Table of Contents
Lara Ward Cosio
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
PART THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FINDING RHYTHM
Lara Ward Cosio
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Copyright © 2017 Lara Ward Cosio
All rights reserved.
ASIN: B075NTVSCB
For Kathy Aronoff because she believed Martin
had a story to tell before I did and for that - along with
her amazing support - I am forever grateful.
~
If you enjoyed this novel, please share your thoughts
in a review on Amazon or Goodreads
To learn more about the Rogue Series, visit:
LaraWardCosio.com
You can also subscribe to a mailing list to
hear about the next installment
in the Rogue Series here:
Sign Me Up
~
Also by Lara Ward Cosio:
Tangled Up In You: A Rogue Series Novel
Playing At Love: A Rogue Series Novel
Hitting That Sweet Spot: A Rogue Series Novel
rogue
pronunciation: /rōɡ/
noun
1. A dishonest or unprincipled man.
1.2 A person whose behavior one disapproves of but one who is nonetheless likable or attractive
(often used as a playful term of reproof)
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
The stark white sails of the former America’s Cup racing yacht snapped like a clap of thunder as it came about on the San Francisco Bay. The 115-foot mast dipped sharply and Shay Donnelly’s stomach dropped with it, even as he was thrust upward in concert with the high side of the eighty-four-foot vessel. His adrenaline-fueled heart pounded as he gripped the chrome railing behind him. Soon the boat had righted itself and was cutting through the sea under the iconic Golden Gate Bridge at the fast clip of almost fourteen knots.
The water was rougher here than inside the Bay, and an invigorating cold mist splashed up as the boat rose and fell in sync with each crest and descent. The winds produced whitecaps, along with gusts of salty air Shay savored. He hadn’t had a cigarette in a month and inhaled the clean, fresh air in a new way because of it. Movement in the water along the stern caught his eye. A trio of dolphins skimmed in the yacht’s wake and Shay couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the outing.
That thrill stayed with him, even after walking almost two miles home from Pier 39 to the Marina District, a wealthy neighborhood on San Francisco’s northern shoreline. He replayed the breathtaking events of the sail in his mind as he went, feeling both the subtle and drastic movements of the boat all over again. The yacht was exquisite and under masterful control by its crew of four experienced racers who freely shared their knowledge. It was a rare position to be in, taught by these experts, and Shay was grateful to have come across it.
Driving expensive sports cars usually fulfilled Shay’s desire for an adrenaline-rush. Getting out alone on the open road had been easy when he lived in his native Ireland, but his new hometown presented more of a challenge. Itching for a comparable thrill, he’d wandered down to tourist-laden Pier 39 and taken a group sailing lesson. He was immediately hooked. Lingering after what felt like a too-short venture, he peppered the crew with questions about the intricacies of how they handled the boat, and the captain offered to take him out again on his own. The private outing was an even richer experience, as he was put to work with more than hoisting the sails, the task frequently bestowed upon tourists to give them the illusion that they’d had a hand in crewing the boat. It wasn’t just Shay’s keen interest in sailing that earned him the generous lesson, of course, but the fact that the captain recognized him as the drummer for one of the biggest bands in the world, Rogue. His fame, especially now as a local resident of San Francisco, offered many such perks.
One of the advantages he enjoyed in this city, especially now that he was living there full-time with Rogue’s world tour having recently concluded, was a sense of anonymity. Or rather, the people of San Francisco—an intriguing, racially mixed population of hipsters, techies, venture capitalists, artists, and old-fashioned hippies—were too cool to care that he was among them. And it was just what he wanted. He had never sought attention, content for the band’s extroverted singer, Gavin McManus, and playboy guitarist, Conor Quinn, to dominate the spotlight. Gavin had poured his heart out into song for so long, confessing things no one but his own conscience had a right to know, that he no longer seemed to know the difference between what should be public and what should be private. Model-handsome Conor had mastered the guitar so thoroughly that he invariable stunned audiences with his abilities on the public stage, though he had only very recently figured out how to manage his love life privately. Conversely, Shay preferred to ignore any focus on him, whether it was in front of eighty thousand roaring fans at a festival as he raged on the drums, or just walking down the street. It wasn’t in his nature to seek attention.
And so he was surprised to come upon his house and find a groupie waiting on his doorstep. A scruffy, male groupie, at that.
