They were trying to seduce me.
Over the years, Dirty had tried about everything to get me to come back and write with them again. Every member of the band had hounded me about it. Not Elle, not as much as the others; she usually just opted to casually probe the subject whenever we saw each other, and let it drop when I brushed it off. But my brother? Dylan? Even Maggie? Relentless. And Zane? Obsessed. Every time we were both in L.A., he’d find out where I was, drag me back to his ubermansion and force me to listen to whatever they’d been working on most recently.
Please, Jessa, he’d beg, a big, charming grin on his face—the kind a Viking must’ve worn just before plundering some defenseless village. Don’t make me sing these shitty lyrics I wrote.
And if I was any other girl—one who hadn’t known him since I was four years old and would always see him as an obnoxious big brother—that grin probably would’ve worked. Because it wasn’t like I wasn’t at all tempted to write with the band again.
Far from it.
Writing with Dirty was the best thing I’d ever done. It was the only thing I’d ever really wanted to do.
But writing with Dirty meant working with Brody. And I just didn’t know how that could ever work.
Consider me dead to you.
Well, clearly, he wasn’t dead to me. Because Brody Mason would never be dead to me.
But after the other night, when we’d made out and then he’d stormed out, I really wasn’t sure how much better or worse off we now were than when he’d uttered those five horrible words to me.
Maybe… one step forward, three steps back?
But of course, my brother had no idea about any of that.
“Let’s do this again tomorrow,” he said when I remained silent. It wasn’t really a question.
“Definitely,” Zane agreed. Also not a question. “First, though, we should throw some of those lyrics down on that track we were running through last week. You know the one.” He and my brother exchanged a conspiratorial look. “I smell a tasty hook on that last line Jessa just sang. We’ve gotta twist that shit right into the chorus.”
“Like this?”
And then my brother was off, fingers flying up and down his fretboard as he ripped into some new song I hadn’t yet heard. When Zane kicked in with the vocals I didn’t know the words. But sure enough, he threw in some of my new lyrics and what started to sound a hell of a lot like a song—a catchy, edgy Dirty song—took shape. It started out kind of dirty-bluesy… then Zane laid my words into the much heavier, raunchier chorus, indulging himself with a Robert Plant-esque scream that went straight to my girl parts and probably cracked a few sections of stained glass.
Jesus.
If I just closed my eyes and pretended it wasn’t my family up there…
Wet panties. Guaranteed.
I kept my eyes open.
They played it again from the top, and again, until Jude slipped into the back of the church to listen and Maggie rose from her seat to stand next to me and watch; I’d cleared my ass off the stage when the guys started rocking out, because we were now deep in Dirty territory and I didn’t belong up there.
When they finally finished, there was about a minute of silence as we all stood there, staring at each other. My ears were ringing. Then Zane threw his head back and laughed, his white teeth gleaming in the candlelight.
“What the hell was that?” Maggie demanded.
“That,” Zane said into the mic, “was our next single, Maggie May.” Then he did a dramatic mic-drop and jumped down off the stage to tussle my hair.
Next single… no shit.
Something had just happened on that stage, while Zane belted out my words to Dirty’s music. Something I hadn’t been a part of in far, far too long. I wasn’t blind to it and I wasn’t immune.
Magic had just happened. And it had me in tears.
The guys didn’t judge. They just let me have my cry as they hugged me. Zane was first. “I said it once, I’ll say it twice and as many times as you need to hear it,” he told me. “It’s good to have you home.”
Then my brother wrapped me in his arms. For a moment, he didn’t say a thing. Then he whispered, “Remember this.”
Then the guys went outside to smoke a joint. Maggie went with them without a word, just a small smile in my direction… leaving me alone in the aftermath of that magic vibe.
I climbed up onstage and stared up at the gorgeous stained glass window for a while as the candlelight and shadow danced across it, hearing that new song in my head. The way Zane sang it… so different than I would’ve sung it, and yet… like it’d been written just for his voice.
Maybe it had.
When I finally turned around, Brody was there. He was leaning on the wall near the back of the church, watching me.
“Hey,” I said, startled. “How long have you been here?”
“Since you left.”
I let go a small sigh as my shoulders dropped. And just like that, all the joy, all the hope, all the warmth and the love and the kinship I’d felt here in this incredible old building, embraced by a few of my old friends—my family—making music with them again, making magic… it all evaporated in an instant.
Just like I’d always feared—no; like I’d always known it would.
I was left standing onstage alone, as if I were on trial, staring across a very empty room at a man I’d once abandoned, with no idea how to brave the chasm that lay between us.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t wanted to talk to him after our blow-out in the bathroom, but he hadn’t exactly made it easy. By the time I’d gotten my drunk ass out of the bath he was gone, and Roni was waiting in my room instead, along with my Zeppelin shirt, rescued from the dock.
I hadn’t seen Brody since.
I’d thought a lot about what I might say when I did see him, though. It was pretty much all I’d thought about. I’d even tried to write down everything that was in my head and somehow organize it. Simplify it. Get to the heart of the matter.
