Taming the Storm

by Samantha Towle

  I guess you can see where this is going.

  And if Jake knows about Rally, then Rally definitely knows I’m signed with TMS Records.

  This isn’t good.

  I don’t have what you could call a relationship with Rally, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to interfere in my life, especially when he feels it is crossing over into his.

  And this? My band signing with TMS Records. He’ll definitely feel that this is stepping into his territory.

  I clear my throat. “Yes, Rally is my father…in the biological sense of the word.”

  I’m now standing out in open space and looking over at the tour bus, hoping with all hope that it will still be moving with the guys and me on it.

  “Were you ever going to share this piece of information with me?” His voice is so even that I can’t get a read on where this is going.

  I’m just praying it’s not the end before the beginning.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “No…well, yes…no. I don’t know.” I scrub my hand over my face.

  I’m not a deceitful person, but looking at this now, it seems an awful lot like deceit.

  I start to feel a little sick.

  “I think I would have at some point, but I just wanted you to see us for what we could do, so you could make an informed choice before you knew. I know how you feel about Rally. I feel the same. Yes, he’s my father, but that term is used loosely. I don’t have a relationship with him. He’s a dumbass.”

  Jake laughs. I take that as a good sign.

  “I’ve heard Rally called a lot of things but never a dumbass. It actually suits him.”

  Silence.

  Then, he exhales. “I know Rally, Lyla, too well. I know how he works. I also know a little something about wanting to hide your past. Thing is, when you hide stuff, especially in this business, it has a tendency to come out and bite you in the ass.”

  My memory reminds me of the news story that came out about Jake’s dad last year. From what the press said, Jake’s dad hurt him and his mom pretty bad, and his dad went to prison for whatever he did to them.

  “And I don’t like surprises, Lyla.”

  I cringe at the turn in his tone of voice.

  “I don’t like receiving a phone call from Rally Brochstein when I’m just about to eat breakfast with my family, especially when I’m going into that conversation blind.”

  I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth. “I should have told you.”

  “Yeah, you should have.”

  I know Rally and what he’s capable of. His reputation in the music business is notorious.

  Jake Wethers is one of the few people who has ever gone up against my father and walked away clean.

  Rally is a shark, and he takes no prisoners. Nothing and no one gets in his way. That’s how he became the youngest ever CEO of AME—American Music Entertainment—which he ran for fifteen years and then left on questionable terms for an undisclosed sum.

  That was when he started Rally Records, and it got big, fast.

  Just not fast enough for TMS.

  TMS was the first act to sign with them. After that, I don’t know much, besides what the press detailed, which was that TMS outgrew Rally Records. Apparently, Jake and Rally had a difficult relationship, which I can understand because my father is not an easy man to get along with.

  Jake and Rally’s relationship disintegrated, and the band walked away mid-contract, buying themselves out.

  Immediately after, Jake and the late Jonny Creed—TMS’s lead guitarist who died a few years ago in an automobile accident—set up TMS Records, putting themselves in direct competition with Rally Records.

  That didn’t sit well with Rally.

  And me signing with TMS Records won’t sit well with him either.

  But I don’t care about that. All I care about is that I might have screwed this up because I wasn’t honest with Jake from the start.

  “I know I might seem like a wayward daughter doing this to piss off her father, but believe me, I don’t even care about Rally enough to bother. I signed with TMS Records because you care about your acts.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “And I kept it from you because I was worried you’d judge me based on him.”

  Jake says nothing more.

  I’m biting on my nails, dying in the stretch of silence. Finally, I ask, “How was Rally when you spoke to him?” I’m trying to gauge as to where this is going because, so far, I have no clue.

  “He was a total dumbass.”

  I let out a laugh, but that’s quickly cut off by his next sentence.

  “Rally wants you off my label, Lyla.”

  And there it is.

  Bye, bye, tour bus. It was nice while it lasted.

  Have I said how much I hate my father?

