The Griffin's Secret

by Cate Masters

  She studied him a moment. “What are you running from?”

  A brief chuckle. “Myself, if I could.”

  Her lips puckered for one blissful moment. “No problem with the law? Drugs? Alcohol?”

  He shook his head to each. Other demons plagued him, and he couldn’t afford any more than the ones he already had.

  Her hair fell forward as she leaned on an elbow. “You’re a regular saint, aren’t you.” Again, not a question.

  “No, but there’s hope for us all, isn’t there?” He faked an altar-boy grin.

  “Don’t believe it.” She huffed and tossed her head like she was shaking off some parasite. “And whatever you do,” she whispered, “don’t let him find out you play.” A haunted look filled her face before she turned away.

  Whoa. What’s wrong? Protectiveness surged up from some long-forgotten place inside him, and he was halfway out of his chair, reaching for her, when Malcolm Fetterman strode in.

  His stellar presence filled the room with palpable—and unpleasant—force. His dark, shoulder-length hair and black leather coat to his knees swirled around him in synchronicity when he halted. His mocking grin stayed steady as he glanced between Jackson and the girl with something like malevolence, every bit of which seemed to concentrate in the sizzling tattoo on Jackson’s back.

  Jackson shifted to ease the sensation of a hot iron searing him.

  “What’s going on here?” The sharp gleam in his eye said Mal, bad boy of rock, hoped for some sort of problem. Every member of the Malcontents, the greatest rock band in history, had earned their band name, their badges of dishonor posted in the headlines every week.

  Jackson straightened and extended his hand. He withdrew it when Mal turned to her.

  Don’t touch the star. Got it. He’d have chuckled if he weren’t in such pain.

  The essence of calm, she rose. “Just talking to the new roadie.”

  One finger beneath her chin, Mal tipped her head up. “I haven’t hired him.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.” Life drained from her eyes but defiance edged her soft voice.

  Ah, hell. Could he never stop attracting trouble? The last thing he wanted was to be their monkey in the middle. He grabbed his jacket again. “Say the word and I’m out of here.”

  Mal waved his fingers at her. “Run along, love.”

  She did, without a smile or any show of affection. A spat? Or were they always like this?

  Mal slowly swung his head toward Jackson and scrutinized him head to toe with the same cold grin.

  Jackson grew painfully aware of his worn boots, faded jeans, and T-shirt. He’d shaved, but as usual, stubble already roughed his jawline. How long had it been since his last haircut? He stopped himself from shoving the stray locks behind his ear.

  “Kev thinks you’d make a good roadie.”

  “No, not good.” He straightened to his full height, the muscles in his wide chest flexing. “Great.”

  Mal arched his brows. “We hire new roadies all the time. For some reason, we have a terrible time keeping them.” A shrug, and his grin widened.

  So Jackson had heard. Best not to touch that subject. “I’m no quitter.” Mostly because he never invested himself in anything.

  Mal’s smile turned sickly sweet. “A familiar story. Yet somehow you don’t sound committed. Convince me you’re ready to put a thousand percent into working for me.”

  “I am. My energy and time.” Almost all of it.

  Huffing an exasperated breath, the star winced. “I’m not feeling the love. The utter devotion. Can’t you do better than that?”

  “Like what?”

  A nasty gleam in his eye, Mal leaned close. “Your soul.”

  Jackson held back a laugh, but Mal appeared deadly serious. Stuck on yourself much? No wonder the girl showed no enthusiasm for the star. “Sure.” As noncommittal a commitment as he could manage.

  “Say the words.” Eyes flaring wide, Mal practically hissed.

  The air thickened, grew hot. A foul stench hung between them. Mal had an expression crazier than Jack Nicholson’s “here’s Johnny” maniac. He cocked his brow. “Well?”

  What the hell? Did Malcolm think his rock-god status made him an actual deity? One worthy of fanatic worship, who demanded total dedication? “Yes, I’m willing to give my soul to the job.” But not to you, asshole. And if you try collecting on it, I’ll make you sing the saddest tune ever heard.

