Runaway Girl (Runaway Rockstar Series Book 1)

by Anne Eliot

  “Okay. Yeah, right. Who doesn’t want to get paid?” Royce barks out a laugh before his grandmother can answer. I can see he’s tilting his head and trying to get a solid look at me. When I glance directly at him he pulls in a breath and whispers, “Holy shit. What the—no-way.” His reaction makes me flush and look away as he continues, “Forgive me, but Grandmother, did you look at this girl? Up close?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you mean, Royce. Of course we did. We had a nice long introduction in the human resources office less than an hour ago.”

  Royce snorts dismissively and leans deeper back into his shadows. “What grade could she possibly be in with that face? Do her parents even know she’s out of the house?” He barks another tight laugh. “Time to get the glasses checked because this girl has got to be in high school. She’s an infant herself.”

  Feeling like I need to defend myself after all this, I protest, “I’m not in high school. Not anymore. I’ve just graduated. I’m a—full adult.”

  “Prove it. Show me your ID.”

  My brows shoot up, because no way in hell am I handing this dude my military ID or my North Carolina driver’s license.

  “What are you, some kind of bouncer?” I deflect, straightening my shoulders and matching his bossy voice. “Show me your ID.”

  “Oh. You’re funny. You’d love a photograph of that, wouldn’t you?”

  I raise my brows higher, wondering if he’s not all there as he glances down at the baby in his arms, adding in a quieter voice, “You’re about as funny as the woman who left us high and dry with this baby.”

  Mrs. Felix pulls in a sharp, disapproving sounding breath. “As you can see, my grandson is not handling the announcement that he’s become a new father very well.”

  “Ah. It’s unfolded how you predicted, then?” I furrow my brow, flicking the dirt-bag-daddy in question another glance. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sorry for the baby.”

  “Wait.” Royce shifts in his seat. “You’ve already told a complete stranger I was the father of this baby, when in fact, it’s not been proven she’s mine? No wonder Gregory wanted to get her back to us so quickly. I can’t believe this messed up pile of lies hasn’t leaked. This is not my baby, you will see that eventually. And did anyone ask Robin here to sign a non-disclosure agreement after you divulged my whole life story to her?”

  “There was no need to make her sign any papers,” Mrs. Felix answers pertly.

  “What? There’s always a need. We have rules. Rules!”

  I butt in, hoping to stop the argument, “I promised not to tell anyone, and I won’t. I gave your grandmother and your uncle my word of honor. You don’t have to worry that I’ll tell anyone.”

  “Don’t worry, she says to me?” He snorts. “Last time I checked, words of honor and promises don’t hold up in a courtroom.” After another short laugh he groans like he’s in some sort of pain. “This is such chaos. No one thought this through and now here we are stuck in this limo, talking to a random innocent bystander, all while I’m supposed to come up with a way to sneak a baby into and back out of the stadium, give a damn concert, and …oh, yeah. I know. And then keep that same baby hidden for the next few…hide her for…damn-me. Even I haven’t thought this through.” His voice escalates to a half shout. “The baby hiding thing is probably going to be part of our lives now…forever. Christ. I’ve got such a headache.” He sighs out long, his voice switching to defeated. Ragged. “I can only take so much stress. And now you’ve involved this girl. Can’t you see every move we’ve made today is a mistake?”

  “Maybe so, Royce, but we’re trying our best. Robin is not involved, she’s only going to help us a bit, until we have our bearings. I agree this situation is larger than any we’ve ever dealt with, but you’re not alone, dear,” Mrs. Felix says, sounding wounded as well as worried.

  He motions to me. “Robin. Did the press photograph you getting into this limo?”

  “I, uh…I don’t know. I had other things on my mind before this—madness.” I furrow my brow, trying to remember if I’d even noticed any official looking photographer type people, but truly, I hadn’t.

  He sighs again, now acting like my answer is the reason for his headache. “Do you understand the bigger ramifications of being in this limo? No you don’t and neither my grandmother or my Uncle Gregory explained it to you, did they? What it could do to your privacy, to your whole life? This, us it—we have all just put you in huge danger by inviting you in here. And you don’t even know.”