I’d thought about all the times I’d done this before, all the letters I’d written to him over the years but never sent.
I’d thought about what might happen when I finally told him what happened all those years ago. But the fact was I didn’t know what would happen. That was the hardest part; the uncertainty.
I had no idea how he’d react.
Other than Brody, I’d only ever gotten involved with men I could predict. Men I felt like I could control. Brody I could never control, and that had always scared me. I still had no control over him, and I knew it. If he’d wanted me to, I would’ve come right there on that bathroom counter, in his arms; if he hadn’t stopped it, I would’ve given him whatever he asked of me. At least, whatever he’d asked of my body.
I wasn’t a screwed-up kid with a million reasons to say no anymore.
But he had stopped it.
Because clearly, Brody was never going to let himself get carried away over me—even in my underwear, with my legs spread, wrapped around him and ready to go.
You drove me fucking crazy.
Brody had fallen for me once, but it was in his stance now, in his body language, in the look on his face and the way he looked at me: he was never going to make that mistake again.
I half-expected him to turn and walk out of the church, but he just stood there leaning on the wall, staring at me.
“You left,” I said, carefully, “after the wedding. I didn’t see you at brunch.”
“Amanda had to be back in the city.”
“Oh.” I nodded, pretending like hell that the mention of his girlfriend didn’t turn my stomach. “Right.” I knelt down and got busy putting my new guitar away in its pink-lined case.
Brody walked up the aisle toward me. He stood in front of the stage and looked up at me, hands in his pockets… looking so much like that boy I’d first met on the playground it made my heart thud.
“Just don’t fuck around, okay?”
I stared at him. �
��Excuse me?”
“Don’t make them think you’re coming back, that you’re staying, when you aren’t,” he said, his voice flat. “Don’t start writing songs with them you’re not gonna finish and don’t let them get attached to the idea of having you around.”
Okay; that got my back up.
I wasn’t one of his clients. I wasn’t paying for his advice and I sure as hell didn’t ask for it.
Brody could freeze me out, hate me if he needed to; that was his prerogative. But who was he to give me orders? Who was he to tell me what I could and couldn’t do with the band? With my own brother? He was their manager, yes. But I didn’t need his permission to hang out with them, to write a few songs.
They’d be my songs, too.
I stood and crossed my arms over my chest, giving back all the attitude he was giving me. “You telling me that as their friend, or as their manager? Or just out of the good of your heart?”
“I’m telling you that as a man who knows what it’s like to be left by you.”
With that, he turned and walked back up the aisle toward the exit.
Oh, damn.
Low blow.
I hopped down from the stage, going after him. “They told me you found this place for them?”
He turned back to me. “So?”
“So… it’s amazing. Perfect.” I met him partway up the aisle. “You always did know what was best for them. You’ve been a great manager to them, and a great friend. You should be proud of everything you’ve accomplished together. But… that doesn’t mean you have a right to tell me where I fit in, just because you give a shit and you think that makes you boss. If the band wants to write with me… if I want to write with them… you’ve got no right.”
“Actually,” he said grimly, “I do. It’s my fucking job. A job I’ve been doing every day while you’ve been gone. A job I’d do even if they never paid me. That’s how much of a shit I give.”
He got closer and looked me right in the eye, and I felt that magnetic pull between us, overwhelming. His eyes were dark and hooded and for a confused moment, I thought he might kiss me. And I wanted him to, even though I knew it was a bad idea; because if Brody kissed me again before I confessed all my fucking sins, things were only going to get more complicated. For both of us.
But he didn’t kiss me.
“And for the record,” he said instead, his voice low, “I’ve advised them against writing with you. I told them you’re unreliable, you’re unstable, and you’re not committed. We’ve been down that road before, with Seth, and we all know how it ends.”
Wow.
That was not flattering. At all. And being compared to Seth felt… unfair. And yet, somehow, exactly what I deserved.
But true or not, it hurt to hear all those unflattering things out of Brody’s mouth. To know that he’d said those things about me to Jesse, Zane, Elle and Dylan.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he wasn’t done.
“This isn’t about you, Jessa. It’s not about me, either. It’s about Dirty. Things are raw with the band right now. With Jesse and Elle’s break up, and their tenth anniversary album and tour around the corner, and now we’re without a rhythm guitarist, again. They’ve got enough to deal with. They don’t need any bullshit from you.”
“Wait. What do you mean? What happened to Paulie?”
“Paulie’s out.” Brody rubbed his hand over his face, looking weary. Suddenly I recognized that dark look in his eyes, and it had little to do with wanting to kiss me. “His wife’s been diagnosed with some shitty rare cancer. He’s dropping everything to get her through treatment.”
“OhmyGod.” The words came out of my mouth in a blurred, pained breath.
“I just got the call. Came to tell the guys. Look,” he said, sounding beyond tired, “this is gonna take the wind out of everyone’s sails.”
“Yeah.” I hugged myself, suddenly cold. The church was drafty, and that warm and fuzzy adrenalin buzz of playing with the guys? Long gone. “I understand. Just let me know what I can do to help? Please.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” he said, looking me in the eye again. “Except leave now if that’s what you’re gonna do.”