  The guys are going to be gutted.

  I know Jake is a hard ass, and he hates Rally, possibly as much as I do, but this is hassle he could do without. He doesn’t owe me anything, and keeping us on his label will be nothing but trouble for him. Rally won’t drop it until he gets what he wants.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “about Rally calling and giving you a hard time.”

  “Lyla, it’s not your fault you got a shithole for a dad. You said you didn’t tell me about Rally because you wanted to prove yourself, to let me see what you’re capable of, so I could make an informed choice. I’ve seen, and I’ve made my choice. I told Rally he could go fuck himself. Vintage is my act, and you’re staying put.”

  My hand goes to my chest as the breath I was holding whooshes out.

  I could kiss Jake Wethers right now.

  And he’s not done either. “I don’t care if it’s the King of fucking England. No one tells me how to run my business. Now, under normal circumstance, I’d say to you that he’s your old man, so it’s on you to pull him into line and tell him to back the fuck off, but this is Rally Brochstein we’re talking about. I wouldn’t put you in that position. You say your relationship with him is non-existent. Was that his choice or yours?”

  “Growing up, his. Now, mine.”

  “Okay. I’ll deal with any shit that Rally might pull. You just concentrate on the tour. But I need you to tell me now if there is anything else I need to know. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “My mother was Joni Summers.”

  “That I know,” Jake replies. “I knew Rally had a kid with Joni Summers. You come from good stock, Lyla, and I’m talking about your mom when I say that.”

  That raises a smile.

  “Must be where you get your pipes from,” he adds.

  “Thank you,” I say genuinely. My mom was the best.

  I hear a female voice in the background.

  Then, Jake says to me, “I have to go. Good luck with the tour. Relay that message to the rest of the band. Don’t worry about Rally. Nothing is going to change your position with TMS Records, no matter what he says or does.”

  “Thank you, Jake, for understanding and for sticking with us.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just make this album and tour score big. Earn me back all the thousands of dollars that it has cost me,” he says with a humorous tone.

  Nodding, I smile. “That I can definitely do.”

  Sixty Seconds After—Tour Bus, LA

  I’m just pushing my cell back into the pocket of my denim cutoffs, pondering my conversation with Jake, when I hear a commotion coming from the bus.

  Sounds of cheering and loud laughter.

  I look across at the bus, but I’m too far away. Even if I were close, I wouldn’t be able to see anything due to the heavily tinted windows.

  All thoughts of my conversation with Jake left behind, my feet carry me quickly back to the bus. I jog up the stairs, turn into the galley, and halt in my tracks at the sight before me, my breath leaving me in a rush.

  Tom Carter.

  Well, it’s the back of him anyway. I know it’s him because he’s impossib
le not to recognize. His huge size eats up the small space of the bus. His muscular arms are sleeved in tattoos. Gone is his trademark shaved head, and it’s now covered in silky brown hair.

  What is he doing here?

  Cale spies me over Tom’s shoulder, his dark eyes all lit up. “Ly, look who’s here!” he says in an overexcited voice.

  I have the sudden urge to walk over there and slap Cale upside the head.

  Tom looks over his shoulder at me. His intense jade green eyes hit mine, sending an involuntary heat to travel through my body.

  He turns until he’s facing me.

  His gaze drifts slowly down my body and then climbs back up.

  My stomach clenches. Virginia sparks to life.

  Oh God.

  I hate the way my body reacts to Tom Carter. Every single time I see him, my virginia lights up like gasoline on a spark. I might dislike him, but my body doesn’t. In fact, my body likes Tom—a lot.

  Thankfully, my brain doesn’t. To my utter relief, my brain is in the driver’s seat when it comes to him.

  Tom is an arrogant, sex-crazed mut, whom I want nothing to do with.

  Only…Tom just happens to be a hot, arrogant, sex-crazed mut.

  I really hate that.

