Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  But she has. Her resistance lasts as long as it takes me to grab her, before she sags against me.

  Only one way do I know how to evoke emotion from her. With a quick glance toward our sleeping child, I tighten my hold on Georgie and start for the door. When I step into the hallway, Georgie realizes we’re leaving Bryn and screams as if I’m killing her. She kicks and struggles. Tightening my hold prevents her escape. Determined to pull her out of her stupor, I stalk to the staircase.

  Her deepening slide into her mire frightens me.

  “Don’t take Bryn away from me!” Georgie sobs, drawing an audience to the foyer.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Maitland snarls.

  Adam shakes his head in disapproval. “Dude, you’re losing it.”

  I am, evidenced by my pounding heart. I want to hug Georgie and shake her. I want to swear I’ll make everything right for her. For Bryn. For us.

  “Listen to me, Georgie.” I set her on her feet and keep my arms around her, so she won’t fall to her knees. Burying my nose in her hair, I hug her.

  “You’re fucking her up more than you’re helping her,” Kiln points out, the resentment on his face not matching the blandness of his words.

  Needing to escape their prying eyes and judgments, I open the front door. Rain continues falling. Landscape lights offer a small glimmer in the gray-black, inclement evening. Tents protecting our comings and goings from circling helicopters shield the driveway.

  I step into the rain and she stills, wrapping her arms around my neck and tucking her head against my shoulder. The wet smell of the soil and foliage compete with her scent. The cold stream falling from the sky drenches me, but Georgie’s body heat sears away my chill.

  “Do you feel the rain?”

  She doesn’t answer me.

  “You’re alive. You’re a survivor.” I spin her, the pelting rain invigorating me and having Georgie with me giving me purpose again. “Shout. Sing. Dance. Feel.”

  Not a word. She remains fragile and traumatized. I’m not getting through to her. She’s scared of everything now. Life in general, but me in particular. Closing my eyes, I lay my cheek on top of her head. I don’t want this reality for her.

  “I know how it feels to be dead inside. Feeling nothing is better than remembering the pain of betrayal. You’re me,” I whisper. From the day we met, I’ve recognized that. Everything I faced I see in her. She’s always been a mirror to my soul. Younger. Softer. But just as alone and isolated. Without the autonomy of the stage, I’m nothing more than some rich man’s aimless son. Without the gratification of drugs, she’s only the misguided daughter of socialite parents.

  She trembles against me, but I’m not ready to let go of my attempt to break down the fortress she’s built around herself.

  “Don’t hide, sweetheart. Please. Fight like you always have.”

  Nothing.

  “Fuck!”

  Lightning is akin to inspiration. Both can strike at any time and from anywhere, therefore, I return to the house, ignoring how Quint, Adam, and Kiln gape at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind.

  I nuzzle Georgie’s soaked head. “I’m taking you back to Bryn.”

  We drip our way to the third floor and back into the White Suite, where Maitland sits in the rocker near Bryn’s bed.

  Ignoring the dirty look he throws me, I carry Georgie to the bathroom and set her down on the floor. “Dry off and then I want to talk to you.”

  She trembles and her teeth chatter, but she listens to me, handing me a towel and grabbing one for herself.

  Her fingers shake too much to remove her nightgown, so I do it for her, then help her into the robe hanging on the door hook before wrapping her hair into a towel and guiding her back to the bed. She rushes to Bryn, taking her into her arms and disturbing the baby’s sleep.

  Maitland discreetly leaves. Seeing Georgie clinging to Bryn as if the baby’s Georgie’s only reason to exist, increases my frustration tenfold.

  I pitch my damp towel across the room. “Life exists beyond these walls. Sunshine. Rain.” I think of my life and the invitation Adam extended to me earlier. “Music.”

  She refuses to look at me or answer. I rub my eyes, this shell of a girl destroying me. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Where once she would’ve halted my departure, she remains silent.

  Her withdrawal feeds my restlessness, so I go with the guys to the nightclub. Abby surprises me with her presence while our equipment is being set up onstage.

