by Cari Quinn
To say she’d breathed a sigh of relief was an understatement. Oh, she’d still had more than her share of bad moments over the situation during the past week. Those pictures felt like a loose thread that could wrap around her throat and do some serious damage when she least expected it. Someone had taken them, and someone had sent them. Just because they weren’t coming forward yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
In the meantime, she was keeping on keeping on.
At least the Nick situation had been put to bed. She’d barely seen him this week, thank God, as she’d decided not to push for a meeting with Oblivion just yet. Better to let Simon get his bearings in private, since strong-arming him hadn’t worked in the past. Her days had been full enough with the other bands she managed, as well as ones who had been newly signed to label, like Hammered. They weren’t one of hers, but she was helping out while Donovan’s new protégé, Dex Munroe, was learning the ropes at Ripper Records. She’d also taken meetings with Donovan as she usually did, but she had to admit she hadn’t minded one bit when he had to leave town at the end of the week.
Things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Molly hadn’t just played hardball, she’d used Lila’s head as the projectile she slammed across the court. And with Donovan’s warning echoing in her ears, she had approximately zero bargaining room. Somehow she’d agreed to not only get Molly a gig as the lead singer of a band within the next week, but evidently she’d taken Raymond’s admonition to heart. Any old band would not be good enough. No, Molly wanted to front a fully-formed band that was already on the rise if not already completely risen. No ifs, ands or buts.
Where the hell was she going to come up with a band who needed a singer on such a short basis? She could work miracles with a bit longer timeline, but a week was ludicrous. Not that she even had that left. The week was already almost up—she’d gotten a weekend reprieve, whoop-ti-do—and she was no closer to pinning down a possible gig for Molly.
And you’re the one who intimated you could get her a band opportunity. Brilliant move, Shawcross.
“Ronson,” she corrected herself aloud, the words muffled against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. She wasn’t going to be a Shawcross for much longer, and it was time she got used to being herself again. The likelihood was strong that she would never marry again, and she’d be happy to be a Ronson until the day she died.
Being single was awesome. Truthfully, she couldn’t wait. Who needed men or sex? Actually, having a steady diet of orgasms just made you complacent. Much better to be a honed edge of deprivation like she’d been for so many years, the past few weeks aside.
Still slumped over the steering wheel, she moaned. She had only been five days orgasm-free, and she was already on the ropes. If need be, she could probably do without some of the other things. She got hot in her sleep, so spooning wasn’t always necessary. She didn’t need to hold hands all the time, on account of sweaty palms. But no more orgasms?
She wasn’t at all certain she would survive.
The rap of knuckles on her window made her jerk up hard enough to hit her head on the roof of her car. Wide-eyed, heart rocketing, she stared at the bearded face pressed to the glass and tried to find her voice.
“Michael?” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that you under the facial hair?”
Her stepson didn’t laugh. His eyes were shadowed, his mouth grim. “I’ve been waiting for you. Can we talk?”
She motioned him back and pushed open her door. In a flash, she rose. “What is it? What happened? Are you sick? Is it your mother?”
She didn’t mention his father, because she didn’t care. Oh, that probably wasn’t true. She could at least be concerned for Martin out of fondness for some of the early—very early—days of their relationship. But beyond that? She wouldn’t cry him a river, that was for sure.
“No, no, everyone’s fine.” He skimmed a hand over the back of his buzzed close hair. Almost in defiance of his beard, he had the exact opposite thing going on upstairs. The top was spiky and dark, the rest shaved close. “You might hurt me after we talk though.”
She laughed and swept him into her arms, giving him a hard hug. “Impossible. I’ve missed you, you big lug.” She pulled back and leaned up on her tiptoes to cup his cheeks, just as she had when he was a boy. “You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t Skype. You have a new lady in your life or something?”
“Or something,” he agreed.
“A man then?” She winked. Michael had a way of making her feel better like no other. Well, no other than—
Not thinking of him. Nope. Not going there again tonight.
He chuckled. “Nope, still like the ladies.” He glanced around. “Can we go upstairs?”
“Sure thing.” She slipped her arm in his and together, they walked toward the elevator. She typed in the key code, then they stepped inside and watched in silence as the numbers above the door climbed. “So I’m guessing you’re not here just for a chat.”
“I wish I was here under better circumstances.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his peacoat. He had an odd style. Jeans with large enough gashes that skin showed through, heavy boots, laces undone, a thick belt with a buckle of skull and crossbones, an old T-shirt, then the faintly fussy—and nearly too small—peacoat over the rest.
Probably something his mother bought him and he felt obligated to wear. That was Michael. Somehow he’d been born with every ounce of sweetness and generosity of spirit that his father lacked.
And his older brother, Malachi, for that matter too. Though in all fairness, some of her uncharitable feelings toward Malachi probably stemmed from the fact that he hated her with a passion and had since the first day she’d laid eyes on the boys.
She tried to make small talk with Michael, but he was oddly reticent. For the nearly ten years she’d known him, they’d been close like a mother and son—ones who just happened to be unusually close in age. Still, he had his own mom and she’d always been careful not to step over the line and usurp Renee’s role.
