“Hey, Dad.”
“Shit, son. You back in the states?”
“Got in last night. Late.”
“How’d it go?”
“It was an... experience. Rented a Triumph Bonneville for a couple days. That was fun.”
“You get the hang of the driving on the other side of road thing okay?”
I snort. “We had a few dicey moments.”
“We? Huh. How’s Mallory?” he asks with a suspicious tone. To my knowledge, my father’s never picked up a magazine that didn’t have a naked lady, gun, motorcycle, or dead deer on the cover. So, I find it hard to believe he saw the article about our supposed break-up and my subsequent groupie-banging spree.
“She’s fine. Sent her home a few days early.”
He’s silent for a few seconds. “Yeah, I think I read something about that.”
I laugh, a humorless sound given the circumstances. “Since when do you read tabloids?”
“Since one of the girls sees your name in a headline, brings it to the clubhouse like her ass is on fire, and shoves it in my face.”
“It was all lies. The singer of the band we were opening for turned out to be a sleaze.”
“Weren’t they that shitty band you used to listen to all time? Bloody Roosters?”
“Revolver. Bloody Revolver, Dad. Yes, it was a clusterfuck.”
“You handle it?”
“Fuck yeah I did.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Mallory okay?”
There aren’t many females my father gives a fuck about. Not that he’s cruel. More indifferent. My mother kind of soured him on women in general. I’m pretty sure he only bothered to learn the name of one of my high school girlfriends. That he’s asking about Mallory means a lot. Even with all the trouble of getting us involved with the Russians, he’s accepted her. Considers her family.
“She’s good, Dad.”
“She buy your story?”
I grind my teeth before answering. “There was no story to sell her. It was all lies.”
“Thank fuck. The girls in the photo looked underage.”
“They were just fans.” I pause and consider whether I should share this part. “You remember Diane?”
He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah, I remember her.”
“Well, one of them reminded me of her, so I spent some extra time talking to them. That’s it. I think one of Davey’s people took the photo and made up a story to go with it.”
“Fucking assholes,” he grumbles. “You want Torrin to handle him? His enforcer, Freak, didn’t get that name by accident. Won’t matter how much security Revolver has. Torrin’s a sneaky fuck who can get to anyone.”
“No, Dad.” Dragging the MC into some petty rock star spat mixes my two worlds in a way I’m not comfortable with. But I appreciate my dad’s support. “Mallory and I are fine. That’s all I care about.”
“When you coming home again?” I’m starting to wonder if he really means when are you coming home for good.
“We’re supposed to record our new album soon.” First, I need to finish working out a few more songs, and we need to find a producer but that’s not stuff my dad cares to hear about.
His sigh comes through the phone loud and clear.
“Something wrong, Dad?”
“Let me know when you do plan to come home. May ask you to bring me a souvenir.”
Souvenir. One of our Cali brothers nearby probably has drugs, guns, or cash they want me to bring to New York. Not exactly a thrilling prospect when most likely Mallory will be riding with me.
Since another MC had been infiltrated by the FBI a couple years ago, my father won’t supply more information over the phone. “Whatever you need, Dad.”
We talk for a few more minutes.
“Any club runs I’m missing out on?”
“Headed to Empire this weekend.”
“Meeting up with the Lost Kings?”
“Possibly.”
“Good. Say hi to Grinder for me.”
“Will do.”
Miss riding with my club. Would love to have Mallory on the back of my bike for a trip like that.
After we hang up, I stare at the phone for a while.
I’m too old to be homesick, right?
Mallory
My agent’s cloud of puffy blonde curls are barely visible over the files piled on her desk. Even so, she radiates authority, and I jump when she barks at me. “Don’t sit. Go. Now.”
She thrusts some papers in my hand. “A pilot. Primetime television. Blonde with big boobs. You’re perfect. If the show gets picked up for a full season, it could be huge for you.” She shoos me out the door with no other information.
The role is “sexy lifeguard.” Since I possess zero knowledge about lifeguarding, I keep my expectations low.
