Boys in the Band

Boys in the Band

Adrenaline: Big time country singer Travis Reed is known for crazy stunts and good music, but with a maniac threatening his life, management won’t stand for his risk taking. They hire Wyatt Chastain as Travis’s personal security, to keep Travis safe from his stalker—and from himself. Attraction between them is white hot from the start, but when life gets crazy, they have to learn to trust each other as deeply as they desire each other.

Boys in the Band: Guitar player Spud is the band’s go-to guy, giving comfort and aid whenever he can. That changes when Caidon comes aboard. Caidon wants to tour and play, he wants Spud, and he’s not afraid to go against the band to get what he wants. Trouble is, the guys aren’t pleased with having to share Spud’s attention.

If Wishes Were Horses: Malcolm Parker had a thing for Dalton Amos years ago, before Dalton got famous and Malcolm got screwed out of the limelight. Now Dalton’s an aging superstar with a damaged voice, and Malcolm’s the successful songwriter. When Dalton shows up at Mal’s door, Malcolm considers tossing him out on his ass. But attraction still burns between them, and the old friends must decide if they can be lovers once more.

Adrenaline

1

T . Someone nudged him from his corner on the sofa. T, there’s a party in Tahoe, man.

Oh, Travis liked Tahoe. Liked it a lot. We could all go to Mt. Rose, huh? Snowboard?

It was early enough, there should still be snow.

Snow rocked.

Snowboarding. Skiing. Rolling around. Hot buttered rum. Hot tubs.

Dude.

There was nothing sexier than a naked guy with a Stetson in a hot tub.

You know it, man. Me and Harry, we got a Blazer. Harry’s following. We’ll just jump in at the next pit stop. Man, not only did Jeff play a mean guitar, he had a cousin who would do anything for a laugh and a case of beer, not to mention a blowjob. Harry made a good-looking addition to the band. Too bad the little bastard was getting grumpy in his old age.

I’m in. Don’t tell Saul or Donnie. They’ll get all tense about making that show in LA.

He’d make the show. Maybe not the rehearsal, but the show? He’d make that.

Cool. You want a guitar? You got four days. You’ll want to write.

Man, Jeff knew all about him, huh? Too bad the man was seriously addicted to boobies. You know it.

The bus finally pulled in at the diesel stop—a Love’s or something—and he and Jeff were just about ready to jump ship when the damned door hissed open, and not to let them out to buy souvenirs and go potty.

Nope, this was to let someone on. The guy was tall, broad, and dressed in jeans so old they were almost transparent, worn long over plain brown cowboy boots. A brown leather jacket and a winter Stetson completed the look.

Well, well.

Huh. Jeff’s greasy head came in close. Who’s that?

Dunno. Doesn’t matter, really, ’less he’s a reporter. That would suck. Travis didn’t like when the reporters got on the fucking bus. He had enough trouble with groupies.

Travis rolled up, headed right over. Hey, there. I’m Travis. You are?

Friend? Foe? Psychopathic killer? Lost cowboy? Reporter?

One big square hand poked out to grab his and shake firmly. Wyatt Chastain. I’m your new personal security.

Huh? Wyatt? Like in Earp? You probably need to talk to the management types. We’re just flunkies back here. Guitar bunnies.

Nobody important. Just guys fixin’ to hop into a truck and head to the slopes. La-la-la.

Oh, I talked to the management. That’s why I’m here. The guy tilted his head, eyes the color of black coffee narrowing. I thought you’d be taller, man.

Oh, no he didn’t.

The whole bus went quiet, the guys backing right off. God fucking save him from tall bastards with too long legs and an attitude. He might be little but….

His fist connected good and hard against the man’s chin, knocking the black hat right off. Get him off my bus.

It might have been a little more dramatic if that guy didn’t have a fucking jaw of steel and a smile like a shark on the hunt for a seal. Not bad. But I ain’t going anywhere.

Paul, call Rick and tell him we’ve got a problem. Jeff, come with me, we’ll find Vicki. He nodded toward the door, slipping around big, bad, and toothy. They’d hop in the Blazer and deal with this in LA next week.

Whatever you say, T. Jeff knew how to play.

The Blazer’s gone, by the way, Wyatt said, just leaning on the little bucket chair, arms crossed.

Goddamn it. Jeff’s cell started ringing. ’Lo? Harry! Dude! Where’d you bug out to?

Travis didn’t say a word, just headed to the door. Who the fuck was this big guy and how the hell did the asshole know about Harry and….

Dude.

The Harley.

He made it out, but damned if big and bristly didn’t come along. You know, you have a head on the bus.

You sure? Go away, man. He slipped between two gas pumps, dodging this old dude that looked like a wooden Indian.

I am. Look, would you stop hopping along like a jackrabbit on speed? I’m sticking with you, no matter what.

