by Brooklyn Ann
Kat’s voice had cracked with what sounded like tears. “Our band broke up. The bassist is pregnant and our drummer is getting married.”
“That sucks.” Band breakups were often worse than any other kind. Klement sympathized, and he had tried to soothe her. “I’m sure you’ll find replacements.”
She made a hopeless sound. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find female musicians who play metal?”
“Do they have to be female?” If he hadn’t already had a band of his own, he would have been thrilled to play with her.
“Yeah. First, it helped our gimmick.” Her tone darkened. “Now Kinley and I have reasons for not wanting to work with men.”
Apparently those reasons hadn’t been completely solid for them both. Shortly afterward, Bleeding Vengeance went on their next tour and Kinley ended up working as a roadie for Viciӧus, the tour’s headlining band. Klement had wanted to ask Kinley about Kat when he saw her, but he hadn’t figured out a way without revealing himself to be their IT guy. So, he’d watched with amusement and admiration as Kinley somehow worked her way up the ranks with Viciӧus to guitar tech and ultimately a touring musician when Viciӧus’s lead guitarist checked into rehab after Lefty died. And, sure, Kinley was more than capable, but Klem couldn’t help but think Kat should have been the one onstage playing before masses of metalheads. So when Quinn Mayne, lead singer of Viciӧus, called in a favor and asked him to try Kat out as a replacement guitarist, Klement had been more than happy to give her a shot.
As if reading his mind, Kat’s excited voice brought him back to the present. “You know how I said I had a big audition?”
Klement grinned. “Yeah?”
“It was with BLEEDING VENGEANCE!”
He bit back a chuckle at the audible capital letters and feigned a gasp. “That’s awesome, Kat! I knew you were meant to go big.” He didn’t have to fake his pride—or his curiosity. Had she been intimidated? “How did it go?”
“I think I did okay. I’m supposed to go to the BASSIST’S HOUSE in a few minutes to hear the verdict. And we might even jam together!”
The capital letters had returned. Klement felt a pleasant flush to hear them pertaining to him. “I’ll cross my fingers for you to make the cut.” And she had, for recording. Now he just needed to see if she could handle the stage.
“Thanks for the support,” Kat said. “Well, I better go now. Bye, IT Guy.”
“Bye, Kat.” Klement hung up the phone and laughed over the nickname. To all of his other clients, he went by K.B. Did she even remember that? If she did, he wondered what she’d do if she ever found out what those initials stood for.
***
Richard Dumascian’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel of the rented Kia as it nearly bottomed out again on the rutted road. His pickup would have been better suited to this mountain terrain, but he couldn’t risk being recognized.
Pressing down a little more on the accelerator, he urged the car forward before he lost sight of Katana’s Subaru. Where the hell was she going now? After following her on a fifteen hour drive all the way to Denver from Spokane, and then, after only a six-hour rest, tailing her to the recording studio, chasing her through the Rocky Mountains backwoods was a headache and a half.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Kat was always a difficult bitch.
He’d show her what happened when she fucked around with him like this. But first he’d figure out what she was doing here.
Kat suddenly made a sharp turn up a narrow driveway. Richard had to slam on the brakes and jerk the wheel as his Kia skidded on gravel. He counted to ten before following further. Up ahead, Kat’s car was halted at a huge gate with a control panel for her to announce her presence for the owner to open the gate.
The thing probably had cameras.
Richard threw his car in reverse and turned around before he was seen. First she’d gone to a fancy recording studio, then she’d gotten invited to a mansion. One thing was clear. Whatever gig she’d landed was big.
The bitch didn’t deserve it.
Chapter Three
Kat stared at the giant log cabin–style mansion behind the daunting wrought-iron gate that looked so much like the gorgeous lake houses back home. Klement Burke lived here? She’d pictured rock stars like him in sprawling McMansions or posh condos in L.A., not this rustic paradise tucked in the middle of nowhere. With a shaky hand she pushed the button at the gate, hoping she hadn’t gone to the wrong house.
