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

by Cari Quinn

  She’d kissed me goodbye this morning. In her own way, of course. She’d shoved me out the door and told me to buzz off, she had stuff to do. But she’d been smiling.

  When I lifted my arm, I could smell her coconut body wash on my skin. As I knew she’d smell like me. If I could, I’d stay wrapped inside her and never leave.

  I didn’t have that option.

  Worse…was my even being close to her putting her in harm’s way?

  I’d tried to shove down that feeling whenever it surfaced. For selfish reasons. I needed Zoe. They wouldn’t take their pound of flesh from her because I was the one they wanted.

  Me and my brother.

  The brother I’d come here to take advantage of. And now…I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t even sure why. Had love changed me? Both the love of my music and the love of—

  No. I wasn’t there yet. She was a welcome respite, an oasis for me in the middle of insanity. But I’d never been in love with anyone. To fall now would be madness.

  Especially knowing she could never love me back and be safe. Just being near me would taint her. That wasn’t even considering if my interest in her was putting a target on her back.

  I couldn’t fathom that. Simply could not.

  Swallowing hard, I twisted my wrist and hovered the glowing end of the cigarette over my inner arm. I didn’t have much time. I had to get in the studio. Jesus, another place where I had no clue what I was doing. But I had to try.

  For my mother.

  For Zoe.

  For the last shred of self-esteem I had left.

  The door swung inward just as I made contact. Sheer force of will had me biting off a groan as I ripped the cigarette away and faced down my worst nightmare.

  Even having Simon see me like this would be better.

  Donovan Lewis said nothing, just raised a brow as my flesh practically smoked. I couldn’t rub the burn as I normally would, pressing the pain deeper like a splinter between my veins and muscles. All I could do was stare at Donovan and wait for the hammer to come down.

  There was no point in making an excuse. Oh, my hand slipped.

  Right. Even without saying a word, he conveyed clearly that he knew exactly what had just occurred.

  “Is that going to help you?” He nodded at my now weeping wound. “Allow you to forget something else, perhaps?”

  I didn’t say anything, just ground out the cigarette beneath my boot into the pretty ivory tiles. Shame filled me, choking my throat as I rose to dump the butt in the garbage. I washed my hands to give myself something to do so I didn’t have to look Donovan in the eye. I pushed my dripping hand through my long, messy hair to shove it out of my face. Then I shoved my burning arm under the cold water, hissing like a wounded animal.

  It was the first time I’d ever tried to ease the pain I’d caused. Usually, I tried to make it worse.

  Donovan’s heels sounded behind me, and then he leaned against the wall opposite me, eyeing me as dispassionately as an art collector with his latest acquisition. That was all I was. Another piece meant to demonstrate value. If I didn’t? I’d be disposed of.

  Literally, in this case, although probably not by Donovan Lewis.

  “You’re in trouble.”

  I swallowed and scrubbed at my arm, scraping my short nails over the damaged skin. Hope bloomed—and was ruthlessly squashed.

  He can’t save you.

  No one can.

  You got yourself into this. Only you can save yourself.

  “There’s no shame in asking for help.”

  I laughed so hard that tears sprang into my eyes. “Do you really believe that tripe or is that the chapter you’re on in your motivational leadership book?”

  He continued as if I’d never spoken. “I talked to Flynn. He told me you’d met. That you were so ravenous, I must not pay you anything. He laughed about it, but I know he was troubled.”

  I’d thought I couldn’t be more ashamed than I was already.

  I was wrong.

  Scrubbing harder, I prayed he’d leave. I would’ve done the honors myself, but I honestly wasn’t certain my legs would carry me out the door.

  Here I’d believed I hid my sins away so well, and I couldn’t even disguise my skipping dinner the night before.

  “I might think you were spending your money on substances, as that’s a common affliction among our kind.”

  Not your kind. Our kind.

  I blinked, digging through my memory banks. Something about Donovan playing himself years ago in the London clubs.

  Was that how he’d met Flynn? Not necessarily in London, but on the circuit.

