Rock Reckoning: A Rockstar Suspense Romance Collection

by Cari Quinn

  He didn’t even blink, just plunked them on his face with a sigh. “So much better. Now let’s get a move on, yeah?”

  I nodded. Such a peculiar man. And dammit, he looked good in them. It so didn’t make sense. “I’m just a few blocks over. Can you make it? I don’t think there’s a bus that actually goes to J Town.”

  “What’s J Town?” He peered down at me. “I’m new to this country.” His eyebrow arched with mirth. “Literally.”

  I resisted the urge to drop him where he stood. Five minutes ago, he’d beaten two much larger men bloody and now he was cracking jokes? But if he hadn’t…

  I couldn’t think about that. Right now, I had to get us both back to the safety of J Town.

  “Not going to answer me?” He rubbed his bleeding nose again. “Fucker had a fist like a block.”

  “Fucker” sounded more like “fooker” out of his mouth. I’d been nearly this close to him the night before at the show, but now he was practically on me and all I could smell was sun and…smoke? That couldn’t be right. Not cigarettes—I certainly knew that scent.

  Living in an artists’ colony gave me a first-hand taste of that for sure.

  No, he smelled like home. Like burning leaves in a barrel. Like fall. Not like California at all. And smelling that off this man, who I simply couldn’t categorize, ferreted out a little homesickness I didn’t know I had growing inside of me.

  “We need to head down the block that way.”

  “All right, Zoe.”

  I shivered. I preferred to be the nameless and faceless girl. I don’t know why it bugged me that he knew my name, but it did. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Looking for you, actually.” I threw him a startled look. He hobbled along beside me and laughed harshly. Maybe even a bit of mocking in there. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I wasn’t stalking you, love.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What?” His eyebrow skyrocketed above the sunglasses. “Love?”

  “Yeah, that sounds too…charming.”

  “I am that, though.”

  “Slick and charming doesn’t do anything for me.”

  “Obviously, it does, or you wouldn’t be irked about it.” He gave a big sigh. “All right, love is off the table. At least for now. Maybe one day you’ll beg me to call you love.”

  I stepped away from him and he wavered.

  “Hey.”

  “I won’t be begging you to do anything, ever.”

  “Feisty. I quite like it.” He threw his arm around my shoulders, but didn’t lean on me quite as hard.

  A flash of memory from last night nagged at me. He’d said something similar. The inflection in his voice was as lyrical as a song. Distracting, and it made my chest hurt. I turned into him to hustle him across the street against traffic.

  A horn blared and I held up a hand in that rude way that made drivers mental. But whatever, I needed to get some space between us. The borrowed T-shirt was thin and the heat of his skin seemed to burn right through to my currently bra-less situation. That was the only reason my nipples were all tight and achy. No other reason. Not after what had just happened to me.

  We walked in silence. A few people glanced at us, but it was downtown and weird was commonplace. The iconic Venice banner strung up along Pacific settled my heart rate. Almost there.

  But then he’d be in my space.

  I wasn’t sure I could handle that. But I couldn’t let Bent see him in this current state, either. Bloody nose and rapidly swelling lip. Rivulets of blood had transferred to my shirt, making us both look like we’d gone on a rampage through a UFC fight.

  “So this is J Town? Flats aren’t like this back home, that’s for sure. So swank that it gets its own name in…where are we? Still in Venice Beach?” He glanced around. “And a building full of tags across from it.”

  “Venice is eclectic.”

  “Is that what you’re going with?”

  “You’re not from here, remember? You don’t know how it is.”

  He flicked the tail of my braid. “So, you’re born and raised here then?”

  “No.” I huffed out a breath. “I moved here about six months ago.”

  “Oh, well then. You have it all figured out.”

  “You’re an ass.” I picked up my step as we got closer to the front doors. I hooked my arm around his back, and he hissed. “Sorry. We need to go in the side doors.”

  “Is this a ladies kinda deal?” He dropped his voice. “No men allowed?”

  “Shut up. No. I just don’t want to answer any questions about…this.” I waved my hand down the front of him. “You look like an extra from Fight Club.”

  “I look like Brad Pitt?” He slid his hand down his belly, where muscles contracted. “Nice compliment.”

  “You wish. However, you certainly smell like him.”

  “Hey. That wasn’t very nice.”

  “I’m not the one sweating and bleeding all over.”

  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  I flushed. “Yes, thank you. I don’t know what…” I swallowed hard as flashes of that Rattlesnake guy threatened to toss me down a very bad road. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “There were too many people around.”

  “You know it doesn’t matter. Venice Beach is mostly a community, but bad stuff happens.”

  “It happens everywhere, lo—Zoe.”

  “I know. I’m just usually more in tune with my surroundings. I’m not stupid.”

  “Didn’t say you were. Through here?” he asked as he spotted a door.

  “Next one.”

  “How the fuck big is this place?”

  “This whole building is an artists’ colony, I guess you could call it.”

  “Pretty nice for an artists’ colony. Shouldn’t there be a patchouli and pot haze around the building?”

  “That’s the patio.”

  He laughed. “Right.”

