"Could've been worse," Bronwyn said, backing toward the hallway. "Can I get you anything?"
"Nah," I waved her away. "Go on and find Reese. If everything's shut down for the night, you two can head out." I paused for a moment. "Actually," I amended, "have Derek and Reese escort Tim Scott out before you leave." If I had to see that jerk's face again tonight I really was going to be sick.
When Bronwyn was gone, I forced myself out of my chair and trudged back down the hall, intent on finding Emmett. I retraced my steps to the second floor and headed for the High Court green room, thinking that must be where he'd taken Sid after the fight broke out. Angry shouting reached my ears through the room's open door, and I froze before reaching the threshold.
"What in the hell is your problem, Sid?" Jack snarled. "I thought we agreed you'd dial back the drama on this tour."
"Yeah," Zane chimed in. "We can't even make it through one show without you pulling some kind of bullshit stunt."
"Don't pin this on me!" Sid shot back. "That jerk started it. He came here to pick a fight—I thought you guys would have my back."
"You're outta control, Malone," Mickey said, the rage apparent in his tone. He swore loudly. "If Amelia is seriously hurt, you're going to wish you'd never been born."
"Oooh. Big words coming from a whipped loser like you," Sid jeered. "Why are you so hung up on that chick? Does she spout bourbon from her tits? Got a scotch-flavored crotch?" He snorted. "She's not even that pretty, man."
My face flamed. Don't let him get to you, I thought, but hot tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. His words were unnecessary and cruel. Apparently, Mickey thought so too. There was a loud growl and the sound of shattering glass. A woman shrieked—whether it was Ginger or Suzie, I couldn't tell—and the sounds of another scuffle followed.
Oh, for crying out loud. I wiped my eyes and took another step toward the green room, my jaw tight with anger. Before I reached the door, Sid stomped out into the hall, his hands thrown up in exasperation. "That's it!" he shouted. "I quit!" He turned back toward the door and spit. "You're all going to regret this," he added before hurrying toward the stairs. He didn't even look at me as he passed. A vindicated smirk curled my lips as I noted the blood trickling from his left nostril. Serves him right.
"Sid, come back!" Ginger called, hurrying through the doorway. She shot an angry glare over her shoulder. "Real nice, guys," she said, her tone caustic. "I'm getting really tired of always having to fix things." She brushed past me, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm down the hall. She nearly bumped into Emmett as she reached the stairs. Muttering under her breath, she stomped down toward the ground floor. Emmett watched her go before looking up and spotting me.
"There you are." His emerald eyes lit up, and he rushed forward to wrap his arms around me. I yelped when Emmett's bicep brushed against my wounded temple. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry." He released me at once and leaned down to inspect the wound. "I should've been there to protect you," he said, his tone bitter.
"It's okay," I said, though I flinched when he lightly ran a finger over the bump. "It'll be gone in a day or two. I'm not really in much pain—more than anything, I'm exhausted."
Emmett reached down and squeezed my hand. "Then why don't we go back to your place? I saw a bag of blueberries in your freezer that we can use to stop the swelling." With a twitch of his lips, his concerned expression melted into a sly, suggestive look. "We can open that bottle of merlot I brought and draw a bubble bath."
"That's sweet," I said. "But I can't leave until the band is gone." My resolve was fading even as I spoke. The thought of Emmett all soapy and naked in my bathtub made my whole body hum with renewed, primal energy. "Tell you what—" I fished into my pocket and retrieved my keys, which I handed to him. "I'll wrap things up here and have Derek drop me off. I should be there within the hour."
Emmett looked at me with smoldering eyes. "Perfect. I can't wait."
"Me neither." I bit my lip and leaned into him, inhaling the rich scent of his aftershave. Standing on tiptoes, I pressed my lips to his. Emmett kissed me back, wrapping one arm around me while his other hand wound through my hair, careful not to graze the bump on my temple again.
A cough sounded behind us, and I pried myself away from Emmett to find Mickey standing in the doorway of the green room. Pain flickered behind his brown eyes as he watched us.
