Replay (Off Track Records Book 4)

by Kacey Shea

  I bite my lip, holding back the urge to have the last word. He wants to walk away. Okay. Fine. That’s how it’s gonna be. I have a job to do, too. Arms crossed over my chest and spine straight, I hold his gaze without wavering while I feel as though my insides shatter in a million pieces.

  He drops his gaze, and the shake of his head as he turns to walk away is both condescending and disappointed. I should feel relief. Righteousness for not caving to his manipulation. Angry even, for this entire situation and how today went from best to worst. But I don’t feel any of those things. Because the trust I was beginning to have in him is tainted. Because a tiny part of me wonders if Glen is right.

  In these short few weeks Austin and I have built a connection I never imagined possible. I was the broken one. The one incapable of mixing pleasure with sex. Until him. But if I discover he’s no better than a monster? The kind that gets off on young girls? Then he won’t only ruin what little hope I have for myself, he’ll obliterate it.

  With each stride that separates us, my heart cracks further, and by the time he’s gone I’m certain I’ve lost the best thing in my life.

  The worst part about it? I still think I made the right choice.

  32

  Austin

  I pushed her away.

  As soon as I realize what I accused her of—with no rational basis other than my own jealousy, I race to find her and apologize. Only what do I do? I fuck that up as well. I’m worse than a self-fulfilling prophecy, because I’m the one who pushed her further away. Even if it wasn’t my intention, it’s what I’ve done.

  And why? All because I’m terrified to admit the truth. To tell her about Brianna and the private investigator and the photos I pay for in my desperate attempt to find her. I’m worried she won’t believe me. Or trust me. Or love me enough to see past my failures.

  Because I failed Jayla when she moved away. Not intentionally, but she needed me, and what happened to her after she moved . . . she carried that alone for so long. Bri needed me too, but I was hell bent on proving my mom wrong, chasing the dream I always wanted, and in turn I left a little girl to survive amongst wolves.

  This is all so fucked up. I stomp back to the green room more torn up than when I left. I can’t lose Jayla. Not again. But I don’t know how to make this right. How do I make up for so many years? For the missed letters? For the hurt?

  My anxious thoughts race at a manic pace through my mind, and my body feels too big for my skin. The urge to erase the surge of panic has me digging in my bag for something to light up.

  “Dude, you okay?” Trent puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I stop my search to find everyone staring back with concern. Even the hair and makeup girl, Kellie, looks worried.

  “I’m not gonna break shit if that’s what you’re worried about.” My hands shake, and my pulse races as if it’s going a million miles an hour. “I just need a smoke.” Fucking finally. Deep in the bottom of my bag is the tiny case that holds a half-smoked joint. I pull it out and look around. “Anyone have a lighter?”

  “I got you, boo,” Kellie says with all the sass in the world, and an eye roll for good measure. She pulls one out from one of her big makeup boxes and holds it over her shoulder while still managing to trace Leighton’s eyes in thick liner with the other hand. “Just bring it back when you’re done.”

  “Care if I join you?” Sean asks.

  Of all of these guys, he’s the least likely to kill my buzz. “Sure.”

  He doesn’t ask any more questions and keeps up with my brisk pace as I walk in the opposite direction of the stage. I don’t know where exactly I’m heading, but when I spot a special restroom marked for families, I go there. Inside the room smells like disinfectant and cleaning supplies, which I guess is a hell of a lot better than shitty diapers.

  There’s a rocking chair intended for nursing mothers, I realize, and Sean settles in like it’s as natural as can be for two dudes to hang out in a family bathroom before a show.

  I flip the lock, light up my joint, and inhale a long drag. I haven’t smoked this entire tour, which is really fucking strange for me. Not that I consider myself an addict or anything, but I enjoy a buzz every now and again. I’ve been so wrapped up in Jayla these past weeks that I haven’t even thought about smoking.

