Sound of Muses (3)

Author note: this is part 3 of a spicy poly romance which means characters are in multiple relationships, including M/M. If that’s not your cup of tea, please try a different story. Series content includes sex, coarse language, violence, captivity, and bullying.

Chapter Three

(Troy)

“Troy—” Rapha’s groggy voice sounds through the phone. “Can you come get me?”

I grin and meet Jake’s questioning look from across the counter where he chows down on toast with his disgusting black salt-fest smeared on it. Vegecrap, we all call the paste. More like witches brew. I whisper-mouth to him that stuff’s gonna kill ya and he gives me the rude finger, licking the vegemite crap off the toast with overdone gusto.

I tuck the phone into my shoulder as I pry the milk carton out of the fridge. “Where are you, Rapha?”

“No idea,” he croaks.

I snort. “Alright, I’ll come soon as I can. Make sure your phone stays charged so I can use the app.”

“Mhm.”

I exchange another look with Jake, and he lifts his brows. I smirk. “Hey, Rapha. How many girls are in the bed?”

Jake leans his elbows on the counter as I switch the phone to loudspeaker. Our wayward son grunts into the phone and I hear sheets rustling. I take a swig of milk while Rapha counts.

“Four. No, wait, there’s one more on the couch. Where did she come from?”

I flick my fingers at our guitarist, and he groans, diving into his pocket for a tenner.

Raph sniffles and clears his throat. “Who won?”

“None of your business,” I tell him. “I’m hanging up now.”

I snatch the money from Jake and wriggle my shoulders in a victory dance, stopping only when Sticks wanders into the room and plonks down on the bar stool. I freeze for a moment when his hands don’t move, but then I see his foot tapping against the bottom rung of the chair.

I drop a kiss into his ruffled bed hair. “You want some toast?”

“Mac n Cheese.”

“There’s toast already on. I can do cheese and—”

“No.”

I lock eyes with Jake and grimmace, my heart flopping over. I love my drummer, I really do, but when he’s in a mood, he’s hard work, and we’re all a bit drained after a gig.

“I don’t have time to cook it, love.”

Stick’s fingers twitch across the counter and I hold in a groan. Jake dives into the pantry and pulls out a blue box. He slides his way across the counter, pops the packaged mac n cheese in front of Sticks and balances his face in his hands a foot away from the teenager, his shoulder length beach-hair falling forward to reveal about twelve different shades of light brown.

“Troy has to pick up Rapha. He’s out there on his own. Just this time, I’ll make you boxed mac.”

Stick’s fingers grow still while he thinks and we all hold our breath, then he nods.

I grab my keys, but a small voice calls my name. Stick hunches on the stool and I realize my mind’s been so busy I haven’t even said good morning properly.

I wash my hands at the sink then sit down next to him and capture his face. “Good morning, Sticks. Do you know you did a wonderful job yesterday?”

He nods.

“And did you hear all those people screaming because they loved your music?”

He nods again, a shy smile creasing his mouth. He’s so fucking cute! I drop a kiss on those parted lips, and he grips my sleeve tightly until he’s done tasting me.

I stroke his cheek with my knuckles, noticing the sleep crust around his eyes. “I’m gonna go get Rapha now. You can stay here and have your breakfast or come for a ride with me.” I glance at the guitar shaped clock overhead. “But the traffic’s going to be insane.”

“I’ll stay,” he says.

I squeeze his shoulder. “See if you can knock off some of that assignment later.”

He grunts, but his forefinger taps a settled 2-1 beat that tells me his bad mood is evaporating, so long as he gets his cheesy pasta in the next twenty minutes. I can’t remember when his project is due, but I better keep an eye on him since he’s losing a couple of days around this gig. The last thing I need are his gold-crusted, asshole parents getting back in our faces because he doesn’t pass or some shit.

I slip into my joggers and pull a parka on to combat the chill in the October air before climbing in the van. She coughs to life, not enjoying the cold change either and the fuel gauge dips dangerously low. I growl under my breath. I shoulda told Rapha to take the subway, but he’s probably still hungover.

