Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  The unshakeable faith I once had in him is disintegrating. Doubtful anything will ever fully extinguish it. Besides, emotional attachments aren’t easy to overcome and, now we’ll always share a connection because of the baby. Right now, she’s inside of me, but I don’t think my feelings will change much toward him when she’s in my arms. They may even grow stronger. Because of Sloane, I’ll never be alone again.

  I’ll have my little girl.

  “The detective, Georgiana,” the maid inserts briskly.

  The cop’s arrival interrupted her wood polishing duties, evidenced by the wool cloth flung over her shoulder. She’s standing five feet away, but lemon oil wafts from her and turns my stomach. At the beginning of my pregnancy, morning sickness kicked my ass. Once Sloane sent me away, food wouldn’t stay down. It eased up a couple of weeks into my second trimester. Lately, though, my stomach has returned to its fragile state, and I’ve been nauseated a lot.

  Even if the maid knew this, she wouldn’t do much to step away and remove the scent invading my nostrils. Around here, I’m inconsequential.

  “He said it won’t take long.” She lifts a brow in expectation, almost as snooty as Grandma.

  All of her servants act as if they’re better than me. My parents ignored me at home, but at least the household staff didn’t disdain me. Then. What they’d subject me to now, I can’t imagine.

  Dejection threatens to overwhelm me. Ruthlessly, I shove it away. My baby is what I am as long as she’s inside of me. If I’m healthy and happy, she will be, too.

  “Georgiana!”

  The maid glares at me, and I sigh. “Show him in.”

  I debate on whether I should sit or remain standing, to best hide my nervousness.

  Striving for a calm demeanor, I return to the settee and pull my cell phone from my pocket. Grandma insists I call furniture resembling a plain, old loveseat, something quite old-fashioned.

  A chill sweeps through me, but I attempt to convince myself the cold, marble floors are affecting me. It doesn’t work. My goosebumps stem from a detective wanting to see me.

  There’s no avoiding this visit. No one here will cover for me. If Grandma were home, she would. Without a doubt, she’d talk to the man, with her need to be in control at all times. Grandma only allows me in-depth contact with her, my maid, Lindsey, and Josh. Unless she arranges an appointment for me, such as OB check-ups, it isn’t happening.

  Five minutes later, a voice clears and I focus my wandering mind. The original servant who came to me with the announcement of my unwanted visitor has been replaced by another one, still in black and white. Required attire for Grandma’s staff is black pants and vest with a white shirt for men and a black dress with a white apron for women. The uniforms are the reason I try my best to never wear black and white.

  “Sorry it took so long to show him in,” the maid says. “He needed the lavatory.”

  I lower my lashes to prevent my grimace at the word lavatory. One day, I’m scoping out the staff’s quarters. I bet I’ll find the Helen Sanderson Dictionary on Annoying and Outdated Words, as well as an etiquette book on proper behavior. One rule would be texting is classless communication.

  Grandma hates texts, but I fire off a quick one to her. I don’t know the protocol of a detective overhearing me ratting out his presence to my grandmother via a phone call.

  “This is Detective Stu Jackson.” This maid is a tad friendlier and nods to me. I wish I remembered her name. Grandma just has too many people attending to her every need, for me to know who’s who. Maybe, if I hung around them more, I’d better identify everyone. “Detective, this is Georgiana McCall.”

  Detective Jackson’s gaze falls on my stomach and he lifts a brow, shifting a thick folder he’s holding from one hand to the other. Not liking the way he’s staring at my belly and already on edge, I feel my tension heighten with his suspicious attitude. I can’t pinpoint his age, but he has a rugged, outdoorsy look. He isn’t handsome, but neither can he be called ugly, even though his top lip is thin. With a better look, I decide he has a chicken lip. It’s not only thin but nonexistent.

  I hold back a giggle and deepen my study to have something to concentrate on, other than how freaked I am by his visit.

  Despite that top lip, the detective somehow reminds me of Sam, the doomed tutor Sloane hired for me. Detective Jackson has on a suit and tie while Sam wore trousers, a button-down shirt, and a bowtie. Sam’s face was also more classically handsome, though the shape of the two men’s brows match.