On my way to the audition, I stop at a pay phone to call Chaser and leave him a message.
Blondes of every height and bust size occupy the casting office when I arrive. I locate someone who seems to be in charge to sign-in and hand over my headshot.
“Have a seat.” The girl flicks her hand in my direction without glancing up.
I scan the room for any available chair. The only spot open is in the corner next to a woman who, judging by the downcast gazes and lack of chatter in her section of the room, everyone else seems to fear.
She sweeps her gaze over me as I approach and moves a magazine off the seat next to her. “Hi, I’m Pamela Scott.” She holds out her hand, tilting her head and staring at me as if her name should mean something.
“Mallory Dove.” I shake her hand.
“Yeah,” she narrows her eyes, “I thought you looked familiar.” Her soft, southern drawl almost takes the sting out of her condescending attitude.
What should I say? Somehow, thanks doesn’t seem appropriate.
“My boyfriend saw your picture in L.A. Weekly.” She places her thumb by her ear, pinky pointing toward her mouth. “He calls me up like, ‘babe, you’re in L.A. Weekly. That’s so cool.’” Her gaze roams over me in such a disapproving way, I wonder if her boyfriend made it out of that conversation alive.
“How wild is that? I see the guy every day, but he confuses me for some random blonde chick on a magazine cover.”
A nervous smile flickers over my lips. I can’t say I’m fond of being referred to as ‘some random blonde chick,’ although, I guess it could be worse.
Finally, she shrugs and laughs. “He’s dumber than a box of bricks, but he has a massive cock.”
“Congratulations.” How else should I respond to that statement?
I force myself to appear calm. To hide how much she intimidates me as I give her a cautious once-over.
I suppose we look somewhat similar. To be completely honest, she’s like some gorgeous, exaggerated version of me. Bigger, blonder hair, fuller lips, larger breasts, smaller waist, flawless tan. I kind of wish I’d chosen a different seat now.
“So, what’s your story?” she asks, focusing her laser-beam eyes on my face. “What have you been in?”
Feeling like I’m interviewing for a job I never applied for, I tick off my short list of accomplishments.
“Pfft. Kickstart. Oh my Gawd. Music videos. Why would you waste your time with a job that pays so little and gives you lousy exposure?” She leans in closer. “No one’s going to take you seriously with that on your resume.”
Are we not sitting at the same audition together? Not in the mood to be judged by this stranger, I pretend to take an interest in her job history. “What have you done?”
Her lips part and she stares at me for so long I have the urge pull out my compact and check my makeup. “I was January’s Playmate of the month last year.”
Sorry, Playboy isn’t on my reading list. “Oh. That’s great.” My voice creeps up at the end of the word, making it sound like a question—almost sarcastic, which wasn’t my intention.
She fluffs her hair and throws an imperious scowl my way. “I was Mis
s Louisiana. That’s how I was discovered.”
“Oh.” I don’t know a damn thing about pageants. “That must have been fun?”
“Sure.” She snorts.
“Pamela Scott!”
“Wish me luck!” She pats my leg as she breezes past me.
“Good luck,” I mutter.
More nervous than ever, I focus on studying my one page of lines.
Chapter Nine
Mallory
One of my favorite things about living with Chaser has to be the impromptu concerts I walk in on almost daily.
My mouth quirks as I open the door and find him on the couch strumming his guitar, every so often stopping to jot down a few words. Today, he’s intensely focused on playing the same succession of notes over and over.
I close the door behind me as quietly as possible, not wanting to disrupt his flow.
He tips his head up anyway.
“Whatever that was sounded awfully sexy.” I motion for him to continue playing.
“Yeah?” His mouth stretches into a smile, but the distance in his eyes says he’s still focused on music. “It’s this riff I’ve had in my head for a couple of years now.”
“Years?”
“We have a few half-assed lyrics for it, but I haven’t found the right melody.” He shrugs. “Alvin said he’s been working on something.”
“Wow.” I’m endlessly fascinated by their process and the way the guys seem to work together seamlessly, sometimes.
And other times how they want to rip out each other’s throats.