Tonight he wasn’t saying much, and none of her tricks to draw him out were working.
Probably a girl, she decided. Women troubles tended to shut him down quick. She hoped he didn’t think she could help him. Her own love life was practically the poster child for fuckedupness.
Once they entered her apartment, she set her purse and briefcase on the counter between her kitchen and living room. Without asking if Michael was thirsty, she walked into the kitchen and took out the two bottles of alcohol she’d recently restocked strictly for him. The first time she’d made the drink for him, he’d been underage. He’d spent the previous night getting drunk and stupid, and he’d called Lila to pick him up at a friend’s party because he knew his parents would read him the riot act. She’d done as he asked and brought him to her place to sleep it off.
The next morning, she’d wanted to make sure he got the urge all the way out of his system. To do that, she’d made the most disgusting drink she’d ever tried—a gin and tonic, with extra lime. She liked the lime part. The rest? Blech. Unfortunately, Michael had loved it.
So much for one of her maiden voyages as a parent.
He’d been legal for a couple of years now, and he was more of a spirits drinker than beer or wine. She refused to take the blame for that, but she did make him the drink he preferred when he came over.
“Okay, here’s your truth serum,” she announced, setting the short glass on the coffee table in front of her stepson. He’d taken his usual spot at the end of the sofa. “Now talk.”
He didn’t smile, but he did pry out the wedge of lime that she’d added as he always did. This time, he didn’t pop it into his mouth and do the stupid lime-wedge smile he normally did to make her laugh. He just gripped the slice of fruit and swallowed hard enough to make his Adam’s apple bob.
“Falling for a rock star? Really? I thought you were smarter than that.”
She didn’t sit down in the club chair beside the couch so much as sag
into it. The strength in her legs simply gave out.
There was no point in searching for spin or a ready lie. Not with her boy.
“How do you know?” she whispered.
There was also no point in denying she’d fallen for Nick. Anyone who saw those pictures won a one-way trip into the reality of how far she’d fallen. But she’d gotten back up. One way or another, she’d found her way back to standing on her own.
She wasn’t going down again.
Michael dropped the lime back in the glass and liquid splashed on her coffee table. She’d forgotten to grab a coaster. She started to rise, but he reached out and grabbed her hand to keep her seated. “I hired a PI to have you followed.”
Suddenly she was very glad she hadn’t managed to gain her feet. “You what?”
“It wasn’t a real PI.” Michael let go of her hand and pushed his fingers through his hair. It stuck straight up in some spots. Must be some product he was using.
Curious. Since when did he use hair product at all?
She shook herself. Focus.
“I had a buddy back in school, Jerzee. He was kind of a jerk, but he was always into everyone’s business. Used to be on the school paper, then ended up slapping up his own shingle to be a private investigator. You were, um, his second case.”
“Case?” She couldn’t keep her voice from going shrill. “I have a case?”
“No, I just mean you were the second person he had to…track.”
“Who was the first?”
“Skittles. My missing beagle,” Michael explained, sounding more than a little sheepish. “Good news is he found her.”
“You hired a PI to find a dog? The same person you paid cash money to have me followed?”
“Actually no, I didn’t pay him monetarily. I let him sit in with the band. He thinks he can play drums, but he really can’t. But you know how guys always want to be on stage.”
She held up a hand. “Stem the information deluge until I get caught up.”
Nodding quickly, Michael sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Yes. Sorry.”
“You let him sit in with what band?”
“Mine.”
In spite of herself, a frisson of interest prickled under her skin. Goddamn instincts. She hated them as much as she loved them sometimes. “You have a band? Since when?”
“I’ve been playing for years,” he said, affronted. “You know that.”
“I do. I also know that you staunchly refused to be anything but a solo basement guitar player. Claimed it was your hobby, nothing more. Has that changed?”
“Listen, that’s not the point. I saw you with him.” He blew out a breath. “Or he saw you with him, and he took pictures—”
She went very still. “You had him take pictures of me in intimate moments.”
“God, no.” His face blanched. “If by intimate you mean—” He made a finger gesture that caused her to bury her face in her hands. “Not like that. No way. Jerzee didn’t break in anywhere. He didn’t have to. Jesus, you two were making out right on the street.”
“We were not making out, and whoever taught you that disgusting gesture deserves to have their mouths washed out. And their hands washed off. Or whatever.” She heaved out a breath and shoved herself to her feet.
She needed to move. Possibly to run a mile or two in her heels until she broke something. Maybe then the pain would diminish the horror that was infiltrating her entire body via her ears.
“Christ, L, I’m twenty-two. Do you honestly think anyone has to teach me hand gestures? I’ve had sex, I’ve watched porn, I’ve even smoked a few—”
“Enough.” She sliced a hand through the air. “As of right this instant, you are to stop talking.”
He pressed his lips together and did as she asked.
She paced for another couple minutes until the worst of the haze began to clear. Then she gripped the back of the club chair and squarely faced her stepson. “Did you do this to report to your father?”
