“No more digging.”
She eyed him. “You’re going to look it up, aren’t you?”
He hated the tension bouncing off her in near-tangible waves. “How about we make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I’ll hold off snooping for a few days to give you a chance to tell me.” He’d seen the way she cared about the fan, Cassie. He’d felt her need to give that girl encouragement like she empathized somehow. That brought out his protectiveness.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you lying? Like you’ll look it up the second I’m gone?”
He laughed at that. “Baby, I’d look it up right in front of your face if I was going to do it. We already covered the part where I’m not subtle.”
“I almost believe you.” Her shoulders lowered a fraction as she took a bite of the pasta salad. “So you were going to tell me about Fighters to Mentors?”
“It’s a program of current and former UFC fighters who mentor troubled boys, usually underprivileged or foster kids. Drake Vaughn, a former UFC fighter, is the founder.”
“You were in the program?”
“Yep. The day I was released from juvie, Drake was there with my grandmother to pick me up. She knew him from the small diner she owned. After that, Drake stepped in as a surrogate-father type. My mother had bailed, my father…couldn’t be there. But my grandmother…” he paused a second, grief digging in, “…she refused to give up on me.” A fact Drake had pointed out to him.
She touched his hand. “Did your grandmother support your music?”
Easy question. “One hundred percent. She said music spoke to me the same way her flowers and cooking spoke to her.”
Liza smiled so hard her eyes sparkled. “What about all those chickens in the kitchen? Did they speak to her?”
Justice laughed. “Doubtful. If they were smart, they shut up. That woman made the best fried chicken in the universe. I’m pretty sure all those chickens were afraid of her.”
“She sounds pretty awesome. My grandmother has a serious disdain for anything fried.”
That offhand comment intrigued him. “She’s missing out. Nothing like fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”
Liza rolled her eyes. “Shh, mashed potatoes are a sin. But for a special treat, there’s always mashed cauliflower with a smidge of nonfat Greek yogurt and broth.”
He gaped at her. “Your grandmother made that for you?”
“Yep.”
“Did you eat it?”
“Sure. It wasn’t bad tasting. But it’s not mashed potatoes.”
He couldn’t resist probing with, “Can I ask if you lived with your grandmother? Or is that prying too?”
“At fourteen, I moved in with my aunt and uncle. All of them are into health food.”
“And they forced you into eating it too?” Why had she lived with her aunt and uncle? What happened to her parents? A million questions raced in his mind.
“Forced? No. If I’d complained, they’d have made me something different. But I just ate what they gave me. I tried very hard not to cause them trouble.” A grin splashed across her face. “However I hid a stash of candy in my room. Other girls babysat for money. I did it for free junk food and soda. To this day I keep candy stashes in my apartment.”
Such the contradiction, and damn that smile—he couldn’t resist it. “Do you have any of that candy on you now?”
She glanced at her camera bag, then said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Busted. He jumped up, skirted around her and grabbed the bag. He started fishing through the pockets until… “Ha!” He pulled out a package. Half a bag of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “You actually carry a stash of candy.”
Her face turned bright red, and she glared at him. “What do you care?”
He prowled up to her. “Are you going to share?” This close, he got a nose full of her warm peach scent.
She tilted her head back. “Why should I?”
“Because you like me?”
“Not right now.” She snatched the bag from his hand.
He let go of the candy and dropped his hand on the table. Leaning closer, he said, “Please? I fed you dinner.”
“Sandwiches? You think a turkey sandwich is worthy of my peanut butter cups?”
The disbelief riding her voice made him grin. “You ate it.”
Sticking her nose up at him, she clutched the treats. “I was being polite. Unlike you. It was rude to look in my camera bag. That does not deserve any peanut butter cups.”
True. But he hadn’t been able to resist discovering if she really had a stash of candy. There was something so innocent yet secretive in her, he’d wanted to be a part of it. “You’re not going to share?”
