Five Weeks (Seven Series #3)

Chaz sneered and picked up a small pebble, rolling it around in his hand. “Denver talks a lot when he’s drunk. Come on, I won’t tell anyone. It’ll take the edge off.”

 

 

Words Jericho had heard more times in his life than he cared to remember. Words that tantalized him in a way he hadn’t expected. He thought about how good it would feel to dull the pain and enjoy the show without having to watch Isabelle move around the bar while men leered at her.

 

God, how close he’d come earlier to kissing her at the house. Just being in close proximity and smelling her sweet skin, touching the smooth nape of her neck and watching her pupils dilate roused something primal in him. A feeling that had been dead since he’d last seen her.

 

Two men stumbled out the front door of Howlers, laughing and singing as they made their way across the parking lot.

 

“No thanks, man. Not my scene anymore. Take that shit somewhere else.”

 

Chaz leaned against the truck and stroked his goatee. “I forgot—you only do the * shit. You think you’re a real rock star, don’t you? Walkin’ around with your little dime bag of weed.”

 

Jericho tightened his fist, tempted to turn around and knock the shit out of him. Chaz always acted up before a show and then disappeared. The drugs tapered down his attitude and made it easier to work with him—that man had some serious issues he hadn’t learned to cope with.

 

“How about you get your ass onstage in five minutes?” Jericho bit out as he stormed up the steps and yanked open the main door.

 

The rock music blared, and on his way to the back of the room, he pointed at Denver. “We’re talking later,” he yelled, watching Denver wipe down the bar with a bewildered expression.

 

One of his groupies sauntered up in a white, strapless dress. Most wore the skintight ones, but not Trix. She liked easy access when he’d take her in the back room, or even behind the building. Trix was the kind of girl who had her sights on Jericho because of the slice of fame it gave her. The problem with a girl like Trix was that she had a tendency to crowd his space.

 

“Hey, sugar,” he said, giving her a squeeze. “How’s the crowd tonight?”

 

She flipped back her blond curls and smiled up at him. “I’m keeping ’em warm for you.”

 

He popped her on the ass lightly and winked. “Go on, we’ll catch up later.”

 

When he walked through the room, several beautiful women swiveled on their barstools and followed his movement. His brother, Wheeler, looked like an ailing seal hunched over his drink at the bar.

 

Jericho sat on the stool to his left. “How’s it going?”

 

“Going,” Wheeler replied, looking in his direction but not at him.

 

“Where’s Ben?”

 

His face tightened. “Do I look like his keeper? You’re his brother too. Why don’t you tell me where the fuck he is?”

 

“What happened between you two? You guys used to get along. Then you got all dark and diabolical.”

 

Wheeler ran his hand over a tattoo that wrapped around his wrist. “People change.”

 

“You got that right. Maybe I don’t like seeing you two at each other’s throats all the time. Dig? Look, I have to get ready for the show. Catch ya later,” he said, slapping Wheeler on the back and heading backstage.

 

“Denver! Three pitchers,” a familiar voice called out.

 

He turned his head and watched Isabelle serve a tray full of burgers to a table of young men. The women were drawing nearer to the stage, anticipating the show. They caught sight of him walking with his guitar slung over his shoulder and began all that lip-biting and whispering.

 

Jake had a private room set up in the back where the band could hang out and get ready. Most Breed clubs offered private rooms to unwind, although this one was pretty damn small. Jericho liked to kick back with a few beers, strum a few chords, and kiss a few girls. When he walked in, it looked like Joker, his drummer, had already started. A girl in the tightest leather pants he’d ever seen was straddling him and licking his nose.

 

It was enough to make Jericho shudder.

 

“Where’s Chaz?”

 

Jericho unzipped his case and pulled out his guitar, handling her with experienced hands. “Helping a nun cross the road. But he’ll be back as soon as he saves a drowning puppy.”

 

They snorted a few laughs, and Ren tossed a wadded napkin at him.

 

Jericho sat down and began tuning his guitar as he listened to Jake on the mic, giving their introduction and warming up the crowd.

 

Joker patted his friend on the ass and she gave a wicked laugh and stood up, sauntering over to a tray of hors d’oeuvres.