by Cari Quinn
Rock Reckoning
Rock Revenge Trilogy Book 1 & 2
Cari Quinn
Taryn Elliott
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Rock Reckoning
© 2020 Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott
Rainbow Rage Publishing
Cover by LateNite Designs
Photo by Shutterstock
All Rights Are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First ebook editions: August & October 2018
Rock Revenge, Rock Reclaimed
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I’m the stranger no one ever saw coming...
My brother is an international rockstar. He has everything—a beautiful wife, a successful career, and he’s part of a super tight unit with his band, Oblivion.
I’m the outsider. The black sheep. But the time has come for me to make my mark.
No matter who gets hurt.
Or worse.
Author Note: Rock Reckoning includes part one and part two of the Rock Revenge romantic suspense rockstar trilogy. Books one and two end in cliffhangers. Book three, Rock Redemption, ends in a happily ever after.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Revenge
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Reclaim
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Rock Redemption
Oblivion World Character Chart
Crescent Cove Character Chart
Quinn and Elliott
Taryn Quinn
Follow Us
About the Authors
Acknowledgments
Sometimes we make up fictional places that end up having the same names as actual places. These are our fictional interpretations only. Please grant us leeway if our creative vision isn't true to reality.
To those who speak through art and music.
Revenge
So here we are, too far
In the deep again with drowning hearts
Myles Kennedy
One
Simon Kagan turned on the television for background noise before he dropped back on the full-sized bed in his hotel room. Water droplets slid down his neck, pooling behind him on the duvet. His towel loosened as he sprawled out his legs, feet dangling off the edge.
Soundcheck had been shit. The show the night before had been good.
Not great.
No, he definitely wouldn’t call it great. Not for lack of trying. The crowd had been with them and the band was tighter than ever. Hell, even Nicky was all over the stage with an almost euphoric light inside him.
Happy to be back.
Happy they were back as a band.
Not the band’s fault in any way. It was him. Even his usual solo with Margo, his wife and all-around goddess, couldn’t get him to that perfect plane he’d been searching for since…well, since the beginning of the end.
Since his world went to shit when he bled out onstage.
Some days he thought he was getting there. Then others, like last night, it seemed as if a film had dropped between him and the audience and he was fighting to break through. They screamed for him. For them.
They were right there.
Why the fuck couldn’t he connect? What the hell was wrong with him?
Thank fuck it wasn’t the same off stage. He and the band were all good there. Margo? Now there was his holy grail. They were in sync in a way he hadn’t believed was possible with another human.
And not just fucking. Though he couldn’t complain on that front. His wife—man, still weird to say it—was like bottled lightning. Just a touch and his skin crackled and his mind sizzled. She revved him in every way.
It was the stage that was his Everest. His voice was solid. Rock steady, to be honest. He’d done his warmups in the shower twice, for fuck’s sake. Perfect. And still…fuck.
Just fuck. It covered it all.
And he couldn’t even get a pre-show bang to get himself settled. Usually, Margo was more than up for it. Hell, sometimes she was the one climbing on him. But she’d split after her shower, saying something about a phone call. There had been a damn lot of phone calls lately.
He knew his wife though. Sometimes she needed a little time to let stuff rattle around in that too-active brain of hers before she came to him. It had taken him a long time to figure that one out. He was still navigating the time between let-her-simmer-and-think and then being an asshole who wasn’t paying attention. Fine line, that one.
Right now, he had to put his own brain on ice. He’d be a hot mess on stage. Then the domino effect would start. If he fucked up, then Nicky would get himself all twisted and there would be chaos across the land.
He did not need that tonight.
He raked his fingers through his wet hair and stacked his hands behind his head. Time for a cut soon. Or maybe, fuck it, he’d let it grow. Would that make him feel more like a rockstar again?
He tuned into the television in his room. He tried to keep up with the music on the radio, but most of it was such shit. Case in point, the wannabe on the showcase playing on Channel One.
Jesus, did this kid have an original anything or was he just parroting Sam Smith like all the other drones on this fucking show?
It was the second night of their special three-day residency at the O2 Empire. But they’d been in town for a week and Simon found himself strangely drawn to their weird version of American Idol.
Not that he had much choice. The UK evidently only had a few main channels unless the hotel sprang for satellite. Theirs did not.
