinned it against his chest.
Liam’s answer came quick and loud and full of disgust. “I’m not.”
That was exactly what Scott wanted him to say. What they’d agreed on.
Yet Liam’s answer still knifed a gash under Scott’s ribs so deep he fought the urge to reach down and stuff his guts back in.
Instead he thunked the four plastic bottles of water in front of Liam and Marilyn.
“Well, at least there’s that,” Marilyn said.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Liam’s hand shot out to grab one, and Scott jerked his fingers back so they didn’t touch, accidentally or otherwise.
Marilyn met his gaze. “Scott.”
Just his name. Was it supposed to be an apology? A greeting? A drink order?
Or a challenge?
“Ma’am? Can I get you something?”
She shook her head.
Liam scooped up the waters. “Mom, I gotta go. Thanks for coming.” He tapped her shoulder with his free hand and headed for the alley door.
“Scott. Two more Blood Orange.” Chai slapped the wood next to him.
“Coming right up.”
SCOTT PAUSED to catch his breath as he hauled up the keg of Blood Orange. He’d been running stock most of Liam’s second set. This last fucking keg felt like double the weight. As Scott wheeled it through the service gate, he shot a glance toward that reserved table. Marilyn and her new husband were still there. No Deon. Thank fuck.
The only thing he’d heard from Liam since he’d told his mom that of course he wasn’t back with Scott was a text. Not that Scott understood what the hell it said. It was two little boxes with question marks in them—what Scott’s cheap phone showed him when someone sent him an emoji—followed by the word later and a question mark.
As Scott hooked up the new keg and rolled out the tapped one, the music slammed to a stop and Reeve called out, “Thank you. We are Blow the Moon. Good night.”
The more the crowd screamed and clapped, the more the corner of Scott’s lips tried to lift in a proud smile. They were still clapping when Scott got back from dropping off the empty keg.
“Well, shit.” Chai met him at the service gate. Scott followed her gaze to where the crowd was all waving their lighted phones at the stage. She huffed out a sigh. “He’s going to be fucking impossible after this.” Pointing at the back door, she said, “Go get them.”
“Huh?”
“They want an encore.”
Scott had to tighten his jaw to keep his scowl in place as he ducked out through the side to Reeve’s van. After three bangs on the back door, Reeve popped it open.
“For Cthulhu’s sake, keep it in your pants, man.”
“They want an encore,” Scott snapped, looking anywhere but at Liam, though he couldn’t help catching a glimpse of Liam’s excited face.
“No fucking way.” The drummer lunged forward.
Scott shrugged and backed away, using his key to get back in the side door rather than the one by the stage.
He detoured into the storage closet and shut the door behind him. This was his life. Even if he wasn’t living in this particular little shitty box, tiny apartments were all he was ever going to be able to afford. He’d always be working at some nowhere job until his temper got the better of him and he had to go find another one. But Liam. He could do anything. He had a good job. And now he had this singing thing. Even his mom wasn’t dragging him down anymore.
Maybe leaving Scott was the best thing that had happened to Liam. Scott should be a little less selfish and remind Liam of that.
But goddamn it. He wanted this one fucking night. And he was gonna have it.
He slipped back out.
The band was doing a Breaking Benjamin song as the encore. A solid ballad, Liam’s voice soaring over the music, so warm and clear Scott felt like he ought to be able to touch it. Even Chai was standing still to listen.
The yearning in the lyrics—in Liam’s voice—made Scott want to promise him anything. Worse, it made him wish for those days when he believed that they’d always be a part of each other’s lives. In the song, Liam pleaded with everyone to stay, and as sure as the headaches coming after all those Jäger shots, Scott knew he’d never be the one to leave. He forced his fisted hands to unclench and shoved back the hair that had fallen onto his sweaty forehead. Any more of this and he’d be charging the stage like a lovesick groupie.
