Rock Rhapsody

by Rachel Cross

  Putting the brush down, she yanked off the towel, hung it on the rack and went to dress. No. That couldn't be it. She just didn't want to spend the day doing all the chores that had piled up.

  She had just poured her second cup of coffee when her phone rang.

  Her pulse pounded. Shane.

  “Hello?”

  “Can I pick you up at noon for lunch? And dress the part, would you? Ike was scandalized by that outfit you wore to Spoke.”

  “Ike? Does that mean—”

  The call disconnected before Amy could finish her thought. She made a sound, a cross between a snort and groan, and stared at the phone in her hand. How had Ike known what she was wearing? Were they outed online already? Heart in her throat, she raced over to her laptop and Googled herself. Nope. Nothing new and she didn't have time to scroll through a million pages of images of Shane. She didn't want to encounter that naked picture of him. Not again. She'd looked at that damn picture so many times it was imprinted on her brain.

  If she'd been seen with him, Enchanted would have called.

  She frowned. Who did he think he was, dictating her attire? No wonder he had trouble with women.

  She needed to draw a little more attention to herself. Not for Shane's sake, but to get noticed around town. That trumped any of his orders. Amy knocked on her roommate Allyson's door.

  “Allyson? Can I borrow something to wear?” Her friend looked up from her laptop and grunted, indicating her closet.

  Thirty minutes later she examined her outfit in the full-length mirror in the hall. She walked through to the living room where Kyle was stretched out on the couch, recovering from a late night or early morning. His mouth dropped open when he saw her. “Holy shit, Amy.”

  She gave him her wide-eyed innocent expression.

  “Ugh. Don't give me that look. It's creepy with that getup.” He sat up, taking in her micro-mini plaid skirt, white Peter Pan collared shirt, and black boots. “You’re rockin' that school girl outfit.”

  If Kyle Reed thought her attire was overkill, it probably was. With a sigh she slid a button through another button hole, grabbed a modest cardigan, and returned to the living room.

  “Good look, Amy, what's the occasion? You moonlighting over at Chicks on Dix?”

  Through the window she saw Shane's car turn into the driveway.

  Kyle's puzzled expression turned gleeful. “Shane?”

  “Yep.”

  He shook his head. “My, my Amy, so competitive. I couldn't make a bet on who will come out on top with this one, but I'll betcha someone does.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Suck it, Kyle.”

  She slammed the door almost loud enough not to hear his “you will” response.

  • • •

  Shane watched with disbelieving eyes as Amy hustled down the walkway, three inches taller in her boots, and climbed into the waiting car. That was the tiniest skirt he'd seen. And he was a micro-mini connoisseur.

  He stared at her for a moment as she settled herself on the seat next to him, then roared away from the curb.

  At the light he looked over at her. “I guess I wasn't clear on Ike's expectations.”

  She turned in her seat and the too small cotton blouse lifted, displaying a sliver of tan midriff and triggering insta-lust. He lifted his gaze back to her face, recognizing the defiance in those jewel-like blue eyes.

  “Oh, you were clear. But you might want to tell your agent that I only play an innocent princess. And no one dictates my look. Not unless I'm on the ice and you have a contract with me. I have news for you and your manager: I'm not innocent. No one stays innocent on the road. I've seen or heard about everything,” she said, hotly. “And I have my own agenda. Remember? This could get the attention we both need.” She tugged the hemline.

  But he ignored that, focusing on the other comment. “Seen everything, huh?” He highly doubted that. It wasn't just how she looked, all dewy-eyed innocence. She performed in a children's ice show. How depraved could that be? Then again, none of them had maintained their innocence once TruAchord toured.

  She waved a hand. “I've had the good fortune to be propositioned here and abroad, even through hand gestures in foreign countries.”

  “Sex?”

  She moved her hand dismissively as he negotiated the traffic. He'd take her to his favorite little taqueria where no one would bat an eye at her attire. Being seen with him, dressed as she was, would not persuade Enchanted to sign her. He may not know skating, but he knew the reputation of the company who employed her. They were well known in the television and film industry for their conservatism. There had been shakeups over the years and they'd modernized, but they were never happy when one of their starlets—or princesses—went rogue. He couldn't have Amy perceived as going over to the dark side. For this to work, she needed to be seen dragging him into the light.

  She needed to be the Enchanted princess, not girl gone wild. Cafe Ta—the latest hangout for the reality show starlets and those of that ilk—might do the trick. After practice when she was at her fresh scrubbed, casual best. Their fictitious relationship needed to be perceived as PG, not NC-17. Clearly she was desperate to rejoin the cast in the fall but didn't have the first idea about how the game was played, or what his reputation could do to hers solely via association.

  He tuned in to hear her complain, “Playing a princess brings out the worst in grown men. What is it with the naïve girl thing? I'm continually offered money for my virginity! As if. That ship sailed long ago,” she said.

  He pulled the car over to the curb in front of the Mexican place, turned it off, and stared at her. Then he burst out laughing. “Good God, Amy. Really?”

  She cocked her head and gave him a considering look. “I can identify weirdos in five seconds. You have your issues, but you aren't fetishy, are you?”