  Why do I find that so weird or relevant?

  Laying the folder on the coffee table, Detective Jackson digs into his jacket and comes out with a small recorder, pen, and notepad. After he sets the items on top of the folder, he puts his hands on his hips and studies me. The placement of his hands pushes his jacket back. I glimpse the badge clipped to his belt, along with a holstered gun.

  I lick my lips and place my cell phone next to me, within easy reach if Grandma responds to my message, then I brush bits of hair behind my ear. Without invitation, he sits on the sofa that I’m allowed to call a sofa, directly across from me.

  “What’s this about?” Doing my best not to fidget, I cross my fingers, hoping Grandma responds. Judging by the size of the folder, this is a serious matter. “Why are you here?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions.” His voice is kinder than expected. My tension isn’t eased.

  “About what?” I squeak out, wincing internally. To stay in control of this situation, I have to keep calm.

  He doesn’t draw out his answer, saying simply, “Sloane Mason.”

  Sloane. Of course, this is about Sloane. After Kiln’s call, I’ve been expecting contact all day. I’ve gotten it, just not the communication I wanted.

  My hands clench and unclench, and one descends toward my stomach. I’d like to freely cradle my belly or rest my hands on it or do the things I’ve seen other pregnant women do, but I don’t have that luxury. Even alone, I’m hesitant. If I get too comfortable touching my belly in private, I’d unconsciously do it around Grandma. Detective Jackson’s gaze hones in on my stomach, strengthening my theory that acknowledging my pregnancy in the smallest way isn’t wise. I shove my hands under my thighs to keep them out of trouble.

  Afraid to speak, I press my lips together. If a detective is here asking about Sloane…What does that mean? Someone found out about our affair and now he’s in trouble? I’m still four, whole months away from being legal. If Sloane married me, he’d be a little more insulated against prosecution. I think. The law confuses me, so I’m not one hundred percent certain.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Nothing,” I respond as if I have a button set to automatic. Does this jackass expect me to announce my affair with Sloane?

  The detective scowls at my reply. I squirm, trying to convince myself that I’m being silly and panicking for nothing.

  “I need to know about him.”

  “You think I have the answers to whatever questions you have?” My attempt to affect the tone Grandma would use, or even Mom, is a big, fat fail. Where’s Grandma? I need her to help me, and she isn’t here. Sloane isn’t here. I’m either getting rid of this man on my own or not. It’s on me, so I think fast and strive for ignorance. “He’s that lead singer of Phoenix Rising, isn’t he?”

  His lips thin. He shouldn’t do that. With his nonexistent top lip, he looks frightening. “Don’t play games, young lady.”

  Okay, so judging by his tone, frightening is the goal. The kindness I first heard from him is gone, turning into total douchebaggery.

  “I’m here to discover the exact nature of the relationship the two of you had.” Again, he looks pointedly at my stomach. “Obviously, it was sexual, which is a felony because you’re a minor.”

  Heat burns into me, sweeping up my neck and into my face. I release one of my imprisoned hands and fan myself to cool off my embarrassment. I’m sure I’m crimson at his stern condescension. Fucki
ng asshole. My brain fumbles for another excuse and seizes upon one he provided to me. I’m a minor, huh? All right, dickhead.

  “Shouldn’t my guardian be present?” I press, searching for an out. “I’m under eighteen.”

  “Don’t pretend to know the law,” he chastises, his superiority undented by my revelation.

  My heart sinks, but I’m determined not to show my ignorance. I don’t know the law, a fact I’m not about to admit. I swore never to betray Sloane. That won’t ever change. Slipping deeper into whatever mire the detective’s creating, I lift my phone. Grandma hasn’t answered my text, but she’ll talk to me if she isn’t in a meeting. “Let me call my grandmother.”

  “No.” He nods to the thick folder. “This won’t take long.”

  “What’s in there?” Suspicion momentarily suspends my unease. The sight of the voice recorder reminds me of its presence. I point to it. “That isn’t on, is it?”

  His look is thoughtful, ping-ponging between me and the small, black device. “Should it be?”