I cringed, glancing back and forth from Emmett to Mickey. Emmett took the hint. "I'll see you at home, babe," he said, dipping down to give me one last peck before heading for the stairs. My heart swelled as I watched him go, grateful that he understood my need to settle things with Mickey—and that he trusted me.
I turned back to find Mickey staring at me, his expression one of disbelief. "'See you at home?'" he repeated, his tone questioning. "So, what—he, like, lives with you now?"
"Of course not." I shook my head. "He's just visiting for the weekend."
Mickey crossed his arms over his chest. "Awfully convenient for him to pop by for a visit at the same time that I'm back in town."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Mickey took a step toward me. "I still know you better than anyone, Ame. I know that you still have feelings for me—you're just scared to admit it. Hiding behind Tall, Dark, and Douche doesn't change the fact that deep down you still care about me."
I scowled. "Emmett's not a douche—he's sweet." I threw my hands up in frustration. "Let's not rehash this fight again, all right?" I swallowed and forced out a few calming breaths. I didn't have the energy to argue. "I actually wanted to thank you," I said, suddenly feeling sheepish. "You know, for, er, defending my honor in there." I gestured toward the green room.
Mickey's face turned pink. "You heard all that?" he asked, his expression pinched.
"Unfortunately."
Mickey's jaw clenched. "I owed him that uppercut to the jaw just for what he said about you. But seeing him lay a hand on you earlier…" The veins in his neck thrummed visibly, and he tightened his hands into fists. "I should've killed him for that."
"Hey." I put a soothing hand on Mickey's shoulder. "I'm okay. It was an accident. I got in the way."
"Maybe you're right," Mickey said, but his face remained stormy. "That's still no excuse for the way Sid acted. He's been a first-class A-hole for a while now. We'll be better off without him." He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. "It's late," he said, turning back toward the green room.
"Wait." A frown creased my brow. "How are you going to tour without a bass player?"
Mickey lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "We'll find a way. All I know is I hope I never see Sid Malone again."
* * *
I was humming to myself as I got dressed and put on my makeup the next morning. I stepped out of the bathroom and tiptoed past my bed, pausing to admire Emmett as he slept, half-covered by my bed sheets. With a smile, I slipped out of the bedroom and carefully closed the door behind me. He'd earned a little extra sleep after the previous night. I'd come home to scented candles, a bottle of merlot, and a hot bubble bath—and, more importantly, a hot, naked boyfriend—awaiting me. Needless to say, I was feeling much more relaxed.
I opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents in search of something I could fix us for breakfast. Aside from two eggs, three slices of bacon, and a questionable-smelling block of cheese, I came up nil. There's always chocolate raspberry scones from Java Joy. I closed the refrigerator and grabbed my purse. Java Joy was the new coffee shop down the road from Castle Rock that Bronwyn was always raving about. Kat and I had been salivating for days over their delicious scones that Bron brought in the week before.
And it's only a two-minute drive from Castle Rock, I reminded myself. We were closed on Sundays, and while I originally planned to hang with Royal Flush before they left for Orlando, I'd decided to spend the day with Emmett instead. Still, I needed to stop by my office and fax over a contract to one of our upcoming acts. I could go pick up som
e coffee and pastries, drop by Castle Rock, and be back to my apartment within half an hour, probably before Emmett even woke up.
"Keep an eye on him, boys," I said as I bent down to fill the food bowls for my three furry amigos. I stroked Uno and Dos behind the ears and ran my hand over Tres's soft back. "I'll be home soon," I promised, and then I slipped out the front door. I resumed my happy humming as I strolled down the hall and out to the parking deck.
My mood soured as soon as I turned on the car. "It was a battle of the bass players last night in the VIP room of Castle Rock." Tim Scott's voice filled my speakers. "During our 95Rox meet and greet with Royal Flush, original bass guitarist Dillon Green made an unexpected appearance and confronted his replacement, Sid Malone—and I had a front row seat to watch them trade blows."
"Unexpected my ass," I muttered. Tim had planned the little stunt to drum up some drama for his show—I just knew it. I didn't care if letting him broadcast for Tune Talks got Castle Rock exposure. I was going to talk to Kat about banning him from the venue. Every time he showed up, bad things happened.
