Missing From Me: Rockstar Romance (Sixth Street Bands Book 3)

by Jayne Frost

  Missing From Me

  Sixth Street Bands #3

  Jayne Frost

  Copyright © 2017 by Jayne Frost

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by: Patricia D. Eddy — The Novel Fixer

  Proofreading: Proofing With Style

  Cover Design: Pink Ink Designs

  Cover Photo: Period Images

  For Patricia—Thank you for all your encouragement. You’ll never know what it meant to me. Love you.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Epilogue

  PREVIEW

  Lost For You

  Jayne Said:

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Jayne Frost

  Chapter One

  4 Years Ago

  Sean

  The front door slammed, shaking the walls in our small apartment. I snuggled closer to Anna’s side and buried my face in her hair.

  Logan’s agitated voice cut through the fog of near sleep.

  “Dude, wake up!”

  Whatever mess my best friend had gotten himself into, he’d have to solve it on his own. This was one of Anna’s rare mornings off, and since we’d had the apartment to ourselves, we’d stayed up late, listening to the rain and having lazy sex until we’d passed out.

  Smiling at the thought of a repeat, I grumbled in Logan’s general direction, “Go away. I don’t have any condoms. Carry your ass to the store like a normal person and leave us alone.”

  His footsteps echoed in the tiny room, and then he was beside me, his long fingers digging into my shoulder as he gave me a hard shake. “I’m serious. Get up.”

  Not happening.

  A frustrated groan escaped my lips when Anna twisted in my arms. She propped herself up on one elbow, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “What do you need, Lo?”

  A swift kick in the ass.

  Rolling onto my back, I smothered my face with the pillow, hoping he’d get the hint. Of course, he didn’t.

  Cursing under his breath, Logan rooted around under the comforter.

  “Hey!” I snarled, tossing the pillow at him. “Whatever you’re looking for, I don’t have it.”

  Running an agitated hand through his blond hair, Logan glared at me.

  “Where’s your remote?” Anxiety laced his tone when I didn’t answer right away. “For the TV, douchebag—where’s the remote?”

  Anna fumbled around on the nightstand and then handed him the clunky device. “What’s wrong with the TV in your room?”

  Logan walked to the end of the bed and took a seat.

  Anna sat up, scowling. “Make it quick.” She slumped against the headboard, glaring at the back of Logan’s head. “Seriously, Lo, hurry up. I have to pee.”

  Logan ignored her, all his attention focused on the screen as he flipped through the channels. His shoulders sagged when he reached CNN.

  Cable News? Now he had my attention. The only things Logan ever watched were MTV, VH1, or the Cartoon Network.

  I popped up to see what was so important, but something told me I didn’t want to know. “What’s going on?”

  “Quiet,” Logan whispered.

  Buttoning my lip, I reluctantly focused on the screen where a stone-faced commentator stood in a field, fat droplets of rain pelting her microphone.

  “. . . live footage from the scene of the tragic accident outside of Fredericksburg, Texas this morning where two members of the super-group Damaged lost their lives in a fiery crash. At this point, we’re unable to confirm the identities of the deceased. Damaged, arguably the hottest band in the country, just completed a series of shows in the Southwest and . . .”

  The camera panned out for a wide-angle shot. Wisps of smoke rose from the wreckage, dissolving into the gray morning sky.

  A gasp from Anna. “Oh my God.”

  She crumbled against me, her small hand curving around my waist as she buried her face in my chest. Unable to make sense of what I was seeing, I stroked her hair with numb fingers.

  After a few moments of stunned silence, Logan jumped to his feet. “What the fuck is she smiling about?”

  Confused, I blinked at him. “Who?”

  “The fucking reporter.” He pointed at the TV with a shaky hand. “What the hell is she grinning for?”

  I shifted my gaze back to the screen, and sure as shit, the reporter was smiling. Just a slight upturn of her glossy lips.

  I tightened my grip on my girl. “It’s her job, man. She doesn’t . . .” Emotion clogged my throat, and I struggled for breath. For words. “She doesn’t know them.”

  But then, neither did we. Not really. Damaged hailed from Austin, our hometown. And over the last five years, as their star ascended, our paths had crossed on occasion.

  Our band, Caged, was one of the many groups on Sixth Street that loosely followed the Damaged blueprint. Since high school, we’d been playing the same bars where Damaged got their start, hoping a little of their magic would rub off.

