Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  After everything I did for her, she betrayed me.

  “He never once returned my calls. I left so many messages for him.”

  Yanking my hair in frustration, I pace, sorry I ever listened to her interview while behind bars. I had too many hours to think about her. At one time, I lost myself in our time together. When my days grew dark, memories of Georgie lifted me up. No fucking more. These days, the mere thought of her infuriates me.

  Happiness built on a shaky foundation is as lasting as a castle created from sand, knowledge I gained through dealing with my father, but forgot the moment I met Georgie. By the time we’re done, she’ll be fucking lucky not to face charges herself.

  If that plan doesn’t work and I’m formally indicted by the grand jury, we’ve already started preparing my defense.

  “Little bitch!” I snarl.

  The deputies eye me, one of them resting his hand on his gun.

  “Give me a few moments,” I say.

  They nod. Though they’ve already obtained my autographs, they really don’t know if I’m the violent pig I’m being accused of.

  “I don’t envy you,” one of them says, shaking his head. “Give me anonymity any day, over crazy fans who’ll have me sent to jail.”

  The other one offers me a skeptical look. “Well, her belly is evidence.”

  “Bitches lie all the time,” the first deputy argues.

  Not caring if a dozen girls an hour lie to them, I tune them out. Georgie never once fibbed about anything, which makes her allegations that she called and left messages for me even more ridiculous and outrageous. If she’d called, she would’ve known my phone number had been changed, so she couldn’t leave messages. If I’d heard her voice, I would’ve gone to her. I didn’t want to fuck with temptation, so I got a different mobile number.

  So many days and nights I agonized over not fighting for Georgie when I had the chance. Not even the groupies I lost myself in mattered. They were there to fill the void.

  “Do you claim any responsibility, Miss McCall?”

  I ball my fists, her remembered answer deepening my anger.

  “He’s the adult. I’m just a child.”

  How pathetically helpless and naïve she sounded as she fed the reporter that pitiful line.

  Lying little cunt bitch.

  As soon as I have a moment, I’m listening to her bullshit again. Fortify my hatred of her.

  She’s ruined me.

  Justice right, Sloane?

  For who? Her? Steffie? Dietrech?

  I scoff at the thought. Georgie’s actions in no way compare to how I used Dietrech to fuck with Kiln.

  “Yes, Sloane seduced me. I'm only sixteen.”

  Though not sixteen now, she was when we had our affair. Her current age—almost eighteen—is conveniently overlooked.

  I slam my fist against the door and grunt in pain.

  “Whoa, whoa, partner,” the friendlier deputy says. “Man, we don’t want to have to tase you.”

  The rage inside of me threatens my freedom. I refuse to let her fuck over me any more than she already has.

  Deceiving little bitch.

  Nostrils flaring, I make the sign of the cross, adopting my pre-stage ritual. But this isn’t a fucking concert. I don’t have my music to lose myself in. This is my life. The one I’m determined to reclaim the moment the word pedophile linked with my name is dismissed.

  “Fuck.” I knock open the heavy metal door and a roar rises around me. Shutters and lights go off, clicking and flashing like fucking crazy, momentarily blinding me. Once my eyes adjust, I stand tall and proud, allowing the world to see me.

  Let her see me.

  Questions hurtle my way. If not for the deputies, I’d be in a fucked up way, with everyone rushing me. But not only is it their job to keep these rabid fucks at bay, most of these officers now have my autograph, too. My fans come from all walks of life.

  “Sloane!” Kiln calls, close enough for me to see him. Fifty feet away, I’d recognize the asshole. I’d fucking know him anywhere. Burning in the pits of hell. Lost in an Amazonian rainforest. Blanketed in a snowstorm on an Arctic tundra.

  “Let me through, goddammit!”

  I know that voice, too. My father, Rand Mason. Everything I said about Kiln? Ditto for Dad.

  “That’s my son!”

  Raising my hands to shield my eyes against the constant light flashes, I see Dad’s face, flushed with anger and lined with a few more wrinkles than when I last saw him. His gray hair isn’t as thick anymore, but he’s still the same physically fit, emotionally bankrupt, morally corrupt motherfucker he was eleven years ago. He’s never forsaken his suits and ties. If geriatric GQ Magazine existed, he’d be perfect.

