Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  “Said this, heard that,” I point out, resentment rising in me. “You must’ve known I’d bond out before me, so you wanted to do me a favor and get my car.”

  We’d gotten past the bullshit. During the tour so rudely interrupted by my arrest, we’d hit all types of music records. Moot point, right now. Someone has to take the brunt of my blame and anger.

  “It’s a mystery why you went through so much fucking trouble on my behalf.”

  Fists balled, he looms in front of me, only a small dinner table separating us. “Dude, fuck you.”

  Not wanting to fight just as I didn’t want to fuck, I sigh. “Thank you for my car. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”

  “What the fuck are you angriest about? Georgie? The band? Your daughter? I didn’t make you leave the fucking band,” he reminds me as if I don’t know. “You quit.”

  Standing, I stalk around to him. We’re nose-to-nose, in perfect range to pummel each other. “I quit because I don’t give a fuck about it anymore. Not the music or the band.” I clarify the blatant, bald-faced lie, so he’ll have no doubt to the ‘it’ I refer to.

  I lose a little more of myself. Music is me. At one time, I’d play and find whatever inside of me I lacked. If I was lonely, it used to fill me up. My guitar is an extension of me. My fingers strum strings in my sleep. How can I face tomorrow knowing I have to mute the songs inside of me?

  “I don’t care about any of it,” I repeat.

  “I don’t fucking believe you.” Sure of his statement, Maitland turns away. He was the one who did the most drugs with me. Most being the key word. All three of those fuckers used with me at one time or another. “What do you want me to say, Sloane?”

  What is there to say? That’s the logical question. Instead, completely unrelated bullshit spews from my mouth, shocking the fuck out of me. “What gave you the fucking right to keep tabs on my girlfriend? You knew Bryn’s name before I did.”

  My question and the vehemence startles Maitland, too. After a moment of silence, he gives a tired sigh and shrugs. “I assume Rand and Helen had dealings here and there.”

  Undoubtedly. Lucinda and Lucifer at it again.

  “Rand must’ve shared shit with Kiln to turn him against you or because he was frustrated as your father…”

  His voice trails off at my glare. My father doesn’t suffer such human emotions. Since Maitland doesn’t know anything other than Steffie’s death being an accident and my father’s highhandedness in forcing me to work with Kiln and Jaeger, he sometimes feels I’m too hard on Dad. Like now.

  “Dude, Rand has moments like the rest of us. Don’t you? Times where you allow your emotions to take over. As I recall, you agreed to his press conference that turned the mother of your daughter into a fucking faithless slut.”

  I shove him, hating the reminder.

  “The truth hurts, huh, asshole?” he snarls, unintimidated.

  Confused by my seesawing feelings, I turn away and head to the door. I can’t hear any more about her. Even if I didn’t want to shake the fuck out of her, I can’t go anywhere near her by fucking court-order.

  Downstairs in the foyer, I pick up the phone on the antique chest used to summon staff and dial the extension to the house manager. I need my Aston brought around.

  “Sloane,” Kiln calls, just as I return the receiver to the base.

  “Fuck off.”

  He’s the last motherfucker I’m dealing with right now. Tossing him the finger, I open the door and step into the heat, itching to drive away and find an escape. I bypassed losing myself in pussy, so I’ll hunt down a hit. Or two. Or three.

  No need to call one dealer, when I intend to make use of several.

  The waxy leaves on a gardenia bush flutter and I lick my lips at the memories of Mom, Steffie, and I planting flowers. I was there for the heavy work, a spoiled little asshole as usual, complaining about the gardeners on the payroll who should’ve been pouring cow shit in the beds.

  “And you pay for this?” I’d complained. “We have a fucking pasture. Have someone scoop that for you. Money saved. Manure gained.”

  “You have no appreciation for simple things, Slo.”

  “Simple things, Steffie? I’m cavorting in shit.”

  “Sloane Andrew Mason.”

  “Mom, don’t do the full name deal. I’m just saying. Steffie thinks this is simple. I’m fourteen. To me, gardening is boring and hard work. Far from simple.”

