“This is as big as it gets,” Jessa said. “This is Dirty. Who knows where this could lead? You really can’t turn this down, Roni.”
“This is late November,” I reminded her, doing the calculation in my head. “New Year’s Eve is five weeks away.”
Jessa looked entirely unsympathetic, in that way a new mother did. Like, You get to sleep, what the hell are you complaining about?
“Dirty wants to throw a party,” she said. “They want to play a show. Someone out there would kill to host that show at their venue. All you have to do is find him or her, sell tickets—which will not be a challenge—and get yourself paid. You can probably negotiate a pretty decent cut. Dirty isn’t doing this for the money. If they want the money, they’ll play a stadium. This is a small gig for them, for shits and giggles. But it’s huge for you.”
“Five weeks from New Year’s Eve,” I repeated.
Jessa shifted her squirming son from one breast to the other. “So you’re saying you won’t do it? You won’t even try? Instead, Maggie gets on the phone to every promoter she and Brody know, and someone else jumps at the chance to plan a Dirty show?”
Fuck.
And no. I wasn’t about to let that happen.
“If I do this, I’ll take that generous cut of ticket sales,” I informed her.
“You can work that out with Brody.”
I crossed my arms at my waist and stared her down. “And incidentally, why am I not having this conversation with him?”
Jessa just looked at me, and in her silence, it became clear.
“Because I don’t have the gig yet.”
Brilliant. She wanted me to find a venue, then present Brody with what I had to offer.
I sighed and took a few steps closer to her, gazing down at her baby boy. “Remind me never to underestimate your mother,” I told him, nudging his little foot.
Jessa smiled. “You’ll do it? Roni, this would be sooo good for you. And just think how much fun it would be if you worked with the band, with Brody… with me…”
I didn’t respond to that. I was still thinking it through. Fun, sure. But I didn’t love the position it put me in.
If I found a venue, it would definitely give me more to bargain with when I brought it to Brody.
But if I went around town trying to book a venue for a Dirty show… it’s not like Brody wasn’t going to find out. Which meant I probably couldn’t say it was for a Dirty show upfront; not until after I actually had the venue.
“Fuck.”
Jessa just beamed her gorgeous, lingerie-selling smile up at me.
I sighed again and sat down next to her. “What other intel have you got? I want every detail you know so far. Motivate me.”
“All I know is the band is really keen on the show. Like really keen. And…” She hesitated.
“And?”
“And… this isn’t public yet. Which means you can’t tell anyone.”
“You know I won’t.”
“It’s gonna be Elle’s last show until after she has the baby.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So it’s kind of a big deal for the band, and the fans.”
“Uh, I would say so.” Elle was Dirty’s bassist, and she was a few months pregnant now. But she’d been with Dirty forever.
“She and Seth have been really private about the pregnancy so far,” Jessa said, “keeping it out of the media, but that won’t last much longer. She’s really starting show, and the band is planning to announce to the fans at this show, for the first time, that Elle won’t be on the tour. I mean, she’ll be on the tour, traveling with Seth, but she won’t be playing shows. She won’t even be at a lot of the shows. She told me she’s spoken with her doctors about it, gone over her touring schedule with them, and they’ve told her that the repeated exposure to the excessive noise levels at the constant concerts, sound checks, everything, pose a risk to the pregnancy. And it’s not just possible hearing loss to the baby, but preterm labor, that kind of thing.”
“I see.” Honestly, I’d never thought about that. I’d wondered how she was going to play with a baby belly, how tired she might be, but that was about it.
The noise thing hadn’t even occurred to me.
“So, Elle’s going to take a step back,” Jessa said. “She already told me she was worried about how far she could take it, how much energy she could bring to the stage, to give the fans and the band and the music what they deserve. I’ve been through a pregnancy and I don’t blame her. Even if there was no possible harm to the baby, she doesn’t need that kind of pressure right now.”
“For sure.”
“Which means… this is gonna be a special show.” Jessa gave me a slight smile. “No pressure.”
“Oh, none at all,” I said.
“In terms of the venue itself,” she added, ignoring my sarcasm, “someplace with a similar capacity to the Ruby would probably be ideal. And I know Brody never approves of a venue without Jude’s okay. Security has to meet his specifications. So you’ll have to go over all of that with him, I guess.”
Right.
Jude.
“Of course.”
“I think security’s gonna be extra tight at this one. When Brody said no media, he really meant no media. He wants this to be a special night for the fans. For the band and for Elle. So, I guess what I’m saying is… You’d be a total idiot not to take the opportunity to be a part of this, Roni. If you pull it off, they’ll really love you for it.”
She was right, probably.
And it would be a special night, clearly. For all of them.
For me?
I felt it sinking in; what this could be, for me. The pivotal event of my career. The event that took me from part-time party pusher to top promoter.
On the other hand, if I fucked it up, I could jeopardize everything I’d worked for these last three years—mainly my reputation, which was basically everything in my line of work. Not to mention potentially burning bridges—professionally, maybe even personally—with Dirty, with Brody, with whatever venue owner I might rope into this.
With Jude?
