Word of Mouth

  

  Suncoast Society

  Word of Mouth

  Gordon’s soul was already shredded once. He thought he’d failed Jonah as his Dom, and it took everything he had not to throw away his sobriety, too. Three years later, he’s finally found peace, a new job, and is trying to move on. That’s when his big break comes along—a chance to play with one of the most famous rock stars ever.

  Except it also means playing with Jonah.

  Jonah realized too late that the worst mistake of his life was leaving Gordon. Make that second-worst. His worst mistake was trusting the wrong person and breaking Gordon’s heart with cruel words he wishes he could erase. When the chance of a lifetime falls in his lap, he’s willing to throw it away if it means he can win Gordon back.

  Jonah wants another chance to prove himself. Does Gordon dare risk his trust, his heart—and their biggest career opportunity ever—and let his boy back in?

  Genres: Alternative (M/M, Gay), BDSM, Contemporary

  Length: 27,039

  WORD OF MOUTH

  Suncoast Society

  Tymber Dalton

  

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  Word of Mouth

  Copyright © 2018 by Tymber Dalton

  ISBN: 978-1-64243-529-0

  First Publication: December 2018

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All art and logo copyright © 2018 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  If you find a Siren-BookStrand e-book or print book being sold or shared illegally, please let us know at [email protected]

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  DEDICATION

  For Hubby, and for Sir. He knows why.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tymber Dalton is the wild-child alter-ego of author Lesli Richardson. She lives in the Tampa Bay region of Florida with her husband (aka “The World’s Best Husband™”) and too many pets. Active in the BDSM lifestyle, the two-time EPIC award winner and part-time Viking shield-maiden loves to shoot skeet and play D&D with her friends. She’s also the bestselling author of over one hundred and fifty books and counting, including The Reluctant Dom, The Denim Dom, Cardinal’s Rule, the Suncoast Society series, the Love Slave for Two series, the Triple Trouble series, the Coffeeshop Coven series, the Good Will Ghost Hunting series, the Drunk Monkeys series, and many more.

  She loves to hear from readers! Please feel free to drop by her website and sign up for her newsletter to keep abreast of the latest news, snarkage, and releases. You can also find all of her Siren-BookStrand releases under all four of her pen names on her author page on the BookStrand site.

  Honest reviews are always welcomed. They help with a book’s visibility and can boost its placement on book retailer sites. Even a few lines about what you felt reading the book will help. Thank you so much, it’s greatly appreciated!

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cXKR7v

  Website: http://www.tymberdalton.com

  Facebook Page: http://www.facebook.com/tymberdalton

  Reader Group: http://www.facebook.com/groups/TymbersTrybe

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/TymberDalton

  For all titles by Tymber Dalton, please visit

  www.bookstrand.com/tymber-dalton

  Author’s Note

  This is book 86 in the Suncoast Society series. You do not have to read all the books before this one to understand the plot or characters—most of the books in the series are standalone.

  Mevi and Doyle are first featured in Time Out of Mind. Rich, Nick, and Chelbie are first featured in Sapiosexual.

  Some of the other characters in this book appear in or are featured in previous books in the Suncoast Society series. While most of the books in the Suncoast Society series are standalone works which may be read independently of each other, the recommended reading order to avoid spoilers and to not miss any backstory can be found on the Suncoast Society series page, along with character information and other trivia, on my website at:

  http://www.suncoastsociety.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  WORD OF MOUTH

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  WORD OF MOUTH

  Suncoast Society

  TYMBER DALTON

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  “So can you come over? Right now? We’re freaking desperate, Jonah!”

  Jonah closed his eyes and rubbed at them over the—yes, desperate—tone in Clark Waterford’s voice. Clark’s phone call had just roused Jonah out of a sound sleep maybe barely an hour after he’d finally gone to bed that Sunday morning following a late-night gig at a club in Anaheim.

  “I just got home a little while ago, man. I was playing until three this morning.”

  “I don’t care. Troy’s hand is fucked, and we’re now short a guitarist for both this leg of the tour and the studio sessions. Please?”

  Jonah sat up on the edge of his air mattress. “I…dude, I don’t even have a car.” And as he mentally ran through his budget, an Uber would be fucking pushing him dangerously close to the edge. The money he earned last night had already been sent by Venmo, along with most of the rest of his bank balance, to his landlord to pay the rent.

  That left him literally fifty dollars, plus whatever was in his spare change jar on his dresser, until his next gig Friday night.

  Unless he wanted to go busk in a park for change or something.

  Which…he was beginning to think might be a viable option. Wouldn’t be the first time he did that. He hadn’t had a studio gig lined up in a couple of weeks, which was unusual and starting to bother him, as well as make him incredibly nervous.

