Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  “The basest form,” I retort dryly.

  “To keep your clients, you’ll say or do whatever they want. Whatever you think they want to hear. I’m telling you for the last time. Stop trying to play me.”

  No use arguing with him. He won’t believe me. Sighing, I turn to the counter. “I was going to make omelets.”

  “Did I tell you I like them?”

  “No. You ordered me to cook. You never said what to prepare. I’ve decided on omelets. Take them or leave them.”

  “Are you the same girl who was begging me to eat half an hour ago? Now, you’re telling me I have to eat what you have a taste for?”

  “I wasn’t begging you to eat. I was merely asking if I was still allowed to do so.”

  “No, Raine. I intend to starve you because I’m such a mean motherfucker.”

  “Your words, not mine.” I snatch an apple from a basket and sink my teeth into it. Oh my God! I’ve never tasted such delicious fruit.

  He watches me in fascination as I chomp on the apple like a T-Rex tearing apart a piece of meat.

  “Sit,” he barks, pointing to one of the stools situated in front of the breakfast bar.

  I choose the one he fucked me on. Though I stand in front of it, I remain standing. “I can’t sit and cook.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re an argumentative little termagant. Sit the fuck down. Now.”

  Said like that, in that vicious grate, he means business. I’ve heard that tone before.

  With a huff, I sink down and rest against the back of the tall stool, throwing the apple core on the counter. For added drama, I tap my fingers, watching as he works his way around the kitchen, grabbing knives and chopping boards. Finding fresh parsley and chives from the refrigerator and a pack of shrimp from the freezer. He throws the mushrooms, onions, parsley and chives into the sink and turns on the faucet.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, when he lifts the onion up, takes a knife, and begins to peel it.

  “Cooking an omelet for you.”

  Interesting. “Do you need any help?”

  “No.”

  “I can make a fruit salad.”

  “You want that, too?”

  “Actually, the apple filled me up. I don’t eat much.”

  He lets that sink in. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Early yesterday.”

  “Before then?” he asks, washing the onion again before setting it on the chopping board and cutting into it.

  “I can dice that,” I offer.

  “No. Thank you. When did you eat before yesterday morning?”

  “Two days before.”

  “What did you eat?”

  “Whatever I found in the dumpster.”

  He sucks in a breath, then sets the knife aside. “Stop bullshitting me.”

  “Is this the spiel you’re going to throw at me all day?” I inquire. “Stop bullshitting you? Frankly, I’m already tired of it and it isn’t even seven in the morning yet.”

  “Which reminds me,” he starts, ignoring my words. “You got up without a fuss. Why?”

  “You woke me up. What did you expect me to do?”

  “Complain.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re so tedious. Let me ask you. When will you fall out of love with your wife?” Anger darkens his face. “Ex-wife,” I correct.

  “I hate that bitch.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  “Too bad, you bitter little man.”

  “Did you just call me a little man?”

  “Sure did, asshole. Maybe, it should’ve been small-brained, little man.”

  “Can we stick to one subject.”

  “I can if you can, Pottery Oven.

  “Shut the fuck up, Weather Phenomenon.”

  “Name calling went out in second grade,” I say grouchily.

  “You started.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right? I started? That went out in kindergarten.”

  He glares at me and I pucker my lips, raise my hand, and blow him a kiss.

  “Let’s start with this—I can’t stand Dietrech.”

  “Then let go of her. She’s out of your life, living hers. You’re the one stuck in misery.”

  “I’m not stuck in misery. Do you know the life I lead? Do you know how many people would kill to live my life?”

  “It’s not important if I know it, since that isn’t my life, Kiln. If you know it, then you should be happy. Otherwise, you’re living this life for the wrong reasons. No wonder you’re so miserable.”

  “And you’re falling over with happiness.”

  “I was,” I say quietly. “But I’ve lost my brother. I don’t make excuses for who I am. You, on the other hand, blame everyone else for your unhappiness, believes everyone is out to make an ass out of you, or is sure you’re in such an enviable position that anyone would kill to steal it from you.”