  Throwing back his head, Mal laughed. “Why do I not believe you?”

  Jackson refused to reveal any reaction, so remained expressionless. “Only one way for me to prove it. Make me your roadie.”

  Mal pursed his lips. “On one condition.”

  He almost said, name it, but instead changed his response to, “Which is?” He wasn’t about to sell himself out that easily, or make any more promises. Especially ones he might not want to keep.

  Mal’s smile shifted again, a genuine one, almost as if he recognized Jackson’s internal struggle. “You cannot have any interest in playing guitar.”

  Weird. The girl hadn’t specified any instrument. “None.” No more than his interest in eating, sleeping, and breathing. And for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, Mal’s guitar especially appealed to him. The instrument stood out during concerts more than Mal, white surface glowing, though it had to be a reflection of the stage spotlights.

  Mal mock pouted. “Are you certain?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Yes.” The effort it took to speak the lie turned his voice gritty. Chafed his gut. Twice in one day, a record for him.

  Studying him, Mal blinked delicately. “No one touches my guitar but me. Understood?”

  Jackson nodded. “Got it.” One less piece of equipment to haul.

  Tapping his chin, Mal’s gaze pierced him. “In your case, one additional condition.”

  Christ, get on with it. “Yes?”

  “Stay away from Layla.” Spoken like a threat. No “or else” needed.

  The girl. “She’s not part of the band. Not a roadie, is she?” Oh, shit. Then she’d ride in the bus with them. Trying to stay away from her would drive him insane.

  “Layla…” Mal trembled, as if caught in some internal struggle. A fluttered blink, and he snapped, “Is mine.”

  Now who was lying? She hadn’t given the impression anyone owned her, and the guy wasn’t exactly sentimental about her.

  Jackson had hoped she worked in the office, wouldn’t be traveling with them. Everything about her enticed him. The very reason he had to stay away from her, and why he could say with no hesitation, “No problem.”

  Uncertainty flashed in Mal’s eyes, and his joker’s grin wavered for the first time.

  I blew it. Mal had seen through him. Now all that remained was getting tossed to the curb. A few awkward seconds passed. Jackson hardly breathed.

  “I assume,” Mal said, “you’re ready to hit the road tonight.”

  “Yes.” Surprised, Jackson nearly flubbed the simple word.

  “Kev will fill you in on the details.” Another theatrical swirl, and Mal strode out.

  I’m in. Being a yes-man came in handy sometimes. He wanted to whoop. Wanted to tease Layla about nailing the interview. No. Such thoughts posed a danger, way worse than losing his heart to someone already taken. From then on, he’d stay as far from Layla as possible.

  For both their sakes.

  * * * *

  The book jostled in Layla’s hand with every bump in the road, but she didn’t care. None of the words registered anyway. Too many thoughts crowded her mind to read. She held the paperback to appear preoccupied for some other reason besides Jackson Grant.

  A thrill shot through her just thinking his name. Jackson Grant. Right now, he rode in the second bus carrying the band equipment. Did his presence mean something? Especially since he had arrived at the moment she thought she couldn’t take anymore.

  Of course not, don’t be a fo
ol. He’s a roadie. One who had shown absolutely no interest in her, hadn’t cared that she’d risked her neck to talk to him, to see him for herself. He hadn’t ogled her the way the other roadies did. Behind Mal’s back, of course. But something else about Jackson differed from the rest of the crew. A purity of spirit, a strength and fierceness. A certainty of purpose. Every trait the so-called prophecy foretold.

  It was only a stupid urban legend. A fairy tale. No happy ending lay in store for her. Her own mother had made certain of it, binding Layla to Mal to free herself from the guitar. Might as well have sold her into slavery. If her mother hadn’t been drained to near death by propelling another band to superstardom, Layla would have hated dear old mom for the unwanted inheritance. Now, here she was, stuck with Mal.

  Ignoring the pang of disappointment, she drew strength from deep within. Not for much longer. One way or the other, she’d—

  The briefest waft of evil breathed behind her. Mal. She steeled herself.

