Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  I saved the day.

  Then, Sloane and me came to a truce and united as brothers.

  Jaeger sits next to me and loosens his tie. “Kiln—”

  “Shut up,” I interrupt.

  “Mother is obsessed with Sloane paying for the sins of Rand Mason. Father…Rand…is the problem, not Sloane.”

  Entirely true. The old asshole pitted the three of us against each other for years.

  “What if Mother’s telling the truth, Jaeger? What if Dad is in jail to protect Sloane? Suppose Sloane is Stefanie’s murderer? The motherfucker will get away with it and he’ll get the bulk of Dad’s estate.”

  “Dad’s doing it out of a sick, obsessive love with Sloane’s mother.”

  “Fuck, Kiln. That isn’t Sloane’s fault. Besides, I refuse to believe he even knows what the fuck has taken place.”

  “Fuck you. I do. That’s the difference between us. You’ve blindly embraced him. I haven’t. I saw the fucking papers with his signature. Sloane said he’d be set for life.”

  “You’re a fucking bitter, rejected asshole.”

  I jump to my feet and shove him. “Say that to my fucking face.”

  He shoves me back. “I just did,” he snarls.

  We collide into each other, throwing punches and curses, ending when I put Jaeger in a headlock and wallop the fuck out of him. He lands in a heap in the middle of the floor and rolls on the floor, gasping.

  After a moment, he sits up, holding his jaw and glowers at me. “You haven’t even signed on the dotted line, so shut the fuck up. Although I signed, I’m waiting to hear Sloane’s side before I jump to conclusions.”

  “Does it matter if we promise not to contest the new terms? Sloane still gets the money. He doesn’t need our cooperation for jack shit.”

  Jaeger staggers to his feet. His clothes are rumpled and bloody. Not a man alive can best me. Sloane got lucky the time he beat me unconscious.

  Jaeger stumbles to a seat.

  “Suppose he has signed, agreeing to give up part of the fortune, if we’re still kicking in three years, dumb ass? We still get money.”

  “That’s in three fucking years. Sloane has money now! Unless he dies.”

  “Kiln!” Jaeger jumps to his feet and comes closer, thinking better of putting his hands on me. “Get your head out of your ass. Sloane knows you. He knows us. For years, I was only about his bottom line. You stayed on at Dad’s whims because you wanted money. Do you really think Sloane would sign a fucking document that sets him up to die? He isn’t that fucking stupid, and he doesn’t trust anyone, except Georgie, that much.”

  “Trusting a woman makes him the worst fucking idiot in the world.” Drowned Rat Girl comes to mind. That witch saw an easy mark when she met me. As much as I admire her hutzpah, she’s a fucking typical woman. However, I’ll never see the little con artist again, so I get back to matters at hand. “Sloane deserves to die,” I shout.

  “He’s on the other side of the world on a goddamn remote island, with his family, not concerned about what we’re doing in his house. We have keys to his fucking mansion. We’re free to drive most of his cars. We have horses here, delivery services, access to the best tailors. What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Thinking?”

  I open my mouth, but Jaeger raises a hand.

  “What I’m planning, I do so for Mother. So she can be normal again.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I turn away and start out of the room.

  “Don’t you fucking leave,” Jaeger demands. “Face my words like a fucking man.”

  My pride stings and I turn on Jaeger again, barreling to him. He backs away.

  “Stop with the fucking brawn, Kiln. Use your goddamn brain. I know Sloane as much as I know you. When he discovers what’s going on, he will probably tell Father to stick his estate up his cockhole and waive his right to the inheritance.”

  Outrage piles on top of my fury, and I stiffen, growling out loud. “The privileged motherfucker would thumb his nose at us, wouldn’t he? We’re fighting tooth and nail for what’s rightfully ours. He’d throw it away without thought, on a whim. Due to a snot-nosed temper tantrum.”

  Jaeger snorts. “Sloane can’t win with you. You belong in the same asylum Mother was in. You’re a twisted fucker. As much as Father.”

  “Doesn’t it eat at you that Sloane’s the chosen one?”

