Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty #3)(75)

Not that Micah wasn’t good, because he was. One of the best. But he was smooth as silk and his sound blended seamlessly into the band, so much a part of the music that you didn’t even notice it.

A lot of people would say that was the mark of a good bass player—and it was. But now, after hearing Drew play the same songs, she realized it also wasn’t enough. Drew’s style was much more jagged, much more raw. He tangled his notes up with Jared’s, let them duke it out a little bit for supremacy, and the results were incredibly powerful, roughed up versions of Shaken Dirty’s most celebrated songs.

It was magic, pure magic, and she was standing right in the epicenter of it all, completely spellbound. Just like the rest of the audience, who were so caught up in what was happening on stage that they almost forgot to cheer at the end of a few songs. Almost.

Ryder—in full lead singer mode—was eating up the attention. He was hamming it up with Jared, with the crowd, even with Drew. Laughing, joking, snarling, singing—she could tell he was having the time of his life.

Jared was a little more subdued, but not by much. He was playing off every member of the band, engaging Drew, Quinn, and Wyatt in playing duels that had everyone in the audience—including her—in awe of what they could do.

Quinn was grinning from ear to ear, delivering zingers every once in a while at Ryder and Jared that had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand.

Drew looked like he was having the time of his life, singing, playing, flirting with the audience… His playing was amazing—dirty, sexy, raw—and he was leaving it all on stage tonight, everything he hadn’t been able to do with Smoke and Mirrors holding him back.

And Wyatt—for her, it always came back to Wyatt. Though, to be fair, for a lot of the crowd tonight, it came back to him, too. He was on fire, totally in the zone as he wailed away on the drums so fast that at times his hands were an actual blur. She’d been worried about him playing, considering the mess he’d made of those hands yesterday, but when she’d brought it up that morning he had just smiled at her and told her it was part of the job, and that once he was up there, he wouldn’t even notice.

She didn’t know if that was true, didn’t know if he was hurting or not. All she knew was that he’d never sounded better—or looked hotter. Sweat was pouring off of him, had his hair clinging to his face and rivulets of water streaming down his glistening, inked up chest—he’d lost his shirt somewhere in the middle of the set, and she didn’t think anyone missed it. God knew, she didn’t.

He was gorgeous, so gorgeous, like this. His skin gleaming in the stage lights, his arm and chest and stomach muscles bunching, rippling, with every move he made. His smile was huge, his eyes clear, and he looked like he was having a ball. Like this, right here, was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Just the thought had her closing her eyes, had her wrapping her arms around her middle as she gave thanks to the universe and whatever spiritual being ruled it, that he had this opportunity. That after all the drug abuse and all the pain, that he was here, right here, on this stage. Exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was always meant to do.

It was amazing what a week could do.

They had just launched into “Pieces of You,” the crowd quieting as the first strains of the poignant, desperate love song filled the club, when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She almost ignored it—she really didn’t want to miss this—but at the same time, she had a feeling she knew exactly who was calling her.

Pulling out her phone, she glanced at the caller ID—and sure enough, it was her father. Deciding she’d rather deal with the bitching out now instead of later, she swiped to answer, holding the phone up to her ear and telling him, “Hold on. I’m going outside.”

She quickly made her way out the front of the club, grabbing a with-the-band pass from the manager on her way out so she could get back in without a hassle. And then she was taking a deep breath, bracing herself for this latest battle in her on-going war with her father.

“Okay, Dad. I’m here.”

She expected him to yell like he always did, to demand to know who she thought she was. Instead he was cold, ice cold, without an ounce of condescension when he said, “You’re fired.”

“What did you say?” she asked, certain she had heard him wrong.

“I said, you’re fired. I’ve put up with a lot of things from you through the years, young lady, but this is the last straw. Get back to New York and pack your things. You’re done.”

“But, Dad, if you could only see how well Drew works with Shaken Dirty—”

“I don’t care how well the sound works. I don’t care if he’s that band’s second coming, you had no business doing what you did and you know it. You’re lucky I don’t fire your brother, too, just for putting the label in this position.”

“Don’t fire him. He tried to stop me—”

“Believe me, I am aware of that. The fact that he failed does not particularly impress me, but I will deal with him separately. You, however, are locked out of the company’s systems as of ten p.m. tonight. There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the apartment. I’ll expect you to be on that plane to New York tomorrow morning and to return your laptop and your cell phone once you get back to town.”

“And if I don’t take that plane?” she asked, her voice steady, despite the way her hands were shaking and her knees were suddenly knocking together.