Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what do we have behind door number four?” I jest. “Is it the jackpot?”

  He halts and throws a dark look my way.

  “Open, open, open,” I chant and clap to the rhythm of my own words.

  “Remind me of your age?” he bites out.

  My humor evaporates and I wrinkle my nose at him. “I’ve already told you.”

  “You have, so act like a grown fucking woman, instead of an annoying kid.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as lively and upbeat,” I throw at him.

  “You’re not,” he assures me. “You’re like a loud little bug who needs swatting away.”

  Off he goes again before I can respond.

  He opens door number four and begins to laugh.

  “What?” Jaeger asks from behind me.

  “Sloane’s room,” Kiln chortles, walking fully inside.

  As I catch up to him, he flips on the light, revealing a sitting room, decorated in golds and creams. Even in this sitting room, filled with expensive furniture, there’s a play yard. Wow! This mom and dad really love their children. My heart melts and I gain a new respect for the woman of the house.

  My hand flutters to my heart. “Oh my God. She’s so awesome.”

  If only my mom had wanted me around just a fraction of what’s hinted at here.

  Kiln lifts a brow at me and I clear my throat, rocking on my heels.

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Don’t. You might cause permanent damage.”

  “Lame,” I say with a giggle, surprised that he’s teasing me in such a manner.

  He grins at me, then crooks his finger again. “Come on, doll. Let’s find the queen’s closet.”

  “If you don’t like them, you shouldn’t work for them,” I chastise.

  “Stay the fuck out of my business.”

  I ignore him. He got me into his business when I broke in on the second floor. Besides, he also promised to involve himself in my business. “Think about it. You’re not doing your best if you’re at a job you don’t like.”

  Rounding on me, he narrows his eyes. “So you enjoy being a slut?”

  “No, but—”

  “But you still spread your pussy and swallow cum for ten or fifteen dollars.”

  “Oh my God, I’d rather be a free whore, than a cheap one.”

  Surprise widens his eyes, and then, he smiles, fighting back laughter.

  I chuckle, pleased with myself. “I may not enjoy what I’m doing, but it’s where I’m at in my life, thanks to choices I made. Until I can do better, I have to make the best of my situation.” I shrug. “Why complain? No one will hear me.”

  He stays silent for a moment, then he steps out of my way. “Find Georgiana’s closet and choose some clothes. Take as many pieces as you want to. She won’t miss them. I doubt she’s aware of half the shit she owns.”

  “Every woman knows what’s in her closet,” I throw over my shoulder, going through another room and seeing the outline of a big bed.

  Turning on a light, I see I’ve found the master bedroom. It smells of lemon polish and I breathe in the citrusy scent. Regretting I don’t have time to gawk, I head to another door. Inside is a huge, awe-inspiring bathroom, complete with a Roman shower.

  I’ve never been up close and personal with such luxury and wealth. Georgie Mason lives a charmed life. I never considered the type of place she lived in whenever I read about her. But she is everywhere in this house. It’s stylish yet unpretentious.

  In my head, she’s one of those approachable celebrities, the kind who’ll give you an autograph and go out of their way to be nice.

  Opening another door leads to a roomful of men’s stuff. Clothes. Shoes. Belts. Hats. I suppose underwear and ties are in some of the drawers lining the walls.

  Straight ahead, I see a huge photo of Georgie. Swallowing, I back out of the room and follow the curve of the bathroom, and come upon another door.

  When I open it and find a mini clothing boutique, I sag in relief, then my breath catches.

  This closet is double the size of Sloane’s. Pink marble floors gleam against the white walls. There’s a pink sofa, two play yards, a vanity built into a wall, and display cases and racks filled with all kinds of clothes.

  I slowly turn. I’ve already wasted a shitload of time. Yet, my sense of urgency is absent. It’s wrong. So wrong. My brother’s life is at stake. I need to choose clothes, and, then, shower. But I can’t move. I’m staring everywhere. Up. Down. All around.

  Grabbing the lapels of the jacket I’m wearing, I tighten it around me and hold it closed. My arms around my waist comforts me.

