Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7)

by Christie Ridgway

  WHO DO YOU LOVE

  Rock Royalty 7

  By

  Christie Ridgway

  Also Available

  In the Rock Royalty series

  Light My Fire (Rock Royalty Book 1)

  Love Her Madly (Rock Royalty Book 2)

  Break on Through (Rock Royalty Book 3)

  Touch Me (Rock Royalty Book 4)

  Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5)

  Wild Child (Rock Royalty Book 6)

  Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7)

  Love Me Two Times (Rock Royalty Book 8), Coming soon!

  WHO DO YOU LOVE

  Years ago, Rolling Stone magazine dubbed the nine collective children of the most famous band in the world “Rock Royalty.” Now all grown up, the princes and princesses are coming back to L.A.’s Laurel Canyon to discover if love can be found among the ruins of a childhood steeped in sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.

  Indie singer-songwriter Cami Colson met a mysterious stranger on a dark night and flung herself headlong into a blistering, secret affair with the sexy man. But then he broke things off without warning or reason, and she could only curse her trusting heart and hope that time would heal its wounds. Yet now Eamon is back in her life, as handsome and tempting as ever, and even more enigmatic.

  Eamon Rooney, son of the president of a notorious motorcycle club, had every intention of staying away from Cami following their break-up. After all, he’d split from her to keep her free of the danger dogging him. Trouble touches her, however, prompting Eamon to pull her close again as he does everything in his power to keep her safe.

  Passion between the two flares once more and even though they fight against the feeling, their wills are not more powerful than the ways of the heart. Can they learn they belong together…and will they survive the lesson?

  WHO DO YOU LOVE

  Published by Christie Ridgway

  © Christie Ridgway 2016

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  ISBN: 9781939286222

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Cami Colson could feel him in the dark. Even over the low murmuring from the expectant audience and the clink of ice in glasses and the clack of beer bottles against the three-dozen or so tabletops, she swore she could hear him breathing and sense his gaze focused on the empty stage. She stood behind the music club’s tapestry curtain, her guitar in one fist and her other fingers clutching the thick fabric.

  She didn’t want to go out and face the crowd.

  Face him.

  The thought was enough to snap her spine straight and square her shoulders.

  Call her a dreamer, okay. But never call her a coward.

  The cowboy heels of her sharp-toed, distressed leather ankle-high boots clapped against the wooden surface as she made her way onto the stage in comfortable jeans and a gauzy, sleeveless shirt. Instead of looking at the crowd—or what she might see of them in the shadowy interior, only their hands and chins illuminated by the low light emanating from the votive candle centered on each round table—she busied herself by sliding onto the plain lone stool, then plugged in her guitar and nodded to the guy in the wings.

  The spotlight flipped on, and its glare made it impossible to distinguish any one member of the audience.

  But she knew he was still out there. From the beginning, she’d always been a little afraid of him, and now that familiar nervous frisson chased down her back. The first time they’d met, he’d come to the trailer at the motorcycle salvage yard she managed for her brother. He’d called ahead, and she’d agreed to stay past closing hours to accommodate him. The sun had already gone down and there was no moon that night when she responded to the rap of his knuckles.

  In the meager pinprick of light hanging over the trailer’s door, he’d stood in its frame, long legs in jeans, a leather jacket over his wide shoulders and draping the lean hardness of his chest.

  She’d pretended not to notice his muscles—nor the attractive, rumpled disorder of his dark hair and his thickly lashed, deep brown eyes.

  But she’d taken in every detail and felt her skin prickle with a sudden, painful rush of awareness.

  Now, she closed her eyes to dispel the memory and let her fingers pick out a melody on the guitar strings. The crowd had gone silent, and she willed herself to find the zone, that place where the music took over her body and her voice. Instead she felt gauche and horribly self-conscious, just as she had when he’d spoken to her in his deep voice that first night.

  My name is Eamon.

  Her fingers faltered, interrupting the light sweetness of the tune she’d been playing with a discordant squawk of sound. Instead of sliding to the floor in humiliation, she pretended an aplomb she didn’t possess and pressed her palm against the strings to muffle the ugly buzz. Then she looked out toward the audience with a little—forced—smile and pushed her free hand through the long layers of her auburn hair.

  “Shall we chat first?” In her early years of performing she’d rarely engaged the crowd, but she no longer shied from conversation with them. “Any special requests?”

  “How about answering some personal and potentially embarrassing questions?” a man called out, his tone joking.

  “I can’t promise I’ll answer,” she warned, holding on to her smile. “But have at it.”

  Just another way to prove to Eamon—and herself—he hadn’t knocked her off her game, even if the rat had broken her heart.

  “Any chance you’ll join the Velvet Lemons on their worldwide tour?” the man continued. “They recently landed in Japan, right?”