I didn’t want this to be a factor in my decision-making, but there it was, nagging at the back of my mind…
If I fucked this up, would it also burn my bridge with Jude?
Granted, the bridge between us was a long-ass, rickety old bridge that wove in and out of the dark like a confused drunkard.
But it was a bridge all the same.
Despite whatever had happened between the two of us, I knew that if I ever called Jude up in the middle of the night asking for help, he would come. It was his nature, no matter how he felt about me.
Which meant that no matter what came of this event, Jude would still pull my ass out of a burning building; he’d do that for pretty much anyone.
No matter, even, if I totally fucked this up.
“Okay,” I told Jessa. “I’ll do it.”
Because professionally—hopefully—it was worth the risk.
And as far as Jude Grayson was concerned, there really was no risk at all.
Jude didn’t care about me anyway. He wasn’t about to magically start.
Chapter Four
Jude
8:09 am.
The clock starts ticking.
The automatic gate rolled aside and I eased the Bentley into Jesse’s driveway, parking alongside the sunshine-yellow Jeep he’d bought for Katie last year, to get her off her skateboard. We’d both tried to talk her out of her vehicle selection, but the girl wanted what she wanted—it was a Jeep, a used Jeep, or she kept the skateboard as her transportation method of choice.
She won.
Honestly, Katie usually won.
When she answered the front door in her paint-splattered jeans and Blondie T-shirt, a bandana in her dark hair and a smile on her rosy-cheeked face, it was easy to see why.
She took the cherry-vanilla latte I’d brought for her, her favorite coffee, and smacked a kiss on my cheek.
I didn’t bring her a coffee every morning, but close.
I followed her into the sunroom, her little home studio, where she was setting up to paint. She showed me the final art for the cover of the new Dirty album—To Hell & Back, their tenth anniversary album, which they were just finishing recording.
“Love it, darlin’,” I told her.
I loved her. Whatever sweetness I had in me? My best friend’s wife brought it out.
While I waited for Jesse to haul his ass downstairs and Katie chatted me up about the painting she was working on—a portrait of her niece—Delia texted.
Are you coming tonight?
I answered her right away, because when the wife of your MC’s President texted you, you answered right away, if possible. And you did it politely.
Yes. What can I bring?
She wouldn’t answer. She never did. She didn’t expect me to bring anything, would probably give me royal shit if I lifted a finger to bring a thing. The wives and girlfriends took care of the food at a Kings family barbecue. Prospects took care of the booze. End of story.
I deleted the conversation.
8:27 am.
We headed out for a jog, just Jesse and me. Up Point Grey Road, where he lived, and out along the beach. He talked about the album, worked out his thoughts about the last couple of songs Dirty would be recording this coming week. I listened.
Jesse Mayes was a textbook extravert, worked shit out while he talked, got off on vibing with people. As long as it wasn’t emotional shit. When it came to emotional shit, he shut right down.
I was the opposite.
I was always thinking things through in my head before I opened my mouth. But when it came to emotional shit, I cut right to the chase.
We understood each other.
It had always been like this.
We were a duo, symbiotic. Leaned on each other’s strengths. Lifted each other up. Bounced shit off one another. Made decisions together. Not all decisions, but most. I’d looked out for Jesse ever since we became friends at thirteen. He’d looked out for me.
He’d never been more pissed at me than when he’d found out, just a few months ago, that I’d failed to fill him in on the extent of things between his little sister, Jessa, and Seth, Dirty’s other guitarist, when we were all teenagers.
Back then, it was all sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll—but not for Jesse’s little sister.
He was trying to protect her from that shit.
I was trying to protect Jesse from MC shit. I always would. Jesse Anderson Mayes, rock star, just didn’t belong in that world.
My other world.
Even Jesse didn’t know what was going on right now, the extent of things, the shit that was on the table. The proposal my brother had made me, the decisions to be made.
The pressure of the clock ticking in my head.
9:38 am.
Breakfast with Jesse and Katie; Katie made pancakes and I ate one, for her. Jesse would be home with her today, wouldn’t need me. If he did and I couldn’t come, if I was busy with Kings shit, I always had other guys I could send in.
Jesse brought up the New Year’s Eve show. “Zane’s been griping about it.”
I assured him, “Brody will come up with something.”
I checked my messages.
Brody: Video shoot on the 11th. Church/concert concept.
The band’s first video shoot for the new album was a go. It was happening at a sound stage, with a replica “church” set to mimic the church where the band wrote and rehearsed, and would incorporate a staged concert. Which meant a large crew and an audience—tight security.
I replied. Got it.
Then I deleted the conversation.
Flynn checked in. He was headed up the coast with Seth and Elle; they were spending the weekend in Whistler. The mountains there didn’t have much snow yet. What else there was to do in Whistler in November but rent a lux hotel room and fuck, I didn’t know, so I figured that was Seth’s plan.
Delete.
10:22 am.
I hit the road to Zane’s place in West Vancouver. Planned to tell him how good he’d sounded yesterday at the studio. Wondered if he really knew how good this album was gonna be. If he realized how crazy this year would be, for all of us. And that he’d be right in the middle of it.
