by Cari Quinn
My brother, but not.
Family, but not.
I would always be an outsider, whether or not I used my brother’s name to slip into these vaunted halls.
My name.
Almost unconsciously, I wandered along the wall, tracing the framed discs, imagining the day I would see my own name. Because I would.
I would prevail because if I didn’t, I would die. Figuratively and literally.
I hustled past the circular counter in the reception area, following the long hallway without thought or intention, my eyes blurring from the shine that held me hostage. The voices barely reached me at first. A tangle of female tones. One sharp, one lower and husky. An odd sort of music between them. Discordant.
“I know what you’re doing, Li. I appreciate and love you for it, but do you really think I’m that naive?” The raspy peal of laughter had me whipping around to locate the source.
There were a scatter of doors. Conference rooms, probably. Maybe offices, but those would be more likely to be tucked away. Maybe. I didn’t know how any of this worked.
My flight from London—paid for with my next few months’ rent—had delivered me into a different world. Now I had to figure out how to survive in it.
Like this girl, arguing for her own form of survival. I could hear it in the tight wire of her voice.
“Why can’t you just let me be?” she went on, that low voice edged in frustration. “I don’t need saving.”
I tugged down the sleeve of my shirt, smiling despite my precarious position outside their door. Damn straight.
We were of like minds. Was she as hot as her voice? I was a sucker for a strong woman with a voice to match. Another kind of music. How many times had I been led astray by a pretty voice only to find the chemistry with the woman herself wasn’t there? That was how I’d fallen into bed with that singer in Winchester. Gorgeous pipes, the rest not nearly as lovely. And I didn’t mean her looks.
“Who’s saving you?” The other woman didn’t sound nearly as intriguing. She was all business, no give whatsoever.
I’d heard that voice before. Somewhere.
“I’m just offering you a job taking photos,” she continued. “Something you dearly could use, since hello, this program you’re in won’t wait forever.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Her voice went shrill then evened. “But rockstars are your deal, not mine.”
Eyebrows raised, I slouched against the wall next to the door where the voices were coming from.
Says who, sweetheart? I’ll change your mind in under an hour.
Under half of that if she was easier to separate from her panties than she sounded. But that was okay. I enjoyed a challenge. The fruit tasted sweeter when it was harder to get.
Not that I’d come this far for a lay. Though I did admit a certain curiosity at finding out if the songs about California women were true. Since I appreciated all females without regard for location, I had my doubts, but I was always up for experimentation.
Literally, going by the state of my trousers.
Damn, that voice. That desperation layering under the stubbornness.
Passion. She had it in spades.
“I said the same once.” The other woman’s voice was as dry as a fine wine. “But I’m not talking pleasure, just business. Donovan pays handsomely for talent. Picking up one of our shows now and then could line your pockets with a minimal time investment. Leaving you plenty for all your artsy stuff.”
I straightened and hiked my knapsack higher on my shoulder. Taking photographs. Artsy.
Hmm. My pointer dog was about to get me in some fucking trouble.
Shit, I needed to see her face. All I needed was one look to find out if it matched that bedroom voice.
Just one to satisfy my curiosity.
My hand touched the doorknob as footsteps sounded behind me.
“Mr. Kagan?”
The usage of my name startled me enough that I shoved my hand into my pocket as I turned.
The cool brunette I’d noticed behind the desk in the reception area smiled at me, her gaze as warm as an ice chip. “Mr. Lewis doesn’t appreciate being kept waiting.”
“How do you know who I am?”
She smiled and tapped a mauve nail on the folder she grasped at her hip. I had a fucking folder? I wanted to sing, and they put together some kind of dossier on me?
Since I was a researcher as well, I couldn’t fault them. My shoulders relaxed. This was just business. Whatever the folder said, I didn’t care. I was here for one reason—to get to the next level.
At least as far as they knew.
In the meantime, I’d get my hands on that folder. Knowledge was king in every way. Jerry had beat that into my head a long time ago.
“Zoe, just one night. If you hate it, that’s all I’ll ask of you.”
“And if I don’t hate it, Li? Then what?”
Li. My eyes narrowed. I couldn’t stop listening even as the clearly impatient brunette receptionist waited for me to get a move on.
Li aka Lila Crandall? The wife of Simon’s bandmate, Nick. Oblivion’s manager.
The best friend of Simon’s own wife.
I smiled and fell into step with the receptionist. Yes, I was a researcher myself, and my husky-voiced artist was in the realm of one of the Ripper power players. Close to her no less, since Lila didn’t dally with those who didn’t matter.
That might just come in handy.
Just might.
Twelve
DONOVAN
The jewels of Los Angeles spread out in front of him like his very own kingdom. This high up, it might as well have been.
Fanciful thinking, of course. He didn’t own all of what lay before him, glittering in the afternoon sun. Shiny like diamonds, reflective like mirrors that showed what the viewer hoped to see. An illusion of grandeur and prosperity.
Possibilities and hope. With enough money, one could have both.
Could have almost everything. Almost.
Donovan Lewis heard the door crack open behind him. He spared Ian Kagan a quick glance before facing the world once again. “Have a seat.”
The kid didn’t move.
