Rock Rebel

by Tara Leigh

  “Hold the elevator!”

  My arm shot out instinctively, my years in Manhattan training me to hold the elevator for any and all who asked, because you never knew when you would need the favor returned. Karma was a bitch best left unprovoked.

  Something that kid had yet to learn.

  “Thanks.” At first glance the girl who burst breathlessly into the elevator car could have been anywhere from seventeen to twenty-seven. Her hair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head, her bright green gaze clear-eyed and direct, and she was wearing running sneakers and a thick sweatshirt that would have been too big on me. It was also unzipped, revealing a tight tank top and tiny bike shorts.

  Goddamn. Just looking at her had my pulse stuttering for a few beats, then taking off at a gallop.

  Her body didn’t belong to a teenager, that was for sure.

  She pulled one of her earbuds out, wisps of red hair framing a heart-shaped face. Haphazard and disheveled. “Can you press the one for the gym?”

  Sexy as fuck.

  I jerked my chin at the lit-up display on my side of the elevator. “Apparently we’re on a local tonight.”

  Her full lips, a berry-pink shade that hadn’t been painted on, twitched up at one corner, revealing a dimple etched into her left cheek. I felt a tug of desire deep in my stomach, and a ridiculous curiosity to know if it was part of a matched set. “Courtesy of the little boy who ran out of here like he’d just shotgunned a can of Coke?”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  She broke into a full-fledged grin. I stared back, feeling like I’d won the lottery. Dimples, plural.

  “Knew it,” she said as the doors closed and the elevator trundled down a flight.

  I should have kept my mouth closed when she looked back down at her phone, but I wanted to feel her eyes on me again. “Don’t get too cocky. That was an easy guess.”

  She raised her head, a look of surprise on her face. Her familiar face.

  Did I know this girl?

  The elevator doors opened and closed. Again. And again. And again. With each floor, the energy in the confined space expanded, charged by something I didn’t quite understand. The smile that had played on her lips disappeared, the bow of her mouth drawing tight. She crossed her arms, clearly piqued. “So any girl that dares to voice a correct assumption is cocky?”

  The redhead was more spitfire than leprechaun.

  A bolt of lust charged down my spine. “Only when it’s too easy.”

  “Easy, huh? How about you give me a hard one, then?”

  Jesus. Talk about a loaded question.

  She arched a brow that was the same red as the hair on her head, which sent my mind down another direction.

  A direction that was apparently all too obvious. “Whenever you get your mind out of my pants, of course.”

  I forced a gruff chuckle. What the fuck was wrong with me? Two hours in this city and I’d transformed into the horny kid I’d been when I left six years ago.

  But before I could come up with a hard question, she changed the subject. “I’ll bet I can guess your sign.”

  “My what?”

  “Your zodiac sign.” I must have still looked confused, because some of her irritation smoothed away as she leaned against the dark mirrored glass at her back. “You don’t read your horoscope?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “You’re not exactly making this a challenge.” There was something tenacious about her stance, the sharp set of her jaw. Like she had something to prove to me.

  Or maybe just to herself.

  “That what you’re into?”

  She stared at me with one finger pressed against her lips, those emerald eyes of hers narrowed at the corners. I ground my teeth, trying to tamp down the want flooding my veins with heat. Unsuccessfully.

  “I was torn between Aries and Taurus, but you settled it for me. Aries, definitely.” Holding her phone with both hands, she attacked it with her thumbs. “Born between March twenty-first and April nineteenth, no?”

  I frowned. “How—”

  “Oh please, you’re a ram through and through.” She flashed her screen at me. “Want to know your horoscope?”

  “Not re—”

  “Your love of the chase is your greatest weakness, but what you seek is already inside yourself. Today is a day to appreciate the road taken and go where your heart leads you.”

  I snorted, jabbing at the DOOR CLOSE button. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Does it?”

  I was silent for a minute, watching our descent on the screen above the doors. The redhead stepped forward as they opened on the third floor, the scent of vanilla and cloves rising off her fair skin. My mouth watered.

  She was close enough to touch, and my fingers throbbed with the temptation of freeing her hair from the band holding it captive. She glanced up, meeting my eyes. “This is me.” Her voice was soft, almost breathless, even though she’d long since recovered from her sprint down the hall.

  The doors opened. “So, if I’m a ram, what are you?”

  She crossed the elevator’s threshold and turned back to face me, her elegantly sculpted features embellished by a mischievous half smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  The elevator doors had closed before I could open my mouth and say anything else.

  She was right though. I would like to know.

  Verity

  What’s gotten into me?

  Since when did I flirt? And with Dax Hughes…really? I’d seen him before, of course. A few times in person, hundreds more within the glossy pages of celebrity magazines. Flaunting bedroom eyes, shredded jeans, and an aloof expression, Hughes was every inch the cocky celebrity I made every effort to avoid.

  Granted, in a dark suit, tugging at his collar, pulling at his sleeves, his normally tousled hair slicked back, Hughes had been more approachable than the rocker I’d seen before. More than approachable. Appealing.