I plug my phone into the car charger and pull up the Find My Friends app, swiping through to Rapha’s profile. The search blinks for a couple of seconds, then arrows in on Larchmont.

“What the fuck, Rapha? What are you doing all the way out there!” I groan and slam the old shifter into reverse and gun it out the lane, my gaze sweeping across the little red brick house in the rear-view mirror. I love the place, even though it’s old school with only three bedrooms. The house is full of natural light and the neighbors are friendly. Best of all, we’ve converted the basement into a music room, which is why the overdue rent notice bothers me more than I can say.

The other lads have families to go back to if this house of cards crumbles—even though both Rapha’s and Jake’s are across the ocean. Me? I’ve got no one keeping lights on for me. I can’t lose what I have.

I pull into the fuel station and grit my teeth. Prices have gone up overnight.

“Bloody hell,” I murmur as I get out of the car, then snort, realizing I’ve picked up some of Jake’s odd Aussie cursing. The van guzzles up the fuel and I step inside to pay the cashier, the magazines in front of the checkout catching my eye. The new Rolling Stone is out, with the up-and-coming pop rock group Wingcheaters laughing at me on the cover. I run my fingers over the top edge but drop it back in the rack when the half-asleep teen behind the bulletproof glass window asks me if I’m taking it.

“Just the fuel,” I say, and he rings me up. Could that be us, maybe next year? I sure hope so. Things are always darkest before the sunrise, yeah?

The traffic is as bad as I suspected, especially across the bridge, and I run a quick budget for the month on my phone while I wait in the jams, listening to some Red Hot Chili Peppers down low so I can think.

If I pay all the rent ‘til the end of the month, I won’t have enough to do the van registration, once I factor out groceries and fuel. At least Stick’s psycho parents pay for his college fees, so I won’t have to worry about that one. I’ll pay the rent up to last Friday, then it will be just barely overdue. It’s not good news, but I kinda have a plan, so long as there’re no surprises. Although, there’s a niggle in the back of my mind that makes me wonder if I’m forgetting something.

Rapha’s tracker moves a block over and I find him nursing his head at an outdoor café. Honking the horn, I circle the block and pick him up straight off the curb, barely even stopping the car.

I scan him up and down and he snickers. “I’m fine, Pho.”

I roll my eyes. “You got a lot of secret heritage problems if I’m your dad.”

He snorts and leans his head back against the headrest, exposing his sharp-angled jawline and very fine dark goatee. “It was wild man. They were all over me, and one of the girls called her girlfriend to join us.”

I lift my brows and shoot him a look. “That was the mysterious number five?”

He chuckles. “Nah man, I think she’s their neighbor.”

I consider asking him if he used protection, but he’s already called me out once for worrying. He knows what he’s doing. “Seatbelt,” I say instead as I check my blind spot and change lanes.

“Thanks for coming to get me.” He yawns and pulls a wad of notes out of his pocket and tucks them into the dash shelf. “For fuel.”

A car stops right in front of me, and I slam on the brakes. Rapha swears in Thai as he slumps forward.

I eye the wad of cash. “You got more to send to your family?”

“Yes.” He pats his pocket which bulges a little then rests his head back and closes his eyes. “Have to love trust fund babies on the beach. What a life, hey?”

“Yeah.” I can’t imagine what it would be like, handing out money just for fun. I don’t like the way Rapha comes by the cash, but I’m grateful he always chips in, especially when he has an extended family to support back in Lamphun.

He crosses one leg over the other knee, leaning it against the glovebox. “Don’t call me weird, but sometimes I imagine you there too, and the other boys, and I think it would be hella hot.”

My instinct is to laugh him off, but I bite it down while I navigate an intersection. I can’t imagine being part of his sex sprees with a bunch of strangers, but I never mind knowing the guys can hear Sticks and me going at it. Maybe it’s something similar for Rapha.

“Yeah? How so?”

He chuckles and flaps the back of his hand onto my chest. “Dtân-láak. Dude, you took that better than I expected.”

I snort. “I’m not exactly a choir boy.”