  “Are you joking?” I pull my hands out of the next seat crack and search the next. “I’m just installing a car seat.”

  “I don’t joke.”

  “He doesn’t, dear,” Mrs. Felix adds. “And he’s right. I suppose I should have been more protective of you. I could have told you more about us, but I always forget the proper protocols they say I’m supposed to follow. They’re so time consuming.”

  “Because you always break the rules,” Royce admonishes her.

  “Well so do you break the rules, young man, or you wouldn’t have ended up with a baby,” she snaps back.

  Royce’s response is a murderous headshake.

  “Look, I’m not afraid…I swear,” I say, while I risk another glance out the window, distracted anew by the way Mrs. Hildebrandt, Angel and Gregory seem to be involved in a deeper discussion now. A small sigh escapes me, and my own massive headache starts up, as I work try to finish what I’d started to say to Royce and Mrs. Felix. “I’m not afraid of you, or of the press, or if they took a photo, or of being in this limo. And I don’t tell secrets I’ve promised to keep. So please, believe me when I say everything’s fine, okay? It’s all going to work out just fine.”

  I’ve said that last bit more for a pep talk to myself than for them.

  “Is it?” Royce’s rumbling lowered voice catches my attention, mostly because I’ve realized that every time this guy speaks, a ripple of goosebumps forms somewhere on my spine. “The way you keep staring out the window makes you look afraid,” he goes on. “Like a deer caught in headlights. One who wants to run. Literally. That, or something’s wrong with your eyes, because, why are they so big and round? Is it a trick of the light?”

  I shrug, shaking my head at the guy. “I have big eyes. So what? I’ve also never seen anything like the crowd screaming out there before, so maybe that and all of you famous people are kind of distracting and make look afraid,” I add, searching for more true things to say. “And maybe like you, I’m not having a very good day, though it is really none of your business. So, despite how you think I should be excited to meet you, and this was all some sort of master plan of mine, I’m not, and it’s not; because in fact, this is also my worst day ever? Okay?” I bite out, just as my hands come in contact with a strange looking horseshoe shaped control panel under my current seat.

  Before any of them can respond to my outburst, I quickly call out, “Yes! Look. Found something. Each button here must represent a seat.”

  I push the one directly in the middle, and we all watch as two beautifully designed squares pop through ultra-tight hidden seat cracks from the seat backs that I hadn’t even noticed. The squares reveal a beautifully designed lap belt and a corresponding gold-plated buckle.

  “Bingo.” I mutter. Not sparing Royce another glance, I move to sit on my knees, grab the seat base and place it between the belt and buckle, then pull out the length of the belt so I can run it though the holes in the bottom of the car seat base.

  When it clicks, I drag on the strap to pull out the slack, then tug it as tight as I can. Sadly, my efforts are not enough. The base still wobbles terribly. I tug more, then tug again, then, even though I don’t want to, I glance over at Royce and ask, “The leather is so new that the seat won’t squish down far enough with only my weight. It’s going to take two people. Could you hand the baby over and come help?”

  With a swallowed curse, he inches forward then slides from seat to seat, moving toward his grandmoth
er, cradling the baby. As he passes through the light streaming in from the sunroof, I make out his tan skin because—oh-my-God—his denim shirt is unbuttoned.

  Why? I know why? Because that goes way better with the leather pants he’s wearing.

  Because. Oh. My. God.

  I also get a glimpse of a square chin and, is that a beard?

  I take in shoulders so broad, connecting to these warrior-strong arms, and note that all of this—all of him—stuffed into this small space, make the baby he’s holding appear extra small. As he comes closer, I can see his entire face, and when he turns toward me, it’s my turn to draw in a breath of shock kind of like he did when he saw my face.

  Holy cow.

  This is ‘hot leather jacket guy’ from the Guarderobe poster!

  The most handsome one.

  The scariest one.

  The most cliché rockstar one.

  The one that has the silver-glitter eyes.

  The one Sage told me is nicknamed The Devil.

  Sage is going faint when I tell him.

  Or cry when he realizes what he missed.