  “I’ll send a freaking car for you,” Clark added. “I’ll even pay you five hundred, cash, for today’s session. As long as you aren’t high or hungover, we can dump enough coffee in you to get you through today. Today is just practice, which we’ll need you at for the fucking tour. Please?”

  “Wait.” Jonah rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m going to tour with the band? Without even auditioning for them?”

  “Yes! Jesus, now he’s fucking getting it! Word of mouth is you’re the best guy for this gig.”

  Word of mouth from who, he wondered. “Stupid questions here—which band, how long, how much, and I’m going to need some up-front money to pay my bills and cancel a gig I’m signed up for Friday night. And why me?” Surely Clark had to know more experienced studio musicians who could easily fill in.

  “For twelve weeks, starting today. Four in the studio, eight on tour, but you have to pass a drug test and stay clean and sober for the tour. That’s a hard rule.”

  “I can d
o that, no problem. I don’t drink or do drugs, you know that.”

  “I know, which is why I want you there.” Then he named the amount. “And I’ll give you five grand today if you’ll sign the contract to go on the tour.”

  Holy fuck.

  He honestly couldn’t turn down that kind of money.

  “And the band? Who are they?”

  “NDA needs to be signed first. You’ll like them, I swear.”

  “Wait—why the secrecy? I’m not contracting to work with anyone without knowing who the hell I’m working with first.”

  Clark chuckled. “If you get here and sign the NDA, and then after I give you that info you still tell me nope, I’ll still give you a grand, cash, for your work today. If you play the practice session. Otherwise, you sign the contract, five hundred cash today to play, and I’ll have a five-grand money transfer in your account by midnight. Rest of it paid out in stages. This is how desperate I am.”

  Jonah took a deep breath. Right now, he was living gig-to-gig. Failure wasn’t an option, because he’d stupidly burned his boats—and bridges—when he moved to LA in search of “fame” three years ago.

  “I’m going to need a lot of coffee, and a nap, at some point this afternoon,” Jonah told him. “I’m going to be off my game and not at my best. I’m exhausted and running on about five hours’ sleep in the past forty-eight.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “That’s a yes to showing up and playing today. Electric?”

  “Yes. No amp needed, we got the equipment. And you can sleep during lunch. I’ll send a fucking car for you right now, and you can nap on the way in, too. Get a shower, get ready, get your shit gathered for today’s session. What’s your address?”

  Jonah told him.

  “I’ll get the car en route as soon as we hang up. Driver’s name is Rudy. He’ll call or text you when he’s there. You have no idea how much I appreciate this!”

  And with that, Clark was gone.

  Well, fuck.

  Jonah briefly thought about falling over and dozing off, but then realized he needed to stand up and get moving.

  Okay, then.

  He didn’t like the idea of blindly showing up somewhere he didn’t know who or where, or even what style he’d be playing.

  But at the worst he’d be out a few hours of sleep and come home at least five hundred dollars richer than he’d been when Clark woke him up.

  That’s…doable.

  Jonah hit the shower and groaned as the water sluiced over his body. He’d been so exhausted he hadn’t even showered before bed last night, meaning he still smelled like cigarette smoke from the bar he’d played. Technically it was his friend’s band, but their regular guitarist was out for several weeks because the guy’s wife just had a baby a few weeks ago, and his wife was getting ready to go back to work after her maternity leave ended. It would cost them more in childcare than he made playing gigs, so he was staying home with the baby, for now. He could play some daytime weekend gigs with them, but not the regular ones during the week or at night.

  Fuck my life. Why did I leave Florida?

  Oh, yeah, because I’m an idiot.

  He’d left a decent life behind in Florida and tried not to think about how things would be different if he’d stayed.

  He wouldn’t be living in a shitty, tiny efficiency apartment over a goddamned auto repair shop.

  He wouldn’t be lonely and sleeping on a fucking air mattress and eating ramen noodles nearly every night.

  He wouldn’t have fought with Gordon that night, gotten angry with him when Gordon begged him to not rush into the decision, to maybe fly out for a visit first and check things out before committing to a move.

  He wouldn’t remember the ugly, downright shitty things he’d said to Gordon, accusing him of trying to hold him back, keep him under his thumb. Killing his dreams. That Gordon was just jealous of him and his skills.

  He wouldn’t have to remember the pain in the man’s blue eyes when he’d told Gordon he was leaving, and that was final, or the way Gordon’s voice choked up when he uncollared him and released him, instead of begging him to stay like he’d hoped Gordon would.