  “You think String Bean Colson or any of the other members of the band want one of their kids along, cramping their style?”

  The crowd laughed.

  The Velvet Lemons, the most famous rock ‘n’ roll band in the world, were notorious for their rowdy escapades. Which included the collective wild hair that had gone up the asses of all three—String Bean, Mad Dog Maddox, and Hop Hopkins—when they were around forty. In a few short years, with a variety of women, they’d fathered nine children, three each, whom they’d “raised” most informally at an expansive compound in L.A.’s Laurel Canyon.

  A woman piped up next. “I read in the Times gossip column that the Rock Royalty are pairing off. What about you?”

  Rock Royalty. When they were children, that’s what Rolling Stone magazine had dubbed the seven sons and two daughters of the Velvet Lemons. Over the years they’d become accustomed to the media interest in their lives, and her tribe had been mostly amused to see the status of their relationships reported in gossip columns and by the tabloid press in typical breathless SoCal style.

  “We’ve got six weddings in the offing,” she admitted. “My brother Ren and Cilla Maddox are up first.” Cami flicked a glance in the direction of the table where she knew her brother’s fiancée was seated with a small group of friends. “But I’m most happily unattached.”

  Then she pinned on another smile. “On that note…”

  Her foot began tapping, and she started to play one of her originals, “Water and Bone.”

  This time, her fing
ers didn’t falter and her voice flowed into the melody without a hitch. Off and running, she thought, relieved. In the zone. She could almost forget about Eamon.

  The first set proceeded without mishap, and she closed the forty-five minutes with one of her favorites, an old song that had been covered by many artists, “Motherless Children.”

  Motherless children have a hard time

  When the mother is gone

  Motherless children have a hard time

  When the mother is gone

  Motherless children have a hard time

  There's all that weeping and all that crying

  Motherless children have a hard time

  When the mother is gone

  She closed her eyes, infusing emotion into the simple words. It was an anthem of sorts for the Rock Royalty, whose mothers were mostly absent or disinterested. They’d left their children to the dubious mercies of the careless hedonists who’d fathered them. Bean, Cami’s dad, was fond of saying he’d called his kids Renford, Payne, and Campbell—the last names of their respective moms—so he’d remember exactly who he’d paid off in order to keep them at the compound.

  Not the most sensitive of men, obviously. It was no wonder she’d spent hours imagining his opposite—brave knights, steadfast lords, and intense, mysterious strangers who would one day completely claim her heart.

  Motherless children have a hard time

  When the mother is gone

  As the last notes faded away, the spotlight dimmed and the stage darkened. Cami stood and slipped behind the curtain. The following applause was gratifying, but she didn’t linger, needing some time to collect herself. In a small room backstage, she downed a bottle of water and collapsed onto a ragged reclining chair. In the distance she could hear music coming through the club’s speakers and the audience’s raised voices as they talked amongst themselves or ordered more drinks.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply. With luck, Eamon would leave during the lull before her second set.

  A knock sounded on the half-closed door to her retreat.

  Cami went on high alert, her eyes flipping open. As her heart began to race, a head poked into the room. Recognizing the familiar face, she slouched against the chair cushions once more.

  “Hey, Cilla.”

  The other woman slipped into the room, followed by Rose Dailey, who was engaged to marry Cami’s half-brother Payne.

  “Are we bothering you?” Rose asked, tucking her dark hair behind her ears.

  “Of course not.” She didn’t want the Rock Royalty or their loves to guess she was anything but calm, cool, and collected, just as she didn’t want Eamon to know what his rejection had cost her. They’d all been witness to his very public rebuff of her last month, but since then she’d tried convincing everyone that she was over the man. He mattered nothing to her at all.

  Cilla smiled. “You sounded gr—”

  “Did you see him?” Cami heard herself demand. “Did you see Eamon out there?” Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. So much for proving he didn’t matter. What a fool I am.

  Cilla’s blues eyes rounded. Rose’s, though gray, went just as big.

  “Eamon’s here?” the brunette asked, exchanging a glance with Cilla.

  “Forget I said anything.” Cami took her hand from her mouth and waved it in the air. “Forget everything about him. I have.”

  The two women traded glances a second time. “Maybe I should call the guys.” Rose reached into her purse.

  “No.” The last thing she wanted was Ren and Payne to show up, steaming with testosterone and brotherly outrage on her behalf. “It’s probably my imagination. I didn’t actually catch a glimpse of him.”

  Cilla narrowed her eyes. “Have you suspected Eamon of being around before this?”

  Cami shook her head, thinking it wasn’t so big a lie if she didn’t actually voice the fib. But the truth was, she’d felt eyes on her nearly all the time lately. But that was stupid, right? Who would he be watching her? No, it certainly couldn’t be Eamon.