"Their heated exchange escalated when Malone struck Green across the face. As the pair began to brawl, Sid mistakenly hit Castle Rock co-owner Amelia Grace," Tim continued.
My cheeks burned at the mention of my own name. With an angry growl, I jammed my thumb down on one of the radio preset buttons. A peppy dance song thrummed through the speakers. I tried singing along for a few bars, but the happy beat and catchy lyrics couldn't distract me from thinking about the fight between Sid and Dillon the night before. I lightly touched my fingertips to the bruise on my temple, remembering how Mickey had nearly lost control when he came to my defense. Had Sid really quit the band? And if so, what were the guys going to do without their bass guitarist for the rest of the tour?
Not your problem, I reminded myself. This wasn't college. I wasn't Mickey's girlfriend or the band's manager anymore—it wasn't my job to smooth things over at the first hint of a brewing argument. They were grown men, and they could resolve their own conflicts. If that didn't work, it was up to Ginger to mediate. I turned up the radio, letting the heavy bass drown out any thoughts about Royal Flush and their backstage drama.
After making a quick run through the drive-thru at Java Joy, I sped over to Castle Rock and parked in the gravel along the side of the building, closest to the back entrance. Grabbing one of the chocolate raspberry scones from the bag, I nibbled the pastry as I made my way toward the back door.
To reach the rear entrance of the venue, I had to walk around Royal Flush's black tour bus, which was now parked behind Castle Rock. Kat and I agreed to let the band keep the over-sized vehicle out back until they left on Sunday for their next tour stop. As I rounded the bus, I stopped short, frowning at the passenger's side door. Why is the bus open? When I'd left Castle Rock the night before, Kat was about to shuttle the guys, Ginger, and Suzie back to their hotel. Maybe they forgot to close up the bus after loading their equipment. No way, I thought, shaking my head. The guys wouldn't leave their instruments in an unlocked vehicle overnight.
A sense of unease crept over me as I approached the open door. What if a bum had wandered aboard? Or a thief? Don't be ridiculous. I shook it off and stepped up onto the small set of stairs that led inside the tour bus.
I was immediately overwhelmed by a cloying, coppery odor. "What is that?" I asked aloud, wrinkling my nose. The inside of the bus was dark. I squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust. "Hello?" I called. Either my imagination was playing some horror movie-style tricks on me, or someone—or some thing—responded with a muffled groan. Fear pricked at the hairs on my arms and neck. The noise had come from the back of the bus. Was someone back there?
There was a fleeting moment where I almost turned and bolted, figuring it would be safer to wait and inspect the bus when someone else had arrived, like Emmett. Or Reese. Or maybe a SWAT team. Then the low moaning noise sounded again, and I sucked in a breath. Something about it sounded oddly familiar. Curiosity got the better of me, and I began to move deeper into the bus's interior.
I quietly inched my way past the black leather benches that lined the walls of the vehicle, and I sidestepped around the table that stuck out from the little breakfast nook. Digging into my purse, I produced a small can of pepper spray and a key chain that held a mini-flashlight. One finger hovered over the trigger of the can ready to unleash a cloud of pepper spray on anything that moved.
Before I could turn on the flashlight, my foot connected with something solid in the middle of the floor. With a startled cry, I dropped the can and the keychain as I toppled down, landing on something cold and sticky. The coppery smell grew stronger, and a feeling of nausea rolled over me. I fumbled around on the floor for my flashlight, but instead my fingers closed over something hard and smooth. I ran my hand around the object, trying to identify it. A shoe?
My pinky grazed against the cold metal of the mini-flashlight, and I reached for it. I clicked it on, illuminating the space in front of me. A shock wave of horror slammed through me. I screamed and scrambled to my feet, backing quickly toward the bus's entrance. The hard object I'd felt before was a boot, all right—and it was still on the foot of Sid Malone's corpse.
CHAPTER SIX
It took several brutal minutes for the shock to wear off. When I could breathe normally again, I called the police. After hanging up with the emergency dispatch, I reluctantly inched closer to Sid's body to retrieve my fallen pepper spray can. A morbid curiosity took hold of me as my gaze traveled slowly over the bass guitarist's corpse. How did he die?