  “You’re oversimplifying shit.”

  “Am I? I agree there’s no reason Sloane should’ve betrayed you, boss or not, but he really didn’t make your wife fuck him. Unless he sexually assaulted her.”

  “Sloane would never do that.”

  “Then, she gave herself to him. She was your wife, dude. It was her responsibility to keep her legs closed.” I recall part of our conversation from the bedroom. “Of course, I get the feeling you were less than nice to Sloane. Instead of firing you, he probably had an ax to grind. His cock was that ax and your ex’s pussy represented your big, fat, mule head. Now, if it was me, I’d quit and save my soul before I tarnish it further.”

  “I can’t quit, Socrates. I’ll lose out on my father’s inheritance.”

  I cock my head to the side. “Explain.”

  “Until Stefanie’s death, Sloane was going to eschew all help from my father because he wanted Sloane to hire Jaeger and me.”

  “Jaeger? The ginger from yesterday?”

  “Yes. In case you missed it, he’s also our brother.”

  “You have quite the family.”

  “I also have an eleven-year old brother whose mother is my dead sister’s best friend. Brenda was having an affair with Steffie and Sloane but slept with my father and ended up pregnant.”

  “Jesus Christ. No wonder you’re so fucked up. Your entire family is. What kind of ju-ju are you spouting, dude? Have you heard what you said?”

  He grunts. “It gets better.”

  “You’re fucking kidding.”

  “I can’t make this up, Raine,” he says quietly. “My father was a fucking snake-in-the-grass to us. He beat the shit out of my mother. Even Steffie. Jaeger and I would go for days without being able to talk to anyone. He’d make us kneel on dry rice if we looked at him wrong. My mother always said the money he has was our birthright. He left her for Bryn. We scraped and scrounged and barely survived, until Bryn decided Sloane should know us. The little cum-snot motherfucker. All of a sudden, Steffie is crazy about Sloane. She’s known me for eleven years, my entire life, and just met this little ten-year-old squirt. Suddenly, she’s giving him guitars and planning playdates and running interference. I showed him what Rand did to me as much as I could. I shoved his head in the toilet once, and almost drowned him, just like Rand did to me. If not for Steffie, Sloane wouldn’t be here.”

  “And you’d be a murderer.”

  He scowls at me.

  “Let me revise my observation. If I was Sloane, I would’ve fucked your wife, too. You deserved it for being a cruel dickhead. Just because your father did it to you, doesn’t mean you had to do it to Sloane.”

  “Months ago, I apologized to him. We apologized to each other. But I’ve worked my ass off and he’s trying to keep our inheritance all for himself. My mother received a letter from the attorney. Dad has rewritten his will. I still get nothing. Apparently, he’s left it all to Sloane.” His eyes are fierce. “When Stefanie died, Dad made Sloane put us on his payroll as part of the cover-up. Before then,
Sloane would’ve said fuck us, despite the fact that Dad wrote us all out the will until Sloane complied. When he finally did, Dad kept us under his thumb by sticking to his guns. The only way I got money was if Sloane earned his share first. He almost ruined everything with his drug use. Then, he met Georgiana and she became his main focus. Not money. Not music. Her.”

  What he’s told me is only the tip of the shitberg. His family’s pretty fucked up. The only difference between the two of us is he’s wealthy, which is the albatross that’s making a mockery of his life. For money, he’s putting up with this bullshit.

  “I could say so much,” I tell him.

  “I’m sure you could.”

  “I won’t. You’re not opening up to me for my opinion. You think I’ll tell you that you have every right to feel so put up on and bitter. Sorry. Not doing that. Because you don’t. You especially shouldn’t blame Sloane and Georgiana Mason for anything. No matter what’s happened, you’re still on his payroll. You’re still living in the lap of luxury. You’re still his brother, asshole. Your father’s the motherfucker, in jail where he belongs. Sloane could’ve let you go and said make your own fucking way. From the sound of it, he has more loyalty in his fingernail than you do in your entire body. You’re wrong on so many different levels.”

