Sound of Muses

Author note: this is part one 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. Content includes sex and course language.

Chapter One

(Troy)

If you cut my skin, I think music might flow out—but I’d gladly bleed for our songs if the world heard them. Music saved my life, and now it’s converging into my future.

No one knows better than me how hard the music biz can be, but at moments like this, as we step out into the spotlight, hands clammy and fireworks popping in my belly, everything else fades away, and it's all worth it.

Sticks starts the drum solo, a deep pulsing rhythm that sinks not only into our heartbeats, but the hearts of the three hundred people waiting to lap us up.

The alcohol fumes swim strongly in the air that’s thick with passion. The crowd trembles on the verge of frenzy as I step into the bright stoplights and ask if they’re ready.

They roar back their answer with gratifying energy, a vigor that sinks deep into my artist’s soul. These are the big gigs that we live for.

Course, I love to toned-down pub crawls too. But these moments make the fight, the everyday struggle, the starving artist drama a star-lit dream to be possessed.

The music swells as Rapha and Jake crash in with the guitar and the keyboard, and all my nerves burn away. This is living.

I lift the microphone and open my mouth.

Music has the power to steal my soul and turn this brief few hours into an eternity where I can forget about the bills, forget about the rent due on our small house, and the stress that plagues us; the nagging registration on our van, and the growing cost of grocery bills and music licensing fizzles into darkness.

Our music swells, the pop rock pulsing through their bodies on the red-lit dance floor, the clubbers visible as a seething mass of shadow as the spotlights blind me.

With the energy this high in the crowd, we go straight for our darker, heaviest songs, letting the rock influences take over, Sticks’ rhythms holding us together.

We haven’t quite found our feet on what we want to embody as a music group, but we make up for it in passion. I get the feeling Jake would throw in a bit of jazz if we let him, but we don't, preferring a pop vibe, with some darker tones—darkness to match the things we want to say and how we feel in a cold and cruel world.

Although my attention locks on the crowd, part of me is always synced to my bandmates. Sticks rocks as he pounds across the drums, sunk deep in his trance, one that none of us will ever quite understand but is beautiful to witness. His ability to play music is nothing short of divine, and Sticks himself is nothing short of an enigma. The headphones protecting his over-sensitive ears glimmer iridescent under the stage lights as he sets our timing.

It pulses through us, tying us together with a beat full of flourishes and intricacies that even test my gifted musical ear. Sticks is the best damn drummer in the world, and I say that without bias. The world just hasn’t discovered him.

Jake plays the bass guitar effortlessly, almost like he doesn’t care, fingers lazy, skipping notes sometimes but somehow keeping up in and around my voice.

And Raphael, well, he’s a showoff, and his body talks as much as his fingers over the keyboard. It’s hard not to notice him; he gyrates his hips and winks at the girls, his fingers ceaselessly dancing in a way that’s as erotic as it is musical. If anyone were to make love to a keyboard, it would be Raph, and under these spotlights, the light sheen on his golden skin could be mistaken for sex sweat. Dark hair falls forward into his eyes as his head dips, and when he rears back, he catches my glance and pouts his lips in a kiss which some girls in the pit scream over. They’ll probably be wrapped around his cock when dawn comes.

And me? I’m glued to that microphone, veins on my arms popping through my tats as I pour out my love for this whole damn world via some Nickelback classics before we shift gears to our original stuff.

My throat wears slowly through the hour. The energy in the room blooms into a frenzy, and I’m already thinking through our backlist for an encore song because I know the call will come.

The room plunges into darkness without warning, jolting us out of the magic as all the lights go out. Only my voice carries through the darkness, along with the muted thump of the drums without the electric plugin—the same way the green exit lights glow solo in the dark.

Fuck! A blackout right now? Why did it have to be in the middle of our night on stage?

Just what we needed.

I steal a glance at Jake, but all I can see are tiny flashes of white in the dark as he stares around, as shocked as I. My voice catches, and I switch to a speaking voice, pitching as loud as I can over the muttered cries of the audience.

“Well, looks like our music’s too much even for the grid to handle. Let's take it down low while they work this out.” My joke draws a few chuckles from the milling crowd.

Jake zips something behind me, and a moment later, his acoustic guitar strums float across the stage as he rides it down an octave. Tim keeps pace with him, slowing the rhythm till I can croon stay with me, though the night gets dark.

We ain’t done yet; it’s just an outage. My voice is steadier than my heart as I lean into the classic. If we lose this gig, we might not claw out of our debt hole.

We make it through two songs before the club owner pulls the pin, and an usher jumps up on stage. “Pull the pin, Troy. We’ve got to close up for safety.”

I swallow down a groan. “Alright, thanks Derrick.”

Shit! The shadowed crowds shift as the bouncers start moving them, my hopes for a good payout draining out the door with them. We didn’t even get to sing our originals. Right now, we just look like any other cover band.

We needed this one badly.

Rapha uses his phone light to pack up, and the white light casts him into sharp relief, like some underworld devil. Jake strums on quietly, playing a calming backdrop to the shipwreck of our gig.