  “No. My tastes are pretty pedestrian—the normal kink. And what do you mean ‘issues’?”

  She ignored the question. “Women don't ask you for sex fantasy things?”

  He shrugged, looking away. “Nothing I'd consider odd.”

  “Really?”

  “I've never been offered money for sex. Singing? Yeah. Commercials, bar mitzvahs, Sweet Sixteen parties, you name it. I've sold out a hundred times over. They don't always pay me the big bucks to act, but I can still make a bundle singing for private parties. I don't perform much anymore, but some of my old band mates do. Sex? I wish.”

  She cocked her head, considering him. “After shows sometimes men come to the dressing room. You've had that, right? Women coming in after shows?”

  He nodded, keeping his expression closed.

  “They tip security or whoever. They make . . . requests. Normal stuff. Deviant stuff. And it's not unique to this country. I'm some kind of a magnet . . . well, not me, but ‘Amelia Astor: Enchanted Princess,’” she put air quotes around the words, “brings them out in droves.”

  “You should have better security,” he said, concerned. He continually had to revise his opinion of her. His initial impression of spoiled debutante had been reworked a dozen times already, and he still couldn't figure her out. He wasn't used to being so wrong about people. And God help him, as attracted as he was to her, he was coming to like her. Admire her even.

  “I find it works best to play the clueless card. My looks have always helped with that. People assume I'm a certain way because of how I look, or because I'm an Astor. I've been fighting those misconceptions all my life.” She shrugged. “But I have a real family on the road and we look out for each other. I don't worry about security. “

  “So princesses have groupies?” he said, fascinated and repulsed at the same time.

  She seemed to choose her words carefully. “I don't know that I'd call them that. It's not only little girls who come to watch us skate in competition. And in the ice shows sometimes adult men follow us from city to city.” She shrugged.

  He knew shock must be etched into his face. “When you were a teen
ager, you had guys—”

  “Men.”

  “Following you on the circuit?”

  “Fans. Whatever. It wasn't as weird as it is now, after the princess shows.”

  “Groupies,” he said, flatly. “Ever taken anyone up on it?” he asked, his tone even.

  “Of course not. I've never been tempted to take money from desperate men. Some of the stuff they've wanted me to do has been pretty benign. I've turned down a handful of proposals—including the marriage kind—and a guy who offered a lot of money for what he called ‘foot play.’”

  A laugh escaped him.

  “Which is totally gross,” she continued. “My feet are hideous—calluses, lumps, bumps, and deformities. Skaters have the nastiest feet.”

  He glanced over. “You know, I remember the moms who came to our shows with their daughters in tow. Invariably one of us, usually Jake or I, would have some cougar, dressed too young and old enough to know better, make an overture. We never, ever followed through on it. We had an unrepeatable name for them and we joked about it, but it was disturbing.”

  “Wow,” she said. “While the moms hit on you, the dads were hitting on me. Maybe they could combine an ice show with a boy band concert and cover all the bases for suburban couple fantasies.”

  He grinned at her. She was a startling mix of worldliness--her travel internationally with the ice shows and in competition rivaled his with TruAchord—and naïveté. Despite the differences in their early upbringing, they had quite a bit in common he was startled to realize. If he wasn't careful, they'd end up friends. And he didn't do friendship with women, at least not the kind without benefits, not with someone who looked like her.

  Chapter Eight

  Shane met her at the rink two days later. For the first time since they'd started training together he was early. He'd been looking forward to seeing her all day. In fact, he found himself wanting to call her, wanting to see her on the days they didn't have practice. It could've been that smokin' hot kiss, it could be he just enjoyed the time together. Whatever it was, it had been six weeks and he was ready. She pulled into the lot in her dinged up Miata and he approached the car, yanking open the door and reaching into the passenger seat where she kept her bag of gear.

  Amy smiled. “You're early and you look excited. Did you get the audition?”

  “No, they could be weeks or months away from bringing people in,” he said, opening the door to the arena for her to precede him. “I'm ready.”

  She stopped and turned, holding out her arm for the bag. “Ready?”

  “Ready to try it with a stick and a puck.”

  She blinked and pressed her lips together in a gesture he recognized. She was laughing at him.

  “Shane. You are nowhere near ready. Your skating is really coming along, I'm so impressed with how much progress you've made,” she shook her head, “but adding a stick? That's a level of skill we're not ready for.”

  “I'm ready,” he insisted. How hard could it be? He had the skating down, mostly. He'd brought the pads and gear. He'd even picked up an extra set for her, in what he hoped was her size.

  “I can't . . . we can't, not yet. A few more weeks.”

  “I know this is your gig, but you'll make the same amount of money whether it takes you six weeks, eight weeks, or sixteen weeks to train me.”

  The corners of her mouth turned down. Uh oh. That was also an expression he was coming to know.

  “Please?” he said, trying to circumvent an argument.

  “It's hard for me to coordinate a puck and a stick, Shane, and I've been skating all my life.”

  “You've played hockey?”

