But am I ready to give up the glamorous life of a bachelorette to make detective and go deep undercover? Other than leaving Emersyn with my half of the rent, there wouldn’t be any real sacrifices made.
From the driver’s seat, Ryker throws me this dazzling white smile that leads me to believe he knows damn well I’ll give into the idea. “Would it sweeten the deal if I threw in one of Zoe’s chocolate pies?”
“Is that another jab at my weight?”
“Sash, you have to admit you were born for this job,” he says, his tone turning gentle. “You wanted to become a cop because of Trask’s murder, and he’s the reason you’re a force to be reckoned with when behind a set of drums.”
I grumble out a non-verbal reply, turning back to watch the old ‘hood pass.
Before my brother died, he taught me everything he knew about the proper fulcrum of drumsticks…the dynamics and methods…the timing. After me, music was the second most important thing in his life. It showed in the unapologetic way he’d drum. Agony clenches at my chest when I recall him shirtless, scruffy red hair slick with sweat, green eyes wild, joint held in his lips as he hammered out a tune. Though they never did anything beyond jamming for fun until years after Trask was gone, he was arguably the most talented of them all.
After his funeral, I was sent away before a hit could be put out on me too. I wasn’t reunited with Trask’s drum set until years later. Playing became therapeutic, the only way I felt connected with my brother’s memory. Considering I spent half my life watching him sit behind a set of drums with his buddies all hours of the day and night, it made sense.
Because of its emotional ties, drumming’s something I’ve only ever done in private since Trask’s death. Well, as private as having a roommate in an apartment complex of 300 units will allow. Still, I’ve become more passionate about playing than ever before.
Ryker reaches over to squeeze my knee. “This means a lot to me.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” I mutter.
The ugly truth is that more than anything, I’m terrified. Picking up a set of drumsticks in front of an audience could potentially open a Pandora’s Box filled with more nightmares.
2
Sasha
In the week since I went undercover, I’ve pored over enough pictures and video clips of Blood Hands to be able to handpick each of the members from a crowd. But nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment I finally stand face-to-face with them, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood in the presence of the Big Bad Wolves. There’s something about being in their presence that’s highly unnerving.
Well, maybe not all three of them so much as Trent Risotto.
Flutters electrify my chest as I take in all 6’5” of the hulking man. He’s nothing if not feral-looking—the type capable of tearing another human apart with his bare hands. Torn jeans, biker boots, black t-shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest, colorfully inked designs covering both forearms…he’s the kind that would look natural on a motorcycle, or even behind bars. The abandoned brewery once owned by the bassist’s deceased grandfather is far from cramped or small, but Risotto’s presence dominates the open space.
Running through the facts I know about the lead guitarist, I hope humanizing will help to somehow make him less intimidating.
One of two children of a mechanic and factory worker. Graduated in top 15% of his elite high school in Minneapolis before bouncing in and out of jail for various misdemeanors. Later served four years in the Marines before being honorably discharged due to an injury. Moved in with younger sister Cali after returning to the city. Four months later, Cali OD’d on a synthetic drug. Founded Blood Hands three days after her death. Criminal history includes a few misdemeanor thefts, several disorderly conducts and assaults, and a DUI at 19. Trade: construction. No formal education after high school. Shares a three-bedroom on the lower South Side with his bandmates.
But reciting his background doesn’t do a damn thing to lessen the sharp lines of his square jaw, the raised scar near his temple where he was thrown into a vehicle from a landmine while in Afghanistan, or the massive build of his muscular frame that makes him twice as wide as the others. There’s no softening the blow of his strikingly handsome features, no alleviating the unexpected pang between my legs when I take in his dark, unruly hair, just long enough to hold onto. I imagine the mountainous man’s extraordinarily broad lips are capable of unforgettable kisses. Making matters worse, his tongue appears to wet them while he’s studying the skin-tight tank top and short-shorts I wiggled into for the audition.
Oh god, suddenly I’m wet, picturing that tongue on my body. Between my legs.
