In a Chord (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (2 page)

“I got another fan letter for you, Keaton,” Byron said. “She told me to personally hand deliver or she’d squeeze my balls off. Since I rather like having my balls,” he said, holding out an envelope in one hand and a small recorder with another, “here you go.”

“Thanks,” he said, and pocketed the recorder. The envelope he opened and read quickly then tossed.

“Your girlfriend?” Ash smirked.

He rolled his eyes.

“What’s that?” Taylor asked, pointing to Keaton’s pocket.

“I asked Byron to record us tonight,” Keaton explained. “I want to listen to our performance, see where we can improve.”

“Man, you’re gonna worry yourself sick!” Taylor said, his voice sharp. “We’re the best band on the Strip.”

“And how long can we last with the same beat as the next up-and-coming group?” Keaton retorted. “I’ve been saying for months, there’s something missing in our sound.”

“You’ve got a fabulous voice,” Ash protested in a subdued voice, flipping a guitar pick in between and over his knuckles. It was an old habit he did with what he considered his lucky pick, the first one he had ever bought when he decided to learn how to play many years before.

That heartfelt compliment soothed Keaton. He threw a small, thankful smile at him. “I just wanna listen to our playback.”

“Dude, let it rest,” Taylor moaned, as if in pain. “We’ll get signed, and we’ll get rich. We’ll have girls. Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll!”

There was an excited cry from Mike as he high-fived Taylor.

“Really? That’s all you care about? Having money and a piece of ass?”

Taylor shrugged. “Or two or three. I’m not choosy.”

Keaton’s mouth twisted, though he wondered why he should be surprised at Taylor’s words. He pulled the recorder out from his pocket and plugged his iPod earbuds into it.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he muttered.

Ash rose and met him at the door. “You want me to go along?” he asked in a low voice.

Keaton met Ash’s sky-blue eyes. His palms itched to pull Ash close and devour his full lips, but not with everyone watching. No one knew of his relationship with Ash. They had both agreed to keep their relationship on the down low, not because of any stigma, but because they wanted people to focus on their music instead of who they were fucking.

So instead of kissing Ash, he gave a wry smile and shook his head. “I’ll see you later?”

“Sure.”

Keaton waved at everyone, put the buds in his ears, and left. As he walked out the bar’s side door, Taylor yelled behind him, “You’ll freeze to death!”

Keaton just gave a wave of his hand. He had only known Mike and Taylor for a few years, having met through the bar scene at local gigs. First was Taylor. They had become friends through the music they liked to listen to. When they decided to look for a keyboardist, Taylor had mentioned his old friend from school, Mike.

They had picked up Byron from one of their shows, a fan who said he could envision their future. So far, Byron had delivered, moving them from small gigs into the bigger clubs on the Strip.

The music helped keep his mind busy. Sometimes the notes and lyrics played over and over so much in his head it kept him up at nights. He liked singing so hard that he was exhausted when he went to sleep. Did he want to make it in the big leagues of major musical stardom? Maybe. He knew the others wanted that, as well as everything else that came with fame. Keaton didn’t care about the money or having his name in lights. It was the music that kept him going.

So he walked, hoping the long walk back to his apartment would tire him out enough so his brain would quiet. He listened to his band, knowing they sounded good but also knowing that they sounded like every other band out there.

Taylor was right. It was really cold out. His breath formed white mist out of his mouth, and it wasn’t long before his nose started to run. His leather jacket was way too thin for December.

A small coffee house across the street caught his attention, and the warm lights as well as the strong java smell convinced him to step inside to warm up. The first thing he noticed was that the coffee bar was actually part of a bookstore, so people sat around reading various books as they sipped their drinks. The second thing he noticed were many people who moved toward a small area in the back where seats were lined up around a small, elevated stage.

“What’s going on?” he asked the clerk as he placed his order for plain old coffee, black.

“There’s a performance tonight,” the young man replied, handing Keaton his coffee with one hand and a flyer in the other.