The dude on the screen right now sounded as if a cat was having sex with an accordion. What in the actual fuck?
“Thank you so much, Louis Conroy, that was…unique.”
“Polite for get the fuck off the stage,” Simon answered the host.
“We’re here for the fifth night of finals at The Next Best Thing. We’ve got a real treat for you next. This bloke has been steaming up the clubs with his song, ‘Move Me’. Welcome to the stage, Ian Kagan.”
S
imon slowly rolled up to a seated position. He couldn’t have heard that right. The stage was dark and a banner ran across the bottom of the screen with the name of the singer: Ian Kagan.
His last name wasn’t exactly original, but it sure as shit wasn’t common. As the house lights slowly rose, so did Simon. The dude on TV had a huge Gibson strapped across the front of him and his ringed fingers quickly plucked out slow, sexy notes.
Simon couldn’t see the kid’s face. His long, inky hair tumbled forward as his intro seemed to go on for freaking forever. Simon’s shoulders tightened as the song moved into indulgent territory, but the singer wouldn’t fucking look up.
Finally, he stepped into the light, his lips crowding the microphone as startling eyes lifted to stare into the camera. The punch was visceral and undeniable. Simon stared at the TV as his own eyes filled the screen, thanks to the cameraman’s tight close-up.
Simon stumbled back a step. His towel unfurled and he caught it against his hip with a snarl.
“What the fuck. What the flying fuck?” He adjusted the towel, then flew across the room and pounded on the connecting door. “Nick, open this fucking door. Now!” He used the flat of his palm to slap the wood until it rattled on its hinges.
He took a step back when the doorknob turned. Lila Crandall’s huge, cornflower blue eyes peeked around the edge of the door. She glanced down at his state of dress. Not that he cared. He’d lost count of how many times his band—and sometimes their spouses—had seen him naked. “Are you out of your mind, Mr. Kagan?”
Simon pushed the door open and slid by her. “Where’s Nick?”
Lila, Nick’s wife, folded her arms over her chest. “He’s in the bathroom. What is wrong with you?” Her slim, blond eyebrows snapped together. “It’s not Margo?”
“What? No.” Simon scanned the room, then eased back to make sure this Ian freak was still singing. “Nicky, get the fuck out of the bathroom,” he called loudly. “In my room, now.”
Simon rushed back into his room, leaving the connecting door ajar.
A moment later, Nick came into his room, tugging a T-shirt over his head. “Jesus, dude. Do you need to walk around half naked? If that towel gets any lower, we’re all going to get a show. Not interested. At all.”
Simon was beyond frustrated and a moment away from sheer brain implosion. He clamped his hand along the back of Nick’s neck and pushed him in front of the television. “Look.”
“What? Some kid singing?” Nick shrugged off Simon’s hand and jammed his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. “So what? They’re a dime a dozen on TV these days. Who the fuck cares?”
The guy’s range rocked Simon back on his heels as this Ian kid hit a note Simon couldn’t have found even when he’d been at his peak. “Fuck.”
“Damn,” Nick muttered.
Simon shook his head. “Don’t.”
Nick shoved him. “You’re the one who brought me in here to see this dude. What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“Just wait.”
But instead of the song ending, the guy leaned into the mic and swung his guitar around his back and blended the chorus of Tom Petty’s “All or Nothin’” into the end of the song. He nailed every goddamn note and brought the audience to their feet.
Low goddamn blow using Petty. Since he’d passed away, only the brave or the stupid covered his songs. Evidently, this guy was both.
The banner popped back on the screen as the singer smiled brilliantly right into the camera. The audience went wild.
Nick frowned at the television. “I’m not reading that right, am I?”
“Fuck yeah, you are.”
“How?”
“I don’t fucking know.” Simon paced the length of the room as the host came out and tried to calm down the crowd.
“Wow. That was…just wow. I gotta ask you, especially after hearing your voice. That last name of yours—you’re not…”
“Simon Kagan’s my brother, yeah.” Ian tucked his long hair behind his ear with a rueful smile.
“He’s fucking British,” Nick spat out.
“How come we’ve never heard of you before?”
