Broken Neon

Chapter One

If good intentions pave the road to hell, then broken neon paves the road to Nashville.

Zane Alexander couldn’t remember the first time he’d heard his father make the claim, but whenever the road looked rough, those words somehow managed to find their way back into his mind.

His father, Zachary, had often passed down his sage advice, on those rare occasions he’d made it home before Zane and his sister had drifted off to sleep.

Those random nights, though few and far between, were etched into Zane’s brain, and the memories were stoked every time he caught a whiff of stale beer or whisky on someone’s breath. Tonight had been one of those nights.

Where do you want to meet?

A little dazed from the rush of finishing their last set at Antone’s in Austin, and still drunk off the transfused euphoria from the energetic crowd, Zane glanced over at the young cowboy he’d picked up after a show a few weeks back.

He scanned the backstage area, motioned for the man to follow, and slipped him a Post-it note. Be at this address in half an hour. I’ll be right behind you. Paying for sex wasn’t Zane’s ideal arrangement, by any means, but it was the best way to work out his demons and prevent fans from finding out his secret.

A salacious smile broke across the man’s face. Can’t wait.

Zane left him and made his way to the dressing room.

Zane? Buddy Knox, the band’s manager stopped Zane in the hallway just as he had made it to his dressing room door. Gonna need you to sit in on the auditions for Jim’s replacement.

Shit. He’d forgotten all about that. Before they left Austin, they needed to have another guitar player lined up. Jim Anderson had been with the band for three years, but he’d busted his knee up pretty badly when he was thrown by a horse a week earlier. His injuries would require a couple of surgeries, and a few months of rehab before he’d be road ready again.

One guitar player would do in a pinch, but with Zane doing double duty on vocals, a second guitar made their sound much richer.

What time and where?

Nine a.m., over at the Oasis. Buddy dug his ringing cell phone out of his shirt pocket. No playing around on this, Zane. We gotta nail someone down.

Okay, okay. Zane nodded, though his mind was on something much more important than work. I’ll be—

Holding up his hand, Buddy cut him off, as his attention turned to the still ringing phone. See you over there. He spun without waiting for a reply, and answered the call. Yeah, what do ya’ got for me?

Zane eyed the older man as he headed down the hall.

Buddy Knox had been like an uncle to Zane and his sister, Zoey. He’d known their parents since before they were married. In fact, if the stories were true, Buddy might have even married their mom if she hadn’t been mesmerized by their father first.

"Love at first sight," their dad used to tell them. He’d said of all the girls lining the stage, their mother, Bridgette Hawthorne, had stood out like a blushing-pink calla lily in a garden of weeds.

Their mom had always been a sucker for their dad’s sweet talk. Right up until she wasn’t.

She lived in an old plantation home over in New Iberia, Louisiana now. As far away from the music scene as she could get. She’d never missed a local show though. They tried to get gigs in her area as often as possible, no matter how small the venue, just to see her more.

They would be headed that way in a few more weeks, and Zane always looked forward to it. She was happy now, and that’s what mattered. Her new husband, Tom, owned an auto parts store. His mom worked the counter and handled the finances. Tom was home every night, and she never had to worry if he was cheating or passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere. She’d always wanted that stability, and now she had it.

As for their dad, the late Zachary Alexander was buried in the family plot in the China Grove cemetery off Old County Line road back home. He’d drawn his last breath alone, with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other.

His father’s waste of life left a bitter taste in Zane’s mouth, and explained why he rarely drank in excess, and never smoked. One senseless tragedy in their family was enough.

Zane hurried as he changed clothes. He had to duck out before Zoey found him. She wanted to go over something to do with work, and Zane’s mind was set on something else entirely. He’d deal with business tomorrow.

Tonight was all about unwinding, working out the exhilaration from a great performance. They’d stood on the same stage as Muddy Waters, B.B King, and Eric Clapton. Even Dwight Yoakam and Bono. Tonight they’d performed for one of the largest crowds they’d seen in a long time. He deserved a little break. They all did.

Zane slipped past Zoey’s dressing room, and while the road crew loaded up her luggage and equipment, he bolted for the door.

Reaching for the door handle, he cringed when he heard his sister call out. Damn! Zane snapped his fingers. So close.

Just where do you think you’re sneaking off to?