  Flynn, whom I owed a knee in the nuts. Troubled, my ass. Whether or not he’d meant to cause shit for me, he had. And I didn’t need it.

  Well-meaning people caused more problems than those who were indifferent. Yet another reason I didn’t have any friends. Friends asked too many questions. Pushed for too much information. Bad enough I had Zoe, but that was a limited-time engagement.

  My hair fell forward and I whipped my head back to get it out of my face. “You don’t know me,” I said, voice low, turning off the water. My inner arm was bright red and throbbing.

  But the chaos in my mind hadn’t left me. If anything, it had grown stronger in tandem with the pain.

  “I am quite certain of that. But I recognize you far too well.”

  I lifted my head and our gazes connected in the mirror.

  “You can come to me.”

  The words chased me out of the bathroom. In the end, when I pressed my back to the wall in the hallway, gasping for breath as if I’d run a mile, I didn’t truly know if he’d uttered them or if I’d conjured them into existence.

  I yanked my sleeve down over my dripping arm and swiped a hand over my face. Didn’t matter what Donovan had said—or not said. I had to play the cards I’d dealt myself.

  Right now, that meant getting into Studio B.

  I feared Jerry less.

  The soundproofed large room was Beatles-themed. Glossy shots of the individual Beatles themselves were interspersed with framed album covers. There was an oddly shaped chaise on a dais, draped in some kind of throw that was probably supposed to inspire groovy thoughts thanks to the peace sign and psychedelic colors. Several of the Lennon-model Rickenbacker guitars hung on the stark white walls, and along one wall stood an upright Steinway piano. It was well worn but lovingly preserved, and I couldn’t stay away from it.

  As soon as I touched the keys, my nerves fled. This was what I was meant to do. To play. To sing. To reach people even if I couldn’t always figure out how to reach myself.

  I sat on the bench and let my hands wander. I started with “Chopsticks,” falling into the familiar standard with ease. I moved on to “Amazing Grace” and then, in honor of Lennon, “Imagine.” I sang along with the words I knew by heart, scarcely noticing when the door opened.

  “You know the history of that piano?”

  Simon.

  As if he’d caught me masturbating—no, I’d be less embarrassed at that—I pulled my hands away from the keys. My inner arm started to pulse, the pain I’d somehow been unable to feel for a few stolen moments kicking back in with a vengeance.

  “What are you doing here?” I snapped.

  He moved down the steps into the sunken base of the room. The chaise was on a raised dais, the piano and some other instruments on stands on a second level. The main recessed level was filled with more cushy seating and tables, and across the space, there were a few isolation booths. Only now, when I knew Simon was in the room too, did I take it all in.

  The studio suddenly seemed far too small for us both.

  He sprawled on a long couch, stretching his arms along the back and kicking out his legs. Every part of him dripped money, from his fashionably ripped jeans to his scuffed designer boots and calf-length black leather jacket. His hair was shorter than mine, but it was also cut well. Real gold gleamed on his fingers and in the heavy watch that cost m
ore than the London flat I’d lived in.

  I wanted to hate him, to blame him, but I couldn’t. So I hated myself.

  “No one told you, hmm?”

  “Told me what?” There was a bite to my tone that only seemed to emerge when I was speaking to my brother. Oh, the sarcastic words might’ve sounded the same, but he brought something out of me that no one else did.

  “Where’s your rep? Isn’t she supposed to be here?” Rather than waiting for my answer, Simon pulled out his phone and tapped a button. “Li, that Sabrina chick bailed. Uh-huh. Yeah, well, I’ve got shit to do—” Then he sighed and pressed his phone into his thigh. “They’re coming. Three…two—”

  He didn’t have time to get to one. The door swung open, and Sabrina and who I recognized as Lila Crandall strolled inside the studio. Behind them were a couple of guys from Simon’s band.

  I jumped to my feet and backed up. “What the fuck is this?”

  It was a damn miracle I didn’t bolt from the studio entirely.