  I hid a grin as I leaned him against the alcove near my studio. Wrought iron framed the large windows. We needed the light for our studio spaces, but it still was a beach community. There was crime everywhere—we just liked to make the bars pretty.

  “The building is pink.”

  “Trying out to be the next Captain Obvious?” I shoved my arm into my bag for my keys.

  One sooty eyebrow arched. “Isn’t the pink and beach aesthetic a little cliché for an artists’ colony?”

  “Stop saying it so ironically.”

  He shrugged and swiped his hand down his chest to get most of the blood and dragged his palm down his leg.

  “You’re a mess.”

  “Again, you’re welcome.”

  “Ah-ha.” I found my keys. The large cord of beads and cheap jewels swung between us. “Try not to be obnoxious.”

  “Why?” He grinned. “Do you have a roommate?”

  “No. Just don’t make me add another bruise to your collection.”

  “Did I mention feisty? Very feisty.” His accent made every word sound…explicit. Like he was adding just a little bit of a spin to it that would leave places warm that should not be warm. Especially after the day I’d had.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  “You bring it out in me.” I punched my code into the keypad, then shoved my shoulder against the door and dragged him inside. I peeked back outside to make sure no one was around before letting the door close gently. “To the right.” When he kept looking down the hall, I grabbed his arm. “This way.”

  “Hey! Damaged man here, remember?”

  I slapped my hand against his back to push him toward my studio. A tattoo peeked from behind his long hair. But it was the faint marks feathered across his shoulders and headed for his neck that caught my attention. What the hell had—oh. Nope, those weren’t from the fight. Figures. Those were nail marks. Lovely. “Just move along.”

  “Hey.” He hunched his sho
ulders. “Try to be a good Samaritan and this is what I get?”

  I nudged him aside to jam my key into the lock. I jiggled the knob and twisted left then right before the door popped open. I nodded to the door beyond my easel. “Shower’s through there.”

  “Just like that? Not going to help me out?” When I gave him a bland stare, he sighed. “I think we’ll need to revisit that lesson in bedside manners.”

  I fisted my hands until they shook. I swung my bag onto the counter of my galley-style kitchen, but I missed the edge and it flipped, spray cans scattering. “Dammit.” I crouched to pick them up, but my fingers were shaking so badly, I couldn’t keep them in my arms.

  It was as if getting into my studio had broken a release valve. All the stuff I’d been shoring up with a mission in mind was threatening to gush everywhere. In a very ugly fashion.

  “Hey.” His voice gentled as he crouched next to me. He groaned a little, but he took the cans from me.

  “It’s fine. I got it.” My stupid eyes were burning and all the cans were getting glittery.

  “I’m sure you’re very capable, lo—” He huffed out a breath. “Zoe.”

  “Quit saying my name.” I realized how dumb that sounded, but it was all I could do to not sit in the middle of the floor and sob like a two-year-old.

  “What would you like me to call you?”

  His voice was far too gentle. I couldn’t handle this at all if he was going to be nice to me. I elbowed him away and grabbed the sticky cans. My studio was blissfully air conditioned, but everything in my bag was a mess from the unholy heat of the skate park. I just had to concentrate on putting the tops back on.

  He stood up and seemed to know I needed to be left alone.

  Again, astoundingly astute.

  Most people would push the subject. Heck, my own cousin would pick at me until she got me to serve up whatever was going on in my head.

  I stalked over to my mixed-media bins and dumped in the cans.

  I was usually more careful with my materials, but right now, I didn’t want to look at them. Knowing I didn’t finish my little cartoon itched at the back of my brain. I was a binge painter. The kind of artist who didn’t sleep or eat for three days when I was mid-project.

  And I kept finding small things to obsess over. Nothing as all-encompassing as what I needed for my final gallery pieces to finish out my residency. Or, more importantly, get a second term. Just the idea of that felt impossible when I couldn’t even decide on a topic for the first one.

  Ian stroked long fingers over the distressed edges of one of my current paintings.

  “Don’t.”

  He curled his fingers into his palm and tucked it behind his back. With his other hand, he encircled his wrist to lock them away. As if he’d been told not to touch before with a far more restrictive edge.

  There was something there on his arm. From today? It seemed older. And he kept brushing his thumb across it like a worry stone.

  I shook my head. Nope. Do not get intrigued, Zoe.

  Again, not my business, but he kept sliding out of the boxes I thought he belonged in. Annoying.

  And hello, I wasn’t that girl. Art shouldn’t be held away behind velvet ropes. Not when I added sand and grit and even some tar to that painting for extra realism and texture. He peered up at the seven-foot canvas with a tilted head. Not the kind of confusion I got from some people, more like he was eager to figure it out.

  I cleared my throat. “You can touch it. Just not the edges. It hasn’t been framed out yet. I had to wait for everything to dry.”

  “It’s got so many layers. Feels lost.” Immediately, he reached for the darkness I’d tried to capture. Bits of trash and tar were embedded in the black gesso I’d used. A dank alleyway with bright sunlight and water at the far end. But the darkness was stifling, making the sun feel more like a distant painting instead of a destination.

  Not one of my happier days. It had been one helluva week.