Zane slumped his shoulders and slowly turned to face his sister.

Barely reaching five-four, Zoey stood taller than most basketball superstars when it came to attitude and gumption.

Still, to Zane, she’d always be that blonde, curly-haired, freckle-faced little spitfire who had never let him get away with anything while they were growing up. The freckles might have faded over the years, but her strong will had flourished, and she wasn’t afraid to exercise it.

Out.

Zoey planted clenched fists on her hips. Oh no, you’re not.

Zane exhaled. Here we go again. And why not?

Because you owe me. You promised me a new song a month ago, and we need to get one added to the play list A-SAP.

Can’t that wait until Dallas?

She eyed him up and down, suspiciously. What are you up to?

The sexy cowboy’s handsome face flashed in his mind’s eye. Like I said—I’m going out!

Damn it, Zane. You can’t be runnin’ off looking for trouble. We just got everything back to normal.

Zane’s stomach swirled at the thought of what had happened with the last guy he’d trusted. Marcus Darby had nearly ruined everything for Zane and Triple Creek, all in the name of revenge.

I’m not looking for trouble.

Her cheeks reddened. I-I know. Her eyelashes fluttered the same way they always had whenever Zoey regretted having said something without thinking. It’s just that we have a lot going on, and we really need to get this done.

I’ve already started it. I just need a break.

Look, Zane, she reached out and rubbed his upper arm, I’m behind you one hundred percent. Just be careful. That whole thing last year—

"I get it, Zoey. You fuck up and it’s cool, but if I fuck up, I destroy everything."

Zoey’s eyes glistened. It doesn’t have to be that way. You’re the one who made that decision all on your own.

Zane clenched his teeth. He knew very well that he’d brought everything on himself, but he’d made the best decision for the band. Too many people were counting on him. I’m not going to mess up again.

"It’s not about messing up. It’s about doing what’s best for you in the long run. There is a way to prevent something like that from ever happening again. You just have to have the balls to do it."

Zane’s insides fluttered. "Well, that’s not going to happen. He took a step back. I’ll deal with my band, my life, and my demons, my way. Okay?"

Zoey shrugged. You’re right. It’s your life. Be as miserable as you want. She took a deep breath and pulled away. See you later. Disappointment coated her voice.

Zane stepped aside as she passed by. She meant well. He couldn’t deny that, but she had never been in his shoes. She hadn’t seen the look on everyone’s faces when Marcus posted his twisted tell-all version of what had happened between them.

His ex-lover hadn’t been kind. He’d made Zane out to be some petty man-whore using Marcus’s success to further his own career. Marcus had done more than try to out Zane, he’d done his best to humiliate and ruin him, too.

It had taken nearly three months of cancelled shows and damage control before the rumors finally settled down. After a while, people got past it, chalked it up to nothing more than hearsay. They’d been lucky, and luck like that didn’t happen twice.

A large part of the music industry as a whole still held on to closed-minded ways, and country music was decades behind other genres when it came to acceptance of alternative lifestyles. Good ol’ southern boys were supposed to be God-fearin’, women-lovin’, beer-guzzlin’, red-blooded men.

Not like him. Not a man who craved the touch of another man on those long, cold, and lonely nights.

Humph. Zane leaned against the wall reminded by how uncomfortable even the term made him feel. Alternative? Like I have a fucking choice?

It was so easy to throw labels on something people didn’t understand. Zane understood it, though. He’d understood it the instant his heart skipped a beat in junior high whenever Nathan McBride sat near him at lunch. Zane might not have known what it was at the time, but he damn sure knew how good it felt. How natural it was to imagine kissing Nathan, holding his hand, smelling his cologne, and wishing he could tell the other boy how he really felt.

Fortunately, he hadn’t said anything, which was a good thing considering what happened when they got older, and kids started teasing one another the way they often do. Zane could only bite his tongue and go along with the razzing, scared to death they would turn on him had they discovered the truth.

Putting those ugly labels on the way Zane felt made him sick to his stomach. He shook off the chill that rippled down his spine as he recalled some of the more hateful terms. Some of which he’d heard shortly after Marcus’s blog revealed his secret.

He clenched his fist and banged the back of his head against the wall to alleviate the sickening swill churning in his gut.