  What stopped me was the guy bringing up the rear. He wore jeans and a sports coat with those kind of elbow protectors that had gone out of fashion in the eighties. Probably before. His blond hair stood up in a crown of spikes and he had a ready, guileless smile that pinned me in place.

  “There’s a fella. Flynn told you about me?” He broke away from the pack and strolled over to pump my hand.

  I stared at him like a drugged guppy. “You’re—are you Rory? What the fuck is this?” I asked again, glancing oddly to Simon for help.

  He might indirectly be the cause of all my problems, and he probably hated my guts, but at least he was a semi-known quantity. These other people—minus Sabrina—were like wild, snapping animals as far as I was concerned.

  “Yes, I’m Rory Ferguson. Flynn was quite chatty about you, and if you know the man, that’s rare indeed. I called Ripper and was put in contact with Ms. Price.” Rory dropped my hand and stepped back. “She informed me that you had a scheduled studio session today.”

  “We did. Not all these people.” I gestured at Simon and the rest of Oblivion, including Lila, since she might as well be part of them. She was by marriage, anyway.

  And she was also Zoe’s cousin. My girl might be magic, but her cousin was pure fire encased in ice as she stared me down.

  “Ian, have you met Lila Crandall?” Sabrina smiled and indicated Lila. “She manages Oblivion and Warning Sign, as well as several other bands here at Ripper.”

  I gave her a little wave since if I tried to shake her hand, I might not get mine back. “Pleasure.”

  She said nothing, just folded her arms.

  Someone was thrilled I was sleeping with her cousin. Assuming she knew about our blessed union, and I had to think so judging from her glare. Unless it was the Simon connection. Or everything combined.

  No part of my resumé held me in good stead when meeting new people.

  “This is Deacon McCoy, Oblivion’s bassist, and Gray Duffy, Oblivion’s rhythm guitarist.” Deacon shifted his bass case to his other hand and offered me a small wave, and Gray gave me a smile. They seemingly harbored no ill will in my direction, unlike some of the others. “They work in production and writing on the side, although it’s hard to imagine how they have any free time with all they do in Oblivion.” Sabrina smiled up at Deacon—big beastly dude that he was—as if he were a mixture of Jason Momoa and The Rock. “Such talented men.”

  “He’s married, sister,” Simon called out. “By the way, you don’t need to introduce me to Ian. Pretty sure he knows who I am. Though I’m curious what you’d say. Oblivion’s lead singer and international model, guitarist and songwriter—”

  “And Oblivion’s biggest pain in the ass,” Lila interjected, finally showing a hint of ice melt. Only a hint. A second later, she glanced back at me and flash-froze again. “Ian, why don’t you introduce yourself to the group?” She tightened her clasped arms and smiled as coldly as winter in England. “Tell us all about yourself.”

  “I’m not telling anyone a bloody thing until I understand what’s happening here.”

  Sabrina stepped forward and motioned us down the other set of stairs that descended to the sunken level, where Simon was holding court all alone. “Shall we sit?”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  Sabrina shrugged. She wasn’t one to get her panties in a twist over formalities, which I suspected was unlike the blond blade beside her. “You and Simon are going to record some songs together for your EP. Deacon, Gray, and Rory are here to expedite the process. This EP has to be done fast.”

  “Simon and I are going to… No.” I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Scared, mate?” Simon smiled up at me, all relaxed jaguar grace in his sprawled position on the sofa. “Here I thought you were so eager to prove how much more talented you are.”

  “I’m going to make my own decisions about my own EP.”

  “Sure you are. Newbie artist, you get to call all the shots.” Simon tapped his fingers on the back of the couch. “Deak and Gray, don’t think we’re needed here. Apparently, we’re in the presence of an expert.”

  “Seems like he has the same qualms about studio work as someone else I know.” Deacon nodded at Simon, who flipped him the bird. “Why don’t we sit down and talk for a few minutes, see if we have anything in common musically before we get all worked up?”

  I frowned. “I don’t even know you. I’d prefer it if you didn’t try to manage me, thanks.”

  Simon snorted. “That’s Deak. He manages everybody, and they’re usually better for it.”