  With each one of Dax’s heated glances, I’d felt the unwanted prick of desire sting my skin, as sharp and distinct as the snap of a rubber band. The damn man had made my head spin and my knees weak. My fingers twitching with the urge to tear off his tie, unbutton his shirt, and lay claim to everything beneath.

  I had no idea if the feeling was mutual, and frankly, I didn’t want to know.

  I was taking a hiatus from men, from dating, from serving as a prop for someone else’s overinflated ego. I was finally taking control of my life, my career. Putting myself first.

  Thankfully, Hughes hadn’t seemed to recognize me. Not that I should’ve expected him to. I mean, he didn’t exactly fall within the targeted audience of The Show. And without so much as a swipe of lip gloss and dressed in workout gear, I wasn’t exactly looking like the scandal-plagued party girl that was a favorite of all the gossip magazines.

  Replaying the exchange my head, I groaned. Wouldn’t you like to know?

  So embarrassing. The man was Dax Hughes, for Christ’s sake. The guitarist for Nothing but Trouble was exactly the kind of trouble I didn’t need. And besides, he could have any girl he wanted—what would he want with me?

  Verity Moore, disgraced pop princess.

  The description followed my name so often, if I died tomorrow it would probably be carved into my headstone.

  Why not? It was true enough.

  Not for long, I reminded myself as I scanned my key card at the door. Travis never would have signed me if he didn’t believe that I could overcome my bad reputation.

  Meanwhile, at least the gym was empty and I could wallow in my mortification alone.

  I pumped up the incline on the treadmill, setting the speed faster than I normally ran. I welcomed the sweat breaking out on my forehead, the shortness of my breaths, the strain in my muscles. Chasing an emptiness I craved, a zone where my body detached from my mind.

  It took a couple of miles to get there, but when I did, I felt invincible, unstoppable. My
self-defeating thoughts smothered, at least temporarily. Exactly the headspace I needed to be in to win over the cynical industry execs tomorrow.

  Spending our entire meeting worrying about what they’d heard—or worse, what they’d seen—would hardly leave a favorable impression.

  I ran and ran and ran.

  And when finally the burn in my legs and my chest were too painful to ignore, I pumped up the speed and ran another mile.

  Almost. MOM suddenly appeared on my phone, cutting off the music pulsing through my earbuds. “Damn it.”

  I slammed the emergency stop button and accepted her FaceTime call, wiping my sweaty skin with a towel. “Hi—”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m working out. What’s up?” I would have preferred to ignore her, but I’d learned that the only way to keep physical distance between us was to be reachable by phone.

  “I can see that, but I asked where you were.”

  “I’m in New York.”

  The image wobbled, as if she’d grabbed her device, and then my screen was filled with a close-up of my mother’s face, an age-progressed replica of my own. “What are you doing in New York?”

  “Just a few meetings to see what’s out here right now. I mentioned it last week.” I hadn’t, but I uncapped my Swell bottle and took a long drink, knowing she wouldn’t bother arguing the point.

  “You’re going to see Jack, I hope.”

  Jack Lester. I nearly spit out my water. “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t. Millie called me the other day, and—”

  “Millie called you?” I clutched my stomach, the water I’d barely managed to swallow transforming into curdled milk.

  “Yes. Such a sweet girl. She said Jack is developing another show. I’ll bet he’d put you in it if you—”

  I wasn’t doing anything with that man ever again. “Absolutely not.”

  Her features hardened. “Verity, I have been more than patient with you, but I am not only your mother. I am your manager. It’s time for you to get back to work.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I interjected, then immediately regretted it. I hadn’t told my momager that I signed with Travis Taggert. And I wasn’t going to—until I had a contract in my hands and money in a bank account without her name on it. My mother couldn’t know that I was taking control of my own career, of my own life. Yet.

  I had planned my escape as meticulously as a wife fleeing her abusive husband.

  “That’s it. I’m getting on the next plane. You can’t make important decisions without me.”

  I already have. “I’m not making decisions. I just want to show my face around, let people know I’m ready to get back to work. I’ll tell you how it goes, and we can strategize next steps.” I’d already warned Travis that those next steps might involve sending my mother a cease-and-desist letter after she was fired.

  She squinted at me. “Well, if you run into Jack and Millie, be nice. They’ve been so good to you, and I think Millie feels like you’ve taken them for granted.”

  “One day I’ll be sure to let them know just how grateful I am. Don’t worry.” I nearly gagged on the words. “But I don’t think I’ll run into them here.”

  “Why not? They’re in New York right now, too.”

  Blood rushed to my head, and I flung out a hand to grip the treadmill’s sidebar. “What?”

  “They’re showing a new script to the networks, I think. Or maybe they’re trying to lock down a record label first.” My mother shook her head and sighed. “One or the other, I can’t remember which.”

  The urge to reach through my phone and choke her neck was almost overwhelming. “I—I really have to take a shower now. I’ll let you know how things go.”

  “You do that,” she said.

  Anxiety spiraled through my nerves as I sat down on the floor and leaned against the side of the treadmill. I launched the Internet browser, my trembling fingers managing to get Jack’s name right after several tries. On the second page of my Google search, I found what I was looking for. An article about his new project—another music-driven, show-within-a-show concept. Just like his last—the one I’d starred in.

