Manaconda (Hammered #1)(22)

I gripped my biceps. “By the end of the night, sure. Not during a fan event.”

Wyatt’s ginger eyebrow arched.

“He should have mentioned it.”

“Because it wasn’t important,” he shot back.

“Oh, really? Then why does he look like he got his dick caught in the cookie jar?”

Wyatt swiped his hand over his face. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Christ, even mentioning Vic makes you insane.”

“And that’s why Bats hanging with my ex-fiancée shouldn’t be a non-issue. She’s a user.” Of people more than drugs, though nothing would surprise me about Victoria. I stared at my guitarist, praying he felt the heat of my gaze. “What? Is her Twitter account too low? Not enough followers on Instagram? Needs to get her face splashed around again?”

“I can’t talk to you like this.” Wyatt shook his head. “Just don’t do anything stupid until you talk to him.”

I crossed my arms. “Not like you to play ref, Wyatt. Usually you’re wading into the fight with me.”

“This time he doesn’t deserve it. Bats might be a crazy motherf*cker sometimes, but he wouldn’t go there.”

I tried to relax, but my shoulders were achingly tight. I wanted to believe Bats wouldn’t do something stupid with Victoria, but I knew her. I’d almost f*cking married her. She had a way about her—a fragility that got under a man’s skin. I’d fallen for it for years.

Too many years.

I fisted my hands under my arms and nodded. I didn’t trust myself to do anything else.

Indie crossed the room to us. “Let’s get you guys to the rooftop. Food and drink time. No press.”

“Fuckin’ A,” I muttered.

I followed her to the stairs and back up to a private hallway. A crowd of people took the back exit from the theater out to the expansive rooftop space. Normally, it was crowded with clubbers. The Ace Hotel might be one of the oldest establishments in Los Angeles, but it stayed current. It was all ours tonight, thanks to Tristan and Donovan’s connections. Night had descended, the air a helluva lot cooler than inside. Heaters that looked more like torches were lit around the pool.

Bats was surrounded by women, bottle in hand. He stripped down to an eye-searing canary yellow speedo that I could not unsee, and cannonballed in. He emerged from the water, shaking like a dog. “Body shots!”

I turned away with a shake of my head. Patrick would have his hands full tonight. Bats’ behavior made the skin between my shoulders band even tighter. The more out of control he was, the more he’d usually f*cked up.

I couldn’t think about that now. I wouldn’t. Not when my night had the opportunity to end on a much higher note. One with a distracting redhead with lips full enough to give the most pious of men fantasies. And no one ever took me for a saintly man.

I passed the liquor stations in favor of a craft beer. I didn’t want to get obliterated tonight.

I wandered away from the laughter and the noise. I needed to shake off my mood. The view of Los Angeles below helped. From up here it didn’t seem quite so plastic and false. Today had revealed a pathetic level of both.

One of the thousand reasons I didn’t live in the city anymore. I needed the mountains and the distance to keep the love alive. Looking out at the city from my house in the hills helped. Staying out of the nightlife that had ruled my world for years had too. Luckily I didn’t fall into the Tristan trap all that often.

The rough cement of the half wall dug into my palms. I counted to twenty, forcing my limbs to relax, my muscles to unravel. Tonight was about my band and my friends. It wasn’t about the past, and it wasn’t about the stupid Rolling Stone cover. I needed to put all the bullshit aside.

“Hello, brother.”

I twisted away from the view. “Christ, Noah. You made it.” I pulled my big brother in for a hug, slapping his back before my grip firmed on his shoulders.

“Wouldn’t miss my baby brother’s big day.” He slapped my back in a return hug before stepping back.

“When did you get in?”

“I got here at the tail end of the press thing.”

My eyebrows lowered. “Great.”

“What a f*ckin’ circus. They were out for blood, man.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

He stole my beer. “Cheers.”

“Dick.”

A pale eyebrow arched. “I believe your dick is the one in question.” He took a sip. “On all the things. And all the picture, and topics…”

“Fuck off.” I laughed.

His eyes were bluer than mine, a helluva lot more rested, and practically gleamed in good humor. My brother was the laidback sort, when he wasn’t working anyway. He leaned against the half wall next to me and jerked his chin at the revelry. “Doing well for yourself, I see.”

I shrugged. “The label is happy with our current sales, that’s all.”

“Yeah. That’s all. I can’t turn on the television without seeing some form of picture of your junk, bud. I know the Jordan men are blessed, but they put the wrong man on the cover for that particular description.”

I snagged a beer from a passing waiter and chucked the cap at him. “I hate you.”