  A rack of jeans grabs my attention. I tip closer. How little I belong here hits me. At the rack, I gawk and pass a fingertip over each hanger. Afraid to touch the material. Too filthy to touch her things.

  She’d welcome me with open arms. Offer me carte blanche. I know she would. In my head, we can be great friends. I’d tell her I dropped out of high school, too. My grades had always been so good. I was best at math and chemistry, and wanted to be a biomolecular engineer.

  Hysterical laughter escapes me. What a fucking lifetime ago.

  It doesn’t matter. Life is about adapting and adjusting. It’s about hope. Even if it’s the last thing you have, it’s still something to hold onto.

  For instance, I hold onto the hope that Georgie Mason would accept me, as is. Maybe, I must believe that to allow myself to steal her lovely clothes. In reality, experience has taught me different.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I jump at Kiln’s voice and harden myself, shrugging with forced nonchalance. I don’t want him to see my guilt and intimidation. “Looking around. The same thing you’ve been doing.”

  “It isn’t. I’ve been searching, so try again to put us on equal ground.”

  He’s such a grouch. “Enough with the fucking insults. I won’t stand for them.”

  His smirk returns. He knows my position. I might not want to subject myself to whatever he dishes out, but I must.

  Heat rises in my face and I glower at him. As he moves around the dressing room, randomly grabbing clothes—dresses, skirts, tops, jackets—shoes—pumps, flipflops, sneakers, slippers, boots—and opening drawers to find underwear, I don’t say a word. He snatches bras, panties, negligees, nightgowns, and pajamas before turning and nodding to a wall of handbags.

  “Choose some,” he instructs, his arms overflowing with loot.

  “I don’t want to take all of that from her. I just need an outfit and a pair of shoes. I definitely don’t need a purse. My life would be in danger.” Is he fucking stupid? I’d get shanked for one of these expensive handbags. Every street rat in town would think I had money. “Please? Just one outfit.”

  “You do this my way or no way. I want you to take her things. You need them. She doesn’t.”

  “They’re still hers.” Shit. The sliver of respect he had for my criminal ways desert him. I backtrack, fast. “I don’t need them. Where the fuck would I keep them?”

  He ignores me. “Time’s wasting, pet.”

  “Are you sure you’re their bodyguard? You’re encouraging me to steal from them.”

  “Are you sure your brother’s in danger? You’ve been wasting a fuck ton of time.”

  “Fine, genius. We’ll do it your way.”

  “It’s my way or no way,” he tells me, starting out of the room and ignoring the trail of shoes he’s leaving as they slip out of his arms.

  Kiln reminds me of Chambers. They’re both arrogant, authoritative, and drunk with power. They also both hold my brother’s life in their hands. Unease slides through me.

  A fact Kiln doesn’t need to know. He’s the type of dickhead who’d take such information and use it to destroy me. Fuck him. “Tell me,” I start, all sugary sweetness, “how will you explain this fucked up room? Didn’t you tell Sloane a malfunction set the alarm off? I’d like to be a fly on the wall listening to you exp
lain this shit.” With a sweep of my hand, I indicate the mess he made.

  He smirks at me. I notice he does this a lot. He’s an asshole like that.

  “If you’re so worried about the consequences, tidy the shit up, Raine.”

  He storms away, showing me with words and actions he is in control. At least where I’m concern. The thought terrifies me.

  Seeking out Kiln might lead to my downfall, instead of my brother’s salvation.

  Chapter Eight

  Pretense is an art, a finely-honed skill that masks myriad emotions—disinterest, boredom, fear, pain, anger…the list is infinite. Take me, for instance.

  More times than I can count, I’ve feigned interest in the women I fuck, when I want company for a few hours, rather than just partying and emptying my balls. This time, I’m in an unusual situation. I’m pretending disinterest. To Raine it probably seems as if I’m shutting her out completely and focusing on the road. To any observer, it’ll seem as if I’m tuning out the chatterbox in the passenger seat. Raine won’t shut up.

  But she’s talking about everything except the reason why she thought to seek me out. Part of me is suspicious. Her story doesn’t sit right in my gut. She suckered me into believing her.

