Wild Child (Rock Royalty #6)

by Christie Ridgway

  Their worldly-wise progeny had swallowed the story hook, line, and sinker.

  “Couple of different projects,” Irv said. “We spent a few hours at the Topanga Community House shoveling sand into bags.”

  Ash grimaced. “Flooding problems there?”

  “The center is fine,” Viv said. “The bags are for the community at large. Topanga Creek and all the others that feed it are rising. And if this rain doesn’t let up…”

  Alarm tightened Ash’s belly. They’d all been happy to have a change in the weather. “What could happen?”

  “The usual, though we’ve been in drought conditions for so long I think people have forgotten what trouble a sequence of big storms can cause in the canyon.” Irv swallowed more beer. “Potholes, sink holes, flooding of low-lying areas, flash floods, mudslides, and road wash-outs.”

  “Yikes.” Ash straightened and glanced around the crowded room. “Should I close early and send everyone home?”

  Viv shook her head. “We’re not at a crisis point yet. But once the ground gets saturated, that’s when the trouble begins.”

  “Supposed to be letting up tonight and then a few days of sunshine so we can dry out a bit.” Irv glanced over at his wife, then he pulled a folded piece of paper from his front jacket pocket. “Which is why we thought later this week would be the perfect time for this.”

  He put the sheet on the bar and slid it Ash’s way.

  She stared at it, her instincts clamoring.

  Rather than reaching for it, her hand found a clean glass. She turned away to pour another shot of vodka, and her gaze landed on Brody, looking big and solid and warm. How much she wanted to walk over to him, crawl into his lap and bury her face against his broad chest.

  Forget everything in his arms, including how sure she was they’d never last.

  Tightening her hand on the liquor bottle, she poured a large swallow and threw it back. With the alcohol burning a path down her throat, she forced herself to face Irv and Viv and their flyer again.

  Another notice of a grief group?

  With one fingertip, she drew it closer but couldn’t make herself unfold the thing. “Listen—”

  “Gus thinks it’s a good idea, too,” Viv burst out, as if she couldn’t stop herself.

  Ash frowned. “My manager, Gus?”

  Sundays were his night off.

  “We’ve been talking. He said you’d decided to stay open on Wednesday nights starting this week, and we thought this could be a good way to kick off your new schedule.”

  More warning bells sounded in her head. “What could be a good way to kick off the new schedule?”

  “We didn’t tell you about it because we didn’t want you to lift a finger,” Viv continued. “The arrangements are made, and dozens of old friends have committed to coming in to the roadhouse that night. It will be good, Ashlynn. Good for all of us.”

  “You,” Irv added.

  Her arm felt filled with lead, but she gathered the strength to lift her hand and open the folded page. “A Celebration of Life,” she read aloud in a dull voice.

  “Because we didn’t do that yet,” Viv said. “Celebrate Chuck and Brae’s lives. We know that’s your birthday, too, but Gus said you planned to be at Satan’s anyway, and it actually seemed…fitting. Endings and new beginnings at the very same time.”

  “You don’t have somewhere else to be, right?” Irv pressed.

  “No.” Her body temperature had plunged, hovering somewhere between numb and frozen, and she crossed her arms to hug herself. “You…you say it’s all planned?”

  “Everything is taken care of.”

  Ash swallowed, trying to work up some kind of emotion. Another person might feel enraged by their presumption. At the very least annoyed. But Irv and Viv were good people, the very best, and truly missed her father and sister. So they could have this “celebration.”

  And it wouldn’t bother her at all, because right now nothing could penetrate her icy outer shell.

  And she’d prove it, she decided, as she reached for her glass and the bottle of booze, by having the time of her life.

  “Someone turn up the speakers,” she yelled, then fished in the tip jar for quarters to feed the jukebox. “I feel like dancing.”

  The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of willing partners, cowboy yee-haws, and a memorable—lucky—quasi-tap dance around the edge of a pool table. She wasn’t near to fading when the last fast song segued into another tune…this one slow. Too slow.

