Down To You: Rockstar Romance (Sixth Street Bands Book 5)

by Jayne Frost

  “Let’s get down to business,” Trevor said, trying to draw the woman’s attention.

  It didn’t work. She just continued to assess me. “Didn’t ’spect you to come,” she said in an accent so thick it was hard to understand her. “Someone like you … I’da thunk you’d let your people handle the messy business.”

  “Zoe’s my people,” I said blandly. “And why wouldn’t I come? After all, you sent me that nice letter.”

  I stopped short of calling it what it was—a ransom note.

  For months, my parents had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every day they expected a letter from child services with a demand to present my sister like she was dry cleaning that someone forgot to claim. But that day never came. If Courtney actually wanted to see my sister, she would’ve sent that letter. Instead she wrote to me. Because she wanted money. And since I had a shit ton, I didn’t mind paying her off. We just had to negotiate the going rate for a fourteen-year-old. Which was why Trevor was here. Left up to me, I’d give the woman a blank check.

  Courtney sank back in the metal chair, chewing her lip. “Since you came all this way, it must be real important to you.”

  Trevor’s knee hit mine under the table, and I could almost hear what he was thinking. I told you so. He’d warned me that my presence would likely up the stakes. Zero fucks. Because I didn’t care what it took. I was walking away from this table with a signed agreement.

  “It is,” I conceded. “She’s my sister.”

  I shifted to the right to avoid another collision with my attorney’s knee.

  “Well…” Courtney drawled. “That’s real special. But it’s going to cost you.”

  Trevor went to speak, but I cut him off.

  “How much?”

  She seemed to think about it, rubbing her chin with grubby fingers. “I’d say, ’bout fifty grand.”

  Images of Zoe flashed through my mind. All her promise. All her potential. Her bright smile and her quick wit. And all this woman saw was fifty grand. Less, actually. Because I’m sure she thought I’d whittle her down.

  “Done.”

  Trevor cursed under his breath while Courtney blinked at me.

  “We do have some terms,” my attorney said, exasperated. And I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Courtney.

  “What terms?” she asked, her focus on Trevor.

  “Well, there is the matter of—”

  “You sign away your parental rights today,” I interjected. “And you never contact me, my parents, or my sister again.”

  Courtney cocked her head, gaze volleying between Trevor and me. “That’s it? What about that other thing? I had one of my friends explain it.”

  Trevor sighed, tossing his pen on the table. “The nondisclosure?”

  “We don’t need it,” I said.

  She smiled then, like there had to be a catch. There wasn’t.

  “So you don’t care if I tell people you bought my baby?”

  I shrugged. “Zoe’s not a baby. And I have a whole publicity team that can spin this around and around so people know what really happened—that you waited for almost eleven years and then you sold her. I wouldn’t suggest you do it. But it’s up to you. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  As distasteful as it was, this was probably the purest deal I’d made in a long time. There were no hidden agendas. Courtney wanted money. Not power. Or publicity. And I wanted Zoe to have a clean slate. To be her own person.

  Courtney snatched the papers, signing them without so much as a glance. “When do I get my money?”

  “We could put it on your books or have a check waiting when you get out,” Trevor replied as he stowed the documents in his briefcase. “Up to you.”

  “Put it on my books,” Courtney said. “And don’t pull no fast ones. I know people.”

  The threat was empty, but I let her have it.

  When she got up to leave, a thought occurred to me. “There isn’t a father listed on Zoe’s birth certificate.”

  I let the statement dangle. Not really a question, but I was curious.

  For the first time, I detected something in Courtney’s eyes. A spark. “She don’t have no daddy.” Pulling her shoulders back, she lifted her chin. “He died ’afore she was born.”

  A lump formed in my throat for this woman. Once, she had feelings. I could see them, like an echo. Or the light from a star that was long dead.

  I nodded, snagging her gaze and holding. “I’m sorry.”

  58

  “This way,” the nurse said.