Our frontman.
The dirty voice of Dirty. The sex symbol / rock idol who was really just a mortal dude who never thought that far into the future, about what might be coming… and one of my best friends. And I was worried about him.
I always worried about Zane on tour.
About his sobriety. His fucking sanity.
And now, I was more worried about him than I’d been in a long time. It was how he’d been acting this year. He wasn’t coming clean with me, and I was used to that, at times, but this was different.
It was the Maggie thing, maybe. That fucking secret-as-shit Maggie thing that he thought I didn’t know.
And if I wasn’t gonna be there, on tour, to keep his shit straight, I’d be even more worried about him.
10:54 am.
Zane answered the door of his multi-multi-million-dollar house wearing a cheap T-shirt that said Drunk Chicks Think I’m Hot, flannel pajama pants and rimless glasses. Hardly anyone knew Zane sometimes wore glasses. To read. To watch movies. Shit like that. Not so much because he hid the fact, but because it didn’t fit the image of Zane that the world knew and loved—sex-crazed Viking rock god—so the world tended to disregard it, in that way that the world often chose to disregard the fact that celebrities were actually human.
We shot some pool while we talked about the album. I won. Zane was the one who owned a fucking pool table, but I always won. He accused me of practicing at the clubhouse. I didn’t. I was just good at pool.
Shady dropped by, even though he didn’t have to. I’d put him on Zane, as Zane’s newest bodyguard, and so far, so fucking good. Zane had a hard time handling anyone on his back as often as someone needed to be there, though I figured I’d finally found his match in Shady.
Another thing not many people knew about Zane: the way to his heart was definitely through his funny bone. At least, if you were a dude.
A veteran King, Shady was an old friend of my brother’s, and every time he got telling one of his wacky stories, Zane pretty much shit his pants laughing; so far, a bromance of epic proportions had been born.
Fingers crossed on that lasting an entire tour.
Shady kicked Zane’s ass at pool; Zane accused him of practicing at the clubhouse. Then Zane took a call.
Con checked in by text, said he’d see me later at the clubhouse.
Delete.
Zane got off his phone. “Maggie says I’ve got a bunch of promo shit, interviews and whatever, week after next.”
I listened—I always fucking listened—to the way he said Maggie, watched the way his face changed when he’d talked to her on the phone, the way his entire fucking physiology changed when he mentioned her. And wondered why the rest of the world was so fucking blind, when some shit was so obvious to me.
Piper messaged me about the club meeting: C400.
Church at 4:00.
A totally different kind of church.
Delete.
That feeling of being ripped in two.
Not sure if I was actually going on tour with Dirty this time, or staying right here.
My brother had been putting on some major pressure this year, ever since he became Vice President of the Vancouver chapter—the mother chapter—of the West Coast Kings. Wanting me to patch over as a Vancouver King, give up my Nomad status for good.
No one in the Dirty world knew yet. Not Zane. Not Brody. Not Jesse.
My loyalty was being torn right down the middle. But if I was doing my job well, no one would see it.
It was my job to protect them, not the other way around.
12:06 pm.
I left Zane’s, headed back to my place to drop off the car. One of my secu
rity guys, Bishop, who was currently assigned to Jessa Mayes as her driver, checked in; he was taking her and the baby to Dolly’s, then Brody was meeting them, taking them to dinner.
Delete.
At home, I layered on warmer clothes and my leathers, my cut with the West Coast Kings patches. The one on the back, the bottom rocker, that read NOMAD.
Hopped on my Harley and rode out to see my brother. Wondered why I felt late.
All the time, lately, I felt like I was running late. Under the gun.
Running against time, when I wasn’t late at all.
2:11 pm.
I arrived at my brother’s acreage. My mood shifted as I parked my bike in his gravel drive. I was aware of it, fully conscious of this shift, aware that my MC life was different than my life with the band. Heavier. That I carried it differently. That I was different, from one life to the other, in some ways.
My brother was on his phone when I let myself in. He chucked a baseball at me, at my head. I ducked; he missed.
He laughed.
Why he had a baseball, I had no idea. I tossed it into one of the potted plants some woman from his past had left in the living room, clinging to life.
I watered the fucking neglected plants from a Coke bottle I found in the kitchen. It looked like Piper hadn’t done his dishes in a week. The place was a mess.
In his defense, he was rarely home.
But the fact was my brother was kind of a pig, more ways than one.
I cleaned up his disgusting kitchen, a bit. Only for him.
I’d never loved someone so fucking fiercely as I did my brother, even Jesse, and I’d kill for Jesse. I loved a lot of people, would take a bullet for a lot of people, and not just because they paid me to do it. But I loved my brother most.
Spent one particular dark winter, nine years ago, hating him fucking fiercely. But that could never last. Especially when he reminded me so damn much of Dad.
My older brother, Jeremy “Piper” Grayson, was this contradiction of big and menacing, muscles and tats, scars, and this fucking angelic face. Just like our dad.
Funny how genes worked.
Dirty Like Jude: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 5) Page 4
