Running with Scissors (11 page)

went on forever.

That presence, the unavoidable reality that thousands of

people were watching and listening, was like lightning through

his veins. All the drama between him and Connor, all the

side-eyes and uncertainty from the other band members—it

was gone. Out here, there was nothing but music and lights,

and Jude was dizzy from it al . Giddy, even. Nothing had ever

made him as high as playing onstage, and this was like taking a deep toke of the strongest weed he could find after abstaining

for too many years.

And goddamn, but he’d forgotten how much he loved

being onstage with this group. Exchanging glances with

Richie. Shiloh dancing, singing, working the crowd. Vanessa

powering through riffs that gave Jude goose bumps.

And Connor. Jesus. Though Jude and most people could

say a lot about him, the guy could bring a standing crowd up

onto their toes. He had even more charisma to burn than

Shiloh.

Yes. Yes, this was right. Whatever drama they all had

offstage, they had their collective shit together here, and it was magic just like in the old days. For better or worse, Running

with Scissors was back, and Jude was almost overwhelmed by

adrenaline and emotion as the past simply disappeared.

Three songs into the set, the lights above them went down,

and Richie and Jude backed off, playing in the background

and making way for the drum solo.

Jude turned around, and his fingers slipped off the strings

for a beat.

He could’ve sworn he’d seen A.J. on the throne behind

the drum set when they’d taken the stage, and he’d heard

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and felt the powerful percussion since the opening number,

but . . . that couldn’t possibly be A.J., could it?

Beneath the blinding spotlight, A.J. was lost in the intense

drum solo, his hands and drumsticks blurring as they beat

and tapped and crashed. Droplets of perspiration flew. The

percussion line reverberated through Jude’s bones. It was like

he was looking at a whole new person. Drenched in sweat,

with muddy smears of eyeliner emphasizing his blue eyes, his

skin flushed and his shirt gone, A.J. wasn’t the shy kid who’d

waited beside Kristy back in Nebraska, or who’d blended

in with the upholstery on the tour bus, or who’d nearly

disappeared into his own hoodie while they ate last night.

Holy shit.

There was nothing shy or timid behind that drum set.

The stage brought out a side of A.J. that made Jude’s fingers

fumble on the strings and his mouth go dry. Yeah, A.J.’d

been holding back during sound check, but he sure as fuck

wasn’t holding back now.

It was like the stage was a parallel universe, one in which

Connor was fun and happy, where Jude fit seamlessly into

the band he’d founded, and where A.J. the church mouse

exploded out of his shell and beat the crap out of that drum

set like his life depended on it. Maybe the real world and all

its shyness and drama would still exist when the lights went

down and the instruments went back into their cases, but here

on this stage, it vanished.

A.J.’s solo wound down, and as Richie, Vanessa, and Jude

started playing their hearts out once again, Jude vowed to

savor every moment of this other world for as long as they let

him play in it.

As the set continued, he couldn’t get A.J. out of his mind.

Whenever possible, he stole glances over his shoulder as if to

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remind himself that, yes, that really was A.J. back there. That those sounds, those powerful beats, came from the hands of

the kid who could barely hold eye contact.

And who was he kidding? The music held his attention,

but so did the man himself. Sweaty, passionate, lost in the

beat—A.J. was hot. He personified everything that could

turn Jude on.

Right then, eyes locked.

The corner of A.J.’s mouth rose.

And Jude forgot what song they were playing.

The bass line completely derailed—
fuck
. He stopped,

listened for the beat and the guitar, and fell back into sync

with them. All told, he’d only lost two or three bars, and he

doubted anyone even noticed, but damn, he sure did.

He didn’t dare look at A.J. again. Not unless he wanted to

fumble his way through the rest of the set. Not that he could

get the hot drummer out of his head, but he’d damn sure try.

And somehow, despite A.J. playing just a few feet away

from him, Jude made it through the set without fucking up

again.

Barely.

After their set, the band retreated backstage while the fans

chanted for Schadenfreude. Kristy shoved water bottles into

everyone’s hands, and despite the sweat they high-fived and

even embraced. Jude knew damn well it was just the postshow

buzz, but he took it, though Connor still cold-shouldered

him. He was too high and happy to let his ex bring him

back down.

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Kristy and Richie ribbed him a little for botching that

section of “Hold Fast,” but considering it was his first time

ever playing in a venue like that, and he’d only been playing at all for the past few days, no one seemed to hold it against him.

He didn’t argue—if they were willing to write it off as rusty

musicianship, he could swallow his pride and agree. At any

other time in his life, he’d have argued fiercely that something had distracted him, but tonight . . . yeah, he could play the

rust card.

While Vanessa, Richie, and Connor watched

Schadenfreude from backstage, Jude left his bass with a roadie

and headed toward the ready room to retrieve the towel and

clean shirt he’d left back there.

His legs barely remembered how to walk. All that energy

from the stage still tingled through his body. He didn’t

know if he wanted to go somewhere and sleep it off, or find

someone who wouldn’t mind some quick, wild sex with a

sweaty musician, or if he just wanted to laugh and cry and beg

someone to tell him they still had another set to play tonight.

He was . . . he didn’t even know. High? Horny? All of the

above? His hands were still shaking, his fingers still vibrating from the strings. Sleep? Not anytime soon. He was too spun

up. Too dizzy. Too . . . giddy, and crazy, and— He stepped into the ready room, and immediately ran out of breath.

Oh fuck.

A.J. was leaning back against the wal , eyes closed and

chest rising and fal ing as he caught his breath. He was

drenched now, and it wasn’t just sweat. There was a mostly

empty bottle of water in his trembling hand that he must’ve

dumped over his head as he’d come off the stage, soaking his

bleached blond hair, his bare torso, his jeans.