  “Fuck, Kiln. Earn your fucking keep. Get me to my son.”

  I smirk at Kiln, only feet away, with Dad right on his heels. Dad’s last comment was completely unnecessary. As far as the world knows, I’m Rand’s son. Kiln’s just the hired help. Kiln and I exchange glares. Pres, the head of the band’s security, stands near the exit. Hired personal protection officers are poised to bulldoze me through the madness, and safely to the car.

  Dad clutches my arms, regards me in ‘fatherly’ concern, and then hugs me to him. Cognizant of what his fucking hands are capable of, I recoil and stiffen. His touch is almost unbearable.

  I can’t bring myself to return Dad’s hug. His arms around me are suffocating. I can’t think of anything but Steffie’s death at his touch.

  “You want your freedom?” he whispers on a growl, tightening his vile hold. “Do your fucking part.”

  Orders given, I pat Dad’s back, satisfying him. The father-son display drags on until I move. Turning toward the crowd and shielding me with his body, he raises his hand. He achieves a semblance of quiet.

  “My son is innocent of all charges, which are in the process of being dropped,” he declares the fucking lie as if it’s gospel. How easy it is for me to think of ways to exact revenge on Georgiana, but having Dad do it, is abhorrent. “DNA results will prove Sloane isn’t its father. According to our attorneys, there are several men who will have paternity tests. To my understanding, this young lady—and I use the term lady loosely—is a drug addict who needed a way to get cocaine. After trying to extort money from my son, and failing, she falsely accused him of inappropriate actions. We are currently looking into what, if any, charges can be filed against her.”

  More questions fly our way, but Dad ignores them. I do, as well, unsatisfied with what the attorneys intend for Georgie, despite trying to convince myself otherwise.

  For the thousandth time, I remind myself she deserves my wrath, but my child doesn’t. Because of it, my inability to admit I’m the father of Georgie’s baby is abhorrent.

  An image of Georgie’s face rises in my head. That black hair I loved to wrap my hands around. Her amethyst eyes that captivated me from the moment I came across her.

  I’m jarred forward, suddenly moving through the crush of reporters and photographers. As my personal bodyguard, Kiln barrels through any fucker in his way.

  My hands tremble as I open the doors to the outside world. Freedom. Fresh air. I breathe in. Do it a second time. I’m free, surrounded by bright sunlight and a hot July day.

  July. Almost a year to the day I met Georgie.

  Now, I hate her. How quickly things change.

  An Escalade limousine awaits me, which Kiln ushers me toward.

  “We love you, Sloane!” a female voice screams.

  “Sloane, you’re innocent!” someone else says.

  A chant begins. “Sloane, Sloane, Sloane.”

  A smile curves my mouth. I know what to do. I’ve been in the public eye too long not to. Even when my life is going to shit, I pretend otherwise. At the moment, I bask in the glow of my supposed innocence and how my Phoenicians have risen in support of me. Age aside, they know I’d never take what wasn’t freely given.

  Georgie gave her pussy to me and her saying otherwise galls
the fuck out of me. I had every intention of claiming the baby when the time was right. Forcing my hand achieves nothing. For me or for her. Her name will be synonymous with drug-addicted slut and crazed fan.

  The thought gives me no sense of victory and vindication. It leaves me nauseated and empty. Our unrelenting campaign will crush her and she’ll have absolutely no one there to pick up the pieces.

  As we get to the oversized SUV, a limousine pulls up behind it. Pres guides Dad to the long car while Kiln opens the door in front of me and I climb in, shocked to find my band mates already inside. The last I saw them, we were pulling a train with a bunch of groupies in a European hotel.

  Kiln slides in after me and slams the door shut. We don’t move immediately and I lift a questioning brow, more than ready to get the fuck away from the jail. The sooner this place is behind me, the better for all concerned.

  “Is there a reason we haven’t started off yet?” I demand, angry the asshole ignored my inquiring look.