Keaton nodded his thanks and took the flyer, moving toward the back and finding a seat. Since the area wasn’t that large, all seats seemed to be good ones. He sipped his hot coffee and glanced over the flyer. It basically was a list of musical play dates and singers, poetry readers, and various other performers. And then a young woman walked out with an acoustic guitar, sat on the lone bar stool on the tiny stage, and smiled to the assembled audience.

She was beautiful, Asian with dark eyes shaped like pointed almonds. Her black hair streamed down her back and had undertones of red and purple strewn through its dark hue. She was a tiny thing, her guitar almost covering her up entirely. Keaton felt his breath hitch in his throat.

“Hello,” she greeted everyone in a singsong voice. Her dark eyes skimmed around the room in a brief glance but came back to him immediately. One eyebrow quirked a bit, and she seemed to give him a private, knowing smile. “My name is Momo Willows. Thank you so much for coming out on this chilly evening.”

And with that, she adjusted her guitar, plucked a few strings to hear their tone, and then started to sing. Her eyes fell shut, and she sang about love, the words feeling as if pulled from her heart in an aching voice. Her pitch was a little lower than soprano, its natural huskiness giving an almost darker flavor to it.

It was captivating. She was captivating. Keaton forgot his coffee. He forgot his surroundings. He forgot everything as he watched this tiny woman take him from the humble bookstore into a kaleidoscope of music and emotion, and he knew instantly, this was the sound Endymion needed.

Momo kept an eye on the handsome young man sitting just two seats back and to the right. She knew who he was, having just come from watching his band play at The Black Tiger. She made it a habit every weekend to see Endymion perform, and not just because of their music. Quite simply, the lead singer and electric guitar player were simply divine.

Keaton Gates bordered on a goth slash punk vibe, with some heavy metal thrown in there for good measure. He dyed his hair black, but his eyebrows were naturally dark over rich, chocolate eyes. He liked outlining them with kohl to make them stand out. Ashland Lance, however, was different. An angel. With his long curly blond hair and sky-blue eyes, he looked like he should be in a church choir rather than wringing out sweet music as lead guitarist.

And now one of those gorgeous men, Keaton Gates, was watching her sing. Nerves stung her a bit, so she had to look away from him every once in awhile. But her eyes kept straying back, addicted to the sight of him.

Tonight she sang a set of four songs that she had written in the past month. The melodies weren’t difficult, the chords very simplistic actually, but with her, it was always about lyrics and the passion that went into the meaning of the song. The last song she strummed a few notes first before singing.

The song was personal for her, about a man she had loved who hadn’t really loved her back. That had been a really dark time that had fueled many, many songs.

The end of the song was hummed as the melody played itself out. Finally, Momo looked up as the room exploded in applause. She smiled prettily, her eyes meeting and holding Keaton’s. She thanked everyone, shook hands with a few people, laughed and talked with others, and waited until the admiring audience slithered away. Finally, he stepped up to her with a hand held out. She took it and immediately felt strong jolts of electricity engulf her hand from his heated touch. Her heart hammered, and she wondered if he could see the pulse jumping in her throat.

“Hi,” he greeted with a warm smile. He was slightly taller than her, even while she stood in her high-heeled boots. He was dressed as he had been on stage, only with a thin leather jacket covering his black T-shirt and black jeans. His dark hair was spiked upward, and two earrings curled through his left earlobe. He had a type of young Johnny Depp look to him, back when the actor was on
21 Jump Street
. There was also that air of uniqueness about him, as if Keaton were just waiting for the chance to leap into his own music and creations. Momo found that absolutely fascinating about him.

“Hi,” she replied. “Thanks for coming to my show.”

“You’re fantastic,” he complimented as his gaze swept over her face. “Do you write your own stuff?”

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “Of course, nothing like you sing, but it suits me.”

He startled. “You know my band?”

“I try not to miss Endymion.” She smiled. “I love the lyrics to ‘Space.’”

“Ash and I wrote that song back in high school.”

“I’ve always wanted to ask who thought of the band’s name? ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.’”