He needed air. He had to get out of there before he allowed his mind to succumb to the self-loathing that usually followed the negative thoughts.

He deserved a little leeway. Didn’t everyone? As long as he kept it under wraps, and out of the public eye, he could alleviate his desires just enough to get through another night. The cowboy was part of that. No names. No small talk. Just sex, and enough cash to buy the man’s silence until the next time.

He’d met him twice now, and so far, Zane had gotten his money’s worth. Most of all, he’d gotten the silence he’d paid dearly for. Was it a risk? Probably, but something about the guy assured Zane he liked the arrangement as well, and he’d shown no signs of dissatisfaction. Sometimes, he even gave some unsolicited advice. None Zane had taken seriously, but he’d appreciated it all the same.

Zane stepped outside and hailed a taxi, then slumped down into the back seat as they drove away. He kept his head lowered and the collar of his jacket popped up, just in case the driver recognized him from nearby billboards. He’d worked out how he’d handle it if he was ever recognized, but so far, he’d never had the need.

As usual, he told the driver to let him out a couple of blocks from the motel. By the time he reached the room, he’d had plenty of time to scope out the parking lot.

Better safe than sorry.

When the cowboy opened the door, Zane’s balls quivered. He’d needed this. If only for tonight.

Hesitant at first, Zane gathered his thoughts then entered the room. The cowboy closed the door behind them, and took his time slinking to where Zane stood—breathless, his groin throbbed, reminding him how badly he’d needed to indulge his true side despite the danger.

Without speaking, the cowboy inched closer, and Zane’s breathing hitched. His knees shook, and he struggled to remain standing. Near cataclysmic anticipation twisted his gut. He closed his eyes, sucked in a breath of air, and relished the musky aroma of the cowboy’s intoxicating scent.

Zane then held his breath, and waited, savoring every second.

His mind whirled from the thrilling effects he’d longed for, the instant their lips touched. So long.

So long since he’d felt the touch of another man without fear of prying eyes and a million questions. So long since he’d felt comfortable in his own skin. Heeding his natural desires, the way he preferred. His needs coming before the needs of the band.

Zane’s heart pounded as he watched the cowboy undress and crawl onto the bed.

The true side of Zane Alexander didn’t need alcohol. Hell, he didn’t need much of anything really, with the exception of this. Just often enough to take the edge off.

Zane stepped closer, his palms itching to touch.

Perhaps, someday, Zane would figure a way to fit this part of himself into the band’s perfect façade. Maybe he would find a way to take what he deserved. Have someone he could call his own and not feel guilty or ashamed.

For now though, he’d settle for the instant gratification that got him through the night.

Zane licked his lips and sank one knee into the mattress at the bottom of the bed. He smoothed his hand over the muscular hip of the tall, dark haired man sprawled in front of him. Zane swallowed hard, ready for what would come next. You’re so fucking sexy. He glanced down, motivated by the cocky grin on the other man’s lips. Now, let’s get down to business.

Chapter Two

They’re gonna kill me if I don’t get the money, Finn.

Finn Presswood glared at his older brother, Jack, with his fist clenched, trying to think of one good reason not to beat the shit out of him himself and save Nino Torres the trouble.

Shit, Jack. What the hell were you thinking?

I figured I could find a couple more cars to pay him back, but Nino said it wasn’t enough.

Nino Torres was the last person Finn ever wanted to deal with again. He’d learned the hard way just how dangerous the man could be. Nino’s operation might have been small, but it didn’t make him harmless by any means. However, it had kept him under the Fed’s radar, and was the only reason Finn hadn’t caught on earlier to what Nino was really in to.

Blinded by his own dreams for success, Finn had unwittingly allowed Nino to feed on his weaknesses. He’d even convinced Finn he could get him a recording contract, but by the time Finn discovered Nino didn’t have any real ties within the industry, he’d been in the deceitful man’s bed for nearly a year.

Jack never should have gotten involved with Nino at all.

Finn had made it clear he wanted no part of Nino’s bullshit, but perhaps he hadn’t made it clear enough. It hadn’t stopped Nino from involving Jack in his criminal enterprises.

How much are we talkin’?

Jack’s grimace told Finn more than he wanted to know. Twenty-five.