He reminded Donovan of himself. Minus the silvery threads in his shirt, probably the best of the kid’s wardrobe.
Donovan had never worn anything so fanciful back when he’d been on stage. All black had been his wardrobe then as it was so often now.
He recognized the giant chip on Ian’s shoulder quite well. It carried enough weight to make his shoulders tight. Or else the kid wasn’t nearly as confident as he seemed.
Donovan was a betting man, and he would lay odds on the latter.
Under Donovan’s scrutiny, Ian shook back his long, wavy, dark hair. The kind a woman would love to mess up. It spilled over his shoulders, unrestrained and free. Hung in his greenish-gray eyes as if he hadn’t seen a barber in some time. Probably as much due to the cost as style.
If not more.
He was every bit as arresting as his older brother. Some genes in that family. Donovan had no qualms about exploiting them for their mutual benefit.
Assuming Ian had come to play ball.
“Sit down,” he said as Ian lingered in the doorway. “This will be brief.”
Donovan didn’t sit himself, just studied Ian’s movements in the glass. Ian didn’t grip the doorframe, but his hand kept going to his opposite arm. Rubbing absently before he tucked the thumb of that hand against the corner of his mouth. Almost too lush for a man, Donovan mused, analyzing him as if he were a piece of artwork up for sale.
Alas, he was. Everyone had their price, and this one’s wasn’t nearly as high as he believed.
“I thought this was a meeting.”
That hint of a cockney accent also reminded Donovan of himself. He’d worked to rid himself of all but the slightest intonation of such when his temper was up, and he suspected Ian was attempting the same. But that accent was as much a trait of theirs as
their hair or eye color. As much a part of them as the cockiness Ian wielded like a weapon.
Oh, yes, once upon a time, he’d been very much like this young man. That didn’t mean he’d give him so much as a millimeter.
“Did you now?” Donovan shifted on his heels, regarded the boy with a quirk of his eyebrow. He had a few inches on him and quite a bit of muscle.
What Ian had in spades was attitude, shown now with the curl of his lip.
“Isn’t that how this usually goes? I come in, show you what I can do, then we talk terms.”
Donovan had to chuckle. “You think you know how it goes, hmm? Exactly how many recording contracts have you been offered?”
“One.” Now a stubborn jut of his chin, and a shift of his eyes that told Donovan even that one was in question.
“That number won’t change after this conversation.”
Ian fisted his hand at his side. “Then what the fuck am I even doing here? You had me come all the way from bloody London—”
“Oh, I had you come, did I? You didn’t call me full of bravado, certain I’d take you on because of a bloodline you claim to share. Pretending Simon had advised you to call me. Do you think I’m that stupid or that out of touch not to know what goes on with my own people?”
“Claim to share?” Ian strutted forward and slammed his palms on Donovan’s desk, nearly toppling the lone photo in a gilt-edged frame. Irritation climbed up the back of Donovan’s neck, locking the muscles there. “Fucking look at me. You can’t see it all over my face?”
“I see that you would be wise to mind how you touch what isn’t yours.”
When Ian went to right the cockeyed photo, Donovan plucked the frame out of his hand. It had only been on the desk for a short time. A rare moment of nostalgia. Foolish. Seeing her in front of him meant nothing when he carried her exact image in his heart.
Every day of his life.
Carefully, he opened his top drawer and placed the photograph inside facedown. He shut the drawer and lifted his gaze to Ian’s. Temper vibrated in the younger man’s leanly muscular frame, practically sparking off the fingertips he still held clenched.
“Sit down,” Donovan said again, adding steel to the command.
The time for requests ended when Kagan put his hands on what didn’t belong to him.
Ian sneered, but he sat. And waited.
“We will find out if you’re truly who you say you are.”
“Oh, really? We will? Who’s that? You and your hired blond pit bull? Is Crandall the one helping you to assemble that dossier on me?” Ian spread his arms wide. “You got something to ask me? Go right ahead. I’m sitting right here, mate.”
Donovan sat in his chair. Normally, he would’ve come around the desk and leaned against it for a preliminary conversation like this, but Kagan didn’t get that treatment. He merited the desk between them. “I’m not your mate. You also don’t rate a dossier, so don’t flatter yourself.”
Ian sulked with all the style of a rockstar. Donovan might not like it, but he could see that Kagan had all the requirements for a lead singer who would make the women go wild.
Just like the other Kagan.
“Tell me about your band.”
The topic shift made Ian’s eyes narrow. “What band?”
“Exactly. You’re a lone wolf. And I hate to tell you, you don’t have the chops to command arenas on your own yet. Perhaps you never will, if you don’t dial back the bravado and learn what you need to.”
“Oh, yeah, and what’s that?”
“There’s more to performing than charming ladies out of their underwear, for starters.”
“Do tell.”
Donovan ignored the way Ian propped his chin on his fist as if he was waiting for a story. Kagan enjoyed provoking people, and only a fool would give him his druthers.
Donovan wasn’t a fool.
“Simon didn’t ask you to call me. In fact, he immediately requested assistance in finding out if you were who you said you were. You fought. Bruised and scraped each other up. Still, you may be no more than another con artist who wants a payday.”