He flushed to the roots of his dark hair before jerking to feet. “No. Absolutely not. You know I’d never rat you out to that prick.”
“Michael,” she snapped. “You know better than to talk like that about your father.”
“Really? Do I? I should treat him with nothing but respect when he first ran around all over on my mother, then on you?” When Lila turned away, he continued. “I’m not supposed to know about that, and I admit I stayed ignorant far too long. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t want to see, I guess.”
Tears swam into her eyes for the second time that night and she gripped her elbows as she stared hard at the wall of windows. “I didn’t want you to know. You never should have had to. You were a child—”
“I’m not a child now, and I haven’t been for a long time.” Gently, he gripped her shoulder and turned her toward him. His face immediately softened. “Oh God, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You didn’t. You never have, and you won’t start tonight.” Furiously, she dashed at the tears she’d just denied out of existence. “I just want to understand. Help me to understand, Michael.” There was no helping the plea that entered her voice.
If she lost one more thing she lo—cared about, she was going to fall apart. Just shatter like a pane of glass.
“Sit down.” He cupped her shoulders in his big hands—when did they get so big?—and turned her back toward her chair. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“I hate gin,” she muttered, obliging him enough to take a seat again.
What difference did it make if she stayed on her feet? She could lose her balance just as easily sitting down.
“I know. I know more about you than you give me credit for.” At home in her kitchen, he opened cabinet doors and took out what he needed. A moment later, he returned with a wine glass filled to the brim with pale gold liquid. “Drink some of that,” he ordered.
His authoritative tone made her narrow her eyes. She didn’t know who she was looking at anymore. She’d blinked and he’d become a man, with large hands and huge feet and kind eyes. Always kind eyes. But now he commanded easily, and he had a band, for God’s sake. The one thing he’d always resisted, not wanting to play in the same “contaminated pool” as his father, as he’d called it, though he’d loved music since he was young. He’d been content to love it for its own sake. By himself, for his own enjoyment.
Had that changed?
Once she’d downed half the glass, she set it down—still no coaster, dammit—and drummed her fingers on the edge of the coffee table, waiting for him to speak.
“I came by to see you one day, and he was on his way out to a limo parked outside. He just had that look about him, and he’d obviously just left your place.”
“You can say his name,” Lila said, surprised how quickly she forgot her own embarrassment when it came to diffusing Michael’s obvious anger. And something else, something she couldn’t define. “His name is Nick. And what look are you talking about?”
“You can say his name, but I’m not going to. He’s just a cocky hothead as far as I’m concerned, and he’s not good enough for you. So I asked Jerzee to do some digging.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I guess I thought if I showed you the pictures, you’d realize that anyone could see what was going on.”
“Anyone like your father.”
“Yeah. But I never intended to tell him. God, are you kidding me? You know how I feel about my dad.”
Yeah, she did, and she felt bad about it. For years, she’d worried that her opinion had subtly rubbed off on his son, though she’d tried hard not to influence Michael in any way.
Michael’s older brother certainly didn’t care about her opinion. Malachi didn’t care about her either. Never had, never would. To him, she was just the tramp who’d stole Martin from his mother.
“The photos were a stupid move, I see that now. I feel like a dick.” Michael shut his eyes. “It was just about showing them to you and getting Jerzee off my back wit
h the band shit. I figured if you got a reminder of how public all of this was, you’d stop it. No one else was supposed to get the photos, but Jerzee and I got into it pretty good and he decided to send them to you to see if he could shake you down for some cash.” Michael shook his head and finally met her gaze. “I could’ve killed the jerk. Almost did too.”
As difficult as all of this was to hear, she was still stuck on an earlier point. “Michael, what look did Nick have that day he went out to the limo?”
He glanced away, but not fast enough for her to miss the emotion that shifted through his gaze. “The just-been-fucked look. I’m sorry, but I know it well. I’ve had it often enough myself.”
She didn’t speak. What could she say? Michael was a grown man and not her biological child, and she’d asked him for the truth.
No point in arguing with the facts. Nick had just been fucked the day he’d taken the limo from her apartment to the radio station interviews. Nothing she could say would diminish the reality. Except maybe next time she had sex with Nick, she’d force him to wear a damn bag over his head afterward, if he insisted on sex-glowing all over the place.
Oh yeah, right. No more sex. Well, that took care of that problem, nice and tidy. Her lady garden might wither away, but hey, at least no one would suspect she was banging Oblivion’s lead guitarist anymore.
Funny how that seemed like damn cold consolation.
“Not that I owe you an explanation, but no matter how it seems, we weren’t just…having intercourse.” She didn’t know who winced more, her or Michael. It was probably a tie. “We’ve obviously known each other a while, and—”
“You took him home to see Mom and Pop,” he said, accusation rife in his voice. “When I called them to wish them happy holidays, they asked why I hadn’t accompanied you to Happy Acres. Normally when you go back home at the holidays, you bring me.”
Her throat clogged with something akin to panic, and she took a large swallow of wine to force it back down. No matter what Michael was thinking—or feeling—they’d work this out. He was too important to her for them to have a rift. Especially over something like this.