She bit her bottom lip, then gave him a sly smile. “If I share with you, then you have to answer five interview questions before we go to the club tonight.”
He pretended to consider her words, while thinking that for one unguarded moment, he’d just seen the real Liza Glasner. “Okay.”
She lifted her chin. “From your chair, not standing over me.”
It took effort to push back and put distance between them. This girl was getting under his skin in a big way. Dropping into his chair, he leaned back and stretched his legs out. “Shoot.”
“Favorite classic rock song.”
“‘Kashmir’ by Led Zeppelin, ‘Sweet Emotion’ Aerosmith, ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ Bon Jovi.”
Liza opened the bag and tossed him a couple mini peanut butter cups.
He unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth, pleased with himself.
“That was a warm-up question. Now I want the truth—the one song that truly means the most to you. And why.”
Halfway through unwrapping the second treat, he froze and slowly lifted his gaze. “That’s two questions.”
“I see you have solid math skills. You agreed to answer.”
Shit, she was good. “‘Comfortably Numb’ by Pink Floyd.” That was the easy part.
“Why?”
Dragging in a breath, he tried to figure out how to frame it. “The simple answer is that I know what it’s like to try to escape pain with drugs.” It wasn’t a secret that he’d done drugs. Typical dumbass kid. Although that dumbass shit got serious the day he tagged along with friends to steal beer from a convenience store. He regretted that decision with every fiber of his being.
She set her arms on the table, her bag of candy cradled between them. “That doesn’t answer the question. What does the song mean to you?”
He wanted to close his eyes, block out the sweetness of her face. But she had him hooked. “Because the world only wants the hero, not the man. Once you’re broken, once you come home wounded and too fucking real, they’ll drug you up or shove you out the door.” Anger brewed in his guts. The military had done that to his dad. His old man had been used to being in charge, a leader, the one everyone looked up to. Then he came home wounded, traumatized and unable to return to any semblance of a normal life. Justice had been like everyone else.
Impatient. Frustrated. Selfish.
All those years of being a hero meant nothing when his dad couldn’t get a job, couldn’t function, and his own son was embarrassed. To Liza he said, “No matter how strong you are, life can break you.” Like his dad.
She didn’t move except to blink, slow and soft sweeps of her lashes that did nothing to dim the intensity breeding in that gaze. “Will it break you?”
“Question number four. No. Nothing will break me or get in the way of what I want.” He craved the limelight, the power. That was so much better than the helplessness of searching and searching for his missing father and seeing all those broken people that no one cared about pushed into the shadows.
“What’s your goal?”
He leaned closer, sliding into those eyes so green they belonged on a witch, not this mortal woman. “Fame. Our band is going all the way to a platinum, number-one-selling record and Grammy wins.” He’d prove h
e was worth something. He wasn’t that fuckup whose own mother washed her hands of him and whose father would rather live on the streets than with him.
One day, Justice and his band would be famous enough that even his father would hear them and finally come home. His father would forgive him and let him help, just like his grandmother had begged him to do before she died.
Chapter 3
Fame. Liza was still reeling when the cab pulled up in front of Screech’s Nightclub. Justice’s answer shouldn’t have surprised her. Experience had taught her that rock stars were entitled fame-chasers who would destroy anything in their way. That’s what she didn’t like about them, why she didn’t want to make them her career.
Except Justice had shown her another side when he spoke of his grandmother with unabashed love and respect. He cared about his friend Simon, wanting Liza to help. Yet he expressed his goal with such coldness. No, that was wrong. Not cold.
Heat. Rage. A need so vibrant, her skin had prickled and her heart pounded in response. Both of them had forgotten the candy by then.
She’d had to fight the impulse to run, to get the hell out of there and protect herself from becoming one of his casualties. Except if she did that, then she’d forfeit the internship and have to go home. Back to the house where she had to be perfect to atone for both herself and her mother.
“Liza?”