What the hell’s wrong with me? The kind of men I’m usually attracted to are professionals. Surgeons. Lawyers. Male revue dancers. Someone highly educated who could appreciate the long, hard hours I’ve put in to warrant my recent promotion. Though his record isn't too hard core, I know Risotto’s type all too well. He’s as dangerous as they come, and would do anything to survive.
I can’t afford to blow this assignment all because of a pretty face.
As if Risotto heard my thoughts, his gaze snaps upward to hold mine. The intense baby blue orbs clouded with a cluster of gold and green are a contradiction to the rest of him, beautiful and inviting. Until they harden, and his mouth twists with disgust.
A violent shiver ricochets down my spine.
I twirl the ends of my newly bleached-blond braids with my fingers while snapping my bubble gum, attempting to portray an I-don’t-give-two-shits kind of vibe. It’s better than letting Risotto know he’s gotten under my skin.
He squares up to Declan Patterson, the lead singer of Blood Hands. With chin-length ash blond hair and striking features that are soft in comparison to Risotto’s, Declan perfectly fits the stereotype of an attractive frontman. He’s also the ultimate bad boy, having spent his childhood bouncing between foster homes and delinquency centers, then later serving hard time for grand theft auto and larceny. There’s a quietness about him, and he’s rather aloof. I get the feeling he either doesn’t trust me, or women in general.
“The fuck?” Risotto growls. “This some kind of joke?”
Declan’s honied eyes briefly peek my way. “We’re running out of options—we need to find someone before our next gig at the end of the month.”
Behind them, the band bassist throws me a sexy grin, striking green eyes studying me like I’m his next meal. Vaughn Taylor’s attractive in a dangerous kind of way, tattoos snaking up his neck, spiked hair dyed dark red, hardware stuck through several spots on his face, including a hoop on his pouty lower lip.
From afar, he looks like trouble. From what I’ve gathered, however, he’s a legitimate saint. With a handful of parking tickets and several citations for possession of marijuana, he has the cleanest record of the three bandmates. Cares for an ailing grandmother who went bankrupt after her husband’s sudden heart attack, runs a successful tattoo parlor on the South Side. He’s practically the odd man out with this crew.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, sweetheart,” he tells me.
“My name’s Taya,” I snap. “I’m no one’s sweetheart.”
Vaughn snickers. From the dark scowl on Risotto’s face, I wouldn’t be surprised if he physically tossed me out in the street. Pressing my lips into a tight line, I march past the three men, purposely nudging Risotto with my elbow. No way I’m letting him get in the way of my assignment.
A large, rough hand clamps over my bare elbow, stopping me. I pull my bottom lip into my mouth, silencing a whimper as arousal sweeps through my belly, hardening my nipples. His touch has the effect of a million amps against my tender skin. My mind instantly goes to forbidden places, wondering what that hand would feel like elsewhere.
“Careful,” Risotto grunts into my ear.
Though it’s only one word, it’s laced with a veiled threat. I swear I also hear a lick of desire hidden somewhere in his tone. Is he warning me not to piss him off, or not to get inv
olved with him? Maybe it’s only my imagination, and I’m being unreasonably paranoid. Regardless, he doesn’t scare me. I knew when I took this assignment that I’d be throwing myself into the face of danger. I just wish that face wasn’t so damn irresistible.
Knowing what it’ll do to my already hyper-aware body if I look into his exquisite blues again, I simply tug my arm free and march the rest of the way toward the drums.
With a slow exhale, I channel my brother’s boundless energy as I snag the worn sticks off the bench, expertly balancing them inside my dual grips.
Help me blow them away, Trask.
I begin to play my heart out exactly the way Trask always did—with heart and soul, throwing every molecule of energy into the beat. Without apology.
I’m transported to a different world where nothing can touch me, nothing else exists. It’s just me and the constant beat encompassing my head, escaping through the rhythm of my hands and jostling my heart with every loud thump of the bass.
Until I reach the end of the Zeppelin tune, I forget that I’m playing for an audience. The burst of twinned applause that follows among a long wolf-whistle nearly gives me a heart attack.
