Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  Her eyes are huge and teary, and my heart breaks for her.

  “You’re a good boy,” she whispers, her lips trembling. Calmness descends as fast as her madness came.

  “I’m a grown man, Mom. Not a boy. What I try to be is a good son because I love you.”

  “Then Sloane has to die. For me. For you. As long as he’s alive, you’ll never have any peace. You’ll never be free of the torment. You heard Rand’s terms. You get the money if Sloane dies. Don’t you know what that means? Rand wants you to kill Sloane. He’s asking, without expressing the words. He wouldn’t have put that provision in if he didn’t want Sloane to die. Kill him, please. Set us free.”

  I search my heart and soul, sift through my memories, and question my true feelings for my brother-employer-landlord. Ambiguity washes through me. When I thought about murdering him, it was only hypothetically, but, perhaps, my mother is right.

  Sloane has been a thorn in my side since the day I met him. With him gone, I’d finally have peace. As would my poor, tortured mother. Maybe, her mind would get right again.

  What has my loyalty to him gotten me? Absolutely nothing but condescension, arrogance and treachery.

  Consciously, I might not want him to die. Deep down? I do.

  There’s definitely no love lost between us. Why not kill him? The smug jackass thought to get over on me.

  My vision’s red with anger and green with jealousy.

  Mother’s right. Sloane needs to fucking die. He has to fucking die.

  In one regard, accomplishing the task will be easy. I protect him, so I’m always aware of his schedule. I snicker. Julius Caesar all over again. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. Except, my mother, brother, and myself are the tragic figures and Sloane’s the villain.

  I’ll bet if he could, he’d use one of his horses to guard him, just as Caesar tried to appoint his horse as consul. Or was that Caligula? I’m probably fucking up my Roman emperors, but who gives a damn?

  I equate Sloane to Cain and every mad, corrupt Roman emperor who ever lived. He’s spoiled, jaded, and money-hungry. Like the biblical figures, he’ll feed anyone who stands in his way to a wild beast.

  No doubt in my mind that Sloane knew what Dad planned, so he purchased Georgiana’s fucking island.

  A Motherfucking. ISLAND!

  He needs to die just for being so hen-pecked.

  He stole my rightful inheritance, intends to see my mother penniless for…fuck me sideways…for a goddamn island.

  “Kill Sloane,” Mother croaks.

  “Yes,” I answer, filled with self-righteous fury and indignation. “Yes, Mom. For

  you. For me.”

  She palms my face. “For your father and sister.”

  Since her breakdown, Jaeger has become persona non-grata to my mother. He has Dad’s mannerisms and style. Mother can’t tolerate being around him very often.

  “Sloane’s a dead man,” I swear.

  Her eyes light up and she kisses my cheek. “You’re a good boy,” she repeats.

  This time, I don’t try to correct her. Instead, I turn my attention to my task. I have two entire months to plan Sloane’s death. I won’t let anything stop me. Not regrets. Or second guesses. Especially about our supposed “bond”.

  If I do get cold feet, I’ll remind myself of my mother. That’ll give me the incentive to forge ahead.

  Of course, I have no experience planning a murder. However, someone in my acquaintance does. I intend to milk his knowledge to do what I need done.

  Two months. I have two months to arrange Sloane’s murder. Two months to finally avenge the role he played in my broken marriage and the theft of my inheritance. Pity I have to inadvertently involve Georgiana in her husband’s death by calling upon her brother to help me—even if he does so unwittingly.

  The thought should free something inside of me. All it does is leave me cold.

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later

  I spot her the moment I walk into the shabby diner, located in a shabbier neighborhood. She’s huddled in a corner, as soaked to the bone as I am. She hugs her stomach, rocking back and forth and rubbing her hands over her upper arms. The drops of water trailing to her booth ends near the table, in a large puddle.

  She raises her gaze to me and stares. Opens her mouth to speak, then snaps it shut. Another fucking groupie of my little brother’s.

  Glaring at her, I stomp to the seat just before hers and slide in. Facing her, I snatch a few paper napkins to dry off the water still clinging to my face and head. It’s storming outside. To get out of the elements, I walked into the first place I came across.