CH
APTER TWO
Martin looked up to see Shay less than a half a block away, walking determinedly toward him. But then recognition relaxed the set to the drummer’s jaw and he slowed his pace. It only occurred to Martin at that moment that he might have appeared to be some sort of intruder. He was sitting on the steps of Shay’s house, hunched over his knees as he texted. Several days’ worth of uncharacteristic beard growth covered his face. He’d let his dark brown hair, longish on top and short on the sides and back, fall forward so that his face was mostly concealed. A new tattoo—a continuation of the vibrant Japanese sleeve he had completed not long ago—edged out from the collar of his fashionably distressed red and gray flannel shirt.
Straightening up, he pushed his hair back from his face and stood. He waited for Shay to reach him before offering a sheepish smile and a wave.
“What are you doing here, Marty?” Shay asked.
The question was a good one. Martin was supposed to be home in Dublin. He was supposed to be making up for lost time with his wife and three sons after having been on tour with the band for almost nine months. As the bassist for Rogue, Martin had been a steady part of the rock foursome since its inception when they were all only teenagers. He had loved music as a kid, though he’d never dared to dream he could be a musician. But he had been pulled into Gavin’s grandiose plan of forming a band, simply by virtue of being his friend. Gavin was, of course, the singer. Conor was Gavin’s oldest friend and had already claimed the position of guitarist. Shay had been beating on just about anything he could to create a rhythm since he was little, so he was the natural drummer. That left Martin to fill the position of bassist. He’d become proficient at the instrument and ridden the coattails of his more inspired and passionate bandmates. Much to his surprise, the band had quickly rocketed to world-famous status. The thing that had kept him grounded while Gavin and Conor had their public misadventures was the normality his wife Celia provided. But that stability was now on perilous ground, which was the reason he’d unexpectedly come to impose upon his friend and bandmate.
“Hoping you don’t mind having me for a time,” Martin said.
Shay watched him silently, assessing him in that way that he did. “Come in, man,” he said, stepping past him to unlock the front door.
Martin had never been to Shay’s San Francisco home. It was the house Shay had purchased once he’d made the decision to leave Ireland to be with his American girlfriend. Following him inside and upstairs, Martin admired the contemporary design. It was bright throughout, with large front windows showcasing stunning views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay.
“Your floors are gray,” Martin said.
Shay smiled, amused. “They’re reclaimed oak. And the finish is called ‘storm gray,’ thank you very much.”
“Never seen wood like that.”
“There’s a bit more style in America than what you’re used to.”
The slight condescension in Shay’s comment was typical. And something Martin was used to. He had long been a sort of willing punching bag to his bandmates. After one too many times where he’d stuck his foot in his mouth, Martin had earned a reputation as being a bit slow on the uptake. An early example of this, and one he had never outlived, was when he had mistakenly called a Rhodes Scholarship a “Rogue Scholarship.” It had made his friends laugh, but the error had turned in his favor when they all decided “Rogue” was a perfect name for their fledgling band. It stuck. And so did the notion that Martin was an affable fellow with not a lot of depth. He’d resigned himself to this perception, and even played into the role of the “unsophisticated” one. It was easier than trying to correct the image, and it fit with his instinct to go along with the flow of things. But that didn’t mean it didn’t rankle at times, and especially more so lately.
Shay stopped at the open-air white-marble kitchen. “Something to drink?”
“Beer?”
After a slight hesitation, Shay opened one of the doors of the large stainless steel refrigerator. He pulled out some sort of local microbrew Martin didn’t recognize. Not that it mattered what he drank. Sure, it wasn’t yet two in the afternoon, but he was thirsty for something that would take the edge off. And hell, wasn’t he still on Dublin time? It was plenty late to start drinking.
“Join me,” Martin said when he saw that Shay only brought out the one bottle.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Shay filled a glass with tap water, downed it, and refilled it once more. He leaned against the wall that served as a subtle divider between the kitchen and the living room and watched him.
Martin knew Shay’s patience was nearly limitless and that he’d have to confess his reason for being here before being asked again. But because he was in an ornery mood, he stood at the kitchen countertop silently, drinking his beer. Though he kept his gaze on the stunning view of the bridge, he felt Shay watching him. Let him stare. He could be just as insufferably patient too, if he wanted.
When Martin drained his beer, Shay wordlessly replaced it with a new one. This spot of kindness softened Martin’s resolve.
“Jessica home?” he asked.
“No, she’s at the school. She spends ten, twelve hours a day there.”
The school was the ballet school she owned. She had once been a professional ballerina, dancing in the corps de ballet with San Francisco Ballet Company. Now, she owned a school geared toward training and building opportunities for kids of color.
