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

by Cari Quinn

  And so my ribs didn’t start showing through my clothes.

  “You all right there?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I scrubbed a hand over my face and reached for my smokes again. I pulled one out and lit it, taking a long drag. Instantly, the jangle of nerves inside me started to relax. “The story with me and Simon isn’t so interesting. Our mother left him here with our father when she was pregnant with me.”

  “Left him and went where? The place you got that accent?”

  I nodded. “Yes. We just got…reacquainted.”

  “It ain’t re if you hadn’t known each other before.”

  He had a point.

  “So why do you want Scott back in your band so badly? He joined mine because my exiting drummer was a buddy of his. Lance told him how I treat my people. No ego issues, no petty fights, no drama whatsoever.”

  “Hmm, sounds like the exact opposite of my life.”

  Flynn chuckled again. “Self-awareness is half the battle, man.”

  “That it is.” Why did I like this guy? There was no reason for it. Other than he’d suggested we share a plate of appetizers.

  For that alone, I’d probably tongue kiss him until he cried uncle.

  “We ended things on the wrong foot,” I said finally. “Started them that way too. I want a chance to make things right.”

  “You don’t have a drummer in your band right now? I thought you had a current slate of shows.”

  “I do, but he’s not De— Scott.” Personally, I liked Deuce better, but I was trying to show my sensitive side.

  “So, to show you’re not a dick, you’re going to fire your current drummer to get back your old drummer, who also thought you were a dick and found himself a gig he enjoys? Do I have that right?”

  I sighed and flicked away ashes. “Painfully.”

  “Look, I wasn’t a natural at having a band, either. Solo artists and band guys are different breeds. You play guitar yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah, see, we’re used to operating on our own. Problem is, unless you’re going for a coffeehouse sound, that’s not a full-enough experience for a paying crowd. And you always have to think about the audience or you’ll find you don’t have one. Maybe you don’t care so much about building a band of brothers onstage, but your fans? They’ll eat it up. And eventually, if you pick the right people and give it a chance, you’ll find that those connections you build will make your sound—and your life—richer.”

  “You sure about that? Because right now, I find working with people to be a right pain in the arse.”

  He laughed as the waitress brought over our platter of appetizers. “They can be that too, but give it a chance. Thanks, darlin’.”

  She beamed at him and walked past with a light buzz of her fingertips over his shoulders.

  I stabbed out my cigarette and washed the taste out of my mouth with the last of my water. “You know how to work them, don’t you?” It was a sight to behold.

  “I’m not working anybody. Kindness is free. As is offering someone a smile or a friendly word. Truth is, a lot of women don’t appreciate me calling them anything, and I can see that. I’m trying to stop.” He picked up an onion ring and pulled it apart. “Old habits, you know?”

  All I knew at that moment was that I was about to embarrass myself over a plate of fried food. I tried to keep talking while saliva pooled in my mouth. “Southern gentleman?” Casually, oh so casually, I reached for a mozzarella stick.

  Or three.

  “You’re not the only one with an accent, though it’s been a long time for me. I’m from Paducah, but sometimes I can’t help— Guess you were hungry, huh?”

  I was too busy eating to talk.

  He must’ve realized he’d lost me to the vat of calories because he kept speaking without my input. He’d been raised in Kentucky, lived there until he was a teenager, then moved to Nashville to get his career started. Spent time putting out music in country, some in country rock, always straddling that line, but especially once he moved to LA. He mentioned jobs as a cashier and a busboy and a floor sweeper. Working his way up. How he’d hung in there in the drought periods. That he was even having one now.

  I got most of it, I was pretty sure. I just had other priorities at the moment.

  I didn’t look up again until I’d made my way through the mozzarella sticks and the fried pickles. I was about to set upon the chicken fingers when he cleared his throat.

  “Wanna get another of these? And maybe something off the menu, like real food?”

  Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I tried to fight back the hot wave of shame burning my ears. Shouldn’t I be used to it by now?