I don’t need sticking with. I’m off ’til next week. He was getting the Harley out, going. Oh, dude. Green apple Jolly Ranchers. He headed into the Love’s, grabbing the gimme cap out of his pocket and pulling it on.

You think? What about the goat? Or that thing where you tried to climb the volcano at the Mirage?

Oh, dude, this guy was way too well informed.

The volcano needed climbing. What? Did you fuck Vicki or something? Everybody knew his manager babbled during sex.

No. I got a report on you from your management team. I don’t go in blind. Wyatt followed him into the store. Hey, they’ve got peach rings.

Go in where? He grabbed a case of energy drinks and… where the fuck was the beef jerky?

To a job. Do you have hearing loss? I know some musicians do. I did say I was your new security. The big ape took the energy drinks away from him and set them back on the shelf.

You. I. What are you doing? He was going to explode in a burning ball of flame. Was that a song? No, that was a burning ring of fire.

Jeff came in, touched his arm. Harry’s gone, man. Vicki and this big asshole were waiting.

Those things cause kidney stones. Big guy stared at Jeff. You shouldn’t encourage him.

Fuck that. He and Jeff managed it together, and then he grabbed the case back and headed to the counter, Jeff starting enough shit to distract Big and Not Terribly Rich. Hey there, ma’am. I need this, two bags of beef jerky, and a carton of Camels.

Oh! My! God! You’re Travis Reed! Oh God! Will you sign my shirt?

Fuck him raw.

Honey, he’ll be happy to if you ring him up and keep it down. Wyatt moved in, all smiles but all steel, and before he knew it, he’d signed the chickie’s boob, gotten his smokes and drinks, and was back on the bus.

Without anyone else even seeing him.

The bus was almost empty, but for Rick, the tour manager, looking nervous as hell, shifting from foot to foot on the weird-assed purple carpet they’d bought from a Navajo lady last tour. Boss? You…. Everything cool?

You got something to tell me? He popped the top of one can and started chugging.

Vicki sent him. Said he’s security. He shouldn’t be a problem. You’re just so recognizable now, you know, Boss? What if someone was stalking you or something?

Rick was a hell of an organizer and a kick-ass manager, but a really shitty liar.

Damn, that drink hit the spot. He grabbed number two. Stalking me? Have you noticed any stalkers?

Well, you sure get recognized a lot more. And you know, when you snarl at people for telling you they thought you would be taller….

Wyatt laughed right out loud at that.

Rick. I will fire you. He was fucking tired of that joke.

Sorry, Boss. He shouldn’t get in your way. At all. Really. We can just get on the road and head toward LA.

Yeah, and miss the whole ski thing. He didn’t think so.

We’re going to Tahoe. All of us. I want to see the snow.

So we go to Tahoe. All of us. That works. The man just had this thing. Arrogance. Yeah, that was it.

Whatever. Jeff, I’ll see you tomorrow. Rick, find the new guy a bunk. I got stuff to do. Songs to write. Movies to watch. Stuff.

Night, T. Rick and Jeff disappeared like smoke, leaving him with the new guy…. With no bunk.

You better hurry. The buses are fixin’ to roll. Jesus, he had a headache. Brenda? Honey?

The biggest, baddest bull dyke on earth grinned over from the cab, gold tooth shining. Yeah, T?

We’re going to Tahoe.

No shit? Cool. I got you, T. No worries. We’ll drive on.

You’re a doll. Maybe Brenda could help him kick the big guy’s ass.

Nah.

He’d manage.

Do you have a spare tire iron in here?

Nope. Sorry, honey. There might be a mic stand in back. The bus started rolling, Brenda getting them going. With the dude on the bus.

Fuck a duck backward.

2

They’d made it to Tahoe and were holed up in a private lodge. Wyatt had checked the place out, and it was sound. He had to admit, he’d learned a lot about his primary already.

Travis was used to calling the shots. He was, on the other hand, incredibly influenced by what the band wanted to do. He was shorter than Wyatt had expected, but he had this huge presence, an enormous amount of charisma. A lot of his clients had it when they were working and none when they turned off. This was a man who suffered from a hell of an excess of personality.

It was like working for the Energizer-fucking-bunny on an overdose of speed with a death wish.

Right now Travis was strumming his guitar and tapping his toes, headphones on. It was a rare moment of peace. There was a pencil, a pad, and the same few bars of music over and over.

Wyatt was a little fascinated by the process. He watched Travis out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be too damned obvious.

The man worked for hours; then the band members came in, trekking into the condo like they owned it. Jeff was a decent sort, even if he needed a bath now and then. The others he didn’t know much about, and Harry was supposedly one of Travis’s best friends, but he didn’t seem to be around much.

Jeff walked over and plucked the earphones off Travis’s head. Dude. You. Are. On. Vacation. Let’s go clubbing.