  “Hey!” she protested, but then a pair of arms pulled her close, and her nose met the shirtfront and familiar scent of Brody Maddox.

  “Settle down, wild one,” he said, as he began to sway her to the rhythm of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic.”

  “Brody—”

  “Shh,” he whispered against her ear, and it was all she could do to fight the shivers rolling over her skin. “Feel the music.”

  But she didn’t want to feel! And then he sang in her ear, cruel man, his voice low and raspy and just for her.

  When he’d never be hers.

  Except her body didn’t get the message as they were pressed close together. Her hips swayed under his hands, her feet moved between his, and her head spun, sense flying right up to the rafters. So when he bent his head at the end of the song and kissed her, any objections she might have were circling by themselves high above. Ignoring the catcalls from all corners of the roadhouse, she twined her arms around Brody’s neck to keep him close.

  He slid his tongue along her lips, and she opened her mouth, eager for his taste, a hotter kiss, whatever mindless pleasure he could bring to her.

  What had she been doing, trying to escape through vodka and the best party songs by Jason Aldean and Brad Paisley? She should have yanked Brody right off the barstool and towed him to someplace private where he could take her to paradise in an entirely different way.

  It was such a good idea that she sank her fingers into his hair to pull back his head. He stared down at her from blue eyes that looked hot enough to burn. His ragged breath puffed against her wet lips, and he quirked one brow.

  “Yes?”

  On tiptoe, she whispered into his ear. “I hear the storeroom is a fine place for a secret tryst.”

  He laughed, low and sexy. “I think if we disappear after that kiss what we’re doing next won’t be so very secret.”

  She grinned. “Okay then. We’ll go ahead and let everyone know.” Still enclosed in his arms, she threw back her head and pitched her voice over the noise of the crowd. “Hey Satan’s! I’m taking a break so my buddy Brody can take me in the back and fu—”

  His palm slapped over her mouth. Then he nodded over her shoulder.

  “Company,” he mouthed.

  Frowning, Ashlynn turned, aware that Brody held her back to his front with a solid arm around her waist. Thank God, because her knees nearly collapsed as she took in the shocking sight of…

  Her mother, Carol Lexington.

  Oh, shit.

  Ash pushed at the tendrils of hair that had fallen over her forehead, intensely aware of her half-drunk and very disheveled state in comparison to her mother’s perfect platinum bob, black-and-white sweater, black slacks, and ladylike black pumps.

  “Mom.”

  Behind her mother stood her husband, Phillip Lexington, in gray wool pants, matching turtleneck, and a black-and-gray houndstooth sports jacket. A perfect combination for the rich man to track down his wandering stepdaughter at the seedy roadhouse once owned by his wife’s ex-husband.

  Ash looked from Phillip back to her mother and licked her lips. “Um, what a surprise. How, uh, how long have you been here?”

  “About twenty minutes,” her mother answered. Her facial muscles barely moved, which made it always difficult to gauge her mood. “Long enough to see you dancing on a billiards table. Miss Adele, your teacher at your old ballet studio, would be so proud.”

  Ouch. A headache began pounding at the base of Ash’s skull
. An early hangover, she supposed.

  Or a harbinger of more pain to come.

  Chapter 12

  The next day, Brody drove toward Topanga, Mad Dog Maddox on his mind. The man could be called a lot of things. Philanderer and lousy father for sure, but he’d always had plenty of balls to spare—or perhaps he was merely a sociopath… It was hard to know. Still, no matter what shit the man had been caught with, whether it be with someone else’s wife or something illegal in his suitcase, he never apologized and he never backed down.

  Brody had taken a lesson from his dad when faced with Ash’s mother and her husband the night before. Though they’d apparently witnessed the PDL—public display of lust—on the dance floor, Brody had kept his expression cool and his arm around Ash.