  Someday it wouldn’t be like this. I wouldn’t always be like a starving wolf let off the chain to finally feed.

  “On me,” he added quickly, as if he could sense I was fumbling for a reply.

  More embarrassment. Lovely.

  I nodded, ducking my head, wishing I had vodka left in my flask. But nope, I’d have to suffer this indignity without anything to do with my hands.

  Once the waitress returned—with both the coffee pitcher and the water one—she refilled our beverages and took the rest of our order. Somehow we ordered not only another appetizer platter, but I also ordered a panini and tiramisu for dessert. I didn’t even wait to see if I’d still be hungry. As soon as I saw the picture on the menu, boom.

  Flynn ordered something else, but I wasn’t sure what. My head was buzzing with white noise. The kind that was a mixture of relief and humiliation and delayed lightheadedness from too many cigarettes and booze and too little food or sleep. The appetizers I’d eaten had barely put a dent in the gap inside me.

  We moved through the meal faster than I’d expected. Both eating-wise and conversation-wise. Once Flynn actually got some food in front of him that I couldn’t rip out of his mouth, he kept fairly good pace with me. We’d segued into talking about my brief past on the circuit in London and how I’d found my way to LA. The chance Donovan had given me, as much out of a desire to see me fall as to see me fly. Or so I’d always assumed.

  “Van’s like that.” With our second appetizer platter and our sandwiches out of the way, we both dug into dessert. A lot of guys didn’t seem to find sweets very manly, or didn’t have the taste for them that I did. But Flynn tore into his banana cake with gusto. “He can be the most supportive guy in the world, but he’s also one to challenge and test you. There’s no gimmes with him. If you’re on his roster, you deserve your place there.”

  I swallowed hard. For all my bravado, I still needed reassurances like that, and they were short in coming. Sabrina wasn’t one to praise. That was fine with me. I wasn’t a child. Still, a nice word now and then went a long way.

  “Since you and Van,” that nickname so did not sit right in reference to Donovan, “are so close and go so far back, why are you on Delta Sky Records and not Ripper?”

  Flynn set down his fork and sat back, a slight smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did your research on me, I see.”

  “Bare minimum. Out of curiosity more than anything else. So?” It was a miracle I could still speak when I had this glorious confection of ladyfingers, espresso, mascarpone, and cocoa bursting across my tongue.

  And yes, I knew every ingredient, because I’d nearly salivated at the listing and accompanying picture in the menu. It was living up to every glossy pixel.

  “I’m my own man. I don’t like anyone hemming me in.”

  “Is that why there’s talk you may be shopping for a new label soon?” I lifted my eyebrows innocently at his pointed look. “I’m a curious kitty, what can I say?”

  “If I wanted to be on Ripper, Van would take me on in a heartbeat. He’s been wooing me for years.”

  “I’m not sure I can picture Van in full woo. Does it involve oil and a loincloth?”

  Flynn snorted and knocked back the rest of his coffee. “Thanks for that picture, bro. Let’s just say he’s given me the full R
ipper Records spiel.”

  “Yet you aren’t interested because he wants to hem you in.”

  “He wants me more rock than I’ve ever been. He thinks that’s the untapped side of me I need to lean on more to make it in this market. Country hybrid is where it’s at. Outlaw country? Gone the way of the dodo bird.”

  “Well, twang really isn’t appealing on any—” I cleared my throat as he narrowed his eyes. “My, it’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “I can see why Scott said you were an asshole.”

  “Being an asshole doesn’t make me wrong. But on a different note, I really recommend the tiramisu.”

  Cocking his head, he forked up banana cake and chewed thoughtfully. “You’re happy at Ripper?”

  “I am. I’m quite new, of course. I don’t have the foggiest what I’m fucking doing, but my rep is a ball-buster and that suits me.”

  “She’s rough on you, and you like it?”

  “She doesn’t handhold. I don’t want that. I want someone to tell me straight like it is, and she has every time. Though she’s been squawking about making an album, and Christ, the studio seems so…”

  “Boring?”