  The news report abruptly cut to KVUE, the local ABC affiliate. Terri Gruca, the nighttime anchor, sat stoically behind the half-lit desk, her co-anchor nowhere in sight.

  “Thank you, Sandy.” Terri blinked into the camera. “We’ve just got word at the studio that Rhenn Grayson, lead singer for the Grammy winning band Damaged, and Paige Dawson, lead guitarist, were p
ronounced dead at the scene of the accident on Highway 290 this morning.” She looked down at the copy wobbling in her shaking hand. “Rhenn’s wife, singer Tori Grayson, and drummer, Miles Cooper, were airlifted to Brackenridge Hospital via Care Flight. According to band manager, Taryn Ayers, Mrs. Grayson and Mr. Cooper are both in critical condition. The bus driver was also pronounced dead at the crash site.” Still photos of Rhenn and Paige appeared on a split screen in the background behind Terri’s head. “Our prayers go out to the families. After a brief commercial break, we’ll cut to the CNN studio for further updates on this tragedy and a look back at the lives of these two gifted musicians.”

  My head pounded as a commercial for toaster strudel flickered across the screen. Smiling faces and cheery voices, touting the virtue of strawberry jam tucked inside a fluffy pastry shell. Somewhere, people were probably eating that shit.

  But not Rhenn or Paige.

  “They were twenty-four years old,” Logan murmured.

  As he turned to face me, questions clouded his arctic blue eyes. The same questions I’d seen every day since the first time we met. About death, and why it visited some while leaving others alone. Death was what brought Logan and me together, after all. Our shared bond. Two kids whose mothers would never sit at the long table in Mrs. Varner’s classroom handing out cookies. Because our mothers had “passed.”

  That’s the polite term people used when someone died. The same folks made sure to tell you they were “sorry for your loss.”

  Which I always found funny, since my mother wasn’t lost. She was dead.

  Rhenn’s voice boomed from the speaker on the worn-out TV. Smiling his most iconic smile, he stood back to back with Paige as he crooned the band’s latest hit.

  I leaned forward to drink it all in. Because that’s all that was left now, bits of light and shadow caught on tape.

  Slithering from my loose hold, Anna stumbled to her feet. “I’ve got to pee.”

  Before she got away, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and then slipped my arms around her waist to pull her between my knees.

  Resting my forehead against her chest, I breathed deeply, her peach scent soothing me like a balm. “I love you, Anna-baby.”

  She sifted her fingers through my hair until I stopped shaking, and then kissed the top of my head. “Love you too.”

  Reluctantly, I let her go, and she retreated into the tiny bathroom. Through the paper-thin walls, I heard her crying softly.

  When she returned, her face splotchy and her eyes glistening with leftover tears, I gave her a soft smile and lifted the covers so she could crawl in beside me.

  An hour later and we still hadn’t moved, like if we stayed here, it wouldn’t be real.

  But it was.

  When they showed the Care Flight helicopter on the roof of Brackenridge Hospital for the second time, I snapped. “Change that, will you?”

  Logan flipped the channel to MTV while I reached for the pad of paper I kept beside the bed to jot down lyrics.

  Like everyone else, the music channel was covering the Damaged story. But instead of reporting what everyone already knew, they were running a special broadcast about the three lesser-known bands that had followed Damaged up the ladder.

  A solemn voice spoke over a montage of snippets flickering on the screen.

  “While it stands to reason that Leveraged, Revenge Theory, or Drafthouse will fill the gaping hole left by today’s tragic event, a few lesser-known groups from Austin have amassed quite a following.”

  Jolted by the familiar beat, my gaze snapped to the television where footage of Caged performing at the Parish flashed on the set.

  “One such group, Caged, is currently playing the same venue where Damaged got their start some five years ago.”

  The camera panned to the front of my drum kit where the band’s logo, a lion inside a gilded cage, shimmered under the lights.

  “Like many of the smaller Sixth Street bands, Caged is still fighting for notoriety outside this small, but illustrious, stretch of road.”

  “Oh my God,” Anna whispered, squeezing my hand. “That’s you.”

  Guilt flooded my insides, sweeping away the momentary jubilation.

  They’re dead, I reminded myself, turning my attention back to my lyrics.

  Voices dying on the breeze, eyes now see what no one sees.

  Will you be among the masses, forever frozen as time passes?