  “Bryn, is it okay if grumpy gets his guitar and serenade us while we work?”

  “Excellent idea, Stefanie. As long as you’re willing to help as needed, Sloane, that’s fine.”

  Steffie had winked at me, protecting me as usual.

  Yanking my hair, I glance beyond the circular driveway. A narrow pathway is almost hidden by the bushes at the side of the house. I wander toward it. Being in residence without Mom and Steffie crystallizes in my head. It’s a fully formed realization, not the abstract consideration like it was earlier when I looked at the chandelier.

  The garden I assisted them with isn’t far off the beaten path. The quiet, gated area sits close to the entrance we’d use to access the music room, this way preferable to the steep stairs inside the house.

  I open the wooden gate and latch it closed, absorbing the beauty around me before I head to the middle. My booted feet sink into the soft green grass. No matter the climate, I love motorcycle boots, and it always amused my sister. Mom tolerated the footwear because it was part of my style.

  Without them, I’m not me. Much as I feel about music.

  Why did I quit again? Because I’m exhausted? Humbled by jail? Humiliated by the charges?

  Or just a little more lost without Georgiana and feeling so betrayed by her I don’t know where to go from this point?

  I sit on the stone bench inscribed with Mom’s name and stare at the brilliant splash of colorful flowers bursting around me, their scents sweetening the air. This was the place my mother designated the perfect respite from everyday life. She created a haven for me. She always supported my dreams and stood by me despite my behavior of the moment.

  Even now, watching over me from wherever she’s at, she’d do it, if I return to the driveway, jump into my Aston, and speed away to get high. She’d stand by me.

  When I was a snot-nosed brat…

  When I was a horny fuckhead…

  When I was a superstar rocker…

  My mother had my back.

  Just like Georgie.

  Hanging my head and cradling it in my hands, I close my eyes, no longer interested in a hit. Really, no longer interested in anything, only knowing I gained nothing by leaving Georgiana. Certainly, not peace. I still ended up arrested, charged, and embarrassed. The worst of it is being under my father’s fucking supervision like an errant fucking child. No, the absolute worst is the court order to stay the fuck away from Georgie.

  Finagle my way out of my legal problems and go to her upon her eighteenth birthday will make the argument she’s a crazy bitch laughable. I hate her!

  I hate her!

  I hate her!

  Maybe, if I say it a billion times more, I’ll fucking believe it. Or effectively pretend my rage is really detestation.

  “Mr. Sloane?”

  I groan at the sound of Zelda’s voice. My cook who’s supposedly in Denver. “Go away.”

  “I drove all this way with Mr. Maitland for this reception?” She laughs. “I can see Ms. Bryn now, chuckling at her son still acting like a toddler.”

  “I didn’t know you were here.” As good-natured as she’s being, she doesn’t deserve my grouchiness, but I want to be alone. “Dad doesn’t have you in the staff’s quarters, does he?” She’s more like family to me.

  “I’m not staying here, Mr. Sloane. Miss Abby is letting me stay at her condo. She just picked me up to check on you when she found out you’d been released.”

  I haven’t even visited her as I’d intended, but my aunt looked out for me by taking care of Zeld
a. “How long are you staying in town?”

  “Depends,” she answers with a shrug. “You want me here until your case is settled, Miss Abby is happy to let me stay in her guestroom. You want me back in Denver, I’ll leave and go back to Denver.”

  “I’d like you to stay.” I release a bitter laugh. “I can’t believe the shit I’m in.”

  She sits next to me and lays her hand on my arm. “You have every right to your anger. You’re in a lot of hot water, so I understand. I’d be mad as hell, too. But hurting yourself gets you nowhere. Resigning from your band? That’s foolishness.”

  “I don’t want to be in the fucking band anymore,” I snarl.

  “No need to cuss at me in anger,” she says with a hurt little sniff.

  “I’m not cussing at you,” I say defensively, feeling like an asshole.

  “You got to be. I’m the only one sitting here for you to yell at. Unless you see Ms. Bryn around. In that case, tell me now. Me and ghosts don’t get along too well.”