  Relieved he’d said it so I didn’t have to, I nodded. “I know it shouldn’t. It’s all about making music and reaching the most fans. But the energy of a live show is so electric. Sitting in a little box doing fifty takes seems anticlimactic.”

  “Get yourself a good producer who understands what you’re going for and the kind of sound you want and you won’t be stuck doing fifty takes.”

  “Oh, yeah? And how do I find myself one of those? I’m too new for anyone to want to take me on.” At least I assumed. I really didn’t understand how the whole process worked.

  But the tiramisu? Incredible. And now my plate was empty, and I was tempted to lick up the last dusting of cocoa.

  Maybe once Flynn and I knew each other a little better.

  Because we would. I didn’t make friends easily—okay, mostly not at all, as evidenced by my awkwardness with every studio musician I’d worked with. But something about talking with Flynn felt natural to me. He was a no-bullshit sort of guy, and in a world of fake glitz and glamour, I appreciated that.

  “I know a guy.”

  “That sounds encouraging.”

  “No, really.” He leaned back in his chair, kicking out his legs again. “He likes to take on oddball cases.”

  I frowned. “Really, don’t be so effusive.”

  “You have to know you’re unusual. It’s why you’ve found success so fast.”

  “Is that why it is? I thought it was my big…hands.”

  He didn’t so much as blink. “Your brother’s success partly came from the fact that he was the quintessential rockstar. Almost too pretty to be male, talented, made to be a pinup on someone’s wall. You’re all those things with an added element of what the fuck.”

  “You forgot the accent.”

  “The accent is part of the what the fuck.”

  I had to laugh. “So, this guy likes oddballs. Is he an oddball? Usually, we tend to pal around together.”

  “Oh, yes, Rory is definitely…different.”

  “Different like a sociopath or different creatively?”

  “Possibly both.” He grinned. “Nah, he’s a good guy. Let me give you his number.” Instead of asking for my mobile as most people did nowadays to input the digits, he pulled out a slim wallet that appeared nearly empty and procured a business card. On the back, he wrote Rory’s number. He slid it across the table to me, but before I copied the number into my phone, I checked out the business on the other side.

  “Sheila’s House of Pleasure?” I raised a brow. “Did I take a wrong turn and end up in Las Vegas?”

  “Strip club, my man. Not my idea. Bachelor party.”

  “And you kept the card because it’s so shiny and pink?”

  “Wasn’t all that was shiny and pink, I’ll tell you that.”

  I grinned back and would’ve had a comment for that one if my mobile hadn’t buzzed. I pulled it out. Sabrina. “One moment,” I told him.

  He nodded and folded his hands over his stomach. Hmm, an American who wasn’t obsessed with his phone. Strange. In fact, I hadn’t seen him take it out even once.

  Speaking of oddballs. Took one to know one, I supposed.

  As soon as I accepted the call, my rep launched into her spiel.

  “You’re going to be home tomorrow. Plan on being available early Friday. No boozing, no women the night before. You need a good night’s sleep.”

  “And hello to you too. How’s the weather there? It’s a bit overcast here, but the fog burned off early. Lovely town though. Delicious coffee, I’ve heard.”

  Flynn saluted me with his empty cup.

  “Roman has an opening in two days to get you outfitted for those promo shots we talked about.”

  “I’m quivering in me boots with excitement.”

  “I just bet you are. I’m hoping to secure Preston Conrad for the shots, as well as for the cover of your forthcoming EP, but he’s highly in demand—”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me. What?”

  “You heard me. No. I already have a photographer on call.”

  That was potentially the biggest lie I’d ever told. Or at least the most ridiculous. Zoe wasn’t on call for anything for me. Not even sex, and we’d nearly set her flat on fire.

  Sabrina sighed. “What did I tell you about Zoe Manning?”

  “Who says it’s her?”

  “The pointer dog in your pants. Which I don’t want to know anything about. She’s not a commercial photographer, Ian.”