  “No!” Jaeger yells. Veins pop out on his forehead and neck. “Fuck no. What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks again. “Your show of brotherly affection was a pretense these past several years? Is that it?”

  “What fucking brotherly affection? I can’t have any family fondness if the motherfucker isn’t claiming us as his relatives.”

  Jaeger looks appalled. “You aren’t just any man. You’re Sloane Mason’s hot, sexy bodyguard, with groupies and fans of your own. Can you imagine the fucking madhouse it would be if your true relationship to Sloane was known? You’d need bodyguards.”

  He’s right. I’m perfectly happy with my quasi-fame.

  “Don’t let Mother infect you with her hatred. Ruin all the strides we’ve all made.”

  “The inheritance belongs to all of us,” I say stubbornly, hating the small bit of doubt creeping into me. Just as it did when I remembered the Aventador. Listening to Jaeger, I almost feel like a dickhead.

  I almost tell myself I really don’t want to hurt Sloane.

  Then, I see those documents in my head. The memory of his signature sears me.

  I hear my mother’s heart-wrenching sobs, and I feel as if someone has taken a knife to my chest and gutted me.

  If I’m allowing Jaeger to sway me, I’m just a ball-less, spineless coward?

  Fuck, my head is starting to pound.

  “At least talk to Sloane,” Jaeger insists. “Wait until you hear his side.”

  That’s reasonable. I like the idea, but I’m too pigheaded to admit it. Offering a small smile, I shrug.

  “Why the fuck is this even an issue? Rand Mason isn’t going anywhere for years to come. The old bastard’s too stubborn to die. By the time he croaks, he might have fucked over Sloane again in some form or fashion.”

  True. Not that I care, so I remain silent.

  “You know I’m right,” Jaeger presses.

  I refuse to give in.

  “You’re too good of a man to kill our little brother in cold-blood. Especially because of money.”

  “Then what about for Mother? For Dietrech?”

  He releases a harsh sound, pins me with an ugly look, and walks out.

  The moment I’m alone, I go to the mini bar in the back of the room, anticipating another cold beer. It’s telling that, in all of Jaeger’s outrage, he never once threatened to inform Sloane of my plans.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Third garbage dumpster I’ve searched and have yet to come up with more than a few scraps to eat. I’m hungry, tired, and frustrated. The only ray of light is the realization that Chambers didn’t take the key to the diner from me.

  Once I repay Montana’s debts and get him back, we’re still free to sleep there.

  That’s some peace of mind.

  Other than that, my day hasn’t netted much.

  Dumpster diving usually nets me food and a few cool clothes. Today, it’s just gotten me dirty and smelly. With only a few hours left to find Kiln What’s-his-name, I can’t even find a place to wash off. Nor do I have time to “borrow” a private citizen’s bathroom.

  Breaking into houses isn’t always about theft. Sometimes, it’s about sanitation.

  I smirk to myself. Imagine having to explain that to cops. Someone was here because there’s dirty towels and a big mess in my bathroom. Nothing but shampoo, conditioner, soap and an outfit is missing.

  Well, maybe, a few tampons or pads. Possibly, a little cereal and juice.

  When I break into a house to feed and clean myself, I always leave a mess. People need a warning to take more care.

  Hey, if someone can live i
n Walmart, undetected for weeks, I can break into houses for a quick shower.

  Life’s what you make it, and I work with what I have.

  A clear plastic bag peaks through the pile of garbage. Finally, I come across a sealed freezer bag, stuffed with cooked chicken. Once I snatch it into my hands, I yank the plastic open and the aroma of garlic and celery hits me. My stomach growls. Without hesitation, I tear into the food, not even bothering to climb out of the dumpster.

  The chicken tastes slightly rancid. Besides being cold, it’s coated with congealed grease. Not that I care. I’m starving.

  One piece. Two. Three. Since I’m not sure when I’ll get another meal, I force a forth piece into my now-cramping belly. The chicken knots in my stomach. Before I know it, vomit gushes from me. My retching goes on forever. I must have thrown up a few parts of my anatomy.

  So much for a good meal.

  Wiping my hand over my mouth, I shove more garbage aside and search for something to drink. After a few minutes, I spy an almost empty bottle of water. Grateful, I dive for it, and drink the container dry. Towards the end, I even suck on the bottle, deflating it, as I search for that last, precious drop.