And below his belt . . .

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Jude gulped. It might’ve been a trick of the light or maybe

a fold in A.J.’s drenched jeans, but from here, it looked like the denim was clinging to one hell of a hard-on.

Before Jude could turn away and pretend he hadn’t been

staring, A.J.’s eyes opened, and he let his head loll to the side.

Suddenly, they were looking right at each other.

Jude gulped. A.J. pushed himself off the wal , making a

not-very-subtle gesture out of adjusting the front of his jeans.

No, that was no trick of the light or fold of fabric.

And the look in his eyes . . . Fuck. It wasn’t just the

smeared eyeliner intensifying his gaze. Whatever had come

alive in him onstage was still alive now. The hairs on Jude’s

neck stood up—the tiny room vibrated with the bass from

Schadenfreude playing nearby, but that wasn’t the only thing

making the air crackle. As A.J. came toward him, Jude was

genuinely surprised electricity didn’t arc from one of them

to the other. He held his breath—the closer A.J. came, the

more the building energy in this room demanded release,

and the drummer’s blue eyes left little to the imagination

about how it would be released.

Less than an arm’s-length away, A.J. stopped. He didn’t

break eye contact. Neither did Jude. In his mind’s eye, Jude

imagined them pressed up against the wal , doing something

about their hard-ons, kissing and panting and grinding to the

beat of Schadenfreude or their own heartbeats or whatever.

He didn’t care. The thought alone was making him breathe

harder.

A grin played at A.J.’s lips just like the one that had tripped up Jude onstage. “Nice going out there. Didn’t think you’d

really be able to play like that your first time out.”

Jude swallowed. “Likewise. You’re . . . damn good.”

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The grin broadened, coming completely to life and

turning Jude’s knees to liquid. “It’s a rush, isn’t it? Being out onstage like that?”

Jude nodded. “Yeah. It is.” He swept his tongue across his

lips, and A.J. jumped as if that electricity
had
arced between them.

He quickly cleared his throat and glanced past Jude at the

door. “Where’s everybody else?”

“Watching.”

“Right. Forgot. They . . . they always watch Schadenfreude.”

Their eyes met again, and Jude had no idea what to say.

For a moment, A.J. seemed to waver between the shy kid he’d

been from the start and the balls-to-the-wall drummer

he’d been onstage. Then he ran a hand through his damp hair,

messing up the spikes and Jude’s blood pressure, and that grin

came back to life. “I should go grab a shower before everyone

else heads back to the bus.”

His eyebrows lifted just slightly, and Jude swore there

was an unspoken “Care to join me?” written in the gleam in

his eyes.

And yes. Yes, he absolutely did.

But . . .

Jude dropped his gaze. “I think I might go watch with

everyone else. I’ve never heard Schadenfreude live.” He

chanced a look at A.J. again, and though the disappointment

was subtle—his grin fading just a little—it was there.

“Okay.” A.J. nodded. “I’ll see you back at the bus, then.”

He flashed a brief smile, and then brushed past Jude.

Almost immediately, his footsteps were gone, disappearing

into the noise of the band performing onstage.

Are you stupid? You’re passing up an invitation to—

Yes. Yes, he was. Because mixing sex with this band was

a bad idea. He’d promised Kristy and the others that he was

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here to bail them out, not tangle them up any further. As

much as he desperately wanted to be pressed up against A.J.

while they both rinsed away the concert’s sweat, none of them

could afford the inevitable drama.

And yet he still felt like an idiot for letting A.J. walk.

That body, that passion—a talented musician in the form of

a spike-haired Adonis. If there’d been no potential fallout, he would’ve been hot on A.J.’s heels right then, hurrying to that

cramped, barely functional tour bus shower for . . .

He shivered.

Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard. This was insane. He

had no business looking at anyone else in this band, especially after the way his relationship with Connor—and Connor’s

relationship with Wyatt—had nearly derailed everything.

Besides, A.J. had just piqued his interest because he was the

only one in the band who didn’t give Jude the hairy eyeball at

every turn. Combine that with his primal, animalistic musical

abilities, and the adrenaline of being onstage—which clearly

had similar effects on both of them—and he was bound to get

Jude’s attention like that. Didn’t mean they needed to act on

it. Didn’t mean they should, in a million years, act on it.

But goddamn, he was sure as fuck going to fantasize

about it.

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ll the way back to the bus, A.J. hoped like hell that

a Jude would change his mind. Every time he heard

footsteps—or
thought
he heard footsteps—his heart sped up, and he prayed that it was Jude jogging after him.

But when he reached the bus, there was no one in

sight except for some roadies and venue employees moving

equipment around outside. Sighing, he opened the door and

climbed aboard.

In the bathroom, he stripped off his sweaty jeans and

boxers and stepped into the shower. The water heater was

still temperamental, and tonight it refused to offer anything

hotter than lukewarm, but it felt good. And at least they

had a shower. Some of the cheaper, shittier tour buses out

there didn’t. It was only because Schadenfreude demanded

the highest quality, no-expenses-spared buses that Running

with Scissors had been lucky enough to score one like this.

Compared to the rest of their caravan, it was the runt of the

litter—the little bus that sometimes could—but it was better

than a limping RV or a 1970s throwback.

And . . . shower.

He stood under the water, eyes closed as it rushed over

him and cooled him off. The shower brought the postshow

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adrenaline down just like it always did, but he couldn’t relax

completely. Not with this persistent hard-on.

He’d been imagining that look from Jude. There was no

way in hell Jude had been staring at him, mouthwateringly

impure thoughts etched all over his face, but A.J. couldn’t