Ian shrugged. “Eh, you know how it goes. Brothers, right?” Dimples dented his cheeks before he raked his hair back with both hands. “I’m not my brother though. We just share a few genes. And I got a couple extra octaves and an accent.”
“Fucking smirk.”
Lila came into the room. “What’s going on in here?”
Nick slung his arm around her neck and nodded to the television. “Looks like Simon has a doppelgänger who’s looking to get a leg up using the Kagan name.” He gave Li a lopsided smile. “You’d think he’d pick a better guy to impersonate, but what do I know? Or…Simon’s got a brother.”
Lila dragged Nick closer to the television. “Wow.”
Simon raked back his hair and the gesture was identical enough that Lila’s eyes widened. “Fuck.” Simon fisted his hands and dropped them to his sides. “How? What the hell?”
Lila rubbed a careless hand down Nick’s stomach before she pulled out her phone. “Let me make a few calls.”
Nick brushed his mouth over her temple before letting her go. “Good idea.” He crossed his arms and faced Simon. “If anyone can find answers, it’s Li.”
“Let’s hope at any rate.” Lila sighed. “I have to call Zoe too, see if she’ll do the Blue Rhino gig for the Zeps.”
“Which she’ll say no to, like she has the other twenty times you’ve asked her.”
Simon arched a brow. “Who is this Zoe and why is she more important than the little fucker using my name? Mine. Get famous on your own, fucko.”
Nick held up a hand. “All right. Don’t blow a brain cell here. You don’t have enough to spare.”
“Eat shit.”
“Zoe is my cousin. She’s a photographer. Not a rock photog, but it’s a good opportunity for—” Lila shook her head. “Not important right now. I’ll make some calls,” she said again, flicking her fingers down Nick’s arm before striding out of the room.
Nick locked his hands behind his neck. “Well, the kid looks like you. Did your dad knock up some other chick, maybe?”
“How? When?” Simon dropped down on the bed. “Certainly not a British chick. He never left Carson even to work, for fuck’s sake. He went from the factory on the edge of town to the liquor store and back, man. Until the bastard dropped dead.”
He didn’t like to think about his old man. They’d never had a relationship to speak of. It had been more about Simon avoiding his mean right hook and big steel-toed boots than anything else. And the times he couldn’t avoid them, at least he’d managed to steal his dad’s cheap beer after the piece of shit passed out.
That was the beginning and end of their father-son relationship.
Simon stared at the screen long after this Ian dude walked off stage and the next Rhianna clone tried to sing her way around “Diamonds”.
Nick lifted the remote and turned the TV off. “I don’t know, man, but we have to be back at the venue in an hour.” He jammed his fingers in his pockets again. “Do you…I don’t know. Want to talk about it or some shit?”
“What? No. Fuck, no. I don’t even want to think about it.” Simon popped up off the bed just as Margo opened the main hotel room door.
“Hey, I’m sorry it took so long. My call…” Margo looked between the two men as her sentence trailed off. “What’s going on?” She frowned at Simon. “What happened?”
Simon held up a hand and stalked to the bathroom, slamming it behind him. He needed a goddamn minute.
A goddamn century to figure out how to wrap his brain around this.
He stared at himself in the mirror. A few more lines were etched into the corners of his eyes. Thirty was hunting him down like a feral cat went after a field mouse. No hope for evasion.
He whipped off his towel and climbed back into the shower. The sour stench of shocked sweat and anger permeated the air. He scrubbed
at his skin before tipping his head up at the spray.
Brother.
How?
He’d gotten used to not having any family anymore, except the one he’d found. The one he’d made. But blood relations weren’t a part of his world.
Especially ones who were far too much like him…or how he’d been once upon a time.
Back when he’d still had his edge.
“Simon?” Margo’s tentative voice made his fingers tighten up into fists again.
“It’s all right, Violin Girl. I just need a second.”
She stood outside the curtain. He could feel her uncertainty, but he didn’t have it in him to soothe or to ask for soothing. Surprise and fury were so clogged up in his head, he couldn’t see around them. Couldn’t breathe around them.
“I’ll be okay.”
She snaked her hand around the curtain and curled her long, slim fingers around his fist. “I’m here.”
He pressed his forehead to the tile. “I know.” His voice was too thick. He swallowed down the racing emotions. “I know.”