  Scrolling through his phone, Kiln shrugs. “Motorcade,” he explains, not looking up. “Dad and Jaeger are in the limo with Pres and a couple of security guys. The rest of the detail are in two additional SUVs.” He hands me the phone. “I thought this might interest you.” He’s pulled up a celebrity news site. My release and Dad’s press conference are breaking news.

  Kiln reaches over and slides to another screen. Immediately, Georgie’s photo pops up along with an area hospital.

  I point to the building in the picture. “What the fuck is this?”

  “The place where your daughter was born,” Kiln announces.

  I jerk at his dry words. My eyes shoot to the photo again, then scroll backward to a photo of Georgie. I feast upon the sight of her. She’s sitting on a porch swing, bathed in sunlight. She’s pregnant here, the first time I’ve seen her with a rounded belly. Her hair is devoid of any decorations and hangs freely about her face. Her eyes are so dull, they appear a different color, a flat purple that breaks my heart.

  She looks so…lost…and all alone. And young, so very, very young. Too fucking young.

  “What have you done, Georgie?” I whisper, gliding my finger over the screen as if I can touch her. Or she can feel me.

  My heart aches with betrayal. With hate.

  With love.

  The caption finally catches my attention. Is this young girl the mother of Sloane Mason’s daughter?

  The words hit me like a boulder all over again. Part wonder and part incredulity. Georgie delivered my baby. A little girl. My shoulders heave. I’m a father. Georgie is a mother. I’ve made her a mom and she’s turned me into a dad. My identity is forever changed. I’m no longer only Sloane Mason, superstar. I’m Sloane Mason, daddy. The father of Georgie’s baby.

  Lost in my revelation, I’m barely aware of another phone being shoved at me. But I grab it, hungry for more information. My eyes widen at the black-haired newborn greeting me. She’s red and wrinkled…and gorgeous.

  Fuck. Why is my daughter’s photo on a gossip site? She looks so…so new.

  “When was she born?” I ask no one in particular.

  “Yesterday,” Adam announces.

  My daughter is a day old. While I was wallowing in jail, Georgie was giving birth.

  Now, they’re both making the news.

  “How the fuck was her photo obtained?” I snarl.

  Georgie wouldn’t…no, Georgie would. She’s responsible for my current predicament, isn’t she?

  Maitland reclaims his phone. “Rand did an interview on your behalf two days ago, Sloane.”

  Tone sad and quiet, he sits between Adam and Quint. Those two aren’t giving me the dignity of a look. I’m not surprised. They’ve never stuck by me. No fucking clue why they’re here, other than to kick me out the band. Do I still want to be in Phoenix Rising? Since my arrest, my only thoughts have been getting my hands on Georgie and appealing to my fans to believe me.

  Now, I want to meet my daughter, see Georgie and make her suffer.

  The vehicle rocks into motion, but Maitland has yet to elaborate, so I narrow my eyes. What the fuck do his words mean? “What does my father’s fucking interview have to do with Georgie giving birth?”

  Maitland thrusts his fingers through his hair and curses. “He wasn’t as restrained in his name calling of her on the program as he was during today’s press conference. Georgie saw and went into labor.”

  My insides freeze. I close my eyes, but anger pricks me. My emotions are worse than a fucking girl’s, vacillating back and forth. The thought of her distress eats at me. How the fuck can I want to kill that little bitch, yet also ache to hold and protect her?

  Adrenaline pumping through my system burns at my common sense. “How the fuck do you know this?” I question Maitland.

  “It isn’t important,” he says tightly. “I just do.”

  The fuck it isn’t important.

  Rage and jealousy clash inside of me. Lunging for him, I grab his throat. “Have you been in contact with her?” For how long and for what reason?

  Maitland knees me in the stomach, his fingers trying to pry mine away. We’re in tight confines, not conducive to fighting. That’s never fucking stopped me before. If there’s an inch of room for me to fight or fuck, I succeed.

  “Calm the fuck down, Sloane,” Kiln orders, yanking me back.

  I land hard on my seat. Adam watches impassively and Quint scowls. More ammunition to drop me. I huff out breaths, almost in rhythm to Maitland’s and Kiln’s, locked in a sick symphony I want no part of.