  I would move into a homeless shelter before accepting a role in one of Jack’s productions ever again.

  Once I caught my breath, I hauled myself to my feet and left the gym, bypassing the elevators in favor of the stairs. My sneakers felt like they’d been made of lead and I was a sweaty mess, but the thought of a stranger’s eyes scraping my skin was painful.

  My mind was untethered, bouncing from Dax Hughes to Jack Lester to the ghosts of boyfriends past that still called Manhattan home, painful memories twisting my stomach into knots. With each step, I was pulled backward through time, felt the touch and press of unwanted hands, the harsh male cackle of intimidation assaulting my ears. My lungs tightened, each short, shallow breath echoing against the cement.

  Needing a distraction, I pulled my phone back out of my pocket and opened the horoscope app I had used with Dax. I might as well admit that I hadn’t actually guessed his sign. Honestly, I was a Nothing but Trouble fan. Who wasn’t? A while back, they were on a late-night talk show, and I remember the host wheeling out an enormous cake for Dax’s birthday. But instead of a beautiful woman, a man dressed in a bikini had popped out of it. Dax had been a good sport, joking that that’s what he got for being born on April Fool’s Day.

  Of course, the man I just met was no fool, even if he didn’t know anything about the zodiac.

  You have a lot on your mind and the secrets you keep are preventing you from thinking clearly. To move forward, you must learn to let go of the past.

  I read my own horoscope three times before shoving my phone back in my pocket. Maybe it really was nothing but a crock. True, I had a lot on my mind and plenty of secrets to keep, but I was definitely moving forward.

  Because there was no way in hell I was going back.

  Chapter Two

  Dax

  Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, I was thankful my suit jacket hid the raging hard-on trying to bust through my zipper. What the hell was wrong with me? Falling for some chick in an elevator. A redhead with the face of an angel, the eyes of a leprechaun, and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes.

  For interminable seconds I remained trapped inside the five-by-five box, her scent all around me. Vanilla and cloves. My stomach grumbled, but it wasn’t food I hungered for.

  When the doors opened, I practically bolted through them, the people in the lobby scattering like pigeons. But this was New York—jumping aside for an asshole in a suit wasn’t anything new.

  A car was waiting for me outside. Although I generally preferred to walk or hail a cab when I needed to go farther than a mile or two in Manhattan, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with crowded sidewalks or chatty cabdrivers today.

  The thirty minutes I’d allotted to get from SoHo to the Upper West Side left plenty of time to dwell on the chance meeting that had me more keyed up than I’d been in my room—something I wouldn’t have thought possible.

  I’d probably never see that girl again.

  Never hear the voice that had wrapped around me like spun sugar.

  Discipline wasn’t something I normally lacked, but I just couldn’t get my mind off her.

  And why had those few minutes felt like the beginning of a roller-coaster ride? That slow climb up to the first peak where you knew the ride had begun and there was no going back. Exhilaration laced with this-is-a-bad-idea.

  The blocks slipped by, a few at a time between red lights. My trips back to New York were always filled with uncomfortable memories. This one hadn’t been any different…until a few minutes ago. Until I shared an elevator ride with…Goddamn it—who was she?

  When the car finally pulled to the curb, I shook my head, feeling disoriented. As my vision cleared, I realized we’d arrived. Lincoln Fucking Center. I used to know this place like the back of my h
and.

  The driver opened my door. “Should I wait for you?” he asked.

  I stepped into the crisp air, breathing a deep lungful of New York’s finest. Exhaust fumes and doughy street pretzels. “No. I’ll find my way back myself.”

  Tonight, for the first time in years, I was doubting the path I’d taken.

  Retrieving the ticket my parents had left for me at the box office, I made my way to my seat. I could well afford my own, but my parents insisted. Probably so that they’d know where to look to be sure I was in my seat when the curtain went up.

  No one in my family had ever attended a Nothing but Trouble concert.

  The lights dimmed, and I watched my thirteen-year-old brothers take to the stage, followed by my sister, who was four years older than the twins, and finally my parents.

  Aria and I were eleven years apart, and there should have been another Hughes daughter between us. One day my parents had left me with a neighbor, saying they would be back soon with my new baby sister. But when they returned, their hands were empty, their faces filled with grief. I’d felt her absence, this sister I’d never met, all my life.

  Long before Nothing but Trouble was even a glimmer on the Billboard charts, I’d been a member of Classic Hughes. An ensemble consisting of my parents, me, Aria, and our twin brothers. And Amelia. The neglected daughter of a neighbor who seemed to fill the dark void within our family.

  I loved her like a sister.

  Until I just loved her.

  But now even her name twisted my stomach.

  There was a moment of suspended silence, and then the haunting melodies my family was known for filled the air.

  Six years and a lifetime ago I would have been up there with them.

  My parents had instilled a love of music in all of us early on, and it was clear that our innate aptitude had been passed through their DNA. I was playing instruments before I could talk. Wood, string, percussion. Didn’t matter, really. Music was a language I intrinsically understood. Still do.