  He looks me up and down, his blue-green eyes frosting. He advances around the counter and crowds me in. Though I’m not sure of his intentions, I stand firm, refusing to be intimidated. It takes everything in me not to look away.

  “I’m leaving in thirty minutes.” He digs in his pockets, comes up with a wad of cash, and flings it at me. “Pick out one outfit to dress in, take my money since you fucked me, and be ready to get the fuck out when I do. I never want to see your fucking face again.”

  Five, one hundred-dollar bills fall into my lap. More bills float onto the counter in front of me and the floor. I don’t touch any of it.

  “I’m just telling you the truth,” I insist. “I’m not trying to make you angry. Maybe the key to forgiving Sloane for what you think he did to you is forgiving yourself for what you know you did to him.”

  He growls, balls his hands into fists, and barrels to me. “Never mind leaving when I do.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. The hundreds on my lap join their friends on the floor. As he drags me to the bedroom, fury surrounds him. I’m almost running to keep up with his steps. His skin is hot, inflamed with anger.

  At the door to his bedroom, he stops and shoves me across the sill. “I want you to dress and leave now.”

  “If you say so,” I say with as much dignity as possible. I’m not apologizing and I’m not begging. My thoughts are my own. Once I compromise my opinions, then I compromise the sum total of my essence.

  If he can’t hear the truth, then he’ll never be able to face it.

  Here and evermore, he’ll be a lost soul.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shoving my hands in the pocket of my jeans, I stare out of my mother’s living room window. The peaceful view overlooks a stream that leads to mountainous terrain. Having seen the spectacular landscape of Sloane’s mansion, Mother wanted similar.

  “Did you hear me at all, Kiln Dalton?”

  Kiln Dalton was once my professional name, the one I used before I became known simply as Kiln, sharing the ranks of some of the most famous people in the world. It’s a feat not even Sloane has managed. He’s Sloane Mason. Or Phoenix Rising’s lead singer.

  I’m Kiln. Something else entirely his fault. After our father shoved him over a barrel and forced him to take me on his payroll, Sloane still made demands. He refused to employ me if I didn’t use a different last name.

  And that witch, Raine, had the fucking nerve to tell me I needed to forgive myself. She had the audacity to claim Sloane hadn’t done me anything.

  That’s why she’s back on the streets. Of all the reactions I expected from her, it definitely wasn’t her bullshit judgment and defense of Sloane.

  Fucking groupie.

  “Joe called me again this week. He can’t get Rand to budge on the terms. It isn’t enough that Sloane signed. You have to sign as well.”

  I pull my thoughts away from Raine. “The deal doesn’t go through unless I sign?”

  That makes a world of difference. At least, my father would think I have some value.

  “If only,” Mother says with a sniff. “Remember, Sloane has already began receiving increments, but you have to sign to receive the money when he dies.”

  True. Groveston made that very clear. Despite my intentions, it galls me to have to play second-fiddle to Sloane again. If we kill him and I haven’t signed, then his death still wouldn’t result in us receiving the money.

  If I’m honest with myself, the timing of the attorney’s announcement is odd, made just when Sloane isn’t here to defend himself.

  What of Jaeger’s reminder that Sloane wouldn’t sign anything from Rand? Or even if he had, it would benefit us in the long run?

  How about Raine’s opinion that he should’ve slept with Dietrech because I was such a dick? And that my ex-wife had more responsibility to our vows than my brother…?

  My muscles freeze. Raine’s opinion? What the fuck is wrong with me? Whatever she believes doesn’t matter. I know the truth. She’s gone for putting her nose in my business, so her words don’t matter to me.

  Near the window, two birds swoop, end over end, around each other, soaring through the blue sky.

  The nagging feeling about Groveston’s motives return. “Mom, don’t trust Joe Groveston. He’ll use your condition for his own gain.”

  I wish he’d leave her alone. All he’s doing is riling her up.

