Rock Reclaimed: Rockstar Romantic Suspense (Rock Revenge Trilogy Book 2)

by Cari Quinn

  I hadn’t made it yet. Hadn’t figured out a way to hold on to what I was grasping for with everything I had. But I was closer than I’d ever been.

  “How the hell are you doing tonight, LA?” I called out, and they screamed back at me, pressing closer. I leaned forward, my shirt gaping precariously, giving the front row a show that made them slap their hands on the stage. “You look pretty damn fine, I’ll tell you that. It’s a pleasure to be here. A real iconic place, isn’t it? An experience that can’t be duplicated, yeah? And I’m a new guy on the scene, but I want to do that for you all too. Give you something you’ve never ever had before.” I licked my lips, letting my attention slide along every woman in the front and then drift back. “You think you’re ready? I’m about to make you all very glad you’re alive.”

  As they hooted and hollered, I looked behind me and snapped my fingers, counting off as the band kicked into gear on our first cover of the night, “Wild Thoughts.”

  I grabbed hold of the microphone, attacking the song with the same fire I’d watched countless others do on this very stage. Except I went to another level. I grinded against the mic, holding it so close to my mouth that my vocals took on a huskier, raspier quality. When I got to the part about seeing me naked, the roar was deafening. I couldn’t help smiling as I sang, tossing a glance over my shoulder at the guitarist nearest my side. He grinned, but not at me. He was looking at the crowd. Soaking up their admiration like it was all for him.

  Even at this most amazing moment, I had no one to share it with. No band to joke around with who actually liked me and saw me as anything more than a pay stub, and a fairly measly one at that.

  Not now. Nothing else matters but the music. You’ve sacrificed everything to get here. Don’t waste it.

  I didn’t let myself think about the other musicians or whether Sabrina liked what she was seeing or whether Zoe even remembered me any longer. I focused on the crowd, getting high on their attention like the most potent of drugs.

  The more they demanded, the more I offered. The rest of the buttons on my shirt came undone, except for the bottom two. At one point, I grabbed hold of the button on my denims and popped that too, lifting my arms as I sang “Not Backing Down” so that the pants gapped just enough to elicit insanity near the front. Cameras never stopped flashing. I couldn’t even imagine the amount of clips that would be on YouTube tonight. And I worked it, bracing a foot on an amp and leaning backward as I belted out the chorus to the song that was becoming my anthem.

  You might hate me.

  Might say I did it all for the wrong reasons.

  But remember my name.

  Because you’ll hear it again.

  Oh, all over again.

  You’ll chant my name.

  At a break between songs, I guzzled water and yanked out the monitor in my ear. My head was buzzing and sweat was dripping down my back. I wanted to lose the shirt. Lose the fucking restrictive pants too.

  Was this why my brother had developed a penchant for getting the next thing to naked onstage? I’d always assumed it was sheer grandstanding.

  Not that I minded the shrieks and flung panties just a few more inches of my abs garnered. If I pulled down my zipper, just enough to—

  I grinned at myself and wished I’d swapped the water for vodka. Their screams were addictive. I was riding high on them, desperate to make them give me more. To lose themselves in the concert so that their shitty jobs didn’t matter and tomorrow would never come.

  It was the same reason I was doing this show. Living in the minute and staving off the inevitable.

  When I’d be alone in my low-rent motel room after, pink neon from the sign outside glowing over the bed, getting myself drunk so I didn’t realize I was fucking alone.

  So fucking alone.

  I turned back to the audience and wiped my hand slowly over my mouth. But I wasn’t alone right now.

  “Who’s ready for more?”

  Shouts and raised fists answered me.

  “We’re not going home tonight, are we? We’re keeping this party going. And we’re just getting started, yeah? Who knows ‘Hole Hearted’ by Extreme?”

  The guitarist groaned. It was at the very bottom of the audible list, the song we’d practiced least other than the new addition, “For You.” But it had a party vibe and I wanted to keep the mood high.