  The tears sliding down her cheeks had seemed so real.

  Fuck, I’m not getting out of this one. No matter how I present it to myself, I didn’t throw her out and send her on her way after we left the second floor. The thought didn’t even enter my mind. I saw hints of ass and pussy as she climbed to the second floor and my brain sank to my cock.

  Then, when we found the master bedroom, it felt odd—good—having an accomplice. Especially such a delectable, morally deficient one.

  Once Raine dressed in a pair of jeans—proving Georgiana is too fucking short—a V-neck, long-sleeved shirt--attesting to Raine’s tits being bigger than Georgiana’s—and a pair of backless heels, Raine restrained her wild curls in a ponytail and ordered me to get a move on.

  After I ushered her to my car, settled behind the wheel, and sped off, her mouth opened—and hasn’t closed since. I want to demand silence before I pull to the side of the road and shove my cock in her mouth to quiet her. Each time the idea strikes me, I change my mind.

  Sighing, I decide there are other reasons I’m helping her. I believe she is afraid. I believe her brother is in danger. And I believe she’s talking because she doesn’t know what else to do.

  I might be wrong. However, I had a sister, once. Before Sloane came into our lives, Stefanie would’ve sold her soul if it meant saving me or Jaeger. Then, Sloane happened. All my sister did from that point on was chastise my behavior toward him. All I heard was how she expected more from me; how my treatment of Sloane disappointed her.

  My lesson on the fickleness of women began early.

  I sidle a glance at the talking head next to me. Annoyance hits me and, suddenly, I feel like a loser.

  Somehow, Raine has garnered…my concern? Sympathy?

  But, why?

  Raine is a scheming, self-proclaimed whore.

  When I met my ex-wife, I wasn’t the cynic I am now. Falling in love with a woman loyal to me seemed an achievable goal.

  If I allow myself to fall for Raine’s bullshit, I should paint a bull’s eye on my back.

  “McDonald’s was hard work for Montana,” she jabbers. “Mom made him give his pay to her. But he still took money from his earnings, without her knowledge, and bought me a cake for my thirteenth birthday.”

  That statement penetrates fully. I’ve had enough. “Cut the bullshit,” I snap out, using the opportunity to steal a glance at her. Fluorescent lighting from the street lamps bounce in and out of the car as I speed past. The red lipstick I stole from Georgiana’s vanity for Raine, make her lips pop. Cleaned up and dressed, she’s beyond beautiful. Beyond sexy.

  Whores are hardened. Their shitty lives steal their beauty and joy. Not Raine.

  Free of dirt and grime, her skin is flawless and looks so soft.

  I might have to fuck her, before I send her on her way. She’s a whore who slings pussy for money. I’m a superstar’s bodyguard who receives pussy just because. Safe sex is only relative.

  Relative to circumstances. Surroundings. Alcohol. And, here and there, drugs.

  So far, I’ve been a lucky motherfucker. No chick has come to me with a sad spiel of pregnancy. And my cock hasn’t turned into a deep-sea barnacle.

  Raine’s still chattering away. I don’t know what the fuck she’s saying, but I do remember the birthday cake story and decide to comment, just to get her to shut up.

  “Birthday cakes are not only non-essential to survival but readily available. It doesn’t impress me that he used fifty bucks for a cake.”

  My head swivels in her direction for a quick glance. Her eyes narrow. Light slashes across her face and her brown eyes gleam like fine whiskey.

  “A fifty-dollar cake?” She snorts. “I’ve never eaten a cake that costs that much money in my life.”

  “I was being cheap.”

  “No, you were being an asshole.”

  “Touchy, huh, doll?”

  “Jerky, huh, babe?”

  My grip tightens on my steering wheel. The control I thrive on is in danger.

  Somehow, the upper hand I have in almost every situation is creeping away from me. Raine finds a way to answer me word-for-word when I engage her. She twists my zingers and flings them right back at me.

  In the few hours since she was rolled out of that carpet, she’s secured my agreement to help her, gotten me to owe her five grand, played on my sympathies, and made me want to fuck her.