Cheeks red-hot, I set the sticks down and take a minute to collect myself by pretending to straighten the straps on my top. Before now, Trask’s friends and Emersyn are the only ones who have heard me play. Who knew I had enough talent to evoke this kind of a response?
“Holy shit, you’re good!” Vaughn shouts, expression lit with respect. “Like really fuckin’ good. That was…holy shit.”
Declan nods enthusiastically, lips quirked in a near-smile. Risotto stands rooted in place beside them, thick arms crossed over his wide chest, scowling my way. A dizzying blend of arousal and fear trickle through my core until it’s impossible to breathe. I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands, livid with myself for not having the strength to resist whatever spell he’s put on me.
Vaughn turns to Risotto, chortling. “Come on, man. Do we even need to discuss whether or not she’s in?”
The way Risotto’s mouth twists into a sneer, I’m worried he’ll chuck his bandmate through a wall. I’ve never met anyone both so sinfully attractive and menacing at the same time. He grunts once before turning away and storming from the room. Once he’s out of sight, my lungs finally start to properly function again.
“Tough crowd,” I say to the other two, letting out a playful snort. “Does this mean I’m out?”
“I’ll talk to him,” Declan volunteers, taking off after Risotto.
Vaughn casually leans against one of the amplifiers, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. “How long you been playing?”
I have to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from spilling the truth—that my big brother taught me not long after I learned how to walk. Revealing too much could lead us down a rabbit hole of truths that would expose my real identity—like the fact that one of the biggest rock bands in existence is my only legitimate family. So I lie.
“Since fifth grade band,” I answer, crossing my arms over my chest. Belatedly, I realize the movement only squeezed my boobs out a little higher from the ridiculously padded bra I bought to play the role of Taya. Dropping my arms at my side, I huff. “Listen, I hope like hell you guys pick me, because I need this creative outlet more than anything right now. But I’m not putting up with any flirting or sexual innuendos. I’d appreciate it if we could keep things strictly professional.”
“…a fuckin’ hot chick just because she has a sweet rack!” Risotto’s voice booms from the next room.
Vaughn’s friendly smile morphs into a devilish smirk. “What if Trent doesn’t let you in? Then could I get your number?”
Anger grips my core. The audition was a slam dunk. There’s no way I’m letting a chauvinistic neanderthal get in the way of nailing my first assignment as detective.
“Excuse me,” I tell Vaughn through a clenched jaw, pressing past.
Storming into the next room, I find Declan and Risotto squared up like they’re ready to throw punches. Intensity rolls off Risotto, his cold glare as brutal as the zap of a stun gun. Damn him for being even more irresistible when he’s upset.
I raise my hands in front of me in a “down boy” gesture. “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing your ridiculous argument. For whatever reason you don’t want a woman in your band, I get it. Men are intimated by any female with real talent. It happens. But if your reason for not wanting to hire me is simply because I have a great set of tits, I have a few things to say about that. For starters, this sweet rack could draw in more male fans. And if you decide to choose me as your drummer, I can guarantee my hot tits won’t be a problem, because I’m into women. I have zero interest in hooking up with any of you.” I meet Risotto’s smoldering stare and cross my arms, smiling innocently. “Does that help with your decision?”
“You’re a lesbian?” Declan chokes out.
The corners of Risotto’s mouth twitch with amusement as he holds my gaze. He knows I’m lying. How does he have the ability to see right through me when we’ve only known each other for a handful of minutes? Did I visibly react when he touched me earlier?
“I like her,” Vaughn declares, stepping into the mix. “She has real lady balls. What do you say, man? Can we keep her?”
Risotto’s teeth flash with a sneer. “No. She’s out.”
* * *
By the time I pull into the designated meeting location an hour later, my throat burns from yelling. I’ve exhausted every obscenity in the dictionary, most of them paired with Risotto’s name. After turning the ignition off, I linger in the diner’s parking lot long enough to compose myself, banging my fist on the dashboard.