With a deep sigh, I turn to pack up our gear, but as I reach for the piano case, the lights flicker back on, and the crowd cheers, surging back to fill the void. My heart leaps, sending heat coursing through my veins.

Not waiting for permission, Sticks taps his drumsticks, and I don't even know what song he’s planning, but we turn the rush back into the swirl of music. It's a crowd-pleaser, intent on making them forget the interruption. My pulse hammers in my wrists. We can pull this back!

Two hours later, sweat drips down my back as we step off the stage, hands reaching for us in welcome. Fuck, this feels good! We rescued this nightmare.

Rapha already has two girls under his arm, and he catches my look and winks. He’ll be out all night, pleasing the fans—or making new fans. He says that's his role in the group as if being a superb musician wasn’t enough.

I gotta say, he does an excellent job of catching their attention, reeling them in, and turning them into fans.

“Hey, Troy! Sticks’ is in meltdown.” Jake touches my shoulder to get my attention and jerks his head toward the back room.

“Alright.” Now that the night’s rhythm has been beat out of him, Sticks needs me for the super crash that consumes him after every performance. I weave through the narrow backstage corridors until I find our room for the evening. The shower’s running, but my boy hasn’t quite made it that far; he lies on the mat in his jeans, quivering and tugging at his spiked blond hair with his hands as if it doesn’t belong on his head. Curled up like this, he looks much younger than his nineteen years.

“Hey buddy, I’m here,” I say as I wrap my arms around him, lifting his trembling body off the floor. His pale blue eyes flicker with relief as he throws his arms around my neck and sinks his lips to mine with desperate hunger.

I make sure he can read my lips when I speak. “Yeah, I got you. I got you.”

The pulse that’s run through his drumsticks all night now floods his body, leaving him spasming and barely able to walk. I've asked him so many times if he'd rather not do live music, but every time his shining eyes tell me he loves it. He loves it so much that the comedown is worth it.

It’s the same for all of us.

I cradle him against my chest, and his slim fingers pick my buttons apart, writhing his body against mine until there’s not a speck of distance between us. Sweat pours off him, as thick and heady as my own.

Somewhere in the club, more music pounds as a DJ takes over for the closing hour, a heavy beat that winds into our hearts until we pulse with a single rhythm as I slide my hands all over Sticks, reassuring him that he's not alone to face the emptying.

I slip my digits into his waistband, wrestling momentarily one-handed with the cold steel button before it releases. I track the jeans down past his knees, and he shakes them free before removing his headphones. Backing him toward the shower, I check the water temperature and step him inside, boxers and all.

“Troy,” he whimpers my name, most of his strength gone, held up by my arm around his waist and his arms glued to my neck. He’s a slender kid, not much to hold down all that music running through him.

This is as much a part of the band as being out there on the stage. As if music itself was an act of sex, pleasuring the crowd and each other, and now we do the aftercare; Rapha in his way with the fans and me with Sticks to make sure he stays in one piece, to make sure the pure music that runs through his veins remains untainted. To make sure we’re both grounded.

I sink my mouth to his, and his teeth chatter into my lips, lighting fires in my groin.

No, it’s unfair to say this is simply an act of care. I love him. Although we aren’t like any normal family, the band is all I’ve got.

He whispers my name again, firing my blood in a way that’s got nothing to do with music.

“I’ve got ya. I’ve got ya, Sticks.”

His hard cock rubs into my side as he plants himself across my bent knee, gyrating with an untamed wildness only found in these two places; sex and his music.

I grab the sponge and soap him up until he whines against my neck, bubbling and huffing in the pouring water until every inch of him is clean and I’m just as clean from his writhing against me. Only then, when the first agitated trembling fades to a controlled shiver, do I turn him around and spread his legs.

I press my fingers into him, stretching him open and teasing the familiar muscles as I coax them into submission. His quivering makes me hard as stone, along with the way he calls my name over and over, begging as if it’s the only word he knows. A beat as thorough as my own heart rate.

I rest my cock against him, and he cries out, and fuck! the things that does to my blood. I nudge into him softly, tenderly, holding him around the chest. His every shudder and quiver of response vibrates through my core. Again he calls my name and I sink deeper, running my hand around his hips to grab his pulsing shaft until he’s melting and whimpering and stuttering in my arms.

And I rub every last shiver from him, thrusting against him as slowly as I can manage, physically guiding his heart rate back into the realms of normality.

“Did I do good?” he pants as his body arches.

I nibble on his ear. “You’re the best damn drummer in the world, Sticks! You did so great, my good, pretty boy.”

He groans, and his body gives a final shudder as he comes in my hand, sobbing against the tiles in my firm grip. I moan with relief and thrust into him harder, wildly, letting the final edge go until I’m releasing my molten music straight into him, becoming a small part of what makes him a musician without compare. Beautiful. Gentle. Ours.

Quivering with the beauty of it, I pull out and massage water into us both until we’re clean and limp with satisfaction.

Then I lean my head on his shoulder. “Good job, Sticks. You’re so fucking amazing, you know that?.”

He turns and kisses my lips shyly before stepping out of the shower. He’ll be fine now; quiet for a few days while he recharges. And yet, his fingers will be in perpetual tapping that tells us all we need to know about his mood and well-being.