  We’ve had afterlife conversations before, so I don’t comment, although some of my bad mood evaporates.

  “Georgie named my daughter Bryn,” I say quietly. If she knows about the band, whoever got her here has told her about Georgie. “She gave her Mom’s name.”

  “She loves you.”

  Maitland probably filled Zelda in on all the details of my affair with Georgiana. Interfering motherfucker. “If I wanted her with me now, there’s no way it’ll ever happen.”

  “The world knows what you aren’t supposed to do, but when did that ever stop you? You have that baby to think about.” I scowl at her. It doesn’t deter her in the least. She keeps talking. “Mr. Sloane, I swear you could charm the spots off a leopard. Remember, many successful men have strong women behind them.”

  Without another word, she heads to the gate. I stop her after she’s opened and closed it, and is walking away from the garden.

  “Zelda!” I call. “Thank you for coming to see about me.”

  “I’ve known you since you were a child. Of course, I’d come to see about you to talk sense into you, and remind you of the ability Mr. Jaeger has to undo a lot of damage. Tell him you want your Georgie and he’ll make it happen right under everyone’s noses.”

  “And my anger toward her?”

  “Work through it. A little angry sex never hurt anyone, Mr. Sloane.”

  “Except when it was with Brenda, Steffie’s BFF,” I mumble as Zelda walks out of hearing range. At least something goes right.

  Brenda is another mistake best left in the treacherous past I can’t seem to escape.

  Chapter Six

  “Let me see her.”

  Mom reaches for my baby girl, ignoring my breastfeeding Bryn. I’m still in a lot of pain, thanks to the vaginal tearing during delivery. The stitches are hurting me and I‘m cramping.

  I bend my head and brush my lips against my daughter’s wrinkly forehead. Grandma says she’s gorgeous, but at two days old, she still resembles a little old man. It wasn’t easy to nurse her. She must’ve felt my nervous distress. The nurses threatened to put her on the bottle, until I got them to leave the two of us alone to figure it out for myself. Now that I have, Mom wants her. I think not.

  “No.”

  “Georgiana—”

  “Go away, Mom.” No way in hell will I allow her to get anywhere near Bryn. I don’t trust her. This is the third hospital stay for me in a little over a year and it’s the first time she’s deigned to visit me.

  Not for me.

  For Bryn.

  Sloane’s baby.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Her lips thin, but the opening door prevents her response. Grandma floats in, looking less than pleased to see Mom, who flushes as if she’s caught doing something she shouldn’t be doing.

  “You and Bryn are being discharged, Georgiana,” Grandma says briskly.

  There’s something frantic about her. Or, maybe I’m paranoid. I’ve lived in an agitated upheaval for years.

  “Where’s Lindsey? I haven’t seen her in three days.”

  “Fired.”

  “What?”

  “We have to go, Georgiana,” she says tightly, ending the discussion.

  Tempering my hurt Lindsey is no longer employed by Grandma and she never told me goodbye, I switch Bryn to my other breast and grunt at the release of milk. “As soon as I’m finished feeding her, I’ll pack my things and—”

  A woman walks in holding a bible. She wears a dark gray suit with a white collar, appearing like a female prelate…I squint. Only Bryn’s whine snaps the tense unease building inside of me.

  In silence, they watch me, extinguishing the hope Grandma will send Mom on her way. While I finish feeding my daughter and she falls asleep, two additional women arrive to pack my clothes and lay out the frilly nightgown and robe I chose for this occasion.

  Bryn is snatched out of my arms by the cleric looking woman. The baby makes a whine of protest but is soothed back to sleep within moments.

  “Give her back to me.” Panic turns my blood to ice. I attempt to lunge for her but Grandma steps in my path. “You promised!”

  Her jaw clamps and I grab the lapels of her dark green jacket. “Don’t take her from me.”

  “No one’s taking the child away from you, Georgiana.”

  The words ping through the room like icicles falling to the ground, but she moves aside and allows me to see Bryn still safely asleep in the other woman’s arms. Mom stares at her. Afraid of what’s going through my mother’s mind, I flinch.

  “Hurry.”

