Stretching her arms above her head, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. The Soundcheck breakfast interview was in two hours, so she figured she’d better shower and get dressed before marching down the hall to make sure the boys were up and about. She’d learned from experience that it wasn’t enough to give them a wakeup call, because whoever answered the phone usually just rolled over and went right back to sleep.
She put away her notebook and picked up her phone to call Gage. She always started with him and worked her way from there.
After three rings, he answered gruffly, “’lo?”
“Yo. Get your ass in gear.”
He grunted something unintelligible.
“What?” she said threateningly. “Don’t make me come down there.”
A gritty chuckle filled her ear. “Yes, Mommy.”
Grinning, she hung up and made the same call to Ryu and Zander. She didn’t call Traeger because she was still pissed at him.
Twenty minutes later, she was showered and dressed in black skinny jeans and a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops. Her hot pink shirt was loose and strategically ripped, falling off one shoulder.
She was plucking at her hair when a loud knock sounded on the door. “Scarlett?” a gravelly voice called out. “You awake?”
She frowned.
“Scarlett.” Traeger sounded muffled this time, like his mouth was pressed up against the door. “C’mon, Scar. I know you’re up. Open the door.”
Scowling, she strode across the room and yanked the door open.
Traeger stumbled back a step, one arm tucked behind his back. “Uh…hey.”
Scarlett leaned in the doorway and slowly looked him over. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His hair was sticking up in all directions and his eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He reeked of cheap booze, stale cigarettes, sweat and sex.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You look like shit.”
“I know.”
She sniffed at him. “Smell like it, too.”
He sighed. “Can we talk?”
“No,” she said flatly.
He winced. “C’mon, Scarlett—”
“We have an interview in less than two hours, and you have the nerve to come crawling up in here looking like—”
He brought his arm from behind his back and held out an orange-and-white striped box. Printed on top were the words Junior’s Most Fabulous Cheesecake.
Dammit! He knew how much she loved Junior’s world-famous cheesecake! He must have stopped by the Brooklyn restaurant on his way back from wherever the hell he’d spent the night.
“It’s a peace offering,” he said meekly.
She glared at him. “You always play so fuckin’ dirty.”
He grinned. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just—”
She snatched the box out of his hand. When he burst out laughing, she scowled. “Asshole.”
He sobered at once. “You’re right. I am an asshole. Only an asshole would pull the crap I did yesterday. I’m sorry, Scarlett. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
She looked at him for a long time, her anger thawing slightly. She knew him well enough to know when he was being sincere versus saying the right things just to get off her shit list.
After deciding he looked contrite enough to pass muster, she opened the box and then whimpered when she saw the delectable strawberry cheesecake nestled inside.
Traeger grinned. “Go on and have a piece. You know you want to.”
She was sorely tempted, but she didn’t trust herself not to inhale the whole cake before breakfast. “I’ll just stick it in the fridge and have some later.”
“Such willpower.” Traeger followed her into the room, propping a shoulder against the wall near the bed while she put the cheesecake in the minifridge. The box was small enough to fit inside with some maneuvering.
As she closed the door and straightened, she noticed Traeger staring at something on the floor. She followed the direction of his gaze and almost died of embarrassment when she saw her bullet vibrator peeking out from under the bed. She’d forgotten to put it away last night, so it must have rolled off the bed at some point.
Traeger gave her a wickedly amused grin. “Looks like someone had a good time last night.”
Heat crawled up her neck and spread across her cheeks. “So what?” she retorted. “You think you’re the only one who has needs?”
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Why didn’t you just say so? You know I’d be more than happy to—”
“Ew. Fuck off.”
He laughed as she walked over and haughtily picked up the vibrator. She tossed it into the top drawer of the nightstand, making a mental note to throw it away later. No way was she touching her vag with a vibrator that had spent the night on a dirty hotel room floor.
After grabbing her keycard, she turned around to see Traeger reaching for the small card she’d tucked back inside the bouquet of gardenias. She hurried over and slapped his hand away, making him laugh.
“Why are you being so secretive? We all know your parents didn’t send the flowers. So who did?”
“None of your business,” Scarlett retorted, shoving him toward the door.
“I still wanted to talk to you,” he protested.
“We can talk in the hallway. Your funk is overpowering the wonderful aroma of my flowers.”
He grinned over his shoulder. “That sounds like a dirty metaphor.”
She snorted. “You wish.”
He laughed as she shoved him unceremoniously into the hallway and shut the door behind them. They sat on the floor together and leaned back against the wall with their legs stretched out in front of them.
“I’m guessing you spent the night with those blondes from the pizzeria,” Scarlett said, slanting Traeger a wry look. “Were they at least legal?”
“I assume so,” he said with a careless shrug. “They’re in college.”
Scarlett shook her head in amused disgust.
“Hey, don’t judge me. We all have our preferences. You’ve got your battery-operated toys while I prefer the real thing. ’Cause there’s no substitute for a hot, tight pussy.” He grinned. “You should know—you have one. Can’t say how hot or tight it is. You’ve denied me the privilege—”
“Stop talking. Just stop.”