  Fuck him. Fuck the whole entire band. They were probably waiting for a chance to take off like Deuce had. I was doing this my way.

  The audience was a half-and-half split. Maybe less than half and half. They still jumped and stomped their appreciation as I looped my guitar strap over my head and strummed into the song. My fingers were far too sore from all my nights of playing until nearly the pink light of dawn streamed across the sky, but I didn’t allow myself to feel the pain.

  This show was going to be my finest hour. If it wasn’t, I was going to die trying.

  By the end of the night, my jeans were a deep breath away from indecency. When I rasped the lyrics to Zoe’s song, I turned my head and swore I saw her in the crowd. Striking blond hair, huge eyes. Sunshine lived inside her but she was afraid to let it out. To put her faith in someone not to take that light and turn it back against her.

  People tried. Men tried. Those two that day had, and probably others. I couldn’t shield her from the world. Hell, she didn’t even want to talk to me.

  This woman wasn’t Zoe. It didn’t matter. I sang to her as if she was. As if the only woman in my head was actually staring back at me, her hands clasped to her lips, her heart open to mine.

  This stranger trusted me. Zoe probably never would.

  I offered myself to a woman I didn’t know, because at least she’d accept what I was giving. She wanted to be mine. Even with all my flaws and lies and secrets, she was looking at me as if I was her dream come true.

  At the end of the song, I stepped forward with the band, kissing my fingers and holding them high in between each bow.

  Disappearing behind the curtain backstage felt like falling into a black hole. No light. No oxygen. No way out.

  Without thinking, I stumbled to the long table of booze and finger foods. Although I was starving, right now I didn’t care about food. I needed something else to kill the ache.

  I grabbed the first bottle I saw and poured, tossing it back so fast it burned. Didn’t know what it was. Didn’t care. I just needed something to give me the boost I needed to get through the rest. Even knowing what waited for me after the curtain came down after the final bow.

  Jerry would have called. That was a certainty. I’d been dodging his calls as much as I could, but he’d be watching to see what I had going on tonight. Saturday nights were a given for performances. He’d see these clips, decide I was having too much fun and not getting enough work done.

  And he’d find a way to make me pay.

  I’d sent him money. Not much. I didn’t have much, for God’s sake. But that didn’t mean a thing to him. I was supposed to be hooking Simon on the pole. My career was only meant to facilitate my getting closer to Simon. Brotherly bonding and all that. Whatever nonsense Jerry told himself.

  How had I believed that? Believed any of what he’d spewed? As if it could be that easy to waltz into Simon’s life, no matter the manner I chose. Even if I’d sent him flowers and candy with a cheery note, he never would have welcomed me with open arms. I was the enemy. The guy competing with him just by daring to enter the same field.

  And the crowd was chanting for me, their pounding feet seeming to shake the building. It was in my head. Had to be. But their need for me fueled me every bit as much as the alcohol I’d poured down my throat.

  I had made more of myself than just being the gutter rat everyone had figured would end up dead or behind bars.

  I’d arrived.

  Finally.

  Fourteen

  This was the best night of my life.

  And it wasn’t over yet.

  I came back onstage with the studio
musicians following me. As the curtain lifted one more time, the roar grew, dazzling me until I couldn’t tell if it was the booze making my vision swim or the sheer number of people out there, arms raised for me.

  All these years, I’d hoped and prayed I’d get to this place. Now there was a not so metaphorical knife at my throat, but I’d arrived. Even if this was the end of the line for me, I’d stood on the same stage as some of my idols.

  I mean, Jim Morrison, for God’s sake.

  “Thank you,” I said into the microphone, my voice raspy and thick. They barely quieted. “Hey, hey, that’s enough, yeah? Thank you so much, you loud, cheeky buggers.” That made laughter break out, just as I’d hoped. “Are you going to settle down and let me finish?”

  “Oh, I’d let you finish.” The shout came from somewhere in the middle of the main area of the club, and I squinted, trying to make out from whom even as my ears and neck burned. Dirty girls were everywhere.