  “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with Georgie.”

  “I have a social life,” she tells me with indignation. “You could be with her, too.”

  “Hello, Sloane,” a woman greets from behind me. “Abby and I thought it would be fun to listen to the band.”

  Brenda Mullins, Steffie’s one time best friend, steps next to my aunt, plummeting my night from bad to treacherous. She hasn’t changed much in the years since I’ve seen her. She’s still tall, blonde, and brown-eyed.

  “You’re such a talent,” she continues. “Too bad you’re fucking little girls.”

  She’s baiting me and I refuse to allow this cunt to affect me. I glare at Abby, too tired to concern myself with the unease sliding across her face.

  “I have a son, Sloane,” Brenda continues, as if that matters to me.

  Abby laughs nervously. “C’mon, Brenda. We need to order another round of drinks.”

  Brenda ignores my aunt, continuing to run her mouth. “The next time I visit the house, I’ll bring him around.”

  “The next time you come to the fucking house make sure I’m not there,” I warn her, ignoring the backstage activity and all the women vying for my attention. My interest in them is nonexistent. I’m happy standing alone, awaiting my cue.

  “I lunch with Alexia at least once a month, and I still talk to Jaeger and Kiln on a regular basis. As you can see, Abby and I are still friends. Why shouldn’t you and I catch up? You can meet my son. He has incredible blue eyes.”

  It dawns on me what this bitch is getting at. “Don’t fuck with me,” I warn her. “I didn’t touch you again after Stefanie drowned. We both know I saw you at my father’s house about six fucking months after her death and you weren’t pregnant. You have a son? Congratulations. I’m not the fucking father and we both know it.”

  “The bar is getting crowded, Brenda,” Abby says tightly. “Can we please leave Sloane alone, so we can order our drinks and return to our table?”

  “I know that girl’s baby is yours,” Brenda hisses under her breath.

  I’m sure she does. Between my big-mouthed fucking aunt and the two dickheads I have for brothers, I’m surprised more people aren’t aware I really am Bryn’s father.

  “I didn’t tell her,” Abby pipes up immediately.

  “Jaeger did when the news first broke,” Brenda admits with a sniff. “I helped him out when he needed a tutor for your little girlfriend. Not that you’re appreciative.”

  “I didn’t fucking know. Besides, Sam was shit at his job, so there wasn’t much to appreciate.”

  Brenda stalks off, but Abby lags behind. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I’m full of fucking surprises.”

  “If you want me to go back to Georgie, we’ll leave,” she offers.

  “If it means bringing that bitch anywhere near Georgiana, stay.”

  “Thanks,” she says with some relief, and turns away, happy to be out while Georgie insists on being locked away.

  Twenty minutes later, the guys are in place, riling up the packed house with opening solos by each of them, before they merge their sounds into a hot groove. Three-quarters through, I walk onstage and strap up, adjusting the frets and strumming the chords. Screams of adoration and anticipation fires me up, but it also brings to mind the sound of Georgie when I carried her away from Bryn.

  The building is too small to have our trademark fire, but manufactu
red smoke and strobe lights in black, red, and white bounce around us, the floor, the ceiling, a reflection of me. Death. Blood. Purity.

  Georgie is in my head again and the colors take on other meanings, similar but different. Darkness. Passion. Innocence.

  The darkness that caught up to me years ago chases her. I wanted to block it from her, the broken girl who is my soul’s reflection.

  “We love you, Sloane,” a woman shouts.

  “You’re innocent!”

  “We believe in you!”

  “Phoenicians to the end!”

  Once I fed off the shouts, the words, the adoration, but I can’t now, at the expense of Georgie. My vision narrows to the black light. Death—Steffie. Darkness—Georgie. Hopelessness—Love.