  I exhale a plume of smoke before taking another hit. I glance at Sean, expecting him to say something, even if it’s to warn me to take it easy. “What?” I challenge with the lift of my chin. “I know you wanna say something.”

  He just chuckles, rocking himself back and forth in that damn chair. “I don’t have anything to say other than you’re being a selfish ass. You gonna smoke that entire joint without offering me a hit?”

  “Shit. Sorry,” I say and pass it to him.

  He takes a long drag and holds his breath as he hands back the joint.

  I roll the paper between my thumb and middle finger. “I know you heard us arguing.”

  “Yeah, everyone did,” he says on his exhale and shrugs. “So? Couples argue.”

  I take another hit and pass it back to him. “I fucked up.”

  “Of course you did.” He grins.

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’ll probably do it again. At least a hundred times.” He takes one more hit and then snuffs the light out against the side of the trashcan.

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a real friend.”

  “Hey, don’t get pissed at me for stating the truth. But you do realize you can make it right. That’s the thing about fucking up. You have the ability to unfuck it up.”

  “You’re a modern day Aristotle, you know that?”

  “Make all the jokes you want, but you know I’m right.” He chuckles as if he’s so damn smart. He kind of is, though. I set the entire course into play today, starting with the text I received on the ride back from the hotel. Had I taken the time last night to go through the latest images and destroyed the link, my PI would have never followed up. But I was too preoccupied with settling myself inside Jayla’s magic pussy, and then later I forgot. Even the fit of rage I had at seeing some other dude’s name light up her cell phone had everything to do with the insecurity I was feeling.

  Fucked it up.

  Unfuck it.

  “Fucking brilliant.”

  “I know I am. You’re welcome.” He grins, rocking in that chair. Back and forth, back and forth. Damn, that looks relaxing. We should get rocking chairs for the bus. Sean has everything figured out. He’s like a voodoo philosopher or some shit.

  “Thanks, brother.” I shut my eyes and visualize the life I want. The one that Jayla’s in and doesn’t leave. Tonight, I make a vow to tell her everything. Apologize and come clean. I have to unfuck things. I can’t shut her out. I won’t let fear win. Maybe I lose her. Maybe she hates me afterward. But I have to try. She’s too important, and what we have is too special. I may not be much of a fighter, but I’ll fight for her.

  Of course, all of that is gonna have to wait until after the show, because right now I’m really fucking high.

  33

  Jayla

  My eyelids slam shut and I press my lips shut so I won’t scream. I want to cry. My eyes water, but I refuse to do this right now. A sudden urge to ditch this place, hail a cab, and lock myself in my hotel room for the next twenty-four hours is more than tempting. I need to get my head straight, and space alone to process would help. But I don’t have the luxury. I knew it was a risk—getting involved with Austin had the possibility of being messy if things went wrong—only I never imagined it’d go this far south.

  Seriously. What the fuck?

  The more I think about it, I can’t fathom Austin being capable of Glen’s accusations. The Austin I know has a really big heart, and while yes, he has a history of promiscuity, that doesn’t equate to anything other than a high sex drive. After everything I told him about my past and how understanding he was, it doesn’t seem possible he would hurt me this way.

  But Glen wo
uld never lie or start shit without proof.

  Real proof. That’s what I need right now. Austin’s been acting shady at times, like today when he got the message on his phone. Was it a photo of some girl? Is that why he shut me out so swiftly after our afternoon together?

  These are the questions I need answers to. Yet the thought of confronting him brings a wave of nausea so fierce I might actually throw up. I hate that I didn’t have the strength to call him out. The words stuck in my throat when I should’ve asked him to explain. Now I’m driving myself crazy running through every possible motive or reason for Austin to be buying pictures of vulnerable girls on the down low.

  But none of that matters because right now I have a job to do. I need to shove my feelings aside and focus on filling up this arena and providing a safe show for everyone. The rest will have to wait. Until I’m locked inside my hotel room there’s no time to fall apart, scream, cry, or do whatever else I must to deal.