Sid was sprawled on his stomach across the floor of the tour bus, his already pallid complexion even more ashen than usual. His arms and legs were tangled underneath his slumped form, as if he were unconscious—or maybe already dead, even—when he fell to the floor. I stared with horrified fascination at the dark stain that spread across the back of his shirt, turning it from light blue to a sinister purplish black. My gaze lit on a rip in the fabric near what seemed to be the source of the blood. Shining my flashlight on the spot, I caught sight of Sid's torn flesh. The gorge rose in my throat, and I regretted eating that chocolate raspberry scone. I turned away, placing a hand over my mouth.
It's a stab wound, I thought without glancing back at the body. Goosebumps sprouted down my arms, and an involuntary shudder worked its way down my spine. Sid had been murdered. He may have been a chauvinistic uber-jerk, but he didn't deserve to be stabbed to death. What was I going to tell the guys? Mickey… Fingers numb, I fumbled through my purse to retrieve my phone again. I couldn't let Mickey, Chad, and the others find out about Sid from some random APD detective. I punched the call button next to Mickey's name on my contact list and bit my trembling lip as I waited for him to answer. A moment later, a loud buzzing from the back of the bus nearly made me drop my phone in startled surprise.
I froze in place, my gaze darting wildly about as I surveyed the bus. Nothing moved. The buzzing continued for several more seconds. A sinking feeling pulled through me as my call to Mickey went to voice mail, and the vibrating noise stopped. It can't be, I thought, pressing redial. My throat went dry when the buzzing started again just moments after I pressed send. I ended the call, and again the noise stopped. Mickey's phone was somewhere on the bus.
My mind called forth the image of Mickey holding his iPhone the night before. He'd had it when I last saw him. That meant he'd been on the tour bus sometime last night after I left. He could've jumped aboard for a few minutes before heading back to the hotel—and the phone could've fallen out of his pocket. Or maybe he's back there, and he's hurt. Or worse. Fresh horror coursed through me, and I cast a frightened look toward the back of the dark bus.
I took a few calming breaths, working up my last remaining nerve before creeping past Sid's body. Another soft moan sounded, closer this time. I froze, terror rooting me to the spot. Come on, Amelia. You can do this. With a gulp, I forced myself to move deeper into the bus. The beam of my small flashlig
ht illuminated the floor in front of me, one circular patch at a time. I had almost reached the bunk beds in the back of the vehicle when my light panned over a head of tangled brown hair.
"Mickey!" I inhaled a sharp breath and nearly dropped the flashlight again. I crouched beside him. Mickey was sprawled across the ground, his arms and torso in the aisle and his legs spread-eagle over the threshold of the tour bus's bathroom. I placed a hand on his cheek and sagged with relief. His body was still warm to the touch, and his gentle breathing tickled my fingers. Thank God he's alive.
I gently shook Mickey's shoulder, trying to rouse him awake. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open. He grunted, and his head lolled to the side. The strong scent of bourbon burned my nostrils. Is he…drunk?
I huffed, my relief giving way to frustration. What was Mickey doing here, passed out mere feet away from Sid's dead body? How could he have been so sloshed that he could sleep through a murder? A morbid question pinged through me, bringing fear back into the mix. If Mickey was here when Sid was killed, why hadn't he been harmed too?
"Wake up!" I slapped Mickey's cheek. Though his eyes remained shut, his nostrils flared, and his lips curled in a pained grimace. I slapped him again. "Mickey! Can you hear me? You have to wake up." No response.
The third time was the charm. As I smacked him one last time, Mickey's head jerked. He cracked open his eyelids, his golden brown eyes rolling around in their sockets. Mickey's expression was strained, as if he was struggling to focus. "Wha—?" he croaked. He shook his head a few times and placed his palms on the floor, pushing up slowly into a seated position. "What the hell happened?" Mickey blinked rapidly a few times and then squinted at me. "Amelia? Is that you?"
"I'm here," I whispered.
"What's going on?"
I closed my eyes and pushed out a deep breath before opening them again. "We have to get out of here," I said, my voice trembling despite my best effort to keep an even tone. "Something horrible has happened."
Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Page 6