  The frenzied cries die down. Audience members stare at me, awaiting me. To greet them. To sing. To play. Whatever else I’ve ever done onstage or off, I’ve always lived in my own truth. If I was high, my fans knew it. I thumbed my nose at whoever had an issue. Arrested on weapons charges didn’t matter. The next time I walked on stage, I joked about it. Women are my weakness. My Phoenicians know that if I’m not in a recording studio, onstage, in a fight, or at a party, I’m fucking, Sloane Mason, the baddest of the bad, above the accusations of some pathetic, obsessed fan.

  Georgie.

  Jaeger may have put his spins on my escapades and I may not have offered full disclosure on my life, but most of what the world knows about me, has kernels of truth. These people think they know me. When they don’t.

  Unless I can claim my daughter and set the record straight about Georgie, I refuse to stand in front of anyone under the pretense of being the wronged party.

  Without a word, I remove my headset and unstrap my guitar. Looking neither left nor right, I exit the stage, blocking out Adam’s voice. I don’t know if he’s explaining my sudden departure or just diving into the set. Nor do I care.

  I want away from this place, so I get my cell phone and call a cab, which is easier than having a car from my father’s house come for me, since we’re miles away and it would take a staff member over an hour to arrive.

  Standing outside in the moonless, cloudy night, my mind eases a little. I may not be able to admit to having Georgie with me and we may be over, but she deserves my loyalty, even if I’m beginning to realize I never deserved hers.

  The next morning, sunlight glares through the window of my bedroom, and I blink to clear the sleep from my eyes. My cock is in its usual morning state—hard, so I wrap my hands around the base. Grunting, I squeeze and pull. The tighter my balls get, the faster my hand moves.

  Georgie’s face rises into my head, and I remember the silken feel of her mouth on me, the delicious glide of her tongue. Her pussy was so tight when I sank into her and her wet heat gripped me. Burying myself inside of Georgie was like a brush with heaven. Her face, rapt with ecstasy, lives in my memory.

  My cock jerks and cum blasts from me. Still unsatisfied, I lay against my pillow for a moment, before I grab my pack of cigarettes. I’m not a chain smoker, but I do enjoy them every now and then, especially when shit is going south.

  I finish one cigarette, take a piss, then light another as I sit on the edge of the bed, considering my next move. I’ve spent the past seven days searching for answers and staying away from Georgie.

  I’ve contacted the police department, discovering Detective Stu Jackson is no longer employed by them. They provide no further information, catapulting me back to square one.

  The phone call legitimizes the existence of the detective Georgie insists sought her out. Piecing this all together and discovering why he’s no longer with the department is even more imperative. Bringing me down put him in line for attention, and more than likely, a promotion. My sex scandal is a huge coup for anyone involved, except Georgie and me. It’s our fucking albatross.

  Did Detective Jackson resign? Was he fired? Maybe, he coerced Georgie as she insists. If that’s true, then it’s also possible the released audio was doctored. Manipulating the conversation to such an extent and getting it to news outlets takes both skill and contacts.

  Legitimate news outlets usually authenticate facts, but the audio interview was provided by a well-known music magazine. Verification completed.

  A fucking police interrogation is a far reach from a magazine interview.

  Cigarette hanging from my mouth, dick swinging, I go to the chest of drawers and get my iPad to pull up Georgie’s interview. I’ve listened to it so many times, I can recite it word-for-word in my sleep. But I need to hear it again, and not recall it from memory. Before Georgie and I part ways, I have to be one hundred percent certain she’s innocent.

  I press play.

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Mr. Mason met me at a party the night of his arrival in Houston.”

  I pause it.

  Georgie’s voice spoke. But those were not her words. She’s never once called me fucking Mr. Mason. She’s more likely to call me dickhead. Neither would she say, the night of his arrival.

  That’s not her speech pattern. That isn’t her.

  So who the fuck is it and what kind of fucking confirmation of facts was used?

  Play.

  “What did you and he talk about when you were together?”

  She giggles. “How pretty my eyes are.”

  It’s no secret her eyes fascinate me. But…

  “You say you have the story behind the band’s time in Houston?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her voice is softer, sadder. “I’ll always remember that special time.”

  Georgie, but not Georgie.