  He wouldn’t have to think about the sting of embarrassment when he realized the friend he’d moved out there to stay with, who’d told him tales of how easy he’d have it finding gigs, and who’d made it sound like opportunity was everywhere, was actually an addict who’d been trying to sucker someone to move in with him to help him pay the bills.

  He wouldn’t have to remember how fucking good he’d had it in Florida, and how he’d blown the best thing he’d ever had by leaving.

  He wouldn’t have to think about how Gordon had probably moved on already, rightfully so, and how some other lucky guy was surely happily collared to him.

  He wouldn’t feel ashamed of himself for not having the balls to reach out even some three years later and apologize to the man he still fucking loved.

  If he hadn’t left Florida…

  He wouldn’t be alone and lonely and struggling.

  Chapter Two

  Jonah was ready to go when the driver texted him forty-five minutes later that he was outside. Jonah picked up his messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed the two guitars he was taking with him. One was his Martin electric-acoustic, and the other his Ibanez electric. Not the two most expensive guitars in their class, sure, but they sounded clean enough for today.

  And if Clark’s mystery band didn’t like the way they sounded, they could provide him with something better to play. Today was supposed to be practice, anyway, not recording.

  When Jonah emerged from the building, the driver got out and opened the Escalade’s back hatch for him. It wasn’t just an Uber—it was an actual car service, like for money clients, and the guy was dressed in a nice freaking suit.

  “Good morning, sir,” the guy said, reaching for a guitar case.

  “Good morning.” Now Jonah felt really underdressed in his jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off his tats on both arms, full-sleeves down to his wrists. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “About an hour, with the traffic. Maybe a little longer. Mr. Waterford said to stop and get you food on his tab, wherever you’d like.”

  “Okay, thanks. Can we stop like just before we get there? I really need a freaking nap. I played a late gig.”

  “We can do that. Any preference where?”

  “Drive-thru’s fine. Coffee and some sort of breakfast sandwich. I’m not picky.” Hell, it’d be food. “Like, maybe three coffees.”

  “I’ll wake you up when we’re close.” He finished stowing Jonah’s gear and opened the back passenger-side door for him.

  “Thanks.”

  Jonah didn’t even bother fastening his seatbelt, even though he knew that was stupid. But he needed the sleep more. So he lay over on his side with his messenger bag as a pillow and almost immediately fell asleep.

  It felt like only a few minutes later when he heard the driver’s voice. “Mr. Yeager, we’re about a mile from the exit. There are several choices.”

  Jonah blearily sat up, wondered who the hell Mr. Yeager was, until he remembered that was his name, and he looked around.

  “Where are we?”

  “Coming into Pasadena.”

  He fastened his seatbelt. “Anywhere’s fine. Starbucks, Dunkin’, McD’s—I don’t care. Whatever you hit first, as long as it’s not a Taco Bell or something.”

  They pulled through a Starbucks. With a breakfast sandwich and one of three coffees in Jonah’s hands, they pulled back into traffic.

  He’d finished the sandwich, one of the coffees, and was working on the second coffee when they pulled into a fenced-in parking lot with a full gate, not just one of those stupid parking arm things. The driver punched in a code and the gate rolled open for them. There was no sign outside.

  “This it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It felt weird being cal
led sir.

  Really weird.

  Then again, I’m thirty-two. I should get used to it, I guess.

  He gulped the second coffee and was climbing out with the third in hand when the building’s front door opened and Clark raced out.

  “There you are! Are you awake?”

  “Barely.” He’d worked with a few of Clark’s clients in the past, but didn’t really know the guy that well. He wasn’t making enough to have a fucking manager, much less one like Clark.

  Hell, he was barely making enough to pay his fucking rent, and he didn’t even have a car he could live out of if that fell through. He’d had to sell that last year. Couldn’t afford the insurance and inspection fees.

  “Let’s get your shit inside and get the paperwork done first.” Clark and the driver waved Jonah off when he tried to grab one of his guitars, so he juggled his coffee and the messenger bag and followed the men inside the small lobby, which required a pin code to get in, where they set his cases down by a couple of chairs.

  “Thanks, Rudy,” Clark said to the driver. “I’ll text you tonight when he needs to be picked up. Probably not until nine, at least.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once they were alone, Jonah realized there was a clipboard and large manila envelope on one of the side tables. Clark produced a pen, fished out a form, and stuck it on the clipboard, handing both to him.

  “NDA, first thing. Short version basically says you don’t say anything about what you did or who you met today, and that you don’t own any rights to the music you’re playing beyond what the contract you’ll sign says you’re getting paid.”

  Jonah had signed a few of these before for studio sessions, but never without knowing who he was playing for.

  He skimmed through it. “If this is someone like Ted Nugent, I’m going to nutpunch you,” he told Clark as he signed the NDA.