  “Just as a goof, against other figure skaters when I was younger. I'm terrible,” she admitted. “I don't want you to get hurt and your proficiency isn't there yet.”

  “I'll gear up.”

  “You're damn right you will. And,” she bit her lip, “I don't care about the money, I don't want you to get injured.”

  His heart skipped a beat. That's what that expression had indicated. He'd read her wrong, once again. She was hurt, not angry.

  She helped him figure out the pads—it was hard to know which way to put on the chest gear, and by the time they were done, they moved stiffly. Amy handed him a helmet, grabbed two pucks and two sticks.

  That stick was slightly bigger than she was. Was that a good thing?

  “Is your stick supposed to be that long?” he asked.

  “Is yours?” she retorted.

  He laughed.

  “No, it's for someone taller, but I didn't see any shorter ones around here,” she shrugged. “No matter.”

  “Do you know what to do?”

  Another shrug, the lips pressed together. “I've seen hockey.”

  That made him feel better. He'd seen a lot of footage. Studied it. Maybe he'd be teaching her a thing or two.

  “What?” she asked, catching what was likely a gleeful expression on his face.

  “Nothing. Where are the goals?”

  Amy pointed to the far side of the rink. “Two practice goals over there. We should drag them over to this end before we lace up.”

  By the time they had the goals out on the ice, he could tell Amy was reconsidering the whole thing. The furrow between her sapphire blue eyes was back.

  “I really don't know,” she said, worrying her full pink lip between perfectly straight white teeth.

  Lust surged through him and he looked away, fiddling with the stick, trying to distract himself. “Come on,” he wheedled. “It'll be fun. I've got to try it sometime.”

  He followed her onto the ice, relieved the jersey was like a dress on her. An oversized, polyester dress. He could almost forget what lay beneath.

  “We need to warm up. Let's do a few laps with just sticks, get used to the feel, then we'll add the pucks,” she suggested.

  “We're going to play a little one-on-one though, right?”

  She skated backward, shaking her head. “Shane, you are unbelievable.”

  “That's good, right?”

  “Have you always been this competitive?” she asked, giving him and his stick a wide berth as they stroked around the rink.

  “I never played team sports, not in any organized way at least. I've played pickup games of basketball here and there.”

  “I'm surprised. You're an intense competitor. It's obvious just teaching you to skate.”

  “My parents didn't have the money or inclination to sign me up for soccer or baseball or anything.”

  “Bummer.”

  He nodded, and swept past her, eyeing the puck a few feet away. It had sucked. He'd wanted to play a sport for as long as he could remember.

  Amy skated up. “There's a league, you know.”

  “A league?”

  “Club hockey, here in LA.”

  “Even if I had a year of skating with you I won't be good enough for that.”

  “They have players of all ages and abilities. Women and men. You won't make the A-team, those guys have been on skates from the time they could walk, and scrimmaging and brawling since preschool.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. He nearly lost his footing.

  “I didn't know.”

  Amy skated backward, facing him, the stick barely moving in her arms. “You should look into it. We had one guy—he was a figure skater with Enchanted but he grew up doing both—”

  “Do people do both?”

  “Sure. He'd play in the summers on the B-team—it goes even lower though, for the real novices. The guy, Mark, he took a lot of ribbing for his day job with us, but he had a great time.”

  “I'll check it out. Thanks.”

  Shane went over to adjust the goals, while Amy took a few laps messing with the puck. He watched her struggle with coordinating the puck and stick with her skating.

  He looked at her across the center line and recognized the glint in her eye. She may be smiling and relaxed, but she wanted to school him.

  His insanely competiti
ve nature gave him no edge at all against her skating. Within ten minutes she's scored two goals and shut him out.

  After the second goal she glided up the line, put down her stick and put both hands on her hips.

  He scowled inside his helmet.

  “If you're not going to play me, I'm not going to do it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I may be faster than you, but you're bigger. You won't come near me! Be aggressive with the puck.”

  “What do you want me to do? Check you into the boards? I don't want to hurt you, Amy.”

  “I said I'd play, now play, damn it, and stop treating me like a child, or a girl!”

  He nodded.

  Amy bent down, picked up her stick and held it horizontally between her hands. She came at him, using the stick to push him backward.

  “Hey!”

  She kept coming, kept pushing with the stick, until he nearly lost his balance. Irritated, he pushed back. The impact was hard enough to send her backward, but instead of landing on her ass, she used the momentum to do a spin and come right back around, laughing at him.

  Checking his body hard, she scraped up the puck between them and continued down to score yet again.

  Had he really just shoved her back on the ice?

  She glided up.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I'm sorry too,” she said, trying to take his stick.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You can't play me if you're three feet away, so we're done.”

  “I want to keep going,” he insisted, still dumbfounded that he'd pushed her.

  “Nope.”

  “I don't want to get too close, what if I knock up against you or trip you up?”

  “What if you do? I'm tough. We could be evenly matched if you would play.”

  He shifted in his skates; he'd worked up a sweat and now that he wasn't moving the moisture was drying, chilling him. She glided toward the barrier, sticks in hand. He left the puck lying on the ice and skated after her.