  “It must be a particularly compelling chapter,” he said close to her ear.

  She kept her voice light. “No more than the others.”

  “Then why haven’t you turned a page in miles?”

  She shut the book. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” As she rose, he grasped her wrist. Not tight enough to hurt, but squeezing enough so she couldn’t break free. He was always sending her little messages like that, unspoken and unmistakable in their meaning. Like she needed any reminders.

  His smile turned sickeningly sweet. “Let me know if you get lonely.”

  She kept her gaze on his, kept her emotions in check. “I never do.”

  “One day you will.” His answer came out almost as a hiss.

  Never so much she’d settle for him. Plenty of other women wanted Mal, screaming his name during concerts, and afterward in his dressing room. He flaunted them in front of her, even invited her to join in. She could never give herself to anyone so cold. Not one shred of feeling in his touch or his eyes. Not for anyone but himself.

  Someone approached but stopped a few lengths away. Enough of the staring match. She jerked her arm free and brushed past him into the aisle, resisting the urge to run.

  “Sweet dreams, pet,” Mal said.

  The word hit her in the gut, and like an invisible leash, pulled her to a halt. A truer name than “love,” at least, and she especially hated when he used that one. Other than greed, he had no capacity for any true emotion, and despite her powers—or because of them—she could never trust anyone with her heart.

  “Good night.” She continued to the back and climbed into the top bunk. Her on-the-road refuge.

  Curling into her pillow, she didn’t try to close her eyes. Sleep would be a long time coming tonight. Too many mysteries to unravel. I will unlock your secret, Jackson Grant.

  Music filled her head. A sweet song. In her mind, she sang the lyrics. Imagined cradling the white guitar and conjuring searing notes from the strings, soulful chords that floated out over the people cheering her on, clapping for her. Nowhere in this vision did Mal have a place.

  Too real to be a dream. No, had to be a premonition of what was to come. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t refuse to acknowledge hope rising. Instead, she let herself drift on the vision, and it carried her to sleep.

  * * * *

  Sound check went smooth, and an unfamiliar lightness bounced around Jackson’s insides. Excitement? Nah, he hadn’t cared about much of anything in too long, though he’d admit, the scene was pretty freaking cool.

  When the opening band played, the sensation filled him again. Lifted him out of himself. Working as part of a team, yeah, it felt good. But most of all, being in the stadium, setting up for a concert. The buzz in the air was downright contagious. The energy of the audience, more bodies than were probably legal for the venue, gave him a high. They’d come for the music. For Mal’s band.

  Someday, they’d come for Jackson. Ha, if I ever get good enough. Practice time would be nonexistent because of this job. Maybe he could sneak away sometime, find a hole-in-the-wall bar with open-mic night…

  Kev clasped his shoulder. “Nice work today.”

  “Thanks. For everything.” Jackson suspected Kev had given the real thumbs-up, not Mal.

  Good humor turned into a wince. “You might run short on gratitude after a while.”

  Another veiled warning? “I needed the job. I didn’t have to accept the offer.”

  A laugh, and Kev jerked his head toward the dingy white gazebo tent set up in front of the bus. “There’s a food spread inside. Better grab a bite before the others empty every platter.”

  “Guess I did work up an appetite.”

  “Take the perks where you can get them, kid.”

  Great advice. Jackson doubted they offered many other perks. Kev was the perfect example, serving as both head roadie and sound-mix engineer, normally a prestigious position. Either Mal was too cheap to pay two people or didn’t want anyone else to think they were more important than the rock star.

  A nod, and Jackson strode behind the stage, out the back, and through the corridor leading to the bus.

  Girls reached through the wire fence. “Hey, let me in,” one said. “Where’s Mal?” asked another.

  Jackson kept walking. “He’ll be on stage soon. Better find your seat or you’ll miss the show.”

  “We’ll give you a show.” A pretty blonde lifted her tank top and pressed her bare breasts against the fence.

  A groan escaped as his dick jumped to attention. Such a shame to waste luscious girls on a vile, unappreciative asshole like Mal.