When I finish in the shower and dress, Jake is waiting for me on the small lounge, Sticks’s already napping with his head in the guitarist’s lap, noise-canceling earphones on.

I scrub a towel through my hair. “Hey, man. Did anyone say anything about the power outage?”

“Yeah, they lost a third of their patrons and they had two injuries in the crush.”

“Shit!” I click my tongue. “It was just an accident.”

“Yeah.”

“Ready to go?”

“Ah, the manager said he wants to talk to you before we leave.”

“A’right, I’ll head out now.” I jut my chin toward the sleeping drummer. “You want to get him in the van?”

“Yeah, but I’ll do the gear first. Do we wait for Rapha?”

“Nah, he’s gonna be gone all night.” I chuckle. “You know we’ll get a text from him in the morning wanting a pickup, and he won’t even know where he is.”

Jake grins. “Come on, mate, he’s never that far gone.” His Aussie accent twangs.

“True, but his sense of direction is terrible.” Laughing at Rapha’s expense helps ease the slippery nerves which lurk as I think about why the club manager might want to see me.

Jake snorts. “Yeah. What’s the bet on how many girls he sleeps with?”

I lift my brows and grin. “My number’s on five.”

“Dude! Aren’t you overestimating his powers?”

I shrug my shoulders. “It was hopping in there, plus he looked like sex and melted chocolate up under those red lights.” I waggle my brows at him, then turn to finish packing my backpack. “Well, what’s your bet?”

“I reckon three.”

“Alright, you’re on. Ten bucks?”

“Ten it is.” We share a smile. This is another after-gig winddown routine, the same as me and Sticks getting physical. A transition between the world of rock and lights, and cramming into my beat-up van, and going home to the brick three-bedder house almost in the suburbs.

I slip into the corridors and find the manager talking to a bouncer. “Hey, Mike. Jake said you needed to see me?”

“Yeah, man.” He shoves his hands in his tailored-pant pockets. “Look, I know you had a gig down for next month, but we won’t be able to do it.”

Lead winds through my chest. “Why’s that, Michael?”

His eyes slide away as if the chipped navy blue paint on the wall is more important to study. “Look, man, don’t make me say it.”

I stare at him, unable to speak through the choking in my throat, but daring him to go on.

He throws his hands up in frustration. “Come on, Troy! Your group’s good.”

I cross my arms. “Strike that; we’re great. We had them eating out of our hand.”

He shifts from one polished leather shoe to the other. “Yeah, yeah, you’re good, but you’re missing the vibe we’re looking for.”

“Fuck, mate! Then what is the vibe?”

“Ya can’t teach it, man! You know that. Sorry pal.” He hands me an envelope. “There’s a bit extra in there to tide you on to your next gig.”

It takes all that I have not to punch him in the face and accept the money, because we need it bad. I’m not even sure it’s going to cover rent for this month, let a long next.

There’s no room for pride when these assholes control whether we eat or not. “Alright Mike. You know where to find us. Thanks.”

Jake sees it in my face when I get back.

“They canceled, didn’t they? Fucking wankers!”

My shoulders slump, and I look down at Sticks sleeping peacefully on the couch. “You should have let me bring in a new singer.”

“Shut the fuck up, mate,” he growls, slipping his picks inside and zipping his guitar case with some serious aggression. “We’re not talking about that shit again. You’re a fucking brilliant singer.” Jake shoulders the case. “Come on, let’s go home.”

I hoist the padded keyboard case I’m pretty sure Raphael sold his body to purchase and follow Jake down the shadowed corridor. He doesn’t want to discuss it, but I know I’m letting the group down. They’re the most brilliant musos I’ve ever come across; naturally gifted and easy-going, each one of them can solo spectacularly on their own and yet know how to merge with the group into a solid harmony.

So I must be the one letting us down. That and the songwriting, which technically we all share but Jake’s in charge of. I wanted to bring in a singer-songwriter a couple months back, but they all shouted me down. I should look into it on the side again. If I bring someone in, they can’t refuse, right?

“I know what you’re thinking, Troy. Cut it out! We’re good. We’ll find our jive.”

“Yeah, man.” I keep my negativity to myself. These guys rely on me. I need to do better.

We pack our instruments in the van and load our sleepy drummer into it. I double-check his seatbelt before I climb in the driver’s side. But my thoughts keep spiraling as we drive home through the dark and quiet roads. The yellow haze of the streetlights flickers through the car creating shifting patterns of light and dark like the tattoos on my arms.

I’m can’t keep scraping by. We need to catch a break, and I don’t know how to make that happen.

“Shit, Troy! Whatya doing?”

I snap awake and swerve, barely missing a woman who swings back from the curb. Fuck me! I fell asleep! I wind the windows down to let the cold autumn air blast against my face. Sticks whimpers in the backseat, so I reach my hand back, and he grabs it, twining his fingers through mine in a tight grip.

“Sorry, guys.” And I mean sorry for more than one reason. I’ve gotta make this right.

The woman’s bright, frightened eyes haunt me through the rest of the drive. I nearly killed someone. Gotta get my head in the game before I destroy all our lives.