  Wanting Bryn away from Mom as soon as possible, I don’t waste another second at Grandma’s urging. Ten minutes later, I’m dressed in the blue and white lace and silk lingerie. Bemoaning the fact I can’t dress Bryn in her matching outfit, I breathe a sigh of relief when she’s placed in my lap once I’m sitting in the wheelchair.

  Surrounded by Grandma, Mom, and the other women, I’m wheeled to the elevator. On the first floor, I’m shocked at the lack of activity. It’s the middle of the day and this is a busy place.

  The doors slide open and bright sunlight glares on me. I make sure Bryn’s eyes are covered with the thin blanket, sighing at the Mercedes limousine. As much as I love the Roadsters, every time I see a sedan of the car, it bodes ill for me.

  “Bitch!” a shrill voice screams a moment before an egg splatters against my head.

  My first reaction is to lean over Bryn and protect her. The car doors open and four men swarm me. I hear the crack and splat of another egg, but their bodies shield me.

  “She ruined Sloane.”

  Hands tug at Bryn and I shove at them. “We’re getting her to the car, Georgiana,” Kiln whispers. I didn’t know I’d squeezed my eyes shut until they pop open at his voice.

  He set me up in some kind of way.

  Whoever called from the unknown number brought Sloane down. News of his arrest, supposedly because of my police report, sent me into labor. I would never hurt Sloane in such a way, although I wouldn’t put it past Kiln to have done it himself.

  “Later,” he says impatiently as if he knows I want to gut him. “We have to get you and the baby to safety first.” He attempts to take her again, but I refuse to let her go. Even though I’m vaguely aware of chaos breaking out around me. Sirens and shouting and flashes of cameras. If I relinquish her, I may never see her again.

  With a frustrated growl, he bends and sweeps me and the baby into his arms. Yelping, I tighten my grip on my daughter while he half bends over me to protect us. A second limousine pulls up behind the first, along with several police cars and two motorcycle units.

  Someone else opens the door. Kiln shoves me and Bryn into the back seat. He isn’t careful, so I fall against a hard male body. Adjusting my gaze to the dim interior, I soothe Bryn, who awakened in the whirl of Kiln’s handling.

  Blue eyes blaze too many emotions to name and I swallow. Words fight to come out. Apologies. Avowals I di
dn’t expose him on purpose, which it’s clear he believes is the case. His gaze travels from my face to the top of our daughter’s head. The blanket has fallen away, so her thick, black hair is quite visible.

  “Sloane,” I whisper, my heart beating fast and furious.

  Instead of answering, he clenches his jaw and stares out of the tinted window.

  A moment after Kiln slides into the seat across from us and the car rocks away behind the police escort, I realize Grandma is fully aware of what’s going on.

  So what’s changed in the seventy-two hours where she’d made me promise to never have any contact with Sloane again?

  The moment she slides in next to me, my senses flare to life. The sweet scent of vanilla overwhelms me. Whether it’s my imagination or not, I breathe in for a deeper whiff. I’ve thrived on this memory for almost eight months.

  A baby’s gurgle and soft coo filters into my ears. My daughter. The child Georgie had for me. Primal instinct roars though me, and I ball my fists. I came in her and filled her with this beautiful baby. Wherever she went, she carried a part of me inside of her and nurtured it as only she could, with an enduring innocence and unconditional love.

  “Sloane,” Georgie whispers again, and her voice cracks, breaking the spell she’s cast on me and reminding me of her duplicity.

  Loneliness, fear, and regret, are infused in her voice and written on her face. I’m so fucking furious with her, I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I respond. I ignore her, until my temper is under control.

  No one knows I’m in the car, but the Paps are out in force. Kiln didn’t hide, and the location of the hospital Georgie was staying at has been plastered everywhere. Speculation will jump to me, and if I’m somehow involved. No matter. I wanted Georgie and knew from the moment I reached my room last night I’d have her at my side.

  After Zelda left, I sat in Mom’s garden for hours, contemplating my life and unable to step back into a world of drugs. But her memory isn’t what kept me from going for drugs. It was Georgie. Her face. Her taste.