Damn, she’d been so lost in her head, she wasn’t paying attention. Justice had paid the driver, gotten out and held the door.
Sliding out, she looped her camera case over her shoulder and tried to keep up in her heels. “Still can’t believe I let you talk me into taking a cab with you. I could have driven us then you take a cab home later.”
His hand closed around hers, warm and solid. “This is the Gaslamp Quarter. There’s only street parking or a public lot.”
She glanced around at all the cars lining the roads. Yeah, parking would be a bitch, and walking to a public lot late at night in the dark wasn’t smart.
“Come on, let’s go have some fun.”
Right, fun. Except the memories… Liza pressed her palm against the vulnerability dancing in her soft belly. She should have brought her sweater, but no, she’d played the big bad publicist and stowed it in her car.
She twisted her head in time to watch the cab pull away. Her escape. Gone.
“Problem?” Justice loomed at her shoulder, concern in his eyes.
Okay, she had this. It was a nightclub, just a club. She’d gone dancing with her roommate and had fun. Going into Screech’s wasn’t anything different than that. Piece of cake.
Lifting her chin, she said, “World peace. Pollution. Global warming. Child hunger. Homeless animals. Also wildfires. Take your pick.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and amusement chased out the concern. “Anything else?”
Yeah, the way he looked at her as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Quit stalling, Cade. You’ve got hot groupies waiting to grope you.” She took a step.
His hand wrapped around her arm, his fingers warm and firm against her bare skin. Moving around her, he filled her vision with his wavy hair, hard face and see-too-much eyes. “You look beautiful. Especially when you do that.”
People walked past them, but Justice captured her attention and wouldn’t let go. “Do what?” What did he see in her?
“Fight off whatever it is that scares you. It’s seriously hot. The timid uncertainty vanishes and your confidence shines through. The green in your eyes shimmers, and I know something snarky or random will come out of your mouth.”
“We barely know each other.” She didn’t want to feel this fascination with him.
“You like me, Glasner.” He tugged her toward the club.
She really should pull her arm away. He’d release her, she was sure of it. But his grasp felt safe and comforting as she headed into something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Not everyone likes you, Cade.”
“You do.” He opened the door to a small lobby where two security guards stood in front of another set of doors.
“You don’t know that.”
He nodded to the security guards. “Sure I do. You shared your peanut butter cups with me. You so like me.”
Before she could respond, they passed a second set of doors into another world. A Red Hot Chili Peppers song pumped through the building that was once a saloon. People dressed from beach casual to rocker hard clustered in groups, slamming drinks and laughing.
Justice’s hand stayed on her arm, an anchor as she absorbed the energy of loud music and fun, similar to the places she’d gone to dance and hang out. Steadier, she tugged her arm free to reach for her camera. As she released it from the case, realization dawned on her—Justice had known what he was doing by holding her arm, teasing her, getting her into the club and past her fear, a fear he probably didn’t understand but helped her navigate anyway.
Confusion swirled, creating too many uncomfortable emotions. Needing to focus on something besides her fears and disturbing fascination with Justice, she lifted her camera and took shots of the wanted posters featuring rock stars on the walls. Clever. The weapons wall had various guitars mounted. A huge banner over the stage read Dueling Grounds. Liza grabbed a shot of that then looked around. She spotted Savaged Illusions’ drummer and bassist, Lynx and River, talking to a group of girls by the bar. Where were the remaining two band members, Gray and Simon?
“Justice.” A man cut through the throng. Middle-aged, he wore jeans with a leather vest over a shirt, very little hair on top of his head, but he sported a cliché ponytail. “Great to see you.” The man thumped Justice on the back.
She grabbed a shot of the two men, one up and coming in the scene with someone who clearly was part of the old guard. She clicked off more shots to tweet out as little vignettes about the front man of Savaged Illusions.
“Screech, thanks, man.”
Liza narrowed her eyes. “Screech Rizo from the Hell Blades?” They’d been hot for a short time back in the nineties.