Instead of a voice from the speaker demanding her identity or ordering her to leave, the gate swung open on smooth hinges. Shifting the car into gear, Kat guided her Subaru up the paved driveway. She hit the brakes momentarily to gawk at the five-car garage that was as wide as the house, and then parked to the side next to a Hummer and a Lexus SUV that she presumed were Cliff’s and Roderick’s vehicles.
Her little green Subaru was ridiculously out of place. The anxiety crept back, squeezing her lungs and overloading her adrenal gland, triggering her fight-or-flight response. Kat reached into her purse and took another half Xanax before getting out of the car.
As she made her way up the flagstone walkway, she resisted the urge to mess with her hair and adjust her outfit. She wasn’t here to look pretty—never mind the fact that she’d gone on a shopping trip to pick up new jeans and a cute top and spent nearly an hour on her makeup. She was here to find out if she’d got the job…and maybe even to jam with her favorite band.
She froze in her tracks.
“Fuck!” she hissed under her breath. She’d left her guitar in the back of her car. Dashing back to it, she prayed the band wasn’t watching her on the security cameras and laughing.
Quickly, she grabbed her Gibson and made her way to the front door. She took a moment to admire the ornately carved mahogany before ringing the bell. The beginning of some classical tune chimed.
Klement answered, still wearing the same t-shirt and jeans from earlier. Now she felt silly for changing.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Come on in. We’re in the kitchen.”
She followed him across a vast expanse of hardwood floors to a luxurious but messy kitchen. Pizza boxes, dirty plates, and miscellaneous clutter covered virtually every inch of granite counter surface. She even spotted a screwdriver lying next to a bottle of ketchup. Obviously he didn’t have a maid.
Cliff and Roderick stood over the island counter, eating like veteran bachelors.
Cliff’s eyes swept over her. “Hey, beautiful.”
“Hey,” Kat answered a little breathlessly.
Roderick rolled his eyes and elbowed the singer aside. “So, how’d you get the name Katana?”
“My mom was a huge fan of the videogame, Mortal Kombat.” And damn, how she’d gotten teased about it.
“God, that makes me feel old.” Cliff’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not a minor, are you?”
“No, I’m twenty-three. Mom was only sixteen when she had me.” Heaviness weighed down her heart with an unreasonable guilt at being born. Her mom had just earned a full scholarship to Juilliard before she got pregnant. Instead of becoming a concert violinist, she ended up trapped with an abusive pig. Because the guy was a cop, it took years—and three broken ribs on Kat and a slipped disc on her mother from a chokehold—to escape him. His buddies in blue finally couldn’t cover for him. He’d been half the man Kat recognized as her true dad, her mom’s second husband, who had introduced her to kindness, laughter, and music before he died saving them from a house fire.
Klement broke the awkward silence. “Rod brought tacos, and there’s beer in the fridge.”
Kat took a shaky breath and lifted her chin. “I’m not going to be able to eat a damn thing until I know if I got the job or not.”
“If you didn’t, won’t that kill your appetite?” Roderick inquired with a raised brow.
Kat’s stomach plummeted.
“Shut up,” Klement said and shook his head. “Yes, you’re hired…for recording at least.”
“We decided to keep you.” Cliff gave her another flirtatious wink, looking devastatingly handsome, and Kat would have been more affected by his hotness if she wasn’t overwhelmed with mixed emotions: joy at the band’s accepting her to join them in the studio, and worry that they still hadn’t determined she was capable of performing with them onstage.
“So, can you eat now?” Klement teased.
She met his gaze, feeling more at ease. He had such a kind smile. “Now I’m too happy to eat.” But she reached for a taco anyway.
Klement laughed, a kinda dorky giggle, though it was pleasant with its unabashed merriment, and Kat couldn’t help but laugh with him.
After eating, Kat grabbed a beer from a fridge full of mostly condiments. It was some fancy-schmancy microbrew. Klement passed her a bottle opener, and she noticed that he was drinking coffee. She blinked. If she had caffeine at this hour, she’d be bouncing off the walls until three A.M.