“And where have you been?” Martin asked. He had called and texted Shay to no avail.
“Sailing. Or trying to learn how, really,” Shay said with a laugh. “I don’t check my phone when we’re out.”
“You have a boat, do you?”
“I don’t. I’ve gotten to know some cool lads that do, however. It’s a sailboat that raced in America’s Cup.”
Martin raised his eyebrows with a little shake of his head. “I suppose that’s something prestigious?”
“Ay, it is.”
Again, his friend fell silent. Conor would have methodically laid out the history of whatever this “America’s Cup” was. Gavin would have riffed off the thing to bring up his encyclopedic knowledge of music and the songs he knew that had to do with boating or the water. But Shay, of course, was his usual reticent self, somehow still, after all these years, under the impression that others weren’t interested in what he thought. It was a product of the shortcomings of his childhood, Martin knew, and though Shay had loosened up some, Martin still wondered when he would ever fully get over it.
“So, I’m just here to bother you like, because, well, I’ve been put out,” Martin said, finally getting to the point. He might as well admit what was happening. To himself and to Shay.
“Put out?”
“Celia. She rather forcefully suggested I find myself somewhere else to be for a while.”
Shay digested this information, then nodded. “Ashley, was it?”
Hearing Ashley’s name sent Martin’s heart thumping. And Shay jumping so quickly to the conclusion that she was to blame for his marital problems was even more anxiety inducing.
“I did not cheat on my wife,” he said emphatically.
“Did you not?” Shay asked softly, with simple curiosity in his voice.
But to Martin it came off as accusatory.
“And here I was thinking I was coming to a friend.” Martin finished his second beer in two gulps, scrambling to think where he’d go next. Ashley being just across the Bay in Berkeley was the obvious answer, though he hadn’t wanted to admit to that yet.
“You have, you know that,” Shay said. “Admit, though, that you and Ashley got on like a house on fire, especially on this last leg of the tour. You know, going off on your ‘explorations.’ Wasn’t that what you called it? And coming back with tattoos and piercings?”
“Tattoos and piercings are not the same as cheating.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t help that. He hadn’t expected Shay to judge him this way.
“You’re right. They’re not,” Shay said. “And I’m not after telling you how to live your life. I’m just telling you why I thought of Ashley. You two seemed . . . close.”
“She’s a mate, is all,” Martin said quickly.
“I see.”
Again, Martin heard more in Shay’s words than what was intended. It felt condescending once more. And it rubbed Martin the wrong way. “Fuck off, Shay,” he snapped. “I’m so tired of the way yous all look down on me. Always with the snide comments—”
“What are you—”
“Ashley saw it clear as day. Said you were all only too happy to keep me in the shadows. And now that I’m finally asserting myself you all can’t handle it. She said you’d react like this.”
Shay kept quiet, preferring instead to examine him. But that peculiar stare of Shay’s was the last thing Martin wanted at this moment.
“Say something,” Martin said. “Don’t just fucking look at me like that.”
Still, Shay took his time formulating his next words. Martin attempted to turn the tables, leveling an intense gaze upon the other man. Shay had a compact build, with his back, chest, and arms tightly muscled to better drum. His blond hair had the barest trace of strawberry to it, and he had taken to wearing it longer these days than the close-cropped buzz he had sported for so many years. His eyes, gray and intelligent, combined with prominent Irish cheekbones, made him an intriguing figure, even if he did eschew attention.
In contrast, Martin had always been baby-faced, stocky, and unremarkable. He’d grown up the middle child between two older sisters and two younger sisters who had in turn either doted on him or forgotten him entirely. His mother adored him and fed him a steady diet of fried breakfasts and sweet treats at all hours, the same way she took care of his father. Being coddled that way had taught him to look for guidance and decision-making in others. When he fell for Celia, it was in large part because she was so similar to the women he had been raised by. Celia was a preschool teacher, accustomed to giving constant, minute directions. Piously Catholic, she wouldn’t sleep with Martin until they were married. She took over from Martin’s mother so smoothly that he barely noticed the transition. The life she created for him, and eventually for their three boys, was a damn good one. She kept a wonderful home, handling every domestic duty and freeing him to make music and go out on tour. In return, all she ever asked was that he accept that she rarely wanted to have sex. That lack of passion in his life gave him even less reason to be active and in shape. Despite this, he had been happy with this life, having accepted that it was the tradeoff for the stable family life he enjoyed. Until Ashley changed everything.
Finding Rhythm (Rogue Rockstar Series Book 4) Page 1