  “Speak for yourself.” I jerked a shoulder. “Maybe you need to be herded like a cow.”

  Rory cleared his throat. “And maybe you need to learn some respect, if nothing else.” A hint of Ireland came through the steely voice of the once affable producer.

  I glanced at Rory, who was no longer smiling. “Another country heard from?”

  “You’re not going to make it in this business if you can’t learn from those who have gone before you. Having definite ideas and a backbone is necessary, and I see you have both. Points in your favor, for sure.” For an instant, I was sure I heard the lilt of Ireland again in his voice, and then his jaw hardened and any such softness disappeared. “But acting like a petulant child will get doors slammed in your face. Some of those doors can’t be reopened once you get your head out of your ass.”

  Properly chagrined, I yanked the band off my wrist to tie my hair up out of my way. “I wasn’t prepared for any of this. All of you knew what you were walking into. I was told nothing.” I glared at Sabrina. “So much for being treated with respect.”

  She held up her hands, palms out. “You’re right. I left out vital details because I knew you were already dreading the studio.”

  “How does everyone know how I feel about every damn thing?” I muttered.

  “Only because you telegraph your emotions like a sixty-inch television screen.” Simon flipped his phone through his fingers. “Don’t ever play poker, son.”

  “Where’s your guitar?” Sabrina asked me.

  “I…forgot it.” I felt like the kid who’d left his backpack at home on the first day of school.

  I never forgot my guitar. It went with me everywhere, needed or not. But after spending the night at Zoe’s, and that fucking request the night before to meet with Jerry’s associate, I’d been all out of sorts.

  “That’s okay.” Gray flashed me an easy smile, the kind Rory had offered until he’d decided I was a snotty prick. “You can work at the piano if you’d like. Or there’s obviously quite the sweet selection of guitars here you can use, although I know the difference it makes having your own.” He hoisted his own deep blue guitar case, which I hadn’t taken notice of until just this moment.

  I nodded and gave him a quick, tight smile for the unexpected bit of kindness. And I retreated behind the piano like the coward I was.

  Almost as soon as I sat at the bench, the tightness in
my shoulders eased.

  “No notebook, either?” Without waiting for my reply, Sabrina pulled out a composition book from her over-the-shoulder bag. Lila arched a brow, but Sabrina paid her no mind as she passed it to me, along with a pen.

  I had a feeling Lila didn’t provide her people with supplies even if they’d been firebombed out of their homes.

  Uncapping the pen, I stared at the blank page and pretended I didn’t feel the drop of sweat working its way down my side.

  “We’re just going to let you all get acquainted.” Sabrina nudged Lila toward the door, who did not seem inclined to leave. “Ring for us if you need anything. Snacks, tea. I can have the beverage cart wheeled in.”

  I frowned. “Vodka?”

  “Hmm, maybe there is a familial resemblance after all,” Deacon said, sitting down beside Simon and kicking his leg out of the way. Gray took Simon’s other side, and I gazed at the three of them as if they were on the opposing team.

  Mine consisted of me and a piano.

  Then Rory shocked the hell out of me by sitting beside me on the bench. He had no notebook, no pen. Just a warning expression.

  “No alcohol,” Lila snapped a moment before the door closed behind them.

  “This beverage cart stuff is new. Before, we were lucky if we could have a can of soda we brought in ourselves.” Deacon chuckled.

  “We’re old school.” Gray smiled easily. “Practically Ripper dinosaurs.”

  “Ripper royalty, you mean.” Rory’s voice held the same note of warning as his expression.

  I got the message loud and clear.

  Watch your step, boy.

  And I was paying attention. Because I wanted to do this right. I wanted to learn.

  I wanted to deserve studio time and an EP and getting to sing with someone the caliber of Simon Kagan. That he was my brother didn’t change the nerves coiled in my gut.

  If anything, it made them ten times worse.

  “This is just an informal session as we get started,” Deacon said. “We’ll show you the ropes in the booth after we get some preliminaries out of the way. First, we need to learn your sound, as well as your material so far and what you’re hoping for with this EP.”