I’ve got a song!

You always have a song, doofus. I need to get fucked up.

Wyatt waited to see what his client would do. He hoped to hell he could just stay in and not have to be the bad guy vetoing getting stoned.

Travis looked toward the pad of paper on the table, then stood up and sighed. He didn’t really seem to want to go party, but he damned sure looked as if he was gonna.

Damn it. Wyatt stood too. So, tell me, guys, where are you going clubbing in Tahoe that Travis will be safe?

Safe? Is this dude for real? Jeff rolled his eyes at Travis. Seriously, we’ll put a hat on him. He’ll look like a surfer.

Honey, it’s not the beach. I can look like a snowboarder.

Snowboarder. Right on.

Uh-huh. Like the hat kept that chick from recognizing you at the truck stop. Your eyes are enough to get you recognized at first glance. Those baby blues were plastered over every album cover Travis had. He shook his head. You want to go out, fine, but I pick the place.

You look like a killjoy, though. Is he?

Travis looked over at him, head tilting. Now, how the fuck should I know? He sits there and watches.

That sounds like a drag. Jeff flipped off Wyatt. Come on, T. Let’s hit the road.

I’m coming with, Wyatt said.

No way.

Wyatt thought maybe he’d just punch Jeff in the face. It might improve the little bastard’s looks. He’d actually clenched his hand into a fist when he heard the door close behind him. What the fuck?

The spot where Travis had been was empty, and when he turned back around Jeff was gone. Little fuckers. Wyatt wasn’t sure whether to be pissed or impressed. He settled for amused, then grabbed his hat and his coat, hustling out to catch up. Thankfully, there was no way for them to leave the condo area without him seeing them.

Jeff was bundling Travis into the weird-assed little VW bus that someone that he’d never seen before was driving. Seriously? How many groupies could these guys possibly have?

Hundreds, he guessed. Maybe thousands. God knew, the guy would run off with anyone. Well, anyone but his handler.

The bus zoomed off about the time he got to the door of the thing, tires squealing on the snow. Goddamn it. Now he had to give chase. He was gonna requisition about a dozen tracking devices.

He barely caught sight of the snowmobile at the tree line, but he sure as shit heard it. Oh, Travis was good.

Smart bastard. Okay, now he knew they had more than one of those machines. Time to see if Wyatt remembered how to ride.

He got one started and headed out, adrenaline buzzing through his body. God, this was fun. The snow lay just deep enough for him to get moving without scraping, but not so deep that he sank. Wyatt was grateful because it took a few minutes for muscle memory to kick in.

Travis left a clear path, the snow glistening in the moonlight.

Wyatt felt a little like James Bond. Woo.

God, he’d been bored. Always better to be on the move, to stay busy. Passed the time.

Travis had slowed down, was slipping in and out of the trees, obviously playing. Wyatt hung back because he got it, he really did. The dude never got to go anywhere. He played all the time, but never got to let loose.

So since Jeff had moved on, Wyatt let Travis have a little fun.

The lights on the snowmobile turned to face him, the glow getting brighter and brighter. Wyatt wished he could be even relatively sure that Travis wouldn’t run right into him, hurting them both, and he was about a half heartbeat away from bailing off the sled when Travis zoomed past him, throwing snow, daring him to race.

Shit. He didn’t want to kill his primary, but Wyatt never had been able to resist a challenge.

He gunned it and they headed across the meadow, the snow flying. They both hit the center of the deepest snow, and he saw Travis’s craft begin to sink.

"Gun it!" Wyatt shouted, doubting Travis would hear it, but needing it out there in the ether.

Powder sprayed, and Travis stood on the sled, the engine screaming.

Wyatt pushed his machine just as hard, knowing he had to stay above the powder.

They ended up back on more solid ground, both of them panting, breath showing like smoke on the air. They pulled up to the shed behind the condo, sliding in to park the sleds.

Wyatt waited until he assessed Travis’s condition before he shouted. Have you lost your mind? No helmet? Are you trying to kill yourself? Damn, that felt good to bust out some shit.

Oh, fuck you, asshole. I’m not in need of a motherfucking babysitter, you fuckmonkey!

Well, hello aggro. Wyatt bared his teeth, feeling like he ought to beat his chest too. You sure as fuck do. You have no goddamned sense!

You’re fired. Get the fuck out of my face.

You can’t fire me, honey. He planted himself in front of Travis.

I just did. Travis’s fists slammed into Wyatt’s chest.

Someone had unresolved anger issues. Fucking A. Wyatt gave Travis a tiny shove, encouraging him. Nope.

Don’t you touch me! Another push, then Travis tackled him.

They went down into the snow, rolling over and over. Jesus, that was cold, and neither of them were dressed for snowmobiling, let alone combative snow angels.