Ian’s shoulders hunched before he threw them back again. Interesting.
“How did I fake this face? This voice?” he demanded.
“What makes you think I’ve heard your voice? Oh, that’s right. You’re such an international star already that, of course, I must have.” Donovan smiled thinly. “I say again, don’t flatter yourself.”
Indignation and fury warred on Ian’s almost-too-pretty features. “You called me in without ever hearing me sing? Why do I doubt that?”
Ian was correct, but Donovan wasn’t about to tell him so. This one needed to be knocked back a few pegs. Reality offered a hard landing, and LA was nothing like London. Better Kagan learned now before he was chewed up and swallowed by the city outside the windows.
“You want to prove yourself,” Donovan said, picking up his gold pen and flicking it through his fingers. He’d been toying with the idea before Ian had appeared, and now he was even more certain it was a good course to take. “Want to show everyone what a huge talent you are, so much bigger than your so-called brother ever has been, though you had to use his name to get through the doors. Even if he would kick your ass if he knew you were here.”
“He might try. Didn’t manage it the first time.”
“Yet I still see his bruises on you. And that mark on your inner arm which isn’t a bruise. The one you keep touching. Fretting over like a worry stone.”
Ian paled and yanked down his sleeve as if he could erase the evidence. “Why don’t you call my brother in and have us sing together? See which one of us outshines who, once and for all.”
“I could do that. Except talent isn’t the whole story. Isn’t even the largest part.” Donovan leaned forward, still casually flipping the pen. “Right now, you’re a street punk who isn’t worth my time. It’d be as easy for me to tell you to hit the road with your last two pennies in your pocket as it is for me to sit here and watch you crow so no one knows you don’t have a place to sleep tonight.”
Ian held his gaze, his changeable eyes turning hard. With a shift of the light, they were blue, like marbles made of a dozen hues. “You don’t know shit, Lewis.”
“You’d be surprised what I know. What I can find out. The secrets a man tries to hide. Celeste Elizabeth Wallace Kagan was your mother,” Donovan said, again shifting gears. “That is your claim?” He pulled out papers, shuffled through them without seeing the words.
Didn’t need to. He’d reviewed the Kagan information this morning. He’d probably discovered more than Ian knew himself.
“My claim, yes. The claim I have papers to back up.” Ian reached for a battered knapsack, then hoisted it up and began to root through it.
“I don’t need your supposed paperwork. I have my own.” Donovan cocked his head as Ian dropped his knapsack. “What happened to your mother, Ian?”
Ian jerked a shoulder, but Donovan didn’t miss the brief flash of fear before it was ruthlessly banished. “How should I know? She took off. Probably found herself a sugar daddy.” His lips twisted. “Easier to do without your bratty son to slow you down.”
“You don’t know what happened to her then.” Donovan sat back and steepled his hands. “Absolutely no idea.”
“No.” Only the slightest quaver in Ian’s voice gave him away.
Most likely, no one else would’ve heard it. Unless they were looking.
Unless they knew exactly what it was to live by your wits and your hands.
Secrets could kill.
Donovan knew that all too well too.
“But you survived. You and Simon, the last two of your family. The only ones left.”
Ian didn’t back down. Didn’t look away. “Are you getting at something, Lewis? Spit it out if so.”
Donovan held his stare for a moment, then two. Stringing it out until Ian started to reach for that wound on his arm again before his hands fell still
and his face became an emotionless mask. Only his burning eyes—now back to that sea-whipped greenish-gray—told the tale.
Secrets weren’t secrets forever.
Not everything—and everyone—who was buried stayed that way.
But that was for Ian to learn, as Donovan had.
As he was still.
“Are you available next Saturday night?” Donovan asked pleasantly, breaking the silence so abruptly that Ian physically jolted. “We’ve had an unexpected cancellation. Our opening act for the Zeps has fallen ill. Terrible flu. Will you still be in town?”
Ian didn’t move. Scarcely seemed to breathe. His color hovered somewhere between sheet-white and the gray of the weathered clapboard shutters on Donovan’s Monterey vacation home. Then he nodded, too fast. “Where is the show?”
Donovan smiled, slow and sure. Ian didn’t realize he was getting a paying audition, but he was. This was a one-off and only that.
Even if some of the people in his employ wouldn’t see it that way. One in particular who was far too tangled up with the members of Oblivion and all their permutations.
But it had to be done. Ian wanted to prove himself. Donovan was willing to let him try—or to witness him hang himself with his own rope.
Might not even be the first time.
Donovan smiled slowly. “Perhaps you’ve heard of a venue called the Blue Rhino.”
With a shrug, Ian rose and stuck out his hand across the desk in a belated handshake, unintentionally revealing the ragged wound on his inner arm he’d tried to hide. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an opening act, Lewis.”
Thanks for reading ROCK REVENGE. Ian’s journey to reclaiming what belongs to him is just beginning. One-click ROCK RECLAIMED.
I’m the black sheep son.
The one no one ever knew about.
The one your mum wouldn’t want you to bring home.
I have the Kagan face and the Kagan voice and let’s be real—the legendary Kagan d!ck.