He chuckled, wagging his head. “For such a hardcore feminist, Scar, you’ve got some prudish ideas about sex.”
“How so?” she huffed.
“We’re all rock stars with groupies at our disposal. Yet you’re the only one who never hooks up with anybody. Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get laid as often as we do.”
“So I’m a prude just because I don’t spread my legs for every halfway attractive dude who hits on me?” Scarlett snorted, shaking her head. It wasn’t lost on her that she could have gotten laid yesterday morning if Traeger hadn’t called and interrupted. Damn cockblocker.
“Just for the record,” she added, “everyone knows that female musicians don’t get hit on half as much as male musicians. Girls get practically zero action compared to guys. You boys can’t take two steps without getting propositioned. It’s not the same for us and you know it. That being said, you act as if I’ve never hooked up with any guys on the road. There’ve been a few.”
“Hmm. Let’s see,” Traeger ruminated, rubbing his scruffy chin. “There was that superfan you met after the show in Providence two years ago.”
“Oh yeah,” Scarlett fondly recalled. “He was so adorable. He looked like Zayn Malik and knew all the words to our songs. Plus he spoke Mandarin and loved comic books. How could I resist?”
Traeger grinned. “Does he still send you creepy love letters?”
“No.” She made a face. “He stopped after I told him he was kinda freaking me out. Now he just stalks me on Instagram. Oh shit.”
“What?”
“I just remembered we’re performing in Prov
idence on Friday. I hope he won’t be at the show.”
“Don’t count on it. We’ll have to ask for extra security.” Traeger gave her a sidelong grin. “Getting back to your conquests—”
“Do we have to?”
“—there was also that black guy from Indianapolis. The one who looked like a cross between Lenny Kravitz and Bruno Mars.”
“More Lenny than Bruno.” Scarlett sighed. “God, he’s sexy.”
“Lenny Kravitz is old enough to be your dad.”
“Who cares? That kind of sexy doesn’t age.”
Traeger chuckled. “Anyway, those are the only two hookups I can remember. Like I said, you’re kind of a prude.”
“Whatever,” she retorted. “Being selective doesn’t make me a prude. It makes me smart—and less likely to catch an STD.”
“Ooh, burn.”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
They both laughed.
Sobering after several moments, Traeger leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. His shaggy brown hair fell into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.
Scarlett waited for him to speak.
Finally he did, his voice low and tight. “I had a fight with my dad before we came here.”
Scarlett nodded slowly. “I heard.”
He clenched his jaw. “He called me a loser. Said I wasn’t doing anything with my life and I’d never amount to a pile of dog shit.”
Scarlett felt a flash of anger. “I’m sorry, Traeg. Your dad’s a fucking asshole. I hope you know how wrong he is about you.”
Traeger stared morosely at his heavy black boots. “Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe about it,” Scarlett said furiously. “He’s dead wrong. You’re one of the most talented guitarists I know. You’re not a loser. He is!”
“His bank account suggests otherwise,” Traeger said with wry bitterness.
“So the hell what? Money isn’t everything!”
“Isn’t it?”
“No! Being a good father is more important, and he failed spectacularly at that!”
Traeger gave her a sad little smile, which only made her madder.
“Traeg—”
“It’s not just my old man.” He pulled one leg up and rested his arm on his knee. “Even before our big fight, I’d been feeling pretty down on myself. It doesn’t help that some chick I banged a few weeks ago just told me she’s pregnant.”
“Oh God, not again,” Scarlett groaned. “Seriously, Traeger? Seriously?”
He grimaced. “She was just a one-night stand. Some rando I never expected to see again. And for the record, I think she’s lying.”
“But what if she’s not?” Scarlett challenged. “Remember Brittney back in college? She wasn’t lying about being pregnant. You just dodged a bullet because she went behind your back and had an abortion.” Scarlett cringed at her own words. “God, did I just say that? I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Traeger mumbled. “You’re right. I was relieved when Brittney got an abortion, and I did feel like I’d dodged a bullet. I wasn’t ready to have a kid back then, and I’m sure as hell not ready now.”
Scarlett frowned. “So what’re you gonna do if this chick is really pregnant and wants to keep the baby?”
The color leached out of Traeger’s face. “I guess I’ll have to figure out a way to help support her and the kid.” He looked like he was going to puke. The thought of becoming a father scared him shitless. Who could blame him with a dad like his?
“If you don’t want a bunch of little Traegers running around,” Scarlett advised, pointing to his crotch, “I suggest you start wrapping that shit up.”
“I do wrap it up.” At her dubious look, he amended, “For the most part.” Then he added defensively, “What can I say? Accidents happen.”
Scarlett shook her head and sighed. She knew she shouldn’t be too judgy. She was so hot and horny for Viggo yesterday morning, she probably would have let him hit it raw—something she wasn’t particularly proud of.
Traeger raked both hands through his hair and blew out a weary breath. “So, yeah, I’ve been feeling like a pretty big failure lately. Like nothing I do is ever good enough.” His lips turned down sullenly. “Not gonna lie. It burns me up to see other bands blowing up before us.” He paused. “Myles—”
Scarlett held up a hand to stop him.