  Needing to stay busy for my sanity, I head outside to lend an extra hand with entry. It’s a good thing too, because several ticket holders decide to cause havoc. There’s one guy who tries to bring his loaded gun to the concert. Dumbass. Then two drunk guys get into a fist fight and injure a few innocent bystanders in the process. Idiots. That’s on top of the normal confiscation of restricted liquids and food that patrons attempt to smuggle in. It all adds stressors to the entry process, and that’s not good when the line is already wrapped around the building.

  The cops respond to our altercation with the drunk wanna-be fighters and after giving my statement, I check in with Brian. The arena is ninety-percent filled and the opening act is on stage, so I head back to the green room.

  One of my regular tasks is to escort the guys to the stage and run point on security until they’re safely tucked inside the bus for the night—or rather hotel tonight. This is something I look forward to. I love watching the guys perform and I often catch a few songs from backstage. But not tonight. No. I wish I were headed anywhere else in this arena right now. I feel raw and angry, and unprepared to have any kind of conversation with Austin.

  My feet feel heavy in my shoes as I radio to check in with the rest of the team. “Give me updates.” Please, no more problems.

  “Jayla? We’ve got an unattended bag in section 328. Black backpack. Just outside the restrooms off the concourse,” Terrance reports in his low timbre through our secured line.

  Shit. This night isn’t getting any easier. “Clear the area and check with employees.” I head in that direction and tap on my cell to call Brian. “Hey, you get all that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Want me to head over?”

  “No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see. “I’m already close, and if it’s a problem I should be there. I need you to get to the green room though, escort the guys to the stage on Casey’s lead.”

  “You sure?” There’s surprise in his reply because it’s a task I haven’t delegated this entire tour.

  “If this wraps quickly I’ll take your place, but I’d feel better with a backup plan.” I may also like the idea of an out. I won’t shirk my duties intentionally, but I’m not naïve enough to think spending time with Austin anytime soon will be comfortable.

  “Sounds good, boss,” Brian says. “Holler if you need anything else.”

  “You know I will.”

  * * *

  I don’t know what kind of idiot thinks it’s okay to park his bag outside the public restroom during a concert while he works his shift in concessions. Probably the same type to yell bomb on a plane as a joke. I’m starting to think there’s a full moon or something.

  The concession employee whose backpack we recovered once we deduced there were no bombs or weapons inside is back to filling popcorn buckets and souvenir soda cups. Thanks to the photo ID tucked next to his house keys, Oliver Han wasn’t too hard to track down. I swear, I don’t understand how some people survive in this world.

  I walk back through the venue and past the secure checkpoint now that another proverbial fire is put out. If I hurry, I can probably catch the band before they go on. My body hums with anxiety as a war of two differing emotions battles inside my mind. There’s a part of me that wants another hit of Austin Jones—his smile, his laughter, and yes, even his kiss—which is so wrong. At least, that’s what the other part of me says. She’s the piece that guards my heart and is ready to spin on my heel, file my resignation, and fly back home, never to look back.

  “Miss Miller?”

  “Yeah?” I lift my gaze to find a pimple-faced, wide-eyed young man jogging toward me. He’s dressed in the standard concession uniform, and while I don’t recognize his face from the staff list, it’s been days since I reviewed the employee files for this stop.

  “There’s an emergency,” he demands, his voice urgent. “Someone told me to come find you.”

  “Slow down,” I say. “What’s going on? And who sent you?”

  “Everyone was yelling. There’s blood. It was Austin I think, or maybe Trent. I’m not a big Three Ugly Guys fan.” His words fly from his mouth in a rush. “There’s something wrong with the baby.”

  Opal. No! My feet move before my mind fully processes the words, and I turn to meet the kid’s face. “Where?”

  “The green room,” the young man yells after me. “Should I call 9-1-1?”