  “We’ll do anything you want,” another blonde promised. “If you bring us to Mal’s dressing room.”

  Save yourself for someone worthwhile, he wanted to tell them. He slipped through the vinyl flap that served as a door and let it fall behind him.

  “The newbie survived the tit gauntlet.” Rad gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Did you give ’em a squeeze?” The roadie’s screwball eyes twisted in different directions.

  Something Jackson would have to get used to. “Nah.” Damn if he’d help those girls lower themselves. For what? A few hours with the rock god? Screw Mal.

  Cheeks flaming, Grumbles ducked his head and mumbled something inaudible.

  Jackson bent toward the short, stocky man. “What?”

  With a guffaw, Orville winked. “Mal doesn’t mind if we test a few.”

  Jackson would have no trouble remembering the roadie with that redneck twang. Jackson’s laugh faded at the sight of Layla, standing at the far end of the table. Somber, but he couldn’t blame her, stuck in the company of these goons. He grabbed a sandwich and bottle of water, then claimed an empty folding chair in the corner. When Layla wended her way over, he forced himself to keep eating. Her stare weighed on him, made him self-conscious about every movement.

  “So did you?” A little snark slipped through.

  Keeping his focus on his paper plate, he shoved the pasta salad around with the plastic fork. “Did I what?”

  “Test a few.” All snark now.

  Head down, he shook it. “Not why I’m here.”

  “Then why are you?” She sat on the chair beside his.

  Christ. “I’m hungry.”

  “Why are you a roadie with Malcontent, Jackson Grant?” The way she said his full name, she might have been invoking a curse.

  Like he needed another one. “Working for the greatest band in the world is a dream come true.” He could do snark as well as her. He looked up at her, finally. Big mistake. The pain in her eyes reached the cold depths of his heart and nearly yanked him to his feet to hold her. Tell her everything would be all right. Instead, he shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. He’d told enough lies.

  She looked away. “More like a nightmare,” she whispered.

  The swallow went down hard. “Excuse me.” He began to rise.

  “Wait.�
� She touched his arm, but withdrew her hand fast.

  A shock hit him. Had she zapped him on purpose? Worked some sort of spell? It would explain a lot. Like why she looked more beautiful today than yesterday. Why he wanted nothing more than to taste her full peach lips.

  “Wait for what?” He shouldn’t even ask. Should get away from her and fast. But his body wouldn’t move.

  “I’m sorry for acting so rude. Please don’t go.”

  Ah, hell. He’d hoped to escape the crossfire by sitting in a quiet corner, but instead had made himself an easy target. Her soft words had ignited inside him like a flame to a trail of gunpowder.

  “I have to get back to work.” Before the tension between them exploded into a hell of a mess.

  “He told you to stay away from me, didn’t he?” Her voice trembled.

  He couldn’t bear those sad eyes, and hated to say, “Doesn’t matter.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why not?”

  No way to talk his way out of this one. He grimaced and shook his head, mostly because his head was pushing him to bolt. Now. His heart argued he should take her hand, tell her everything would be all right. The danger was, he might start believing it, too.

  Lucky people had rainbows and puppies, not him. He rose, aiming for the exit.

  “Oh.” So quiet, she might have said it to herself.

  How could such a tiny word tear at him so badly? Any thought of turning back to her vanished when Stubby sent a hard, assessing glance between him and Layla, tossed his paper plate into the trash, and then puffed across the room. “Move out, people.”

  A couple of roadies shuffled to the entrance flap, and Jackson shoved it aside, held it open for them. A backward glance rooted him there. Layla’s sad gaze hit him like an avalanche. The other guys might let his conversation with her slip to Mal, and then he’d be out of luck. Worse, Mal might make Layla even sorrier. He couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

  Stubby waddled toward her. “Almost time for Mal to go on. You’re needed out there.”

  The sight was absurd, a short clown ordering a princess around. Jackson held his tongue. Without so much as a glance his way, she glided past him, Stubby close behind. Jackson followed them outside.