  This shitty little eatery, with a counter and a cash register. From the outside, it looks like a diner. Inside, something’s amiss. It’s not the lack of customers, but the absence of staff. No scent of food. No menus. No lingering smells of grease and coffee.

  Only her.

  What the fuck is this place?

  On the other side of the room, a hole in the wall with a lip protruding, hints a kitchen is somewhere in this rat trap. Another hole and counter, similar to the previous one and situated a few feet away, should be where ready-to-be-served orders are placed. Six booths, three on each side of the entrance, are a faded tan with more duct tape than original material. On my side of the room is a greasy window, revealing hints of the stormy night, outside.

  Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. I’m right. N

  ot another soul is here. There’s no one to take my order. Considering the state of the place, that might be a good thing. Eating or drinking anything in this ratchet building leaves me open to germs and disease.

  Frustrated, I scratch my head and grunt again, grabbing my flask from inside my suit jacket. My gun-filled holster presses against my side. I won’t hesitate to use this bad boy. Although I never have.

  In the two weeks since I made up my mind to kill Sloane, I’ve immersed myself in memories. Some do make me pause and second guess my rash announcement, borne of anger and humiliation.

  Sloane purchased an Aventador Coupe for my thirtieth birthday, even though he knew I’d bought myself a used Ferrari 488 GTB. Thirty is a milestone. We both agreed on that. He took into account what a car enthusiast I am and my budget constraints. As much as he pays me, I can’t afford many of the cars I drool over.

  The Aventador being one of them. Sloane bought me a spanking brand-new, hot-off-the-assembly-line, bright yellow, Lamborghini Aventador Coupe.

  If he didn’t see me as part of his family, he wouldn’t have done that. There aren’t many times in my life where I’ve been humbled or awed, but that was certainly one occasion.

  Of course, Georgiana was right there, at his side, bouncing up and down when she saw my reaction. Hugging me and wishing me happy birthday. Teasing me. Our past differences forgotten.

  I’m three months from my thirty-first birthday but I still get chills whenever I think of Sloane’s gift. He had an outbuilding on his property converted to a climate-controlled garage, especially for my Aventador.

  It’s rare that I use it. Not because I’m afraid I’ll lose control. I’m an ace driver. It’s the other assholes on the street I’m wary of.

  To convince myself Sloane used the gift as a bribe to buy my cooperation in whatever happened, I visited my car. I touched it. Drove it. Took in its scent.

  Determined to find a flaw in Sloane’s reasoning.

  Then, another memory came, firming up my determination to eliminate my brother from my life.

  Pain fills these recollections. The moment Stefanie told me Sloane was forming a band and the day Dad informed me he’d do everything in his power to see that Sloane made it to the top.

  At least, Steffie swore to me she’d talk Sloane into bringing me into the band once he found his footing. Dad wasn’t so kind. He said I didn’t have the talent, good looks or the charisma to be a superstar. He took the wind from my dreams.

  Because I could sing and play guitar and drums. My fat
her took away my visions of fame, love, and acceptance, for Sloane.

  Georgiana once asked me if I played or sang and I told her ‘no’. Why admit to talents not useful to me?

  That memory, combined with Sloane’s latest treachery, convinced me, once again, that he has to die. He took my father, my wife and my dreams. I’ll take his life. So I forge ahead with my plans, egged on by my surroundings—his home, filled with band mementoes and family portraits.

  When I study his photos, sometimes, I feel the judgment in his blue stare. It’s almost as if he’s in Denver. Or as if his spirit already haunts me, when he isn’t dead yet. And, yeah, I’ve gotten cold feet, more than once. I’ve tried to talk myself out of killing my own brother.

  It doesn’t matter. As much as I try to get over our past animosity, my mother reminds me that I have always been second best to Sloane. She said Sloane has his own money, and she’s right. He spouted the same bullshit.

  I, at least, deserve our dad’s money. The ass could leave an inheritance for me and Jaeger. Or he could’ve told Dad to fuck himself. That if his brothers were being left out, he wouldn’t sign on the chance that, after three years, he or Dad would still be alive.