  Maybe I could get one, just one little autograph from this dude for my brother…just one on a scrap of paper…

  As if Royce can read my racing thoughts, he drawls out, “I’m still not buying the innocent, I didn’t want to meet Guarderobe in person act. So, keep your hands completely off me, kid. Got me?”

  Flinching a little, I turn back to Mrs. Felix with a small head shake and delete the ‘ask for autographs’ idea.

  “As if I would want to touch a creepy old man like you. Please. How about you keep your hands to yourself, too, okay? Sheesh,” I retort, masking my embarrassment as well as pushing back the disappointing discovery that my brother’s life-long, rock-star idol is actually a conceited jerk, masked by one very beautiful face.

  As he holds the sleeping baby out to his grandmother then pauses to settle her, I’m struck again by the stark contrast between the baby’s helplessness against the pure unleashed power and confidence this guy exudes. Then…darn it, even though I’ve ordered myself not to ogle this guy one more time, I can’t help but notice how his biceps flex, tightening the denim shirt across his back in all the right places as he bends to fix the baby blanket. A move which of course serves to highlight his sculpted muscles. And he has so many of them.

  Worse, as he turns back toward me—I realize his bending moves have also opened the unbuttoned shirt all the way.

  And well … he’s got six-pack abs. Seven pack. Eight pack. Ten.

  I swallow, and all I can hear is the sound of rushing blood between my temples and the sound of my own voice nearly cheer-screaming inside my own head.

  Who knew that a real live and up close six pack, combined with low hung leather pants and an unbuttoned denim shirt could be so attractive on a guy who is also a rockstar? Who knew?

  Oh. Right. Everyone knows that.

  Because he’s a rock star.

  This is probably his stage costume, chosen to make whole audiences on a jumbo screen swoon.

  No wonder they sell out whole stadiums.

  Breathe.

  Swoon.

  Breathe.

  Like he can sense me losing my shit, he calls out suspiciously, “Keep any cell phones or hidden cameras you might have deep in your pockets. We aren’t taking any selfies together. Got it? Not. One. Not in the mood.”

  “Back at you, dude. I don’t want to be your next Instagram groupie or whatever.” I drag my gaze away from him and meet Mrs. Felix’s entertained looking smile. Proud of myself, I even manage to roll my eyes to prove all of Royce Devlin’s contrived-sexiness doesn’t affect me at all. “Aside from his ego, Mrs. Felix, maybe there’s hope for him as a father,” I allow, as he tentatively scoots around the seats to get back to my side.

  “No there isn’t,” he grumbles.

  “Honest.” I blink. “Despite your bad attitude and your bad day, you’ve already got nice moves with that baby, at least. Good job not waking her up.”

  “I’m full of nice moves,” he whispers, leaning in for a second as he passes front of me. His minty-gum-breath has hit my cheeks like a slap, and his musky-heated-cologne works its way into my nostrils, then starts somehow melting the backs of my knees as he settles himself into the seat on the other side of the car seat base.

  Before I catch on to what he’s said or what he’s doing, he’s reached across, and has captured some strands of hair near my temple and gives them a gentle tug. “You know. Girls with curls are my favorite.”

  I refuse to look up at him, nor can I hide my flinch. Worse, I can’t pull back enough to make him release my hair, and that’s because, holy cow…what did he say?

  I’m suddenly afraid that if I see his face at this proximity, or pull in another breath of how great he smells, he’s going to suck out my soul—or cut out my heart and place it in a wooden box—or whatever dudes who look like this and who are also nicknamed ‘The Devil’ might do to a person. Time morphs into slow motion and it’s all I can do to keep my face impassive and watch, mesmerized, as he winds my hair between his fingers until the ends wrap around the tip of his index finger three perfect times like they belong there.

  Rubbing his thumb over my curls, he drops his voice from the melt-my-spine-rumble voice I had just grown used to, all the way to what has to be his raspy, well-practiced, rockstar-sexy-brainwash voice when he leans in too close to add, “Maybe instead of money, you’re interested in hanging out with me after the show?”

