Free Battle of the Bands by J.M. Snyder Page B

down, Benjamin kept his
eyes on the crowd. The look he projected from the stage was pure
sex—raw, needy. A snarl, one of his best, with the slightest hint
of a boyish pout, and the crowd surged around him. Hands reached
for him, fingers brushed the tops of his boots and tried to find
purchase in his jeans to pull him down. Behind him the music
swelled higher, a climax he felt building deep within his chest,
where the drum beat out the sound of his heart. He let the music
sweep him away, the words mere whispers now, the song spent.
Hunched over the mike, cradling it in one hand while the other held
the stand out of his way, he fell to one knee and let the final
lyrics drain out of him. As the last word faded and the music died
away, he turned and caught a glimpse of Ty backstage.
    Watching. Waiting.
    * * * *
    After their set, Benjamin didn’t stick around
for Hazard’s performance. He didn’t have to—their song filled the
club, and Skree kept up a running commentary that Benjamin could
have lived without. “Wrong note,” the drummer chided as they headed
for the men’s room, the closest thing to a dressing room that
Catch-22 offered. Skree kicked the door open and laughed when it
swung into the wall with a thin crack. “Wrong lead-in. Damn. Did
you hear the stutter in that drum roll? I thought they knew this
song.”
    Shoving past his band mates, Benjamin
shrugged out of his leather jacket and sighed when stale air cooled
the sweat that stained his T-shirt. “Give it up,” he muttered. He
draped his jacket over a nearby towel dispenser and turned on the
water in the sink full blast.
    “We’re gonna win this hands down,” Skree
stated. He stood to one side of the door and held it open with his
foot so he could hear Hazard’s finale. “Listen to that shit, will
you?”
    “I said drop it.” Benjamin leaned over the
sink and splashed a handful of water into his face. It felt
delicious on his heated skin and God, so cold . His arms
broke out in goose bumps from the chill. Another splash trickled
down his chin to dampen the neckline of his T-shirt. Right at that
moment, he would’ve given anything to make the rest of his band
disappear.
    Mark took up a position inside the door near
Skree. “You can’t even hear the crowd,” he said with a laugh.
    “What did I say?” Benjamin asked. Then he
ducked his head beneath the faucet, drowning out any reply. Eyes
closed, he let the water wash away his band, the music, the club,
and the competition, it all ran down the drain. The only thing he
couldn’t seem to shake were the eyes he saw burning behind his,
dark eyes, swirling, alive. Suddenly his pants felt too tight, and
he shifted from one foot to the other in an effort to relieve the
budding ache in his crotch.
    He heard a scuffle behind him. Before he
could look up someone rammed into him, hard, knocking him against
the wall. The spigot caught him in the back of the head and for a
brief instant the darkness behind his closed eyes flared white.
“What the fuck…” he started, flinging wet hair out of his face.
    A heavy hand on his chest stopped him. Ty
held him back, those eyes unreadable in the harsh bulbs overhead.
“Stay right there,” he warned.
    Past Ty, Benjamin could see Skree struggling
with Nick in the doorway. The taller drummer had Skree in a bear
hug, arms pinned at his sides, but Skree pummeled his fists into
Nick’s midsection, bellowing in rage. Skree’s feet were planted
wide between the wall and the open door, giving him some leverage
for the fight. But Mark was still behind the door, pinned in place
with the doorknob in his stomach. Dimly Benjamin felt a drop of
water drizzle down his back. Where Ty’s hand rested on his chest,
his skin felt itchy and hot. “What’s this all about?” he wanted to
know.
    “Same old shit,” Ty replied, his voice low.
He was watching the water bead on Benjamin’s mouth and when
Benjamin licked the droplets away, Ty’s own lips parted a bit in a
faint