  He’d come to the conclusion that a hands-on approach was his best course of action with the woman he loved. At turns she was both skittish and reckless and while he didn’t want to rein in her spirit he worried that she was running away from all she didn’t want to face.

  Which just might include his feelings for her.

  I never really thought you were a decent bet. You being Mad Dog’s son and all.

  Hell. He shoved Rachel’s judgement out of his head, parked near Ash’s house, and took the fanciful footbridge over the creek. The cheerful burble had turned to a louder grumble, he realized, noting how much the water had risen in the past few days. Good thing the sun shone from a blue sky this afternoon. They needed a break from the rain.

  He knocked on the front door and wasn’t surprised she didn’t answer instantly. He was early. With some deft maneuvering he’d managed to invite himself along to the lunch she’d scheduled with her mother and stepfather. Phillip Lexington didn’t seem so bad—if a little starched—but his wife could chill an August afternoon.

  Brody decided he’d be Ash’s back-up.

  A tiny “mew” had him looking around. Catching sight of the little cat, he hunkered down, once again allowing it to come to him. On delicate feet, it approached, its body tense.

  But then the creature was all up in his business, rubbing against his knees and his clasped hands. He dared to stroke the animal’s spine and it arched into his touch, purring in appreciation. After a few moments, he slid a hand beneath the cat’s belly and stood, holding it close to his chest.

  Not even a protest. Not a hint of claw.

  The door to the house swung open and Ashlynn stood in its frame, staring at the sight of the cat in his arms. Her jaw dropped.

  He felt his do the same. Because the Ash of Satan’s Roadhouse had transformed. Instead of her usual tight jeans or short skirts, she wore a loose pair of wool slacks in an oyster color. No low-cut top, but instead a loose-fitting sweater of the same off-white color that only hugged her hips. Her fingers were free of rings and her wrists went without bracelets. There were no spangles anywhere, nothing shiny at all, except a small pair of gold hoop rings at her ears.

  “Christ,” he said. “Tell me you didn’t cut your hair.”

  “No,” she said, touching the back of her head where she’d presumably bundled the mass into a sleek, smooth knot. “You’re holding the cat.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled, then took a quick assessment. “I’m holding her.”

  Ash reached out a tentative hand, then let it fall. “I don’t want to scare her.”

  “Try,” he said, stepping forward.

  As she pet the cat, he stole a quick kiss. “You need to come up with a name for her.”

  Ash’s eyes widened. “You think?”

  “You got a cat, she’s got to have a name.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Ash said, then stepped out, tucking a small purse beneath her arm.

  “You’ll think about a name or about actual pet ownership?”

  “Both,” she said and started down the steps. “We should take my car.”

  He glanced at it, sitting beside his, and noted the sedan was newly washed and gleaming like a pearl. There was mud caked in his wheel rims and more of it splattered on the license plate.

  “Yours is going to get as dirty as mine taking the road out of here,” he warned.

  “I want them to see I can take care of my car just as well as I can take care of myself.”

  With a shrug, he set the cat on the porch and followed Ash to the Mercedes. He had no problem riding shotgun.

  But that wasn’t to be when her car wouldn’t start. She tried a second time, then a third before Brody put his hand over hers. “It’s dead, sweetheart.”

  She slammed her palms on the steering wheel. “How can it be dead?”

  He blinked at her vehemence. “A number of ways. It’s no big deal. Pop the hood and I’ll—”

  “There’s no time to diagnose it now,” she said, reaching for her handle. “We’ll have to go in your SUV.”

  “It might only take a second.”

  “We can’t be late.” She climbed out of the car, then bent to look at him still inside. “Come on.”

  “You could call them, explain—”

  “We can’t be late.”

  Brody’s brows shot up but he didn’t argue further. Soon enough they were on their way, with Ash muttering to herself and checking the time on the dash about every thirty seconds. “It’s going to be fine,” he assured her, but that didn’t stop her fingers entwining tight enough to go white-knuckled.