  Fuck it. I don’t have time to find anything else to eat.

  I need to find me a big, baldheaded, sexy motherfucker.

  Hopping out of the useless dumpster and squinting, I look at the sky, attempting to estimate the time. Montana is good at reading the sun’s position. I’m not. I need a watch or a phone to estimate how much time I have left to find Sloane Mason’s house. Watches are expendable luxuries, bought when necessary and sold to get us out of jams. When we have need of a cellphone, burners are the way to go. I wish this was one of those times. Then, I could call and check in with Montana.

  These random thoughts annoy me. Sloane Mason’s mansion, and getting to it, should be my focus.

  I mean, c’mon, that mansion is the logical place to start. After I ended up falling asleep in a little alcove under the bridge, waiting for the rain to stop, I woke up this morning with that thought and proceeded to discover the rockstar’s residence.

  Most locals know where one of Colorado’s most famous residents live. The bad news is I’ve walked for hours and I’m not even close.

  Dejection threatens. If I give into my emotion, I’ll never accomplish my goals, so I give my disheartenment a vicious brush-off and kick it to the curb.

  Starting forward, I walk and dust the pieces of garbage off me, then thread my fingers through my tangled curls. What the rain didn’t destroy of my hair, the garbage finished.

  The last twenty-four hours could use a do-over.

  Sighing, I continue on, jaywalking, criss-crossing streets to change directions, glancing up at the sky. Time speeds by as I hurry along, aware that the scenery is changing from dilapidation to rundown and on into modesty. In a few hours, I’ve left the poverty-stricken area, made it through the low-income part, and found middle-class.

  Denver is my adopted city and it startles me to see the glaring changes in income brackets; sometimes, with just a crossing of a major intersection,

  Finally, I turn onto another street, lined with exclusive boutiques. One day, I’ll come and window shop. It’ll be fun to dream.

  Grinning and not paying attention, I almost collide with someone in the middle of the sidewalk. A girl about my age is strapping a cooing baby into a stroller and closing her car door. On her arm, I spot a watch. Internally, I punch the air in happiness.

  I hold my head high and offer her a real smile. A frown snaps onto her face the moment she sees me and she inches herself in front of her baby. My smile falters a bit and I swallow.

  “Excuse me,” I say. Grade school teachers taught me manners. “Sorry for bumping into you. If you don’t mind, may I have the time, please?” I point to her watch.

  She blinks at me, then clutches her purse to her chest, as if I’m a thief. Well, I am. Just not today. Behind her, a noise of irritation escapes the baby.

  I clear my throat. Widen my smile. “All I want is the time.”

  A small tremble assails her. I’m so tempted to fuck with her and make a sudden move, as if I’m going to jump her. She deserves it for looking like a scared cat, caught in oncoming traffic.

  “The time,” I say again, with as much patience as possible. “Please?”

  “Oh, um.” She raises her arm to eye-level, somehow managing to peep at me, too. “It’s almost four.”

  I beam at her. She grimaces.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, making no move to leave.

  “Do you need anything else, miss? Or do I have to summon a cop? Your kind shouldn’t be in my part of town.”

  Here we go. Planting my hands on my hips, I rock on my heels. “I need a lot more, lady. Food, for instance. Two or three thousand dollars would be nice, too. I need a bath and a hair wash. Oh, yeah, let’s not forget brushing my teeth and some clean clothes.” I snap my fingers. “Annnddd, a nice, warm, cozy bed would be awesome to sleep in. Can you supply me with any of the above?”

  She glares at me.

  “I thought not. In that case, shut the fuck up. By the way, the last time I checked, America is a free country. I can go any fucking place I want to.”

  She stares at me a moment, then huffs, shoving her hand into her pocket and coming up with a cell phone.

  Fuck, I don’t need the cops on my ass today. Without another word, I take off running, flipping her off over my shoulder.

  I haul ass for about ten minutes. It might be longer. It might be less. All I know is by the time I stop my zigzags through alleyways and down streets, I’m totally lost.