Roderick raised his beer in a toast. “Welcome aboard, love.”
Kat clinked her bottle to his and then Cliff’s bottles, as well as Klement’s coffee mug.
The bassist looked around at them all then asked, “Well, should we jam a bit?”
Without waiting for a response, he left the kitchen, gesturing for them to follow. Down the hall and up the stairs, the music room was even more impressive than Kinley had described it the night she and Viciӧus stayed here. Countless guitars, basses, even a banjo and a mandolin hung from the walls. Huge amplifiers stood in every corner, except for one taken up by a drum kit. One side of the room was dedicated to recording equipment, complete with a mixing board and a small computer.
Cliff waved her over, a B.C. Rich guitar hanging low on his hip from the shoulder strap. Kat’s awe returned. After years of listening to his voice on her stereo and admiring him from the audience at concerts, she’d never imagined she would be this close to him.
Reverently, she took out her guitar and settled the strap over her shoulder. Holy Shit, I'm about to jam with Bleeding Vengeance!
“You can plug in here.” Cliff pointed at a huge Marshall amp. “And the pedals are over there.”
Kat hooked up her guitar and did some last minute adjustments on the strings before palming her pick. Roderick settled back behind his drums, and Klement lifted his Rickenbacker bass from a stand in the corner. As he bent over to plug it in, Kat couldn’t help watching. She hadn’t expected him to have such a cute butt. Cliff had plugged in his guitar when she turned back to him, and she felt a twinge of regret at missing the view.
Klement turned to Kat and the band. “What do you say we start with ‘Bring Out Your Dead,’ to see how she grooves with us before we move on to the new stuff?”
Cliff and Roderick nodded in agreement, and Kat felt a wave of relief and gratitude. “Bring Out Your Dead” was one of their biggest hits and she knew it by heart. It also had one of the most awesome—but difficult—guitar solos she’d ever learned. They were going easy on her, but not too easy.
In tandem, Roderick and Klement began with throbbing bass and rolling drums. Kat struck the first shredding cords right on cue as Cliff chimed in with the rhythm guitar. Kat’s worries and awareness of her surroundings faded away as she became lost once again in the song, in its joyful brutality. She was merely jamming, or playing a gig at one of her local bars. It might well have been Kinley to her right at the mike stand, Laura on bass on her left, and Bev on drums behind them.
Cliff’s rough velvet voice shattered the illusion, nearly making Kat’s fingers slip on the strings, but she managed to hold the note and progress to the next. She closed her eyes and pretended Cliff’s voice was just on the stereo and she was rocking out at home. Unable to stop herself, she started head-banging, fingers dancing on the fret board in ecstasy, and when it came time for her solo, the music had overtaken Kat’s consciousness to the point where it didn’t matter whether she was playing with Bleeding Vengeance in their living room, at an open mike night, or alone in her basement childhood bedroom. Her hair flew and her hips swayed, and her hands wrought symphonic fire.
Too soon, the song ended. Kat struck the final chord on her Gibson, power coursing through her. Then the silence crowded in like white static and her fingers trembled to chase it away.
Roderick broke the silence. “Brilliant, love.”
Cliff eyed her with new respect. “Not bad.”
Klement nodded before giving the others an inscrutable look. “Now ‘Sorrow’s Harvest’ again.”
His fingers danced so rapidly across the bass strings that Kat became almost too distracted staring at him. God, he was good.
Sucking in a breath, she began her part just in time. Her earlier joy dampened in the midst of her intense concentration on getting the song right. Still, triumph filled her with every chord she perfectly executed.
Just as she was about to begin the solo, Cliff busted out with chords and notes that were supposed to be hers. Kat nearly froze, but Klement’s earlier admonishment kept her fingers on the strings. Not knowing what else to do, she lapsed into the rhythm part, seething in outrage.
He stole my solo!
Her ex had pulled this shit all the time when she’d briefly played in his band. Cliff didn’t suck like Richard did, but it was the principle that irked her.
