That's right. This is the opening to the first draft of what I thought was going to be Damaged Saints. It wound up not being the book released this year, but it is a good look at the start of Kane's story and what is coming next in the Tattered Angel/Bleeding Dawn world. Damien, as many of you know, is the drummer for Tattered Angel, while Kane is the bass guitar player of Bleeding Dawn. They met as the bands were touring, but it was a stray comment that led them to where they are at the start of this WIP.
Son of a…
Snarling, Damien slammed the sticks down on the drumkit and
pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it all to hell, that was not the beat he
was after. Scrubbing his hands over his face, his fingertips pressed to his
sweat-soaked bandana, he tried to stem the frustration that was threatening to
derail his night. Unfortunately, closing his eyes brought a series of extremely
distracting images he really didn’t need right now.
He blew out a long breath, grabbed the sticks, and twirled
them between his fingers, counting down in his head before he started playing
again. Less than a minute in, one flew out of his hand and bounced off the wall
behind him, smacking him in the back of the head. He pitched the other across
the room with a wild cry and smacked the cymbals, which did nothing but hurt
his hand and further piss him off.
He’d been at it for hours with nothing to show for it but
sweat-slicked skin and aggravation. Okay so maybe that wasn’t entirely true,
the aggravation he’d brought through the door with him, and it hadn’t faded
despite how much energy he’d poured into those skins.
Maybe that was because it wasn’t the type of energy he’d
wanted to be expending, only thoughts like that just left him testier and frantic
to make something good come from this night. Of course, nothing worthwhile ever
came from forcing things. He knew that and still he grabbed another pair of
sticks and dove right back into the song that had been frustrating him all
week.
Damnit damnit damnit damnit fuck this shit! Those were the
words that flashed through his head, translating into the beat he pounded out
on his drums. It sure as hell wasn’t the rhythm he wanted, which only fueled the
mix of anxiety and pissed off that had been simmering inside of him all day.
Green eyes flashed through his mind, framed by electric blue
hair streaked through with vivid shades of denim and pearl. Recalling the feel
of it crushed in his fists and that triple-pierced tongue teasingly flicking
out at him, left him squirming on his stool and irritated as hell.
This had been the most painful two months off the road that
he’d endured since he’d joined Tattered Angel, and if all their downtime moving forward was going to be like this, then he was going to go insane.
Okay, that wasn’t fair. They’d completed a whirlwind, three-band, nine-month tour, and needed some time to decompress before they geared up
for Rocktoberfest. Damien could appreciate that, he really could, but the
resulting time away from the road had him twisted up in knots.
No.
That wasn’t exactly true either. Being home wasn’t the
issue. Not having access to Kane was what had him tattooing his frustrations
into the surface of those drums. His phone sat three feet away, but what was
the point in texting the man when he was several states away? It wasn’t like
they could just sneak off to a motel and indulge themselves the way they’d done
when they were on the road. Hell, it was pointless even thinking about it.
And yet, that’s exactly where his mind roamed.
Such a good boy.
It didn’t matter that the carpet was threadbare and worn,
or that there were cigarette holes burned into it in several places. It didn’t
matter that they could afford a whole lot better. This place was old school,
with the option to pay cash and a ledger where they could sign any name they
chose. It took effort to find one of those these days, and yet, they’d managed
in every major city they’d stopped in. So, what if Kane swore that the hole in
the wall of one was made by a bullet, or if the showerhead in another one was
dangling by a metal cord. All that mattered was that they were away from prying
eyes and well-trained ears. Free to indulge themselves in any manner they
choose.
Those green eyes of Kane’s tracked his every move as he
reached into his bag and pulled out the leather studded paddle he’d purchased
specifically for him. Damien laid it on the edge of the bed, right beside his
thigh, before retrieving several other items from the bag, among them a green rattan
and a braided rope, a ball gag, a low-heat candle, massage oil, and a lighter.
He positioned them just so before encouraging Kane to get
comfortable on the bed, the man’s eyes were twin pools of excitement and desire
as he sprawled out on his belly, hands beneath the pillow where he rested his
head.
His intercom bell buzzed, yanking him out of that perfect
memory before the rest of it could unfold. Frustration fueled him as he stalked
over to the security monitor, mentally racking his brain to try and remember if
he had any deliveries set up for today. It was Wednesday, so there shouldn’t
be, but he’d been mistaken before and the last thing he wanted was to greet
someone with a shitty attitude when they were just trying to do their job.
It wasn’t a man in a delivery outfit standing on the other
side of those bars, but rather, a neighbor he’d only nodded to in passing.
Scowling, he hit the intercom button, and called out to the guy.
“Hey, can I help you?” He asked through the device.
“Yeah, I’m your neighbor, Seymore Shane,” the guy said,
pointing to himself and then the house next door. “I was wondering if you could
do me a favor?”
“And what would that be?” Damien asked. “My practice space
is soundproof, so I know I wasn’t disturbing you when I was playing earlier.”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” the guy said, fidgeting and standing
so close to the monitor that Damien could see his pores. He kept glancing over
his shoulder too and shifting from one foot to the other like he was expecting
someone to appear behind him at any minute, that or he was tweaked out on
something. “I um, was just wondering if I could park my car in your driveway
for a little while. I’ve got some guys coming to do some work and I don’t want
to park the car on the street.”
Yeah, cause their street was so busy something might happen
to it, Damien thought as he watched the guy scrub a finger beneath his nose.
“Sorry man, I can’t do that. You’ll have to find someplace
else to park it,” Damien said.
“Hey, hey man, I can pay you,” the guy said. “It’s not just
any car, it’s a Maserati. I can’t just leave it sitting out.”
“Then have your repair guys park on the street,” Damien
said. “Either way, it’s not my problem. I don’t know you and I don’t know what’s
in that car, so it’s not coming on my property. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got
shit to do.”
He took his finger off the intercom button, silencing
whatever the hell the guy tried to say. Whatever it was, he wasn’t interested. He’d
have given him a cup of sugar if that’s what he was after, though he couldn’t
remember if he had any.
Detouring to the kitchen he took stock of what was in the
cupboard: Some cereal boxes, half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a
container of marshmallow fluff, a couple boxes of pasta, several jars of sauce,
cracker boxes, hot sauce, and three different types of salsas. Of course, he had
no chips to go with them, no taco shells either, and no tomatoes after he’d cut the last one and tossed the chunks in his tomato soup.
Fuck.
He was going to have to arrange a delivery whether he wanted
to or not.
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