  What can I expect, though? In spite of what he says, Sloane enjoys Dad’s convoluted head games. That way, he’ll show Dad who’s the smarter man. Outwit Rand at his mind play and Sloane’s superior.

  Me, on the other hand, isn’t used to dealing with Dad in that matter. To me, Rand is direct, firm, and a singular asshole. He lays it all on the line for me.

  But Dad threw down his gauntlet. Sloane picked it up, and left Jaeger and me out in the cold.

  Fuck him.

  A throat clears, and I look up, discovering the wet mouse of a girl has moved from the booth and now stands next to me.

  She’s still soaked. Still cold. And still fucking dripping.

  Without her saying a word, I know I’ve been recognized as Sloane’s bodyguard. Brown eyes assess me, and her pink lips are slightly parted. She either wants to blow me or have me smuggle her to one of the band members, once she’s firmly informed of Sloane’s unavailability. Most of his female fans don’t believe or don’t care, he’s a redeemed manwhore.

  Well, he is. He’d cleave himself in half before he betrayed Georgiana. Lucky for me, Jaeger, and the other members of Phoenix Rising, we get Sloane’s groupie leftovers.

  Motherfucker.

  “I’m not in the mood for a dick suck,” I snap, a first for me. If there’s a willing mouth, I have an available cock. “Get the fuck out of my face.”

  Instead of moving, she flushes and raises her chin. “I’m not interested in servicing you, asshole,” she almost snarls, around a slight chattering of her teeth.

  “Liar.”

  I’ve learned women either want money or a fuck. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll provide both. If not—which is most of the time—I fuck them and send them on their way.

  Drowned Rat Girl looks me up and down, doing an excellent job of turning up her cute little nose at me. “If you don’t pay, we don’t play.”

  Her words sink in and I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re a paid whore?”

  Her long-lashed brown eyes flare in surprise. “Is there any other type?”

  “If you’ve lived this long in the world, you have to know whores come at all costs. Even free. Especially free for a man like me.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes. “You’re just Sloane Mason’s bodyguard. You’re not him.”

  Just as I suspected, she recognized me the moment I walked into the place. I catch her gaze and hold it. “Thanks to him, pussy is thrown at me from all corners of the world, doll.”

  It’s still pissing rain outside. My car is parked blocks away because I didn’t trust it being in this seedy neighborhood.

  The door opens. Even two seats from it, I still feel the blast of wind and water.

  Drowned Rat Girl’s eyes widen and, without invitation, she slides into the booth across from me. I’m about to order her to get the fuck up, when a motherfucker with a tattooed head and face pauses at the table. He looks from me to the girl and drills her with a maniacal stare.

  Dropping her gaze, she grips the table and trembles, thanks to the newcomer, rather than the cold. Fear wafts from her like a storm cloud hovering in the sky.

  He turns his attention to me, and I lift a brow at him. Recognition settles into his face and he smiles, flashing a diamond grill on his bottom teeth and a gold one on the top.

  “Well, well, well,” he says in a ridiculous, sing-song voice. “Sloane Mason’s bodyguard. I wonder what the born-again family man would say if he discovered his head of security dropped in here.”

  “Where exactly is here?” I ask out of curiosity.

  The girl snaps her gaze to me and narrows her eyes. “Does it really matter? You’ve been daydreaming in this booth for twenty minutes. If you were so concerned about your location, you would’ve gotten up and walked out.”

  She has me there. Still, I tense, unappreciative of her words. In case she didn’t realize it, it’s fucking raining outside.

  “This certainly isn’t a fucking diner.”

  Tattoo Boy claps and grins. Drowned Rat Girl offers an unnaturally high laugh. His gaze drops to where her hands are. Out of the corner of my eyes, I swear I see her give him some type of signal.

  My eyes are playing tricks on me. A moment ago, I saw her fear. It still surrounds me. Therefore, I can’t allow my mistrust of women to cloud my thinking and leave a girl in danger.