  “You said smear campaign.” Quint throws me a dirty look. “What the fuck did you think Rand would say?”

  Jesus, I know what he said. He gleefully went over it with me. Now, it’s done and can’t be undone.

  What the fuck was I thinking? Discrediting Georgie is my best defense. My attorneys told me much the same thing as the family’s retainers who’ve been on the Mason payroll for years.

  I glare at each of the guys. “In case you’ve forgotten, that little bitch accused me of raping her!”

  “Do you really think Georgie would do that?”

  My mouth moves in stunned outrage at Quint’s question, but no words form. He’s one surly motherfucker. Sometimes, I want to cold-cock him just because of his attitude. Now, he sounds as if he’s defending Georgie, a girl he’s met only a handful of times when he’s known me since we were fucking kids.

  “I despise her,” I say casually, in a weak attempt at a reminder.

  “What the fuck ever,” Kiln responds. “You canceled part of a fucking tour for her.”

  “That’s in the past,” I insist.

  “One of our guys is planted in hospital security watching out for her and...” Kiln’s voice trails off and he clenches his jaw.

  “Bryn,” Maitland finishes quietly.

  It feels as if the world has just shifted beneath me and my head will explode. Bryn. Georgie named our daughter Bryn.

  Bryn.

  Anger surges into me all over again at Georgie’s audacity. She had no fucking right to take my mother’s name for the baby.

  One scenario after the other runs through my head. All of them involve Georgie and it seems everyone but me is in on them. I scrub a hand over my face, tired of it all. “I’m fucking finished trying to prove my worthiness to you motherfuckers.”

  “Meaning?” Adam’s stare bore into me. “You just give up on us?”

  Bitter laughter escapes me. How ironic they’re accusing me of exactly the bullshit they’re doing. “Give up on you? You fuck’s gave up on me months ago.”

  “The fuck we did,” Maitland grates. “What the fuck did you expect us to do? Let you fucking kill yourself?”

  “My last chance wasn’t done for me. It was done on my father’s orders.” I point to Kiln. My hatred for him deepens at his fucking smirk. “Or, maybe, my dear brother suggested it.”

  “Rand suggested it,” Maitland confirms. “Maybe, we should’ve come to you, Sloane, but
we had so many fucking times before. You’d sober up for a few weeks then hit the drugs again. You fucking OD’d. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t change a fucking thing. It fucking worked. You stayed away from drugs. We put out two albums. We’ve had four songs in the top five on every fucking rock list out there. So, fuck you.”

  I don’t respond, unsure if the threats kept me on the right path or a little purple-eyed goddess who I wish I’d never met.

  A nurse walks into my room and I blink, groaning at the continued pain even though I delivered my daughter a day ago. Grandma left when I went into active labor and hasn’t returned.

  “I’ve come for the baby,” the nurse tells me. She’s blonde and well-groomed in a cream-colored jumpsuit. In my drugged state, she reminds me more of a snooty socialite than a medical professional.

  Groggy, I frown, unable to think of what, besides her clothes and attitude, makes her so out-of-place. “She’s in the nursery. Didn’t you see her?”

  Without answering, she walks to the edge of my bed and studies me. If only I weren't so tired. The look in her brown eyes is strange. One moment, it’s far away and a second later, it’s wistful. Now, she seems angry.

  “Let me call,” she tells me, “and check to make sure. After I get your vital signs.” Her hand disappears into her pocket.

  I struggle to sit up and search for the remote so I can call myself. My door opening interrupts my intentions, and the nurse who was on duty earlier bounces in. She smiles at the other woman. I squint at the lanyard prominently displaying her hospital ID. Her name’s Lena. “Oh, hey. I just need to check her, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, um, I was just leaving.” Before either of us respond, the blonde scampers away.

  Lena, my nurse, smiles. “Didn’t mean to run her off.”

  “She came for the baby,” I mutter, closing my eyes.

  “Really? That’s odd.”

  As soon as I wake up, I’m going to ask what she means. I want to now. I’m just too tired and sink into sleep.

  Chapter Five