  I thanked God for them. For every bit of this memory that I’d hold close, come what may.

  Turning toward the new drummer, I signaled for one of my last two songs, “Last Call.” It was a pub song, made for a raucous singalong. I was drunk enough for it, though I hadn’t had that much considering my tolerance. But the adoration from the audience tipped me over the edge.

  “Who’s ready to shake their bums?”

  I was a bit embarrassed about not changing it to asses—I’d been Americanizing myself as much as possible, even to the point of listening to books on audio so that the cadence and word choices lived in my brain—but the crowd’s response made me glad I hadn’t. They seemed to enjoy my differences.

  Time to own it.

  A tech handed me my guitar and I looped it on again as I launched into the song, letting out a laugh when a cluster of women near the front tried to sing with me and failed miserably. I cupped my ear and they upped their vocals, making up for their lack of accuracy with enthusiasm. Without thinking, I sidestepped into the guitarist’s sphere—Tony? Ronnie? I wasn’t sure—and we went back to back.

  I froze. I didn’t do this shit. But he was jamming hard enough that I found my way and the fans seemed to eat up every bit of our exchange. Me leaning in, still strumming the rhythm section, him leaning back on lead. Reversing and then switching it up and getting in each other’s face. Just laughing and having a goddamn good time.

  It wasn’t even about selling a sexed-up image so I could get a song on the radio anymore. This was just having fun.

  Something I’d been in short supply of for far too long.

  We rolled right into the final one of the night, a cover of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” It was an homage to my brother’s band, as they’d done the song more than a few times. Okay, not so much an homage. Maybe more like a call out. A challenge.

  I might not be at your lofty height, but I can still make the girls scream. I can still hit all those high notes you back away from.

  A low blow, perhaps. I wasn’t above them, obviously. I was the nobody trying to get the most popular kid to notice me—for good reasons or bad.

  That I had no choice if I wanted to keep Jerry off my back was incidental. The method I’d chosen to open that vein again was pure me.

  Pure Ian Kagan asshole gene coming through.

  Knowing I’d had to make a move would be cold comfort later on tonight, but right now? Right now, it felt fucking amazing to let my voice soar and to think of Simon’s reaction when he found out.

  Because he would find out.

  All fun came with a price. And my bill would come due soon.

  At the end of the set, once the goodbyes were said and the bows were over, we jogged off the stage with the echo of the crowd’s excitement thrumming all around us. I grinned and slapped hands with the other guys, acknowledging—possibly for the first time—that I hadn’t been alone out there. They’d been right with me, helping to make the songs better than I could’ve done on my own.

  “Thanks, Ronnie,” I said to the lead guitarist. “You were amazing.”

  His grin slid away. “My name is Anthony, fucker.”

  I rubbed the cross at my throat as he stalked away, shoving away the other guys who tried to talk to him, shooting me glares of death all the while.

  Yeah, looked like I’d be taking a bottle to go.

  Instead of going back to the dressing room, I stopped by the refreshment table and snagged a bottle from the back, tucking it in a paper bag that had contained a bundle of leaflets like a proper wino. I grabbed my knapsack and collected my guitar and split without waiting to see if Sabrina was lurking around some corner with her after-show assessment.

  I’d worry about what she thought after I woke up from my bender.

  Judging from the difficulty I had sneaking out the side exit into the waiting car, the night had been a smashing success. Crying, screaming women pressed their hands—and tits—against the car windows, begging me for innumerable things even I didn’t have the wherewithal to give them. At least not the entire group in one night.

  I was only one man.

  But I smiled and stuck my arm out the window to sign whatever was presented to me. Arms, posters, napkins. Cleavage. I signed that too. What the hell? I was halfway to drunk. And when a pretty redhead with twin pigtails handed me a joint through the window, I took that as well.