  “She’s an incredible photographer, and an artist as well. Whatever you need from the shots, she can handle. Besides, if she wasn’t commercial, why did Lila hire her for the Zeps show? No offense, but I do believe Lila has seniority over you.”

  Flynn’s brows lifted and he whistled under his breath.

  I wouldn’t be shedding my asshole moniker anytime soon, but it was true. I didn’t like anyone even unintentionally discrediting Zoe. She was an amazingly talented artist.

  I’d have to keep reminding myself of that when she disemboweled me with her bare hands after Sabrina contacted her.

  The dead air on the line told me Sabrina was not amused by my outburst. Loyalty was never valued as it should be.

  After a moment, she spoke again. “I’ll talk to her. Be ready for the driver at eight sharp on Friday.”

  Click.

  I pocketed my mobile and smiled grimly at Flynn. “So, how soon is this Rory fellow available?”

  He didn’t have a chance to answer before my phone buzzed again. Goose bumps raised along the backs of my arms though it was warm and the sun had just broken through the clouds.

  This was not a call I could take here. Nor could I brazen my way through it as I had so much else.

  I had no money left. Nothing. No credit I could use as a cushion.

  It was my fault I’d fucked up the plan. I hadn’t even spoken to Simon since arriving in LA, never mind begun to ingratiate myself into his life. We’d had an agenda. Jerry and the people he worked with didn’t believe in detours.

  “Shouldn’t you answer that?” Flynn nodded at my mobile as it stopped buzzing and immediately started again.

  I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering. Christ, what had I been thinking? That I could just play rockstar and smitten guy in lust with a beautiful girl and Jerry would just stand idly by?

  Even without speaking to him, I knew I’d reached the end of the line.

  The clock had been ticking, and now the time was up.

  Twenty

  “Fuck off.”

  I threw a paintbrush at my phone across the room. I forgot to turn off the ringer and the stupid thing kept going off. Either it was a fucking call from a client or it was a text from Ian.

  He was a little harder to ignore, but I was trying, dammit.

  Of course I promptly forgot to go o
ver and turn off the ringer again. I had to finish this painting before my appointment with Ginny, my advisor. I’d been ducking her calls too, but I was officially into the final quarter of the year. Put up or shut up territory. Freaking kill me.

  I gingerly moved down my scaffolding. Some days I wished I worked smaller, but the larger-than-life canvases were my favorite. This one was a close-up of one of my Polaroids. The microphone stand I’d been obsessed with at my first show with Ian.

  Amazingly, I’d gotten all the details I’d wanted. And I could embellish the rest.

  I’d been working on the janky base of the microphone stand for two days. It was achingly in focus while the rest of the high tech was a soft blur with just enough detail so that it was very apparent what everything was.

  Dichotomies were my current theme.

  Ian’s beat-to-hell boot—a Chelsea boot, I’d found out with a little research—and the glam sparkle of his pants were still scratching the back of my brain. I’d already given too many pieces to Ian. I’d tried to fuck him out of my system, but he only seemed more entrenched. Annoying as hell.

  The light changed in my studio and my second alarm went off to remind me of my appointment with Ginny. I hopped off the scaffolding set I’d bought last night. I was tired of hanging off the ladder I’d been using. And my paintings only seemed to be getting bigger. This current one was eight feet square.

  I backed up to get a better look at the progress. I grabbed my water to get a different angle, and my stupid phone went off again. But since it could be Ginny, I picked up.

  Annoyed when I didn’t recognize the number, my voice was nearly a snarl. “Yeah?”

  “Miss Manning?”

  The cultured voice made my spine tingle. “Maybe.”

  “My name is Sabrina Price.”

  Her name niggled at me. Not an art person though; those names I knew. I uncapped my water and glugged down half the bottle. “Good for you.”

  “I see why you’re friends with Ian, though I’d think you would have better manners with Lila’s bloodline running through your veins.”

  I winced. “Sorry, it’s been a day.”

  “I’m used to it.”