“Wow,” he murmured, sounding impressed. “You know Keats?”

She gave a hapless wave around. “I work and sing in a bookstore,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Of course.” He smiled.

“I’m surprised you know Keats, though,” she said.

He snorted. “My mother’s favorite poet was John Keats, and my father’s favorite movie was
Mr. Mom
.”

“Oh, that’s not right,” she said, sympathizing with a shake of her head. “But at least Keaton is kind of cool. I’m adopted, and my parents wanted to stick with a name from my heritage so they chose a name that means peach in Japanese.”

He tilted his head and perused her up and down. She quite liked his boldness. “I think it fits you perfectly.”

She smiled prettily at him and peaked through dark lashes. “How did you find my little nook, Keaton Gates?”

“Very good luck,” he replied. “Actually, I had been listening to the playback of Endymion’s gig this evening.” His lips twisted a little.

“Something wrong?”

He shrugged. “The others in the band keep saying I’m obsessing, but I have this feeling that the music we’re playing sounds the same as every other band out there.” He thumped his leg with a restless hand. “I know Endymion can be great.”

Momo cocked her head and studied the passion burning in his eyes. He excited her, not just with his sensual looks and pouty mouth, but with the shared intensity they both felt toward music. Creating it, singing it, being surrounded by it.

“So you’re looking for something to harness into your songs to make them great,” she said softly, reaching up to trace feathery patterns near his eyes. “You write brilliant lyrics, Keaton, with brilliant melodies, but you need to pour this passion into their meaning.”

He reached up and trapped her hands on his cheeks, tilting his head slightly as he questioned her with his gaze.

“Look at the bands Rise Against or Rage Against the Machine,” she said. “The reason why they’re both mega-famous is because their lead singers convince you every word they says is true.” She pulled away from him and walked over to the stage, grabbing her guitar and sitting in one of the audience seats. She patted one next to her, and he sat down. “I want you to sing your song ‘Space’ with me.”

“You know the melody?”

“It only takes me a couple times to hear a song for me to know it,” she replied as she started strumming the strings. “Now, I know the words are chopped because of the melody, but what if we extend it like this.”

Instead of the hard-rocking way that Endymion played it, Momo now played a softer tempo, almost like a ballad. “The black outside my window teases me no end, as far as it can reach to as far as I can bend,” she sang. “It’s infinite, unnerving, not unable to behold, to the depths of your convictions, too sacred and too cold.”

He watched her, almost unnervingly. And at first she thought he wasn’t going to sing along. She kept playing the melody however, and all of a sudden, he picked up the next verse.

They harmonized beautifully, their voices rolling together as if they had been practicing it for years. She finished with a strum of her guitar strings, and they were both rewarded with a smattering of applause from the people watching them at the coffee shop side.

Momo laughed and waved. “See?” she asked, turning toward him. “See what a beautiful song that is, with beautiful lyrics? All you have to do is feel them here.” She touched his chest over his pounding heart.

He captured her hand and then leaned closer, his lips touching hers tentatively until she accepted him. And then he meshed their mouths together, his tongue sweeping in to dance with hers. It was brief, but it was delicious.

She pulled back with reluctance, moaning just a tiny bit. “Keaton, you wanna come back to my place with me?”

“Oh yeah,” he sighed as he kissed her again.

They almost didn’t make it into her apartment.

She had her legs wrapped around his waist, holding tight. Her arms twined together over his shoulders with her fingers buried in his dark hair. He had a difficult time trying to balance her and turn the key in her lock, as well as kiss her, all at the same time. She wore a short pleated shirt and stockings at mid-thigh, so he got to feel lots of warm, smooth skin.

“Fuck,” he growled as the key kept missing. Momo giggled as she licked the shell of his ear before taking the lobe between her teeth, sucking it softly. “Holy fuck,” he moaned differently, this time in pleasure.

Luckily he managed to fit the key and turned it quickly, the door swinging open. He stumbled forward until a wall holding several jackets prevented him from going any farther. Momo laughed as she fell into the coats, her legs slipping down.