  Stifling a yawn, I followed her down the long hallway at Cedars Sinai hospital, trying to remember the last time I’d slept. Twenty-four hours ago, I was in Berlin, onstage for our final show. But everything after the concert was a blur of airport shuttles and customs declarations.

  I didn’t decide until the last possible minute to fly from Houston, where we’d landed, to Los Angeles. Which, of course, led to a scene when I told the guys about my plans. Probably because I didn’t actually say much. I’d need to mend fences, but right now, this was more important.

  Ushering me into a small room, the nurse pointed to a blue paper dress on the examining table.

  “There’s your gown. Everything off. And remove all metal objects.” She smiled. “Jewelry and piercings.”

  And then, because I wasn’t freaked out enough, she looked at my crotch. A long, lingering look she made no attempt to hide.

  At first, I didn’t get it, but when I did, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose. Because who in the fuck would put a bolt through the head of their dick?

  Apparently, someone who looked like me.

  Easing onto a chair, I reached for my boot laces. “I don’t have any piercings.”

  She looked disappointed, but whatever.

  The weak smile slid right off my lips when she leaned a shoulder against the wall. Watching. Reluctantly, I peeled off my shirt, and still no sign of movement from Nurse Nancy. Fingers frozen on my belt buckle, I hopped to my feet when Doctor Patel strode through the door.

  Thank fuck. Thank fuck.

  Patel took one look at the nurse and quirked a brow. “You can go now, Cindy.” The doc tried and failed to stifle a grin when the nurse scurried from the room. “Sorry about that, Logan. She’s a little …” Pressing her lips together, Patel looked down at my chart and shook her head. “Extra.”

  Reclaiming my seat, I hoped I hadn’t jumped from the frying pan into the fire, because the doc looked like she was making herself comfy as well. Was this Cedar Sinai or Chippendales?

  “Since you weren’t able to fill out your forms, I’m going to ask you a few questions,” the doc said, scribbling on my chart without looking up. “Then I’ll leave you alone to finish undressing.” A smile. “Sound good?”

  My hand immediately dropped from my buckle. Not that I had any qualms about being naked. But discussing my deepest shame, without benefit of any armor? Yeah, no.

  I exhaled a relieved breath. “That’s fine.”

  “We’re going to be starting with an MRI. Do you know what that is?” I nodded. “Good. There are different types of dyslexia. Traumatic—that comes from a brain injury. Primary—that’s the most common. You’re born with it. And developmental—that’s caused by hormonal changes when you’re in the womb, and it usually diminishes over time. Today we’ll be scanning for brain injuries.”

  She paused with her pen hovering above the chart. “Do you remember any type of acute injuries you may have suffered as a child?”

  “Acute?” I knew what it meant, but while she explained, I tried to decide how much I should tell her. When she finished, I cleared my throat. “I used to get hit in the head …” Poking the inside of my cheek with my tongue, I tried to coax the words from where they were buried. “My dad used to hit me.”

  Patel nodded, but her demeanor never changed. No pity. Nothing. I relaxed a little more.

  “Was this before or after you noticed your reading deficiency?”


  “I’ve never been able to … um … reading has always been a problem.”

  “Did you noticed any marked change for the better, let’s say, when you hit puberty?”

  I shook my head.

  Patel set the chart aside, and just when I thought I was home free, she crossed her legs and clasped her hands over her knee. “In your intake interview you said your mother died when you were a child. How old where you?”

  Blood pounded between my ears, the steady thump thump thump making me dizzy. “Eight.”

  Shifting my gaze to the wall, I focused on all the charts. The head. The body. And then the other wall with a poster of a child, laughing.

  “Logan?”

  I snapped my attention back to Patel. “Yes?”

  She smiled. Not a real smile. Just a slight curve of her lips. “Did your mother die of some kind of disease?”

  Yep. Jake Cage. More dangerous than the plague and Ebola combined. “No.”

  Patel’s brows drew together. “Would you like to tell me how she died?”