  He’s now also sporting overgrown stubble that’s shaping up to become a beard, and it makes him look even hotter.

  Unkempt but hot.

  Add that hot, unkempt look with a plain black fitted T-shirt over those thick biceps with jeans hanging low on his hips, showing a sliver of his stomach, and finish it off with black Doc Martens, and Tom Carter makes for one very lickable package.

  Lord, help me.

  I meet Tom’s eyes, and he’s smirking.

  Because I’m staring.

  Fabulous.

  His eyes flicker down to my chest. I watch as his eyebrows lift, and the smirk deepens, forming a dimple in his cheek that I’ve never noticed before.

  He looks cute in a hot, sexy way.

  Hot, sexy cute?

  What the hell, Lyla?

  Men are not cute, especially not men like Tom Carter. Men like him are dangerous to women like me.

  And look at him, just openly staring at my chest. Total pervert.

  Yes, I’m negating the fact that I just gave him the once-over because it’s rude to stare at a woman’s boobs. Sure, I was gifted in the boob department, but that doesn’t give him the right to openly ogle them.

  I cross my arms over my girls and lift my chin.

  His eyes come back to mine, and that smirk is still on his face. “Lyla,” he drawls in that deep voice of his, “it’s been a while.”

  Not long enough.

  “It has.” I nod. “Thank you for agreeing to be our tour manager.”

  That’s it, Ly. Keep it pleasant and business-like.

  “No problem.” He shrugs those broad shoulders of his. “I’m looking forward to being back on the road.”

  Being back on the road? He means that in a figurative sense right?

  He’s still staring at me. It’s kind of getting uncomfortable, but I can’t break the stare. I feel like we’re in a staring match, and whoever blinks first will be the loser.

  No way am I losing to him.

  Sonny breaks the silence. “We have great news, Ly.” He has that same excited tone in his voice that Cale just had.

  I tilt my chin in Sonny’s direction, but I don’t take my eyes away from Tom’s. I will not lose this game. “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

  A quiet grin appears on Tom’s lips.

  “Tom is staying here on our bus for the whole tour!” Sonny’s voice explodes in my ears.

  Then, silence hits as the debris from his dirty ear bomb scatters slowly to the floor, my brain desperately trying to come to terms with what I just heard.

  Tom is staying here?

  Closing my eyes on a blink, I shake my head, trying to clear out his words. “I’m sorry. What?”

  Sonny frowns at me like I’m slow. “I said, Tom is staying on the bus with us. How awesome is that?” He’s smiling.

  Van and Cale are smiling.

  Tom is still staring at me. Only this time, his look is curious.

  I blink away with my hands on my hips, trying to figure this out in my head.

  Tom is going to be living here on our bus for the duration of the tour?

  No, that can’t be right.

  Then, my eyes land on an oversized gym bag sitting on the kitchen table.

  Oh God.

  He’s staying here.

  No!

  He can’t because…well, for so many reasons that I don’t even know where to begin.

  This is going to be a complete disaster.

  It can’t be real. It’s just a bad dream. I’m going to wake up, and it’s all just going to be a stupid dream. I did think this tour bus was way too nice to be ours. I was expecting a total shithole for our first tour bus, not this awesome setup.

  I close my eyes on a long blink and then look back to them.

  I’m thinking I might look a little stunned because Cale searches out my eyes, his stare fixed on me.

  “Isn’t this great news, Ly?”

  Subliminal Cale message, Speak now, Ly, because this silence is getting really weird. And say something nice.

  I do try to say something nice. Really, I do. I quickly think up lots of nice things to say—well, mainly the word yes.

  But that word doesn’t follow through to my vocal cords, and my head is shaking. Before I can stop myself, these words are out, “Honestly, I can’t think of anything worse.”

  Oh God.

  I’m pretty sure a tumbleweed just blew through the galley of the bus.

  “Lyla!” There’s a chastising tone in Sonny’s voice that I’ve never heard from him before.