His shoulders shiver with held-in laughter. “Shit, my head hurts, don’t make me laugh.” He brushes stiff black hair at an angle across his forehead. “I don’t even know why it sounds hot. Brothers conquering the world together or something.”

“So you can show off how fit you are?” I smirk. I turn the music down more so I can enjoy the accent as his words tumble out in a hurry.

He chuckles. “You could take more bets. But if it’s for stamina, I advised you punt on the higher side.”

“Boy’s got skills,” I joke, and he winks at me.

“You know it.”

“You don’t think it’d be weird if all our dicks are out in the same bed?” I don’t think it’d bother me, but neither Jake nor Rapha swing that way, far as I know.

“We all piss in the same bathroom, don’t we?”

I choke on a laugh. Maybe I should take his little daydream out for a test drive. “Bit different when you’re hard as ice, sweating, moaning and there’s hands running all over place.”

His gaze flicks to my face, but I have no idea what he’s thinking. “Would be just a different kind of music, I reckon.”

I smile. He’s not wrong there. Sex has its own rhythm and orchestra of sounds. My favorite ones are the low, shuddering, swearing ones when people lose control of their own lips and don’t even know what they babble.

We fall quiet and I turn the music back up.

“Something on your mind?” he asks after we weave twenty miles through the busy ant trails of traffic.

I tap my finger on the steering wheel before I answer. “Mike cut our next gig.”

“Motherfucker!” He slams both feet into the floor and I wince, hoping the rust down there holds together. He growls and adds a Thai swearword, his body jerking angrily. “Did he say why?”

“Says we don’t have the right vibe.”

“Ha! He wouldn’t know a good vibe if it sat on his face and begged.”

A smile twitches over my lips. It’s hard to stay down in the dumps around Rapha. “Yeah, fuck him, right?”

Rapha covers a yawn. “Once I’ve had some sleep, I’ll call around. There’s a festival at the college next month, I’ll get our names down as backup and hope whoever they booked gets Covid.”

I choke on a laugh. “You’re a piece of work!”

He grins unrepentantly. “Man’s gotta eat, which means a man’s gotta play.”

I shake my head. “I’m not buying it. You couldn’t stop playing even if you tried.”

He turns his head to the window, but the partial reflection shows me his grin, so I know I’m right.

“Don’t book at the school. Sticks won’t play there.”

“Right.” He turns back to face me. “How is he?” The genuine concern in his gaze melts away the tight bands of worry in my heart. This here’s why I love these guys. The care is instinctual, and so natural we don’t even have to talk about it.”

“He’s fine. He was dead set on Mac n Cheese for breakfast, but he’s mellow.”

Rapha gapes and points a finger at me, then reconsiders. “The lad has good taste. I could totally do a bowl of that wizardry after a big night.”

I snort. “You’re going to eat boxed food instead of your green protein brew?”

He lifts his chin. “Hey, those shakes are a nutrient bomb, my friend. Besides, I never said I would, just that I could.”

“Should we stop by the farmers’ market for blueberries and chia?”

His eyes narrow. “I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or being helpful.”

“I’m versatile,” I reply with a smirk. There’s a good reason Rapha’s skin glows like polished bronze and there’s not a speck of acne in sight—even though it might break out after a night of drinking, he’ll be detoxing for the next two days so it clears up in record time.

We swing by the markets and bag some groceries, Rapha haggling with a few of his compatriots so fast I fear their tongues might fall off. It sounds like they argue, but he comes away smiling, lifting two bags of sugarcane, celery and who knows what other green shit for his poking and woking bowls and cleansing juices.

He stashes his groceries in the back of the van. “Hey, what’s this?” He taps an envelope against his hand as he walks around the car and passes it to me.

I check the name, and tear it open down the side, an unwelcome jitter skipping through my belly. The fluttery sensation hardens into a concrete weight and sinks to my toes.

“Fucking music registration is overdue! What was it doing in the trunk?”

I clench my teeth and shove a hand across my sandpaper beard. We can’t use other bands’ songs unless our registration is up to date.

“Fucking hell!”