The man beamed. “I don’t care if Justice told you that, I’m going to pretend you recognize me.”
“I do. Well, the name helped. And all the memorabilia.” She held out her hand. “My mom had your music on all the time.” Damn, shut up. As a rule, she didn’t bring up her mom. “Do you play anymore?” His band had broken up by the time the nineties came to a close.
“Hell yeah. Whole point of the club. I can play anytime I want, and I don’t have to go on tour. These bones are too old for that life.”
She grinned and gestured to the stage. “Hope I get a chance to hear you before I leave.”
“Hey, it’s our social director.” Lynx strode up, followed by River buried in a crowd of women. One girl had a striped dress, dark leggings and thigh-high boots. A blonde had wrapped her hips in a tiny skirt and a tight shirt with platform heels. A couple wore jeans like Liza, but theirs were expensively distressed. They belonged in this club.
She forced a smile. “Lynx, River. Justice is…” she glanced over to see a girl pushing a drink into his hand, “…there.”
“Oh.” One of the girls shot up her hand and waved. “Gray. Over here.”
Liza followed the girl’s gaze to Gray, who was talking to a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and wearing a copper dress that stood out with its tailored elegance.
“That’s Christine Castle of Conquest Band Management.”
Startled by the voice next to her, she turned to Simon, who had his ass perched on a table and his legs stretched out as he sipped a dark-looking drink. Scotch?
“Have you been there the whole time?” Thinking of what Justice had told her, she debated what to say to him. This wasn’t really the place to talk.
“Just walked up and saw you watching them.” He lifted his drink. “I was at the bar.”
There was something slightly unsettling about him. On stage, he was a full-bore monster, powering into his guitar riffs, using his entire body to create his ow
n style that made him stand out.
Offstage, a different Simon showed—this serious, controlled man. He looked older, more mysterious. Although in the club lighting, she saw the amber shading in his brown eyes. They did sort of resemble a lion’s eyes, especially with their predator intensity. “Is she here to check you guys out? You don’t have a manager, right?” If they had, wouldn’t their manager have been in on the whole student-social-media-publicist thing?
“No. Those sharks smell money with the possible Tangent contract.”
She snapped a few photos of Gray and Christine, then slid out her phone to make some notes. “Wouldn’t it be smart to have one?”
“Depends.” He sipped his drink. “Bad one’ll screw us worse than a good one’ll help.” Grim determination stole any lingering softness in the man. “No unscrupulous asshole is going to get their claws into our band. I’ve seen what destroys groups—bad managers, drugs and women. I’ll protect us from it all.”
Liza nearly took a step back at the icy warning in Simon’s tone. Nope, stand your ground. She had to get all the band’s trust, and backing away would make her look weak. “Or bad publicity.” Her mouth dried, but she forced herself to add, “Justice told me.”
“I’m aware.”
The two words came out sharp and cold. “I’ll see what I can find out from Court of Rock producers and Nikki. We’ll meet tomorrow and plan a strategy.”
His gaze didn’t flicker. “You and I won’t need to plan a strategy if my wife’s name gets dragged through the mud.”
She frowned. In the couple minutes she’d talked to him, she believed him too smart to think they didn’t need a strategy. “Then what will we need?”
“Bail money.” He pushed off the table and strode over to join Gray and Christine.
Liza shivered. Was it that coldness, maybe even violence, that drove his wife to suicide? Or was he that way because of it?
Liza moved around, getting pictures of the band members chatting with various people. She spotted Lynx and started his way when the music cut out and the sound of a microphone crackled.
Everyone turned to the stage where Screech stood. “Friends, welcome to the club. Tonight is a very special private party to celebrate one of our own. They began playing here for me a couple years ago, and now they’re appearing on the popular reality show Court of Rock.”
Savaged Dreams: Savaged Illusions Trilogy Book 1 Page 4