Fighting back a pout, she glanced over at Klement. He watched her intently, as if to see how she’d react. Did he think she should call Cliff out or just roll with it? For now she decided to just let it be. She was the newbie.
When the song ended, Klement was still watching her. She couldn’t tell if he approved of her decision or was disappointed with her complacence.
They played a few more Bleeding Vengeance songs before Cliff pulled his shoulder strap over his head. “My fingers are getting sore,” he complained. “I hope I’ll make it through tomorrow’s session with Kat.”
“Session?” Kat dropped her pick, rubbing her shoulder where the guitar strap had dug in.
Klement nodded and hung up his bass. “You’re going to do the rhythm and lead tracks for ‘Yesterday’s Angst,’ and if we have time, ‘Fractured Dreamscape’ together because I think those would sound better with more of a live sound. Rod and I will be doing the same with the bass and drums.”
Kat’s throat tightened. She’d be in one of the isolation chambers with Cliff.
Oddly, her anxiety wasn’t from being close to him, as would be expected, but fear that he’d steal her solos again. Damn it, she’d worked hard on perfecting them and Klement had praised her efforts.
Also, Cliff had really bad breath.
A self-deprecating smile curved her lips. After years of mooning over the guy, meeting the unvarnished article ebbed away the infatuation. Maybe staying professional around him wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
“What time do I need to be at the studio?” she asked, packing her guitar.
Klement handed over her pick. “Ten. And be sure to bring snacks and coffee. We’ll probably be there for at least eight hours.”
“Cool. I better head back and get some rest then.” She rubbed her shoulder again. If she was sore after only playing for a few hours, she needed to toughen up.
Cliff stepped close, and their bodies almost touched. “Taking off so soon? At least hang out and have another drink.”
She shook her head and stepped back. “There’s no way in hell I’m driving down that windy-ass road drunk.”
“Where are you staying?” Klement asked sharply. “I forgot to give you hotel recommendations.”
Lost in his inquisitive gaze, it took a moment for her to reply. “The Shady Tree Motel.”
“Hmmmm.” His brows drew together and he fidgeted with his speaker cord. He looked like he was going to say something else then shook his head. His features settled into a polite smile.
Roderick grinned. “It was great jamming with you. Want me to walk you out?”
Overwhelmed by the day’s momentous events, all Kat wanted was to go back to her
room, breathe, and convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming. “Nah, I’m good.”
As she headed out to her car, she noticed Klement watching from the picture window. Driving away, she couldn’t stop looking in the rearview mirror. He didn’t turn away until she passed through the gate—like he wanted to make sure she was safe.
A smile tugged at her lips. For the neurotic, perfectionist dictator he was reputed to be, he was actually a nice guy.
She hoped she didn’t disappoint him.
***
Klement watched Kat’s old Subaru crawl down his driveway. He didn’t like the idea of her navigating that old thing on these roads. At least it handled better than the Kia that had made a wrong turn behind her when she arrived.
“Damn, I wish she wouldn’t have taken off so quick,” Cliff grumbled as he opened another beer. “We were just starting to hit it off.”
Klem shook his head. “She just wants to make sure she’s professional and does a good job for us. Don’t you remember being the new guy?”
Cliff nodded. So did Roderick, who said, “She really did play well. Much more energy than in the studio.”
“I think we should go ahead and do Thrashfest. We only have a week left to cancel.”
Cliff frowned. “I don’t know, man.”
Klement crossed his arms over his chest, confident in his decision. “Did you see her energy when she played ‘Bring Out Your Dead’? If she can do that on tour, we’re gold.” A vivid memory of her passionate performance flitted across his mind. The way her eyes closed and lips parted in naked bliss. Her flying hair, her rocking hips so close to his as he strummed his bass behind her. A rush of primal lust coursed through his veins.
It was a good thing, he thought, that she’d left before the guys—including him—got out of hand. Then again, now that he knew she was staying at a cheap motel… The Shady Tree was not in a safe neighborhood.