  Pushing to my feet, I popped the button on my jeans. “No.”

  59

  Two days after the tour ended, I showed up at Twin Souls for the first time since I’d returned to Austin.

  Logan hadn’t called. I tried not to read too much into his radio silence. After all, I told him we’d talk when he got back.

  Sometime before ten, Taryn popped her head into my office. “The receptionist just buzzed … they’re here.”

  Heart racing, I stood before the mirror putting the finishing touches on my makeup. “Thanks.”

  She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. “Do you want me to tell Logan to come back first?”

  Meeting her gaze in the reflection, I raised a brow. “Because that wouldn’t look suspicious at all.” Her scowl did nothing to help my shaky fingers and sweaty palms. I took a deep breath. “Logan isn’t a solo artist, T-Rex.” Not yet, anyway. “I can’t just invite him into my office for a chat without including the other guys.”

  Taking a seat on the arm of the couch, Taryn crossed her arms over her chest. “So you’re going to keep up this charade? Logan’s ‘only a client.’ I thought that was just something you were playing out for the press.”

  It would be easier to tell Taryn about the contract with Mac. She’d understand then. But I couldn’t trust her to keep the details to herself. Whatever Logan’s choice, it was his to make. And I didn’t want this to be any harder than it had to be. Because I loved him. Enough to let him go if I had to.

  “Look,” I said as I turned to face my best friend’s frown. “Let me talk to Logan after the meeting is over. I don’t even know what he’s told the guys about us.”

  She chuffed out a breath, a response on the tip of her tongue, but I shook my head. “Taryn, please. He’s got a lot to consider. How it would affect the band to come out publicly … with me. Maybe he doesn’t want the hassle.”

  Anger flashed in her stormy blue eyes. Indignation on my behalf.

  Smiling at the gesture, I shifted my gaze to the window overlooking Sixth where a few reporters milled around on the sidewalk. “You can’t blame him, T-Rex. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows down there.”

  And it was about to get worse. The minute Twin Souls announced the upcoming concert, the press would go into hyperdrive. A Damaged reunion at Zilker Park. Even floating the possibility would be like pouring gasoline on an open flame. I knew I couldn’t live under the media scrutiny for very long, which is why I’d opted for a very short window. Two and a half weeks. And then I’d give Miles what he’d asked for without asking. One last show. A final ride. And wherever Rhenn was, he’d finally get to see how it ended.

  The butterflies in my stomach took a nosedive when I walked into the conference room. Christian, Cameron, and Sean sat on one side of the table, but Logan was nowhere in sight.

  It was one thing to prepare for some far-off eventuality—a worst-case scenario. Isn’t that why people bought raincoats? And had car insurance?

  But it was quite another to face it head on.

  Still, a tiny spark of hope lingered. So I forced a smile and took a seat.

  “Hey, y’all. Glad you’re back.” I poured a glass of water just to have something to do with my hands. “Where’s Logan?”

  In the silence, I fanned the flame, hoping the tiny spark would catch fire. That by sheer will alone, I could change my fate. Change our fate.

  But when Cameron’s eyes found mine, I knew. Dammit, I did.

  “He’s in Los Angeles.”

  I tried to hide my shock. Because now it was real. Mac. The contract. The unwavering notion that Logan had betrayed me. Or he would, very shortly.

  When Taryn walked in with the folder containing the agreements that Trevor had drawn up for Caged, I popped out of my seat, smile so tight, I thought my face would crack. “I just dropped in to say ‘hi.’ Taryn’s got a business opportunity she wants to discuss with y’all. We’ll talk soon.”

  My best friend’s confused gaze followed me as I headed for the door. “Where are you going?”

  But I didn’t stop. In fact, I picked up speed, my Angel Caller chiming louder with each step. But that was a lie too. There were no guardian angels. And no happily ever afters. And sometimes a beast wasn’t a prince in disguise. Sometimes he was just a man.