  Inwardly, I groan at my big mouth, covering it up by rolling my eyes and dropping the subject. “What’s in the folder?”

  His grating smile annoys me. I never thought anyone would out-asshole Kiln, but Detective Jackson’s smug smirk shoots him to the top of my Biggest-Asshole-on-Earth list.

  “I’ll get to the folder after you answer my questions,” he promises coolly.

  Fuck, back to this living nightmare. Disturbing thoughts rise in my head. Perhaps, Sloane hasn’t called today because he can’t. Maybe, he’s in trouble, and they’re looking to me for answers to help a case along.

  Kiln wanted revenge. No, wants. I can’t see the dickhole changing. Lost in my need for Sloane, I ignored my knowledge of his and Kiln’s history and blurted out I’m carrying Sloane’s daughter.

  My womb squeezes and the baby moves, rippling my belly. Either her little hand or her foot travels from one side of me to the other. She’s dancing inside of me, just like Sloane moves across a stage. My hands press on my stomach, and the detective’s smugness increases, right along with my fear.

  “It’s his, isn’t it?”

  This asshole is relentless.

  “No.” I’m determined to correct this. I love Sloane, and I don’t care if he doesn’t love me. Loving people who don’t love me back is the story of my life, so I’m accustomed.

  “First question.”

  Oh my God, I can’t wait until I see the back of this fucking jerk. Instead of allowing him to continue interrogating me, my mind drifts to another solution. “May I plead the fifth?”

  A brief moment of amusement flickers in his light green eyes before he clears his throat and turns back into a big asshole.

  “You can answer my questions here or I can escort you to the station and we talk there.”

  Every time I seize control, he snatches it back.

  “Am I in trouble?” I hate the small tremble in my voice. Hearing it empowers him.

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Sloane Mason?” he bites out, ignoring my question, aware he has the upper hand.

  I don’t relish lying to an officer of the law, but no way in fucking hell is he getting me—

  “And need I remind you the severity of punishment for perjury?”

  He’s like a mind reader. I search for an out, a plausible solution. “You can only commit perjury when you lie under oath.”

  “I’ve had enough of your bullshit pretense. You don’t know the goddamn law. You don’t know much of anything. Where do you get your bogus information?”

  Glancing down, I blink away tears of humiliation. I read about perjury in a book, although I can’t remember which one, or even the storyline. But it’s how I’ve learned most of what I know. No one listens to me when I tell them teachers go too fast for me to follow. Even tutors explain things to me, but go into little depth, listening to what Grandma says. She pays them an exorbitant amount of money to make me feel stupid.

  “If you lie to protect Sloane or win him back, you’re the one who’ll suffer.”

  His intuition pushes me steadily into a corner, closer to the breaking point. My hormones are already crazy. I’m moments away from either sobbing my heart out or yelling at him like a madwoman.

  Neither would be wise or impressive. I’m a woman. Now more than ever, Sloane needs me to be grown.

  “Answer me!” The detective barks, losing patience. “Did you have a sexual relationship with Sloane Mason?” he asks, despite my apparent distraction as I eye the buzzer used to summon servants.

  Would they even come for me?

  Frustrated with myself and the situation, I clamp my mouth shut.

  He growls and springs to his feet, bounding next to me. His new proximity removes the comfort of having a table separating my spot on the settee from his on the sofa. He should’ve asked me to sit next to him. The sofa is bigger than this thing.

  “If you’re in jail, what becomes of your baby? It becomes a ward of the state.” He leans in closer. I have no room to get out of his reach. “Do you want that?”

  Sniffling, I swipe at my tears, glancing behind him toward the door, hoping to see Grandma gliding in. It’s empty. She hasn’t returned.

  “Do you want your child to become a ward of the state?” he snarls. “Or would you send it to Sloane? The father?”

  I shake my head but refuse to give up. “This is intimidation.” The rude effect I’m striving for is ruined by my tears. “You can’t do this. I have rights. I know I do.”

  Minors have rights, don’t they? Consternation replaces his severity, and I know I’ve succeeded in hitting a nerve. We stare at one another. Long moments tick away. The moment my tears dry up, he starts talking again.