“Sorry,” he muttered ruefully. “I know bringing up that name is verboten, and rightfully so. But he’s managing other bands like Darth Patriot, and look how successful they are with only half the talent we have.”
Scarlett gave him a wry look. “Dude, you are so biased. You think we’re better than everybody and their mama.”
“No. Just you, Scarlett,” Traeger said solemnly. “You’re better than everybody. You’re the heart and soul of our band. As long as we have you, I know we’re gonna take the world by storm.”
“Aww.” Scarlett leaned over and kissed his forehead, then playfully ruffled his hair.
He gave her a boyish smile. “Wanna see something?”
Her expression turned wary. “Every time you ask me that, you end up showing me something super gross or pervy.”
He laughed. “Nah. Not this time.” He fumbled his phone out of his back pocket. “It’s gonna blow your fucking mind.”
Scarlett was reluctantly intrigued. “What is it?”
“The Soundcheck review of last night’s show. It’s kinda long and mostly about Black Kross, so I’ll just read the best part—the part about us.” Traeger pulled up the review on his phone and started reading aloud. “‘For band managers, there’s always the danger of booking an opening act that can outshine your headliner. Nowhere was this more evident than at the Knitting Factory last night.’”
Traeger paused to shoot Scarlett a smug I told you so look.
She rolled her eyes and motioned for him to continue.
“‘Off The Grid kicked off the night with a heart-pounding rock jam that jolted the crowd into a sweaty and screaming frenzy. Lead singer and drummer, Scarlett Warner, is a revelation. Singing while drumming is challenging enough. Singing in perfect pitch? Fuggedaboutit! Warner’s ability to pound out complicated drum patterns while flexing those golden pipes is a miracle of coordination. She’s an electrifying performer who evokes memories of Sheila E., who undoubtedly inspired her. But the gifted young percussionist and singer has a style all her own—a captivating badassery we won’t soon forget. Off The Grid may have been the opening act, but there was nothing second fiddle about their performance. Don’t take your eyes off this band. They’re kicking ass and taking names.’”
Traeger finished reading and grinned triumphantly at Scarlett. “What do you have to say about that?”
She was grinning from ear to ear. “Niiice.”
“Fuck yeah!” Traeger hollered.
She laughed. “Shh! You’re gonna wake people up!”
Traeger grinned, tucking his phone away. “You should get a tat that says ‘Captivating Badassery.’ How fucking cool would that be?”
“Very cool.” Scarlett smiled wryly. “Unless I ended up with a tattoo artist who was a crappy speller.”
Traeger laughed. “Uh, yeah, that wouldn’t be good.”
“No shit.”
Grinning, he put his head on her shoulder and sighed. “Scar?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think we’ll ever be famous?”
“I do.” Scarlett smiled and crooned softly, “One step at a time—”
“Are you really singing that corny ass song to me right now?”
“Shut your mouth! Jordin Sparks is not corny!”
Traeger snorted. “In what universe?”
“Mine, motherfucker, and you’re living in it. Now get your funky ass up and go take a damn shower before you make us late to the interview.”
Traeger lifted his head from her shoulder to smirk at her. When he made no move to get up, she grabbed him by the ea
r and dragged him to his feet, ignoring his howls of protest and laughter.
“Go on. Get.” She shoved him in the direction of the room he was sharing with the others. “Make the water as hot as you can take it, and scrub your ass good!”
He laughed, half turning to salute her before he staggered off down the hallway.
* * *
After wednesday night’s show in Queens, Black Kross invited Scarlett and her bandmates to an afterparty at the hotel.
When they arrived at the VIP suite, it was packed and the music was loud. People were chatting in groups or roaming around with drinks in their hands. The band members were lounging on sofas, drinking and smoking with their roadies and dozens of scantily clad groupies.
Traeger, Gage, Ryu and Zander grabbed a drink and made themselves comfortable. Several groupies immediately glommed onto them, cooing and running their fingers through the boys’ hair.
Scarlett spent a few minutes making small talk with some enthusiastic male fans who couldn’t keep their eyes off her chest. When she’d had enough, she snuck off to find a television so she could catch highlights from the Rebels’ game. She knew they’d shut out St. Louis 5-0 and Viggo had scored a hat trick. She was dying for a play-by-play breakdown.
NHL Tonight was just starting when she found a small TV room and made herself comfortable on the sofa.
“There you are.”
Scarlett glanced up to see her band manager, Cara Pedrotti, standing in the doorway.
“Hey, Cara,” she said with a sheepish grin. “You found me.”
“So I did.” A brassy brunette with pale green eyes, Cara was wearing a black Chanel pantsuit that flattered her willowy figure. She looked like a New York socialite but was actually the product of a hardscrabble childhood in South Jersey. The daughter of working-class Italian parents, she’d put herself through college and parlayed her love of rock music into managing bands. So far her roster included Off The Grid and two other lesser-known bands. At twenty-six, she was one of the youngest managers in the business. But she knew her stuff and thrived on being underestimated.
The Swede Page 16