  She didn’t like it when the driver picked that moment to roll away, but I did. It’d been a while since I’d smoked and my nerves were jangling like a junkie’s.

  “So, you just take whatever’s handed to you and toke up?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t appreciate the judgmental tone, mate. I’m paying you just to drive.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re a rockstar, all right.” The driver raised the partition between the front and back.

  Handy, since my phone went off. Without looking, I knew who it was.

  Time to face the music…again.

  “Jerry. Your timing is shit, mate.” The alcohol had made me sloppy. And stupid.

  “Oh, is it? So sorry to hear it. Not like you have actual duties to attend to instead of shaking your bum for a bunch of sluts.”

  The word dented even my happy liquor-and-pot post-show haze. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. What do you have for me? And it better be good. I have a ticket right here beside me and I won’t hesitate to use it if you don’t have something worthwhile.”

  Even in my current state, the threat landed as it was meant. I sucked in more smoke and tipped back my head, hoping like hell it would calm me down.

  Don’t freak. Just stall him.

  “I’m making inroads at his record company. Soon, I’ll attempt contact again.”

  “Soon? What the fuck are you waiting for? For him to get wise to your past and shut down completely?”

  My eyes narrowed. “I have to make it convincing that I want to be in his life. If I rush, he’ll get suspicious.”

  “But you’ve seen him at Ripper at least. He must come there now and then.”

  I grunted. I hadn’t seen him at all, but I didn’t think that would be wise to admit.

  “Is he in the studio right now? There’s been talk of Oblivion fitting in another EP.”

  I didn’t have the foggiest. “Donovan doesn’t let up on his people, especially if they’re successful.”

  “What time does he arrive and leave? Is he usually alone?”

  Frowning, I inhaled smoke. What the fuck was Jerry on about? “He usually travels alone, yes.” From the pictures in the rags I’d seen anyway. “Unless he’s with Nick or his wife. Though the gossip mags say Simon is a later riser than Margo.”

  Ridiculous that I even knew that. I was far too invested in my brother, and not just because of Jerry’s demands.

  He was a damn idol of mine, much as I hated to admit it.

  “I need more than that. It will make it easier for you to present yourself in his path if you study his patterns,” he added as my fingers trembled around the joint. />
  I didn’t like any of this.

  “I’ll do what I have to. I’ll be in touch.” I ended the call before he could question me any further.

  Christ, I couldn’t go back to my motel with all this in my head. So many questions and recriminations and regrets. I didn’t want to spend the night alone.

  I couldn’t.

  “Hey, Frank. Frank.” I knocked, and knocked again when he didn’t answer. “C’mon, man, don’t be like that.”

  The partition came down. “Yes, sir?” His tone was frosty. Hopefully, he also wasn’t one to eavesdrop.

  At least he hadn’t called me a fucker yet.

  “Change of address. I’m heading to a friend’s.”

  “What’s her location?”

  I frowned. “How do you know it’s a she?”

  “Do you play with both?”

  I sucked in more smoke. I wasn’t high enough yet for this conversation. “She’s a she,” I said when I could think again. “Venice Beach area.” I told him Zoe’s address and the partition slid back up soundlessly.

  With a sigh, I dropped my head back on the seat rest. Maybe this was a bad idea. I was running pretty hard after the concert, even with the sweet smoke sliding through my bloodstream. Zoe already thought I was the stereotypical rockstar in training. Showing up drunk and high with adrenaline buzzing through my system wouldn’t do much to change that assessment.

  But I didn’t want to be alone. And if I wasn’t going to be alone, I wanted to be with her.

  No one else would do.

  The partition came back down after a couple minutes. It took a few tries for me to direct Frank properly. Not just because I was new to the area and had only visited Zoe’s once, but it was dark and I was sufficiently buzzed enough to make it hard to concentrate. I didn’t smoke very often for this reason. I wasn’t the type who normally liked to be out of control…at least not beyond a certain extent. But the show had done something crazy to me. Offered me the first hit of a drug that I wanted more and more of.