  “Sloane seduced you,” he insists.

  At the unyielding conclusion he throws at me, I scoff. He thinks he knows the ins and outs of my relationship with Sloane. “Sloane seduced me,” I mimic sarcastically. Disbelief curls around my echoing voice. I’m too shocked to phrase it as a question. Irritation finally burrows into me. For now, my emotional pendulum takes a swing in the other direction. It’s so much better than my dread. Sooner or later, I’ll milk my annoyance dry and cry again.

  “Yes, Sloane seduced me!” I screech, caught up in my mock confession. “Poor Georgiana. I’m only sixteen. Too stupid to know the trouble a grown man could get into if he fucked me.”

  Detective Jackson glares at me, his thigh pressing against mine. I’m in a corner and the way he angles his legs blocks my escape. Who is this man? He’s part detective and part thug, with a demeanor vacillating between authoritarian and sinister.

  “You’re not sixteen now. You’re almost eighteen. But you’re pregnant and under-aged, and it has come to our attention the baby’s father is Sloane.”

  He’s not only here to intimidate me but to also put words in my mouth.

  “What the fuck—” The stupid phone call from Kiln rises in my head once again.

  Glancing away, he adjusts his legs, and I seize his inattention to scramble to my feet. Yes, I’m ungraceful, but I’m not trying to impress the dickhead, so fuck him.

  Not moving far away from his reach, I hold out my hands. “Arrest me. Grandma will get me out. She’ll also have your ass for a bunch of bullshit. Yes, I wanted Sloane! He never once returned my calls, despite the many messages I left for him. A shitload. A fuck ton.”

  I inch toward hysterical, pregnant female. Judging by Josh when I’d be PMS’ing, men tend to get far away from girls who are in a snit.

  “Sit down,” he orders in a harsh voice. A dark red hue flushes his skin. As if he’s a breath away from screaming my head off, his nostrils flare.

  Huffing, I return to my seat and fold my arms, resting on the ridge of my stomach, though the gesture isn’t deliberate. A tiny thrill shoots through me that I’m touching my belly and no hell is breaking loose. For a moment, all the drama surrounding me is gone. It’s only Bryn and I. As soon as I get upstairs,
I’ll tell her how happy I am to have her.

  I’ve been reading to her every day for months from storybooks centering on math and science. I want her smarter than me, which won’t be too hard to achieve. My daughter will be something great one day.

  Another stare down is going on between Detective Jackson and me, and I slide my hands to my side. Whether I feel up my stomach or not, the asshole isn’t changing his mind. He drums his fingers on his thigh while I chew on my nails. We can sit here all fucking day. Or he can take me down to the station, but the one thing I’m not doing is betraying Sloane. It doesn’t matter how much he’s hurt me. I won’t ruin his life out of petty vengeance. All it’ll do is cause more pain and heartache, and it isn’t worth it.

  “You can be called as a hostile witness if it comes to it,” Detective Jackson finally says.

  In my head, I do a happy dance. Not because of his statement, but because I outlasted him.

  “What do you know about Stefanie Mason’s drowning?”

  It takes a moment to process the change of topic. When I do, my heart slams against my chest. This question is even worse than his determination to prove Sloane and me had a sexual relationship. Frowning, I purse my lips and strive for a blank look. He’s thinking of every possible technique to back me into a corner. Details about Sloane’s sister isn’t widely known, and her death is completely hushed. “Is she Sloane’s wife or something?”

  Anger steams from him. I offer him a small smile though I’m scared enough to go into labor today, more than two weeks out from my due date. The baby moves, and my stomach hurts.

  “Suppose I tell you I have proof Sloane Mason murdered Stefanie, the woman who might be his wife. Or something. Would you be so apt to protect him then?”

  The situation degenerates by the second. I’m nauseated and dizzy. To counteract my panic, I gnaw off the nail on my pinky and spit it out. Despite his proximity to me, the nail doesn’t have enough velocity to land in his eye. Still, it’s close to him. Checkmate. He jumps to his feet, ready to go.

  “Did you know you fucked a murderer?”