He got Travis underneath him and just held the little son of a bitch down. Jesus, the kid was strong, for all the short and tiny. That body intrigued him, but he pushed that thought aside. Work, not play.

Let me up, asshole. Travis panted, body beginning to shiver.

Who wore jeans snowmobiling? Didn’t snow people say denim was the death fabric? Got wet, stayed wet, held cold in.

Come on. He hopped to his feet, then hauled Travis up too, those short legs dangling a moment. You need a warm shower.

I fired you. A-a-are you deaf?

Shower. Totally. He tugged Travis along with him, heading back for the condo. Shit, his nuts were gonna freeze off.

You’re not hearing me! His primary had a set of lungs on him.

I hear you. You’re loud enough to start an avalanche. I just don’t care, Wyatt stated, fighting a grin.

He got Travis stripped down and shoved into a hot shower, the little turd fighting him all the way. He had to admit, this was more fun than watching some cocaine-snorting asshole go through one whore after another. Travis was an original, for sure, and needing attention.

Wyatt was pretty sure Travis was getting off on this, that he was into it.

Maybe not sexually, but in that naughty-puppy-needs-someone-to-give-a-shit way.

He got it. Thousands of people loved to hear this guy sing, but how many of them really cared? Even the band seemed intent on using Travis for their own needs. Wyatt was there because Vicki, Travis’s manager, really did care.

Wyatt stripped out of his jeans and yanked on some sweatpants, keeping one eye on Travis. The poor guy had settled at the bottom of the tub, letting the hot water rain down on him.

Poor guy needed some real food and some sleep. In that order.

What’s your feeling about bacon? Wyatt asked through the doorway.

Does anyone not like bacon?

I worked for a rapper once who wouldn’t allow you in his entourage if you let it pass your lips. Wyatt chuckled. I quit.

Huh. Travis stood up, totally unconcerned with his nudity, and turned the water off. I work out enough to burn through the calories.

You could burn a pound of bacon just standing there, as good as your muscle tone is. Yeah. He noticed.

Probably. Ask my trainer. You’ll meet him on the road. I forget his name.

That was pretty sad. A guy spent a good bit of time with his trainer. Wyatt’s was named Alonzo.

Well, I’ll cook if you don’t run off.

I’ll do my best. Travis tugged on sweats and socks, a hat for the nearly bald head.

You just keep your authority issue under control. You’ll do fine. He winked, feeling like maybe Travis had worked off some of his mad.

I don’t have authority issues. I’m just tired of being told what to do.

Uh-huh. Right.

Well, asking doesn’t seem to get anywhere.

Fuck off. I told you, you’re fired. I don’t need a babysitter.

Wyatt shook his head. I’m not going anywhere.

Everyone else just goes along. What’s wrong with you?

Nothing. He met Travis’s curious gaze with his. The others are the ones in the wrong, honey.

You can either party or take your paycheck and look the other way. Travis rubbed his forehead, frowned a little. It’s not a hard thing to do.

I’ll do what I’m here to do. Wyatt grabbed a bottle of Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet and shook two out of the bottle once he’d opened it. Here.

Thanks. Tyler took them dry, then curled up on the couch, eyes closing.

Wyatt surprised himself by grabbing a quilt off the chair nearby and tucking Travis in. He’d leave the bacon in the microwave. Sleep actually trumped bacon in some cases.

This was one of them.

Goofy little fuck.

Wyatt thought, in another life, they could maybe be friends.

3

Travis was in heaven.

They found themselves at a little bar for a jam session—all of them. Amy’s fiddle was wailing like a runaway freight train, drawing folks in from all over. Jeffy and Donnie had their acoustics, while Harry played rhythm. Saul was goofing on the ancient upright tucked away behind the stage, while George tested out the trap set that had seen better days. Even Brenda was there, with her huge hands cradling her harmonica.

Travis had a microphone, a six-string, and a single spotlight. That was all he needed in life.

Hell, he could even pretend his big trained gorilla babysitter was part of the audience, sitting out there wearing a Stetson and tapping his foot in time. Travis could even entertain a little fantasy about hooking up with the guy afterward, pretending he was just a fan.

They started with the standards, then started seriously goofing off, playing the oldies, playing Willie and Waylon, Haggard and Jones. Someone requested Enter Sandman and they went to town, the whole place lighting up.

By the time they were slowing down, four hours had passed and the bar was packed, filled to bursting. Travis was dying for something that wasn’t a beer, but the music felt so good he couldn’t stop.

He felt more than saw someone plop a bottle down next to him, and when he did look, an icy cold bottle of water had appeared. Somehow he knew it would be safe since it came from Wyatt.

Travis sucked it down, the icy water hitting his belly with a splash. Oh, God. Good. Perfect, in fact. He nodded his