  I’d painted it after Ginny, my advocate at the foundation, had told me my final collection idea was crap for a third time. She was trying to give me the benefit of the doubt, but I was past the midpoint in the program. I should be tits-deep into a cohesive plan of action by now.

  “Thanks.”

  He turned to me. “I didn’t mean—”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s a good assessment. Definitely my mood when I painted it.”

  “It’s powerful.”

  I tried not to let his words get to me. I was proud of my work, and I had definitely earned my spot in the program, but for the last few months, I’d been floundering. Everything felt like derivative crap. And maybe Ginny hadn’t said that about it in so many words, but it was what I heard.

  Anyone seeing these particular paintings was unnerving. I didn’t show people these oversized pieces. They were too much like my diary.

  I resisted the urge to pull the canvas down off the nail where it hung for drying. Which was why the stupid canvas was in the open.

  I twisted the ring on my thumb. “Look at the bottom right. Should be a number in a ball of trash.”

  He traced the side of his thumb along the raised paper. “Thirty-seven.”

  I nodded. “Thirty-seven hours to finish.”

  He whistled. “You keep track?”

  “Mostly because I drop like a dead trout when I’m done.”

  “There’s an image.”

  I shrugged and crossed the room to the painting. I lifted it off the nail.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting it away.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s finished drying.”

  He glanced around the room. Spotted the stacked canvases behind my secondary easel. My current work was under a sheet.

  Shit.

  It took three tries to get my alleyway painting back on the nail. Being vertically challenged sucked ass. In that time, he was rifling through my stacks.

  “Excuse you.” I rushed over and grabbed his elbow.

  He shook me off. “What else are you hiding over here? And why are you hiding it?” He slid another painting out and held it up to me.

  Why did it have to be that one?

  I jerked it out of his hold and slid it to the back of the pack. “If you’re feeling well enough to pick into my private things, then maybe you can be on your way.”

  “Touchy.” He peeked at a few more before I pushed him out of the corner. His shoulder banged into my current work in progress and the sheet dipped.

  The only reason I’d stopped working on it was because the layers needed to dry before I went on to phase two. It was one of the reasons I was still up at dawn. For fuck’s sake, I hadn’t actually slept since the show.

  But there was no denying the stage from his show last night.

  Or the microphone stand with its janky leg.

  My Polaroids were scattered around the eight-foot piece of wood I’d used as a base. I’d built the piece months ago from driftwood and a funky pallet. It had taken me hours to sand it down.

  And I’d put him on it.

  I flicked the sheet back over it, but Ian moved into my space. “Is that—”

  “It’s a job.” Lie. Utter lie. My job had been the photos. Which I still had to digitize and turn into Lila. Not this. Even if I hadn’t been able to get it out of my mind since the show. And I’d happily shove him out the door to work on it again.

  Except he swayed. Or maybe it was me. Both of us had reached hot-mess express status. I hadn’t slept in thirty-plus hours, had been nearly attacked, and I was pretty sure I’d only had a pretzel since this morning. Not good.

  Evidently, working would have to wait.

  I steered him away from my current work-in-progress and into the bathroom. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Don’t get used to it. As it is, I’m going to have to disinfect my shower after you get out of it.”

  He pulled away. “
I don’t have a disease.”

  “Easy.” Defensive much? “I mean because you’re bleeding everywhere. I don’t care who you are, that’s going to require a full bleach out after you clean up. Let me get you a towel.” I reached into the little built-in cupboard just inside the door. “No guest towels for you.” I pushed aside the plush sage-colored towels Lila had sent me as a housewarming present. I handed him the stained gray ones I used after painting.

  “What did you wash these with? Crayons?”

  “Crayons were so last year. Try acrylic.”

  He lifted the towel to his nose. “Smells like primary school.”

  “You went?”

  “Occasionally.” He sneered as he went for his pants. “Gonna wash my back?”

  “Might need extra triple antibiotic for that.” I shoved a washcloth into his belly and stormed back out.

  Overreact much? Whatever. I wasn’t going to be another girl on his probably lengthy list of babes. And why that pissed me off, I didn’t know.

  I lived in a community of artists. The word “monogamous” was as shunned as art critics.

  I blew out a breath. I so didn’t need to get myself twisted about this. While the shower was running, I rushed around my studio, putting my paintings away. And because then it looked like I was hiding my work, I dragged out a few of my commission pieces and stashed them on various easels.

  The only one I still couldn’t move was the one under my tarp.

  Nope. Not that one.

  It was still crazy wet. I’d put down so much paint it would take days to dry. “Stupid,” I muttered and peeked under the paint-splattered sheet. At least none of the paint had been smeared. That would have required a lot of damn surgery. Or even a total repaint.

  Getting that utter blackness to the stage with the halo of white and purples had taken painstaking hours. And it had been worth it.

  I arched my back in memory of how tight my shoulders had been late last night. And now, they were just as bad for a whole different reason.

  A flash of Rattlesnake eyes superimposed itself on the stage.

  The glint of his rusty blade made me twist my hand behind my back, up to where he’d cut me. God knew what was in my bloodstream. I dragged the shirt over my head. My blood stained the cotton along the back.