  As I pondered the morbid compilation, the incessant ringing roused me from my next thought.

  “Answer that call, dude,” I grumbled to Logan’s back.

  He glanced down at his hand as if he just realized he was holding the phone. Swiping a finger over the screen, he took a deep breath before lifting the device to his ear.

  “Hey, Chase.” Logan pushed to his feet and began to pace in a tight circle, glancing at the television every few seconds. “Of course I heard.” Stopping in his tracks, he listened intently. “Tonight?” He glanced at me, brows drawn together over troubled blue eyes. “I don’t know. Let me talk to Sean first.”

  Tossing the phone on the bed, Logan dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “That was Chase. He wants us to do a set tonight.”

  My stomach twisted as the shock rolled through me. “Why tonight?”

  Logan’s eyes met mine, conflicted. “There’s going to be some kind of candlelight vigil.” He cleared his throat. “They’re expecting music, so someone’s got to take the stage.”

  Might as well be us.

  I could almost hear his unspoken thought.

  “What do you think?” he asked, chewing the hell out of his thumbnail.

  Looking past him at the screen, I watched as people gathered on Sixth Street. Some wandered aimlessly, tears streaming down their faces, while others stood reverently in front of the poster of Damaged that hung next to the entrance to the Parish. All of them needed one thing—closure.

  Pushing aside my reservations, I shrugged. “Whatever. That’s fine.”

  Logan nodded and then gazed at the screen one last time before wandering from the room.

  When Anna followed, I assumed she was going to get something from the kitchen.

  Burrowing into the pillow, I threw my arm over my eyes.

  “Sean?”

  Anna’s whisper jerked me from my thoughts.

  “Yeah?”

  She gave me a watery smile as she stood by the door, twisting the hem of her nightshirt.

  I offered her my hand. “Come here, baby.”

  She sank onto her heels at my side. Slashes of sunlight peeked through the slats in the worn mini blinds, turning her red hair into a fiery halo. She looked shocked to the core.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” A tear spilled onto her cheek. “It’s not like I knew them or anything.”

  I wicked the moisture away with the pad of my thumb. “You didn’t have to know them, baby. They meant something to you, and you’re sad.”

  “I know.” She sniffed, fiddling with her emerald ring. “But it’s not like, you know, family.” Our eyes met, and I could almost see the thought forming on her lips. “Not like your mom, or . . .”

  I watched the column of her throat as she swallowed. The rise and fall of her chest. Anything to avoid the pity in her eyes.

  Sliding a hand into her hair, I pulled her close. “That was a long time ago.”

  When her lips fell open to reply, I silenced her with a kiss. Cradling the back of her head, I reversed our positions. She moaned softly as I pulled her leg to my waist.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

  Her breathy pant held no conviction, so I kept going, my fingers gliding to the apex of her thighs. Pushing aside her panties, I parted her slick folds.

  “Why not?” I brushed my thumb over her clit, smiling. “You got something better to do?”

  Her brows drew inward as she searched my face. “No. I just . . . I want . . .”

  Anna wanted what I wanted.

&nbs
p; To feel.

  I slid my boxers over my hips as I continued to stroke her. A whimper escaped when I pulled away.

  “Shh.” Gripping the base of my shaft, I guided my tip to her entrance. “Is this what you want?”

  Past the point of embarrassment, grief, or anything but need, Anna nodded. “Now . . . Sean . . . please.”

  Burying myself in her warmth, I stilled long enough to push her T-shirt up to reveal her perfect, pink nipples. Scoring my teeth over one stiff peak, I slammed into her again, deeper this time.

  We were primal, unrestrained, and when her nails dug into my skin, a jolt of pure pleasure raced up my spine.

  So fucking close.

  But I didn’t want this to end, didn’t want to face the reality that waited outside this moment, so I rose to my knees and wrapped her legs around my waist. My fingers skimmed her breasts, her quivering belly, and finally the small strip of auburn hair between her legs.

  “Let go for me, baby,” I grunted, circling her tiny bud with my thumb. “I need you to come.”

  I needed to come. To spill all the pain and the loss and the emptiness coating my insides.

  Anna’s eyes rolled back and she gripped my arm.

  “Sean!”

  Her walls closed tight around me as she tipped over the edge, chanting my name like a mantra. Falling onto my elbows, I chased her to the bottom, meeting the end of her with one final thrust.