  “Would you share with our listeners something of your time together?”

  “It’s too personal.”

  “Did you attend any recording sessions?”

  “No.”

  Pause.

  A fucking lie. She’ll remember the day her mother hit her at the studio, for the rest of her life. Besides, she was enraptured as she watched us record. With me, especially.

  Why is this just dawning on me?

  Furious from my arrest and exhausted, I blew the answer she’d given off as a lie by a girl desperate for revenge.

  Play.

  “Tell Sloane I’m having a little girl. His daughter.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

  “That says it all, ma’am.”

  “It does.”

  Stop.

  I refuse to listen to this bullshit, anymore. The DNA tests have come in, so I have a hearing in a week, in another effort to get my case dismissed.

  Fuck, I’m not thinking about the bogus results. For now, I’m going to spend my time doing something useful.

  Bryn and I lock gazes as she nurses, and I curl up giggling at her fussing noises. Her lids slip closed, then pop open again and she remembers to continue sucking.

  “Sleep,” I tell her. “We can nap together.”

  Wishful fucking thinking. She’s awake more than she’s asleep while I’m so fucking deprived I’ll never, in my lifetime, catch up.

  If my mind was free of worry, I could sleep when the baby sleeps, both of us safe, secure and locked away.

  Perfect just where I’m at, as long as Bryn is with me, I’m giving up trying to be more than an afterthought to anyone. When I’m not an afterthought, I’m being subjected to unpleasant experiences.

  “Georgie?”

  Sloane calls my name and I still at hearing his voice for the first time in a week, wishing my heart didn’t still race the moment he’s near me. My senses awaken with memories and wishes, hopes, and dreams. I ache for him to smile at me and indicate he believes me. Believes in me. Besides the night he held me, we’ve interacted once when he came in to speak to Abby.

  “Are you awake?”

  Bryn opens her eyes, then shuts them again. Gently, I pull my nipple out of her mouth and sit up.

  “Shhhh,” I whisper to him, laying a finger against my lips, so he’ll keep quiet and not waken he
r again.

  He nods and his gaze slides to my boob. Heat sweeps through me, but it isn’t desire. It’s shyness. Biting my lip, I adjust my nightgown. Once I’m on my feet, I squirm past him so I can lay Bryn in her bed.

  His hand on my shoulder halts me. “May I?”

  Irritation surges through me at the seemingly polite question, when we both know better. He’ll do whatever he wants, whether I like it or not. “I can’t fucking stop you.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he stiffens and takes Bryn from me. She protests and he cradles her, whispering until she goes back to sleep. Gently, he lays her on her bed, so tender with our baby.

  The cramps have mostly disappeared, for which I’m grateful, but I’m still sore where the stitches are, so I return to bed and lean against the headboard. He sits next to me and I pretend calmness as his spicy cologne invades my nostrils. His eyes are a pure blue, with no hint of gray or green. Majestic pools of azure, depthless like the sea. They miss nothing. Weakening, I touch one of his hoop earrings, and his smoldering look reminds me of how I got pregnant in the first place. I could never resist Sloane.

  Even now, when I’m so exhausted I could sleep for days, he’s affecting me.

  His finger traces my mouth. “Bryn’s beautiful.”

  Nodding, I smile with pride. I think she’s gorgeous, too.

  “But then, so’s her mother.” His words and tone are disarming, but he doesn’t give me a chance to wallow in nerves, pulling me into his arms instead. Together, we scoot down until our heads rest on the pillows. Wasting no time, he tugs my earlobe into his mouth, and goose bumps raise up on my skin.

  My twinges of desire, days after giving birth, proves I’m a freak. I shouldn’t want to look at another dick for years, let alone yearn to feel Sloane’s in my hand, for my benefit and not his like it was when I jerked him off a few days ago.

  “There’s been something I’ve dreamed of tasting,” he murmurs, running kisses along my throat. He needs to stop. I can’t take him inside of me and, as much as I’d love to suck him, I want to sleep more.