  “Are you sure you don’t know who we are?” Tattoo Boy asks. “Where you are? Few people drop in here accidentally.”

  Neither of them has yet to tell me where here is. However, there’s one inescapable truth. “If you don’t like unwanted visitors, keep your fucking door locked.”

  Tattoo Boy snaps a look at the girl. She shrinks into the corner of the booth.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I was so happy to be inside again.”

  As I wonder what the fuck she means, Tattoo Boy scowls at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats in a small voice.

  “Too fucking late now,” he spits at her, then looks at me again. “Get Sloane on the phone,” he sneers. “Tell him where you are. Let’s hear his reaction.”

  Leaning back, I fold my arms. “He won’t say a fucking thing, fucker.”

  “You might taint his precious little wife.”

  Harsh laughter escapes me. “Newsflash, big man. He’s already tainted her.”

  He pulls an ugly face. “I’d hate to get blood on your expensive suit.”

  I yawn, bored. “I’d hate to get your brain on this shitty floor.”

  His eyes narrow. Bracing his hands on the table, he leans toward me.

  Before he reacts, further, I pull my weapon out and aim it at his head. “I’ve had a really shitty month. Sloane doesn’t own me—” Despite what my mother insists. “Therefore, in my off-time, I go where I please, fuck who I desire, and answer to no motherfucker.”

  The need to explain to this ass mite may stem from not wanting to pull the trigger until all options are exercised.

  He raises his hands, conceding to me too easily for me to trust his intentions. He might be from the “wrong” side of the tracks, and I might be a rich boy with a cushy life, but I invented dirty motherfucker moves. He doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. Although I’ve never fired my gun at anyone, I will if I must.

  He gives a small shake of his head and Drowned Rat Girl bursts into tears, drawing my attention to her. In my peripheral vision, I see dumb ass as he prepares to attack. I power my elbow into his nose, smiling at the crack of bone, spray of blood, and his scream, before twisting his arm behind his back and jamming my arm against his neck.

  “Do you like living?”

  He’s sobbing, the big pussy.

  “Nod, motherfucker. Nod if you want to live.”

  He nods.

  “My patience is ended. If you know Sloa
ne, then you know about Rand Mason. I run with murderers, drug addicts, and fighters. The only thing I wanted was shelter from the rain and a cup of fucking coffee. Not a fight. Not a fuck.”

  “Release him!” Drowned Rat Girl pleads. “You’re killing him.”

  Her eyes are filled with real tears and her face is twisted in horror. I don’t want to notice her beauty but I’d have to be blind not to. Now that her hair is drying, it is shrinking into tight, dark curls. She’s an exotic beauty, with pink lips and an oval face.

  I shove him away from me and he lands on the floor on all fours. She runs to Tattoo Boy, and I glare at her, watching as she touches his forehead, cheeks, and chin. They’re working together.

  Blood is on my white dress shirt and my gray suit jacket. The expensive material is ruined.

  Reaching the door, I open it to get the fuck away from this shithole. Not a restaurant. Either a drug pen or whore’s den.

  “Wait!”

  Her call stops me and I turn, lifting a brow.

  “Don’t leave me,” she says in a pitiful voice. “He’s going to kill me.”

  This little bitch has a lot of balls. She ran to him and checked him over. Has she forgotten so quickly? I almost admire her audacity.

  “Fool me once, shame on you. No need for the next part of the saying because I never give you another fucking chance.”

  “Please—”

  “Sorry, doll. Save your bullshit for a motherfucker who gives a shit. I don’t.”

  Without another word, I shove my gun back into my holster and walk out into the cloudy, windy evening, so fucking happy that the rain has stopped.

  Chapter Four

  Fuuuucccckkk.

  I can’t believe he left. Usually, my tactics work. Of course, I usually don’t have a man pummeling the fuck out of my brother, either.

  Kiln What’s-his-name leaves without looking back. He’s famous for those blue-green eyes, bald head, and buff body. Not to mention his good looks. I recognized him the moment he came in, and couldn’t believe my good fortune. I thought he’d come in for an appointment with me.