  60

  Sipping my third cup of coffee, I stood at the window in Dr. Patel’s office. The door slid shut with a soft whoosh, and the doc’s perfume wafted to my nose. “Why is there a statue of Moses in front of the building?”

  Her reflection took a seat behind the desk. “Still can’t sleep, Logan?”

  I turned to face her, shoulders resting against the glass. “Does that mean there isn’t a statue of Moses outside?”

  I was only half-kidding, since it was entirely possible I was hallucinating. In order to give the evaluations my best shot, I’d quit using alcohol as a sleep aid when I got to Los Angeles. So now I hadn’t slept in three days. I napped … if I was lucky. Not always on purpose. Last night I’d fallen asleep in the middle of dinner. And when I woke up a couple of hours later, I was face down in a plate of pizza.

  “Logan?”

  Patel’s voice snapped me out of my fog, and I found her motioning to the chair in front of her desk.

  I took a seat while she put some images on a lighted board on the wall. “I’ve got some of your test results.” Grabbing a file, she came around to my side of the desk, then slid a hip onto the wood. “Would you like to go over them?”

  Patel also had a degree in psychology, I’d learned. So she did this thing where she made it seem like everything was my choice when really it wasn’t.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Sure.”

  Folding her hands in front of her, she smiled. “You don’t have a brain injury. That’s very good news.”

  When her gaze shifted to my bobbing leg, I promptly clamped a hand over my knee to make it stop. My lack of sleep combined with the caffeine and being here had me ready to crawl out of my skin. “How so?”

  “In the absence of an injury, then it is possible to learn to read.”

  I sensed a “but.” It was something in her eyes. Slowly, she pulled out an 8x10 card from a stack on her desk and held it up. “What is this word?”

  Three letters, none of them familiar. I looked away. “I can’t read. Not having a brain injury isn’t going to change that.”

  “Okay then, something simpler. Let’s start with the letters.”

  I brought my gaze back to hers without bothering to hide my disdain. “I don’t know what the letters say—” my tone started low and quickly gained volume, “—because I can’t read them!”

  Patel didn’t flinch. Impressive, since I could feel my nostrils flaring and the scowl coating my features.

  “This isn’t reading. Try again.” She tapped the card with a blunt nail. “Look at the letters.”

  Pushing out of my seat with enough force
to make the chair wobble, I gripped my hair. “I don’t need to look at the letters to know I can’t read them.”

  The picture of control, Patel placed the card face down in front of her. “That’s where you’re wrong. We did an advanced battery of tests. You recognize symbols. Your memory is flawless. Your IQ, extremely high.”

  Somewhere in the middle of her speech I’d stopped pacing. “How can I have a high IQ if I can’t read?”

  “Problem solving. There’s a formula we use. It filters out any reading questions.”

  This was almost worse. I wasn’t stupid, but I couldn’t recognize any letters. It didn’t make sense. But then, it had never made sense. Flopping back into the chair, I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my head in my hands.

  God, I was tired. So tired. I just wanted …

  Tori.

  I wanted Tori. And sleep. I hadn’t slept right since she left. She stole my sleep. My sanity. My control.

  If I could just hear her voice …

  But she wouldn’t answer my calls. So that was that.

  Inhaling slowly, I pulled myself upright. “So what’s my problem?”

  Patel pondered for a moment and then held the card up again.

  Tap Tap Tap, went her fingernail over the first letter. “One more time. What letter is this?”

  Flinching, I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Tap Tap Tap. “Right here. What letter is this?”

  “I don’t … I don’t …”

  Tap Tap Tap. “Concentrate. What letter is this?”

  The card swam out of focus, but the tapping continued, like small caliber gunshots exploding inside my head.

  And then another voice. Male, gruff. I could smell his cologne. And cigarette smoke. And coffee.

  Concentrate, son. You want to help us, don’t you? Just tell us what you saw. Give us a letter.

  “I can’t,” I repeated, my gaze on the pavement. On his boots. And the blood spatter.

  Son, if you want to help your mama, you need to concentrate and give us a letter.