  “No. Go back to work,” I shout and wave him off so I can run in earnest. The cheers and chants from inside the arena press heavily through the thick, cemented walls. It’s time for the band to head backstage. They’re on in minutes. Or rather, they should be. Had I not been dealing with that stupid backpack, I would have been escorting them along with the rest of the team.

  Guilt creeps along my spine because I should have been there. I can’t believe this is happening. Opal looked fine this morning. Hell, she hasn’t shown any signs of distress.

  As I push my legs to move faster, I offer a prayer that she and the baby are fine. Please, Lord. Keep them safe.

  I round the corner expecting a commotion or one of the security staff to be guarding the door, but when I yank open the green room door I realize why.

  Oh. Shit.

  “You’re a hard woman to catch alone,” says a man I’ve never met in person, but whose photos and record I memorized long ago. Coy Wright. His hair’s a little longer and he’s grown a short beard, but it’s him. I’d stare longer to be sure, but I’m distracted by the Glock he aims at my head.

  “Excuse me,” I say and take a step back toward the now shut door.

  “Nope,” he says, the gun firm in his hand. “You and I are going to have little chat.” He stares at my body. “Drop the pack.”

  It’s the small bag I carry during all of my shifts. Inside are supplies, and a gun of my own, but he probably knows that. I want to kick myself for not having that holstered, but because I was out working in the public area tonight, I chose to store it unloaded and inside my bag. I regret the decision now.

  I inhale slowly to calm my pulse, and slide the straps off my shoulders. “Here?” I ask, leaving his stare to glance at the floor.

  He nods, his eyes glued to my presence.

  I lower my arm, not making any sudden movement. If I can catch him off-guard or get close enough, I’m certain I can get the gun from his hands. He’s a big guy, but I’ve practiced these scenarios a thousand times. It’s possible to use his strength to my advantage, or talk him out of whatever it is he came here to accomplish. But before I set the bag on the floor, he rushes forward and yanks it from my hands. He backs up again before I have the opportunity to make a move.

  Damn it.

  “Your cell. Bluetooth. Radio.” He’s done his homework. “Drop them right there.”

  I raise my hands slowly and remove each item from my body. Each device lands on the concrete floor with a resounding thud. Under his watchful stare I’m not able to signal for help; I’ll risk his temper if I do. I know way more about Coy than he does about me and I plan to use th
at to my advantage. I have the training and skillset to take him down, but first I have to make him think he’s in control.

  “Away from the door,” he commands, motioning to the opposite side of the room.

  I take measured steps, never giving him my back.

  He does the same, keeping the space between us wide, and leaves me no opportunity to go for the gun. Not unless I want to get shot. He approaches my equipment and crushes my in-ear piece with the weight of his boot, then kicks it and the rest of my stuff across the room. The door is at his back, but even if someone were to enter, he’d be able to accost them before they realized any danger.

  “Sit,” he demands, and points to the same chair Austin sat in only hours ago.

  I don’t move and instead try to get Coy talking. “What do you want?”

  His somber stare lifts with the raise of his brow. His lips twist with a sinister smile. “Don’t you want to get to know each other better before we get down to business?”

  “I know exactly who you are.” I do a poor job of keeping the disdain from my tone.

  “Did that piece of shit boy toy of yours tell you how he fucked up my hand?” His chuckle is filled with malice, but that’s not what prickles my skin. It’s his implication that Austin and I are together. How would he know that? Unless he’s guessing because of our videos. His eyes narrow and again he points that damn gun in my direction. “He tell you how he pretended to be my friend? How his buddy fucked my girl behind my back? How they all ruined my life?”

  I hold my hands up with my fingers spread wide. “Give me the gun, Coy.”

  “Right.” The vein on his forehead pops as he huffs out a laugh. “You must think I’m stupid.”

  I do, but I don’t trust he’s not completely off his rocker. Stress and desperation push rational thought from anyone’s mind, let alone this asshole. I keep my voice even, my tone reassuring. “Tell me what you want so we can figure it out together. This doesn’t have to be a lose-lose.”