  They made it to the restaurant in Beverly Hills with time to spare. Though Ash stood outwardly composed as they waited to meet her parents, her inner turmoil was apparent in the tense expression on her face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, touching her arm.

  But before she could answer, the other couple joined them. There was an exchange of polite pleasantries as they entered the restaurant. It had wide windows, was brightly lit and decorated in shades of white, all the better to showcase the celebrity patrons who had made the place famous. In true L.A. fashion, as they were shown to their place he made sure not to glance at the other guests—not that he would have shown any sign of recognition if he happened to see a familiar person.

  Unless it was a relative or a client, it was considered gauche by SoCal standards to have any reaction whatsoever to a famous face in a fancy establishment like this one.

  They took seats at a table covered in a starched cloth. Brody caught Carol Lexington eyeing him like she worried he might put his napkin on his head and eat with his fingers.

  Ash must have caught the look too, because her voice took on an edge. “Brody is a successful builder, by the way.”

  “He owns his own business?”

  “Yes.” Ash now spoke to her opened menu.

  “Well,” Carol said. “That’s nice to know. We didn’t get to learn much about your…friend last night.”

  Except for the fact that Ash wanted him to “fu” her, he thought, biting back a smile. Unfortunately for him though, the Lexingtons’ surprise visit had dampened Ash’s mood and he’d gone home alone, at her request.

  Now he thought that might have been a mistake, because he sensed he’d lost some ground with Ash. Or maybe it was just the influence of her parents that made her seem so distant.

  It was as if she’d taken herself a million miles away from him…and everyone else in the restaurant, with her straight-backed posture, her pristine clothes, her face carved from marble.

  He missed his Ash, who was always a little tattered…and infinitely more touchable.

  They ordered, the food arrived.

  But a more relaxed atmosphere around the table did not appear with the glasses of iced tea or the plates of food. Ash and her mother had chosen the same, grilled swordfish and steamed vegetables, hold the garlic mashed potatoes. Philip Lexington had selected steak and all the trimmings. Brody thought he struck a nice medium with sea bass and zucchini coins sautéed in olive oil. And yes to the mashed potatoes, thank you very much.

  Maybe a carb coma would make this uncomfortable meal easier to bear.

  “So did it bring ba
ck memories, Mother?” Ash ventured, two bites in. “Visiting Satan’s last night?”

  “I haven’t forgotten an inch of that place,” she replied, her expression unchanging.

  It was eerie, that.

  “You could come by the house too, if you’d like.”

  Her mother looked over her plate at her daughter. “I thought you said you were staying in some…trailer closer to the roadhouse.”

  “That’s been moved off.” Ash didn’t say a word about the vandalism. And it was he who had arranged with Payne—who operated salvage yards—to haul away the ruined mobile home for scrap. Ash had been grateful, even though the Sheriff’s Department hadn’t a lead on the perpetrators.

  “I’m staying now at the old homestead,” Ash said, her voice cheerful, though her face expressed anything but. “Maybe you’d like to see the changes there. Brae took out some walls and added a pellet stove. It’s very cozy.”

  “I’m sure,” Carol Lexington said in a vague, noncommittal tone. “Your sister was very creative.”

  Ash rubbed her left wrist with her right hand as if she missed the bracelets she usually wore there, beaded and feathered and leather wrappings that Brody realized now must have been her twin’s. Oh, Ash.

  “But I won’t have time to stop by,” Carol continued.

  “No? I thought you might be here a while.” Instead of seeming relieved at this answer, Ash appeared to go even more brittle. “Day after tomorrow is my birthday.”

  Huh? Shit, so much was coming together for him now. He’d seen the flyer about the celebration of life. Several of them had been passed around the bar. It was scheduled for Ash and Brae’s birthday. It was either a brilliant idea or totally botched.

  “And I told you I’d arranged for a party,” her mother said, apparently unperturbed. “At our home in Saratoga. The invitations are already out so we’ll have to go on without the guest of honor.”