  Mother titters and waves away my words. “We’ve slept together, on and off, for years. He’d help bandage us up after Rand worked us over.”

  Her sex life isn’t something I want to hear about, so I turn to her and shake my head in disapproval.

  “Spare me the details,” I grumble, raising my hands to halt her. Raine departing my Ferrari, at the end of Sloane’s driveway, invades my thoughts. As she got out, she didn’t turn around to look at me. She didn’t talk to me. Beg me to stay. Then again, she wouldn’t have to plead for anything. I’d showered her with fifteen hundred dollars at the breakfast bar.

  Once she chose an outfit and came out of my room, I sent her to the kitchen to retrieve the money. I refused to watch her scoop up the bills like a greedy harlot, so I stood in the foyer.

  She was there for no more than ten minutes before she returned. Her smirk irritated the fuck out of me, so I glared at her and guided her to my Ferrari, then drove her to the gate and put her out.

  When I returned to the house and headed to the kitchen, I found the money in a pile on the counter, every dollar accounted for. Remorse hit me hard. I grabbed my keys and hurried back down the driveway, finding her walking on the side of the road. I honked, and stopped. She kept walking, so I honked again, drove my car just beside her, and rolled the window down.

  She glanced over her shoulder and still didn’t stop, forcing me to drive alongside her.

  “Get in,” I’d called.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Do you have a destination in mind?”

  No answer. For a whore, she had an unhealthy dose of pride.

  “At least allow me to drive you downtown.”

  That halted her. For a moment, I thought she’d continue walking, but, after a moment and without a word, she turned and marched back to the car. Once we started off, neither of us had anything to say to the other. Did it cross her mind that I might’ve softened if she’d said sorry for speaking to me as she had?

  “Sloane has to die.”

  At Mother’s words, I snapped back to my present problem.

  “I’ve already found someone,” I tell her, more concerned she’ll take it upon herself to kill him. She already attempted to murder Georgie. If I hadn’t been there, something awful would’ve happened.

  Innocent
little Bryn Stefanie, the baby named after Sloane’s mother and my sister, would’ve been harmed. The new baby Georgie carried never would’ve been born.

  My mother’s name and face would’ve been plastered all over newspapers. She possibly would’ve been killed herself by another one of the bodyguards, if they would’ve gotten there before the cops.

  Yet…yet…Sloane allowed me to use connections to quietly put my mother away. He loves Georgie and his children with everything in him. Still, he understood…I was his brother who needed to protect his mother and…and he allowed me to do it.

  “Don’t,” Mother says in a hard voice.

  I blink. “Don’t what?”

  “Soften toward him,” she says bitterly. “He stole your father from us. He stole your inheritance.”

  “Money isn’t everything,” I tell her. “Family is important, too.”

  She stands, rushes to me, and slaps the shit out of me. My head snaps back and stars dance in front of me.

  “What the hell was that for?” I growl, holding my jaw like a pussy and glaring at my mother.

  Tears fill her eyes. “I’m your family. Me. You’ll let Stefanie’s murderer get away.”

  “Goddamn it, Mother,” I say, moving away from her. Because of her, I’ve made a one hundred eighty-degree turn. I flip-flop more than a see-saw. One minute I believe that my father did, indeed, kill Stefanie, and the next, I’m back to thinking Sloane killed her and my father covered it up. “Dad isn’t the type of man who’ll rot in jail for Sloane,” I argue, taking Raine’s position in the matter.

  Why, I’m not sure. But her words pound through my head. She’s on her own again.

  At least, from what I understand, her worthless fucking brother ran interference. Now, she’ll deal with all types of fucking creeps alone.

  “You must believe Sloane is responsible for everything if, in fact, you have hired a hitman.”

  “I want you happy,” I say. “If Sloane’s death…” My voice trails off and she stiffens. My mother’s a formidable woman.

  “Your allegiance is to me.”

  “It should be to fairness,” I argue. “Sloane wasn’t born when Dad met Bryn.”