  Skidding to a halt, I bend over and gasp for breath. My stomach growls again. The wind blows and I catch a whiff of myself.

  What a fucking disaster. With the way things are going, even if I make it to the rock star’s house, chances are high I won’t get past security in my present condition.

  Stumbling to a nearby building, I lean against it, watching the comings and goings of neighborhood people. Across the street, two men pull out a roll of carpet and lay it on the ground.

  Hmmm.

  Carpet?

  Yep, carpet.

  If Cleopatra did it, then, I, Raine, can do it, too.

  One of the men closes the truck’s door, while the other one opens the door to the residence. Realizing I’m fast losing my chance, I skirt oncoming traffic and dodge across the street, barreling in front of the man holding the door open.

  “May I help you?”

  The inquiry is friendly enough. Maybe, because he’s an older man. The younger man pauses and adjusts his cap.

  “Yeah,” I puff, and hold out my hand. “My name’s Raine Storm.”

  I let the name sink in for a moment. People never know if I’m fucking with them or not.

  He rolls his eyes. Ha. The joke’s on him.

  My grin doesn’t falter.

  “I need your help. I’ve been hired to prank one of Sloane Mason’s bodyguards. It’s his birthday,” I add quickly. “But my truck with all my props, broke down and left me stranded on the outskirts of town. Two days ago. The man who stopped to help me stole all my money and…and…” I sniffle, forcing tears. Luckily, I know how to cry on command. “And…” Sniffling harder, I grab the older man’s wrist. “Please, sir. I have a sick brother.” Kinda true. “And, oh please, help me.”

  The two men exchange glances and I rub my arm across my nose. It helps to redden it more. Gazing at them through my wet lashes, I notice their resemblance. They must be related.

  The younger one cocks his head to the side. “What do you need?”

  “S-see,” I manage, “I-I was supposed to be Cleopatra. I was going to roll out of the carpet and do a belly dance for him.”

  Older Dude scratches his graying hair. “She wore no clothes, if I remember correctly.”

  If that’s the only thing he has to worry about, that’s nice. I have more important things to do.

  “Please. I kn
ow it sounds bad. But…but I’d do anything for my brother. It’s only me and him. I’m getting paid ten grand and…and…Please!” I wail.

  “Daddy, what you say?” the younger one says, taking off his cap and wiping his brow before resituating the cap with the words Willie Turner’s Carpet World printed on it.

  “Well, that Mason boy don’t live too far away from here,” Daddy admits.

  I no longer know where exactly here is, so I nod. I’m not used to this part of town.

  “When you got to be there, little lady?” the son asks.

  I scratch my throat. Montana always wonders how I manage it since he doesn’t know how to do it. He speculates I wiggle my uvula, the little dangly thing in the back of my throat. I disagree. It feels as if my throat closes and I make a clicking sound. Sometimes, it feels good. Other times, like now, it’s irritating, more than serving my purpose.

  “Now,” I say pitifully, sufficiently hoarse.

  Manufacturing a good cry is hard fucking work.

  “Didn’t I hear that Sloane fella took his family to some island?” Daddy asks, shocking me.

  I’m not surprised he knows the singer/guitarist. It does shock me that he knows such intimate details. He doesn’t seem the type to follow the wild rocker that closely.

  “He made the plans before he left,” I swear. I wouldn’t sound more convincing if my hand was on a bible as I was being sworn in to give testimony under oath. “Please, I wouldn’t make this up. Can you imagine the security the place has?” Exactly. Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck. I think fast. “He…he s-said to tell them at-at the g-gate that his wife was h-having carpet d-delivered.”

  That’s a plausible scenario. Right? No matter. It’s the only one I can come up with at the moment.

  “Can you wait a couple hours ‘til we finish installing this here carpet?” Son asks.

  Doubling over, I burst into near hysterical sobs. Some tears are truly falling. I’m so scared I’m going to lose my brother. He’s the only thing I have in this world. I have to save him.

  There’s six hours left to do it. I must get to Sloane Mason’s house and either find Kiln or someone who knows his whereabouts, then convince him to pay me to fuck him.

  “All right. All right,” one of them calls, patting my back in a kind gesture.