  Oh, she’s good.

  I open my mouth to shoot her down and intimidate her in some manner, but she speaks first.

  “Not all of us can rise above our poor beginnings and become some big-time, sex symbol, bodyguard. You’re so far removed from your childhood, I bet you can’t remember the last time you ate homemade birthday cake. Or birthday cake bought from an inexpensive place.”

  I almost laugh at her chastisement. In her mind, I was born poor. Thanks to Sloane’s need to be king, the fact I was born

  into wealth is hidden from most of the world. What Raine doesn’t know won’t hurt me.

  “Can I just finish my story about my brother?”

  “Not interested. Out of all the stories you’ve regaled me with, I couldn’t repeat most of them to save my life,” I lie. “I had to call you out for the birthday cake shit.”

  I glide to a stop at a red light and steal another look at her. I expect to see embarrassment. Humility. Something.

  But, no. She flips me off.

  Flips. Me. The. Fuck. OFF!

  Light changes to green.

  “Two blocks up, turn left and then take a right at the first street you come to. Diner will be mid-block.”

  I’ve driven too far. So busy entertaining her bullshit, I didn’t realize I’d passed the point where I’m comfortable leaving my Ferrari. Instead of following her instructions, I make a right at the next corner.

  “What are you doing?” she cries.

  “Protecting my car. I’m parking it in a safer neighborhood.”

  “No! Please. We have about five minutes left. It’ll be too late.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  I expect a comeback. She surprises me and goes silent. Chancing another glance, I see a tear glimmering from the edge of a long lash. Tension stiffens my shoulders and I grit my teeth.

  She clears her throat and sniffles. “Let me out,” she orders in a hoarse, miserable voice. “By the time I arrive, it’ll be too late for Montana, but you won’t get there any sooner, so I can take it from here. Just give me the five grand.”

  Screeching to a halt and shoving her out the door is so fucking appealing. But, fool that I am, I believe her distress and her sense of urgency. In the back of my mind, the word loser whispers through my head. Maybe, this is her way of playing me. However…most women would cry bitter te
ars, throw accusations, or beg me.

  She’s so different. So goddamn independent. Raine’s upset but, in her own way, she’s telling me to fuck off. She’s not asking me to backtrack and park somewhere else. That irritates the shit out of me.

  Without responding, I accelerate forward, speeding through two red lights, and arrive at the diner a minute later. I swerve to a stop at an angle, kill the engine, and grab my gun from the center console. She doesn’t wait for me to walk around and open her door. She jumps out and runs toward the darkened place.

  “Raine, wait.”

  She ignores me. By the time I reach the door, she’s holding a key in her trembling hand.

  I grab the key from her, not asking where it came from. I’m already too involved with her bullshit.

  “Hurry!” she cries, her voice shaking. “Why is it dark in there? Where’s my brother?”

  Her nervousness heightens my sense of urgency.

  The heavy glass door has the barely legible words Champ’s Diner painted on it.

  “Hurry!”

  The moment I open the door, she runs in and turns on a light. As a fucked-up smell hits my nose, Raine stops. I run into her and she lurches forward, hitting the floor—before I can catch her—and slips….through pools of bright red blood coating the floor.

  Blood is everywhere. The ceiling. The booth where I sat, as well as the table.

  Now, it’s all over Raine, too. She crawls to something, fishes it out of the sticky red pool and wipes it against her blouse.

  Identification. Her hands tremble, so forcefully I’m not sure how she sees the information. She stares. Reads. Narrows her eyes. Shakes her head.

  Her mouth moves. Tears streak her cheeks.

  Awareness deserts her and color drops from her face. Her lashes flutter.

  One more moment and she’ll faint.

  This is her bullshit, I remind myself, determined to remain impassive.

  “No! Montana!”

  Her wail pierces the heavy silence. My hands ball into fists at my side. Fuck her. She got me here. She’s not making me care about what’s happened. About her.

  Then, she raises her huge, watery brown gaze to me and shakes her head wildly. Her lips tremble.