Then he turned and walked out.
Chapter Eleven
Jessa
For the next few days I laid low.
I didn’t go back to the church, even though my brother kept asking me to come; even though I knew the whole band was there and they wanted me to be. Because no matter how offended I wanted to try to be over what Brody had said to me, I couldn’t deny that he was right.
If I was going to leave… the best thing to do would be to leave now.
But I’d promised my brother ten days. And he’d postponed his honeymoon for me. Which meant that I should suck it up and get my ass back down to the church to spend time with him. Jam with the band. Hang out.
Just be there, if nothing else.
But I couldn’t bring myself to go back down there. For now, I’d told Jesse I needed a little time for other things. It wasn’t a lie, but it was a bit of an excuse. And instead of visiting old friends like I told him I’d be doing with a good chunk of my time, I barely left Roni’s place.
I did call my agent, to tell her I’d be staying in Vancouver until the day before the shoot, when I’d fly down to L.A..
But I barely spoke to anyone else, and I barely got out of my sweats.
I wasn’t going to sit around and feel sorry for myself, though. I’d done enough of that for a lifetime as a teenager. So I got Paulie’s address down in L.A. from Maggie and sent flowers. I called and spoke with his wife, and his nine-year-old daughter on the phone. Then I arranged to have two weeks’ worth of healthy meals delivered to them by a concierge service, including some fun stuff for the kids, to try to help. I didn’t know what else I could really do.
I’d never really believed God would answer my prayers. But I prayed for Paulie and his wife and their family.
Then I re-organized Roni’s condo.
By the end of day two of my self-imposed sabbatical, I’d labeled and color-coded everything in her cupboards. When Roni came home that night, she took one look at what I’d done, raised her eyebrows, and walked straight into her bedroom without a word.
The next day, people started dropping by unannounced.
It started with Maggie, then Zane, then Elle. Dylan and Ash showed up with takeout. Everyone and their dog suddenly happened to find themselves in Roni’s neighborhood with nothing better to do than check up on me.
Because rock stars weren’t busy or anything.
And not that I didn’t appreciate it, but it was also kind of annoying, since it was interrupting my funk.
It was also necessary, because by the morning of day four, I’d started to slip. I’d run out of shit to organize, I still hadn’t figured out how to deal with Brody, and the inevitable brooding had set in.
I’d taken to sitting around in my sweats and Yankees cap, idly playing the guitar Jesse had given me but really playing nothing at all, listening to stuff like Lera Lynn’s slow, sultry cover of “Ring of Fire,” which was either a brilliant or totally horrendous song to listen to when you were deep in the throes of a screwed-up, lovelorn, scared-shitless sort of funk.
Then I binge-watched a bunch of heart-rending movies, making it through The Notebook, The English Patient, and half of The Age of Innocence before my new sister-in-law managed to drag me out of the house.
I was still wearing my sweats and ball cap, but I went with her when she asked me to come to her art studio—Dirty’s old rehearsal space.
I had been here before. It was a clean, spacious studio with an open loft above and big skylight windows. Perfect for an art studio. As Katie and I stepped inside with her black lab, Max, I could see, though, why the band wanted something bigger, something a little more raw, with a few more stories to tell, for their rehearsal space.
“I’ve set up a little studio in the sunroom at Jesse’s pla
ce, too,” Katie said as she deactivated the alarm. “You know, facing the water?” I smiled at how she still called it Jesse’s place. “I like to paint at weird times, sometimes. And I don’t always want to have to haul my ass over here in the middle of the night.” She looked around the room at her stuff as she turned up the lights, frowning. “Jesse’s been really gracious. Making room for me, and, you know… everything that comes with me.”
I just smiled, rubbing Max’s head. “Well, that’s what you do when you love someone, right?”
“Right.” She sighed, squinting at her stuff, like the room was a mess. It totally wasn’t. Her art supplies were all neatly arranged in shelving units along a side wall. There were canvases, both clean and painted, filed into a custom storage unit with tall, narrow compartments. But what caught my eye were the paintings that had been left out—leaned against the walls, there was a giant portrait on canvas of each member of Dirty. The one of Dylan stood on an easel; it was the only one that wasn’t yet complete.
As I approached, I could make out the seemingly millions of brush strokes, the texture of the thick, layered paint, the hundreds of colors that seemed to have been used to capture the myriad shades of his auburn hair.
“Katie… these are freaking amazing.”
“They’re for the tenth anniversary album. For the tour and everything. And thank you.” She smiled. “They want it to be kind of a retrospective as well as the beginning of a new era. All the new stuff, and the old stuff. They… um… really want you to be a part of that.”
I looked over at her. Damn… now they had Katie doing their dirty work?
“So as you can see,” she went on, her cheeks pinking a little, “this is a business visit as much as a pleasure visit.” She indicated the blank canvas standing on a giant easel in the middle of the room. “Maybe you’ve figured out my agenda here?”
“Yeah. I’m kind of getting the picture.”
Dirty Like Brody: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2) Page 12