I can’t believe I actually found that caveman attractive. He’s nothing more than a sexist pig who can’t think with anything other than his exceptionally large dick. And so what if I was checking out his package? If he didn’t want it out there on display, he should invest in a looser pair of pants. I have needs like every other straight woman, and I haven’t had time to hook up with a man in months.
The worst part about all this isn’t even the fact that I wasn’t able to infiltrate Blood Hands on my first assignment as detective. Sgt. Kendall will simply have to find another way in. It’s the fact that I’m more disappointed for being turned down after rocking the hell out of those drums. It was my first audition, and most likely my last.
Screw Trent Risotto and his sexy eyes…his gorgeous body.
My personal phone buzzes with an incoming text from my roommate.
My partner’s a total asshat. I’d prefer the lesbian jokes over his corny come-ons. Call when you can so we can catch up. In the meantime, keep your chin up and don’t let anyone mess with you.
Typical Emersyn, somehow always knowing exactly when I need a boost of confidence even though I’ve kept her in the dark on my new assignment. She wouldn’t put up with Risotto’s shit, and she’d kick my ass for letting him get under my skin. Pulling on my leather jacket’s lapels, I channel her confidence and start for the diner.
As the location’s well off the beaten path and it’s creeping up on midnight, the place is as empty as I’d hoped when I suggested it to the sergeant. Inside, I’m met with the aroma of fried food and the eye-sore of its tacky decor. Burnt orange stools and benches clash with red-checkered table cloths and neon blue lamps.
The waitress I’ve befriended the past couple of nights when I couldn’t sleep throws me her usual bright smile, one hand on a cocked hip. Monica’s adorably sweet and always filled with energy, which is a mystery considering she’s a kindergarten teacher by day. With a slender figure and lustrous caramel hair twisted in a sloppy bun, she rocks the diner’s black uniform as if it were couture.
“Hey, Taya!” she sings, russet eyes scanning my costume. “Did you try that herbal tea I told you about?”
Wrapping my jacket tightly around my chest, I decide she probably assumes I’ve been hooking. “This time I’m here
to meet with a friend.”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift high. “Oh…the intense blonde with pretty eyes?”
I glance over my shoulder, finding Sergeant Kendall tucked in a corner booth on the far end, her back to us. “That’d be the one.”
“Good luck with that.” She pats my arm, giggling. “I’ll come to your rescue in a minute with a strong cup of coffee.”
“Thanks, Mon.”
When my combat boots click with the consistency of a pendulum against the faded linoleum, the sergeant’s spine straightens. Cracked vinyl creaks beneath my thighs as I settle in the booth across from her with my heart in my throat, praying I won’t be fired on the spot.
Fierce features drawing tight beneath a black baseball cap, Sergeant winces like she’s in pain. Considering we were only to meet in case of an emergency, she’s already onto the fact that I’ve failed.
From what Ryker told me, Harlow Kendall made sergeant at the ripe age of thirty, shortly after giving birth to her second child. Even though she’s as unyielding as stone and I have yet to see her without bags under her eyes from late-night feedings, she’s a total knockout. The woman scares the holy hell out of me—especially the way she’s looking at me now, like I’m the direct offspring of Satan himself.
“I didn’t get in,” I blurt.
“How could you screw things up already, Green?” she growls under her breath, crystal-blue eyes narrowed on me. “Blackwood told me you were a sure thing. Did I make a mistake in trusting him?”
“I nailed the audition,” I swear with a stubborn shake of my head. “Patterson and Taylor went nuts over my performance. Risotto,” his name rolls off my lips like poison, “had a problem with the fact that I’m a woman.”
She honest-to-god snarls, kicking my pulse up a notch. “Do you comprehend the importance of this case? The captain’s up my ass about this vigilante bullshit—he’s convinced every lead they have points to this band. If we don’t uncover this fiasco, I could lose my goddamned job, and that means I wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage on my dream home any longer. Do you want me and my family sleeping in your living room, Green?”
Undercover Rockstar: A Bad Girls novel Page 2