Hundred? Finn sighed, relieved the amount wasn’t more. Maybe he could work something out with Nino without getting sucked back in. Well shit, I have half that already saved. I should be able to get the rest in a couple of weeks.

Jack’s eyes dimmed, and his expression turned downright gloomy. "No, Finn. Twenty-five thousand."

Finn’s mouth went dry as he stood there staring at his brother, hoping like hell he hadn’t heard him right. Are you fucking kidding? Where in the hell would he get that kind of cash? What the hell did you do, Jack?

Finn’s stomach twisted into a thousand tiny knots. The only way Nino would work a deal for that much money would mean Finn going back, and he would rather sell his soul to the devil before he’d ever do that.

I’m sorry. Jack wrung his hands as the blue-green veins in his neck bulged. Sweat beaded his brow, and Finn immediately sensed the fear radiating off of his brother. "I thought if I did a couple of jobs for him then I’d be done, but he said he was the one who decided when I was out."

Shit. How could Finn have let his brother go this long without noticing what was happening? Jack. Finn gripped his brother’s shoulder.

Jack looked up. The creases across his forehead rutted even deeper, instantly ageing him right before Finn’s eyes.

Finn swallowed hard. He hated seeing his brother like this. Waist deep in a pile of stupid mistakes he really had no control over.

It had been this way for quite a while now. Ever since the night their lives had made a complete one-eighty. We’ll figure something out. He eased back, taking a look around the room. Pack a few things. Not a lot. Just some clothes and stuff.

Why?

I have an audition lined up, and if it works out, I’ll see about getting you on with the road crew. It won’t pay much, but at least it’ll keep us on the move until I can figure something out.

You’d do that for me?

Finn shook his head and sighed, more out of frustration than anything else. Yeah. Somebody has to keep your skinny ass alive. He pulled his brother in for a hug. We’ll figure this out.

Life hadn’t been easy for Jack especially the last seven years. Finn had had no choice but to step up and take care of him. Now though, at twenty-four, it seemed Finn might never see the end of babysitting duties. He wouldn’t complain though. Guilt festered easily whenever he did, not allowing him to feel resentment for long.

Jack always had a knack for finding trouble. He had an invisible bull’s-eye branded on his forehead. Finn’s brotherly obligations included helping Jack get back on track after his accident. Or at least as close to on track as it could get for Jack.

The accident, which could have been avoided if Finn would have stepped up when his brother needed him most, had left Jack brain damaged. Not severely, but enough so that someone would have to keep an eye on him—probably for the rest of his life.

The task was Finn’s penance for being selfish.

Now that responsibility apparently included keeping Jack safe from the likes of Nino Torres, who definitely wasn’t the type to let anyone off the hook, especially if his goal was to get to Finn.

If that was the case, then raking up twenty-five thousand dollars was the least of their worries.

****

Bright lights burned Finn’s eyes as he sat center stage at the Oasis. The old saloon slash ballroom had been around much longer than Finn had been alive. Many country legends had sat in the very spot where Finn sat now, sweating bullets, and ready to play their hearts out.

Finn had heard of Triple Creek. Everyone in Austin had, but he never imagined he’d ever have a shot at joining the band, even for a temporary gig.

Just give us a little taste of what you’re about, Mr. Presswood.

Finn smiled, unable to see the face of the person who’d spoken from behind the spotlights. He pulled his pick from his pocket and hugged his father’s old Gibson guitar as he rested it on his knee. Knowing the type of music the band usually played made it a little easier to put together a compilation of songs, including some of their better known tunes.

For variety, he started off with some Chet Atkins and Eric Clapton, then slipped in a little Johnny Cash and some classic Stevie Ray Vaughan. Finn ended the riff with a touch of Chuck Berry and Santana just for fun.

When it came to music, Finn loved it all, no matter the genre.

The vibrations from his guitar brought back memories of trying to learn how to play. The countless hours of practice had caused blisters which eventually became calluses over time as his thumb and fingers adjusted to the harsh rub of the strings against his young, tender skin. As Finn thought back on it, he now cherished the pain that had brought him so much farther than he ever could have hoped.

He moved the microphone away and cupped his hand over his brow to cut the glare from the light overhead. I also do a little classic rock and have a good ear for the blues if y’all want to hear more.

Muffled voices mumbled from behind the bright lights, and then