  Not only had he dismissed her from his life, she’d never actually been in his life. He’d always come to her at night, meeting late at the trailer at the salvage yard or showing up at her bungalow in Santa Monica. On the occasions when he’d attended her gigs, he’d never expressed an interest in meeting her family and friends when they came, too. Not once had he mentioned introducing her to anyone from his own circle.

  What an idiot she’d been.

  “He never even told me his last name,” she muttered.

  Not that she’d pressed for it, so entranced she’d been by his mysterious vibe.

  Yeah, idiot.

  The pair of women in the room with her shared another sidelong look. They knew something she didn’t, that was obvious. A few days prior, at one of the Sunday brunches the Rock Royalty gathered for at the Laurel Canyon compound—Ren and Cilla had this idea of reclaiming their childhood spaces—she’d overheard pieces of a low-voiced conversation between Ren, Payne, and Brody Maddox. Aware it had to do with her, and with Eamon, she’d studiously ignored them. What was the point of paying attention?

  But now, Cilla seemed on the brink of sharing information. “Um, Cam—”

  She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve got an audience waiting and another set to perform, and that man doesn’t deserve another second—millisecond, even—of my time.”

  Apparently she pulled off the declaration with sincerity because both her brothers’ fiancées appeared relieved. Still, Cilla spoke again. “Are you sure—”

  But Cami was saved from having to make further assurances because the backstage guy knocked and called it was time to return to her stool and perform the second half of her gig. As she made her way from the room, sweeping Cilla and Rose in front of her, she pulled a piece of paper from her back pocket and glanced over her set list. There was always room to improvise, but it looked solid. When she’d first gone out on the circuit she’d merely covered other artists’ work, giving country, blues, and rock songs a Cami Colson spin. Now, however, she mixed in her own compositions as well.

  It was why she’d hit the music scene, really. Though she didn’t mind singing for a crowd, what she enjoyed most was seeing people’s reaction to her originals, as well as garnering some commercial interest. And it was working for her—other artists had begun using her songs in their own performances. Two were in the recording process.

  Again she ducked onto the stage when the club’s lights were already dimmed. Then the spotlight washed over her, and she went straight into “Heartbeat,” made wonderful by Carrie Underwood. From there she segued into a soft rocker straight from the 1970s, followed by another contemporary country tune. The crowd was with her.

  Usually that certainty exhilarated her. But tonight the idea of Eamon’s attendance continued to interfere with her well-being. As time wore on, it became impossible to completely ignore the sense that he was in the room with her, and it intruded on her vibe, threatening the success of her show.

  Battering her heart, damn it.

  Rat.

  Jerk.

  Temper kindled in her belly. She considered sending him a message in the form of another Carrie Underwood standard. Let him worry that she intended to key his car and take a bat to his headlights. But she couldn’t give him the satisfaction that she cared so much, could she? And if the impulse proved unstoppable, why give him the early warning?

  She leaned toward the mic, still undecided.

  “Last song of the evening,” she said, not sure what should be her finale.

  And then her fingers made the decision for her. They moved over the strings, playing something she’d been working on the last week or so. Starting a little slow, a little sad, the words took flight from her mouth.

  You did it, you broke through

  I should have been smarter when it came to you

  Your goodbye struck hard, sliced deep

  So cold, you made me weep.


  But she refused to stay down, and he’d know it. Her voice turned stronger.

  Stand up sisters, we’ll start a trend

  No time for tears, even less for revenge

  We’ll move on and that ice blade

  Will freeze the heart that he unmade.

  And now the kicker. The notes rang through the room, and she closed her eyes to savor them, belting out what she wanted Eamon to know about Cami Colson.

  Stronger, colder, better

  We’ll be free from him, girls, and finally free from silly dreams.

  Women cheered. As the lights came up, Cami opened her eyes, her gaze going to the corner where she felt sure the jerky rat had planted his fine ass.

  But no dark-haired mystery man occupied the wooden chair. It sat as empty as the hole he’d left in her life.

  *

  Eamon Rooney ached. A tension headache pounded at his temples. His fingers were cramped into tight fists. Worst of all was the nagging pulse in his cock, hard from the instant her voice wound through the darkness of the music club. It continued to throb with frustrated lust. The cool night air in the parking lot wasn’t doing a thing to help, damn it all.

  A black truck turned in from the busy street, and he strode to meet it. The driver’s window rolled down and through the opening he saw grizzled Bart and beyond him young Si, who was barely twenty-one. Though both were Eamon’s dad’s men, they didn’t mind earning some extra cash by seeing to it that Cami Colson got safely home after her late-night performances.

  He’d hired them to do the job that he couldn’t carry out himself.

  “Thought you wanted to steer clear,” Bart muttered.

  “Yeah.” Eamon had wanted that. He’d promised himself to keep his distance, as a matter of fact.

  But foreboding was sitting on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, fucking with his plans for a solitary evening.