  I feel my eyes go wide as he brushes the back of his other hand against one of my too-hot cheeks, then adds, “Is that why you went to all this trouble to meet my grandmother and to get into this limo? Because I can’t figure you out. I’m intrigued. Curious if you’ll go to any extra trouble for me, you know…personally. Of course, if we get to that point, you will have to show me your ID, and sign those papers. I don’t want to go to jail or anything.”

  My mind reels, struggling to sort out words. “I-I’m…doing you a favor,” is all that comes out because I’m staring at his lips.

  “And I’m up for doing you lots of favors in return. That’s all I’m saying.” One side of those lips twists up into a wicked smile. “What do you say? Up for a little fun?”

  “No!” I gasp out and pull back. A move that’s yanked my strands of hair straight out of my head and left them attached to his finger. “Okay. Wow. And double no. Are you mental? And…just…ew-no.”

  I rub the spot on my head where the hair used to be, hoping he will think the shudder I’ve got going on is made up of sheer pain from him nearly scalping me. Pain, that’s mixed with utter revulsion, of course.

  Only, it’s anything but that.

  This guy has given me tingling goosebumps and breathless butterfly swarms, so many that he’s made me shiver in spots I didn’t know existed. I’m so rattled that I can’t get the image of the way his curved lips were moving toward me, all pouty and sexy ,while saying words no one has ever said to me before. Ever.

  I actually feel dizzy. Melty, crazy-strange kind of dizzy.

  Worse, I keep wanting to ask him: What kind of favors?

  Which is not the direction this conversation should ever go!

  To try to get myself together, I bite the insides of my cheeks extra hard, and pull my gaze away from how he’s unwinding my curls from his finger.

  “Shit.” His curse was devoid of all of that layered on sexy, and even sounds very apologetic as he goes on, “Did that hurt you? It did, didn’t it? I’m sorry, okay? Truly sorry.”

  I raise one eyebrow as high as it can go and lock on my most-disgusted mask while adding in a little headshake, because…no way can I answer him.

  I’ve got no words.

  None.

  Chapter 10

  Mrs. Felix saves me from having to sort out my tumbling thoughts by snapping out, “Royce Devlin, you are lucky you apologized immediately. If I didn’t have to hold this baby, I would set you straight with
a slap to your cheek. I’m surprised Robin didn’t do it herself. I fear the young ladies of today don’t utilize that move as they should. Royce, shame on your horrible words and manners. How dare you speak like that to any woman. And to suggest an inappropriate date after your show? This is untoward and uncalled for behavior. Explain yourself. Horrible rude, boy.”

  “I asked for a hookup, not a date. That’s what I was suggesting if we’re being technical.” His widening smile makes me realize he’s now really amused. “I had to know how Robin would respond to my offer. Grandmother, you know all outsiders are to be properly vetted. This was the fastest way I could think to pull that off. Now she’s vetted.” He turns his still shadowed face toward me. “You passed. Okay?”

  “Passed what? You had to know if I was willing to make out with you in front of your own grandmother? No girl would do that. Do I have to say ‘ew’ again? Or should I simply vomit on the floor mats? You just passed the suck-new-daddy test. You have a baby, and what are you, like pushing thirty? The mom of your child is missing, and you shouldn’t be hitting on anyone ever again. Ew. And ew.” I shiver again.

  “Excellent points, but can you please stop saying that? It’s starting to get in my head.” He laughs.

  Mrs. Felix laughs a little, too, then rubs a small crease out of the baby’s blanket. “Robin—when you know us better you’ll understand. The vetting process can be rather extreme. As for Royce’s age, Royce’s stylist tries to make him appear much older than he truly is to attract a wider fan base. It does work, but he’s only twenty-one, dear. He’s hardly older than you.”

  “I’m a billion years older, than she is,” Royce says, voice returning to that low rumbling voice that I think is his normal voice. “Maybe two billion years older, considering her response to me. Or lack thereof.” He quirks one of those brows again and then, like this kind of odd, ping-pong insane interaction with strangers is normal, he bends to examine how I’ve threaded the belt through the holes in the base and asks, “Hmm. How does this thing work?”