  It makes my face sting. I feel like a bitch.

  I am a bitch.

  I can’t bring myself to look at Tom or anyone.

  Then, I hear Tom’s deep voice say, “Lyla…a word.”

  I glance at him just in time to see him striding past me, his long legs eating up the floor space, as he heads for the exit of the bus.

  Avoiding the eyes of the guys, I swivel on my heel and follow Tom in his angry path.

  When his feet hit gravel, he doesn’t stop. He just keeps on walking. So, I follow, my gut churning the whole time.

  This day is really starting off badly. First, Jake’s call, and now, my inability to keep my mouth shut in front of Tom.

  Tom might be a mut, but in the last five minutes, he’s done nothing wrong to me. I shouldn’t have said what I did.

  Tom stops about fifty feet from the bus and turns to me. I halt in my stride, nearly tripping in doing so.

  His body is tense. He folds his arms over his chest, staring down at me. I try not to look at the straining muscles of his biceps. It’s surprisingly hard.

  I look up at his face. He seems even taller out here.

  I decide to speak first, and I quickly say, “I’m really sorry for what I said back there.” I run a nervous hand through my blonde hair.

  He lets out a sigh and scratches his beard. “Look, Lyla, I get it. I know why you don’t want me staying on your bus—because of our history.”

  “We don’t have history.”

  “We so have history,” he enforces with a raised brow.

  “Um…no, we don’t. History would involve something happening between us. And nothing has ever happened,” I say, punctuating the words to drive the point home.

  “Yeah, well, it would have if you hadn’t been so fucking—” He cuts himself off.

  My arms fold over my chest, my eyes narrowing. “If I hadn’t been so fucking, what?”

  There’s a moment of heated pause.

  Then, he shakes his head. “Nothing. We’re getting off the point.”

  I decide to let it go. I have an idea of what he was going to say, and if he did, that would have set off an explosion of epic proportions.

  That’s d
efinitely not needed right now.

  My hands go to my hips. “Fine. So, let’s get to the point.”

  “I’m trying to say, what happened in the past happened, and I can’t change it. I’d say I’m sorry for hitting on you, but I’m not. Back then, I didn’t know we’d be working together, especially not this close. If I had, I wouldn’t have made a move. Believe it or not, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  “Pleasure’s only with groupies, right?”

  He gives me a chastising look.

  “Sorry.” I bite my tongue.

  He sighs. “Lyla, I’m not here to try to get you in the sack. I’m here to work. You don’t need to feel uncomfortable around me.”

  “I don’t feel uncomfortable around you.” I straighten my spine, needing to appear taller in this moment.

  He smirks down at me. “Yeah, you do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “So, why the bitch act?”

  I raise a brow at the comment, but he’s got me there on the bitch act. I was a bitch to him. And I’m about to be again.

  “You want the truth?”

  Unfurling his arms, his lips press into a tight line. “Sure. Hit me with it.”

  “Well, basically, I don’t think you’re the right person to be our tour manager.”

  His expression doesn’t change. “Not the right person to be your tour manager,” he echoes.

  “Yes. You’re not serious enough.”

  “Not serious enough.”

  Why does he keep repeating everything I say? Does he have a mental problem?

  He scratches his cheek and steps up in my space in one swift move.

  A little startled and a lot fired-up at his nearness, I blink up at him.

  He brings his head down, his mouth close to my ear. “One thing you need to learn about me, Lyla, is that I’m really, really serious about the things I want.”

  A shiver runs through me, heading straight for my virginia. The smell of his clean, crisp aftershave is befuddling my brain along with my bra and panties.

  Then, I kick some female sense into myself.

  Tom straightens up, and he is now looking down at me, his eyes burning into mine. He’s still standing way too close.

  Tilting my head back, I let out a condescending laugh. “You? Serious? I didn’t know Tom ‘The Man-Whore’ Carter could be serious.”

  His face hardens.