“Go on.” I wave my hands at him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Sit with me?”
“Sure.” I perch on the edge of the chair across from him and wait.
He reaches over and resets his metronome.
“You’re working with the metronome today?”
He shrugs. “It keeps me honest.”
I’m not sure how to interpret that but I’ve noticed he only uses it on occasion; other times, he prefers to sit and play whatever comes to him.
Over and over, he works on the same chords he’d been fiddling with when I came home. Sometimes humming along. Other times with his eyes closed.
Finally, he shakes his head and sets his guitar in its case.
“How was the audition?” he asks.
I shrug. At first it had been awkward, but the director was kind and put me at ease. “They want me to come back.”
“That’s awesome.” He stands and hugs me. “Proud of you, little dove.”
“Thanks.”
“We should celebrate.”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Sure, it is.” He glances at his watch. “It’s too early to go out now. You want to head downstairs and see what Alvin’s come up with?”
“I would love that.” I turn toward the door and then hesitate. “Is Jacob going to be there?”
“Don’t know, honestly. Haven’t seen him yet.”
I stand tall, shoulders back, chin up. “Well, I’ll run into him eventually, right?”
“Thank you.” He approaches and grasps both my hands, holding tight. “Trust me, I made it clear how I feel about what he did.”
I huff out a laugh. “I can only imagine what that means.”
Downstairs, Garrett’s on the couch with two girls I don’t recognize and barely glances up when we come in. We find Alvin alone in the bedroom, running his fingers over a portable keyboard
He glances up and a slow smile stretches across his face when he sees us. “Hey, Mallory. Wasn’t sure you’d ever associate with us again.”
“I’ll always make an exception for you, Alvin.”
“I hope you know I had nothing to do with it.” His smile turns into more of a pained expression. “It was a shitty thing to do. I let Jacob know that.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“The tabloid was all bullshit.” Alvin leans toward me. “I was there that night. Chaser left those girls with me, and I walked them outside to meet their parents maybe a half hour later.”
Chaser rests his hand on my back.
“I know it was lies Davey planted.” I reach over and pat Alvin’s leg. “But thank you.”
The guys settle down to play an acoustic song I haven’t heard before. Chaser sings, and, as I always suspected, his voice is the perfect combination of rich and raspy. This performance is different from any other one. I’ve seen glimpses of this Chaser on stage before. He plays the way he makes love. As if every word and note comes from his deep, beautiful, complex soul.
I’m so completely caught up, no—mesmerized, it feels like my world spins away when they stop playing.
“Uh-oh. That bad?” Alvin says.
“No, no! It’s perfect. Beautiful. I thought you didn’t like ballads?”
Chaser shrugs. “It’s something different we’ve been playing around with.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to record it for the new album?”
Alvin shakes his head. “It’s too far from our usual sound. Jacob doesn’t like it.”
“Doesn’t like the sound or doesn’t like Chaser singing?”
“Probably both.” Alvin laughs.
I move closer to Chaser, leaning against him and running my fingers down his arm. “How come you don’t play for me like this?”
“Didn’t think you’d want me to,” he rasps.
“You know I love your sexy voice.”
Alvin clears his throat, reminding us he’s still in the room.
I nod to Chaser’s guitar. “That’s not what you were working on upstairs, though, is it?”
“No,” he grins and taps my nose. “I need to be plugged in for that.”
“You two are so sweet my teeth hurt,” Alvin mumbles. “Was that ‘Queen of the Road’ you were working on before?”
“Yeah, you said you had something for me.”
“Give me a second.” He pauses. “I’m gonna leave you two alone. Can you behave?” Alvin teases.
“Yes, we can—”
Chaser curls his hand behind my legs, cutting off my indignant response. He drags me closer, and I tumble down on top of him.
“Chaser…”
He silences me with a firm, soothing kiss. Shivers dance over my skin as he traces his fingers against the backs of my legs, drawing my long peasant skirt up, up, up.
“How can you be so fucking sexy in a skirt that covers your ankles, woman?”
“Everything turns you on.” I laugh as his rough fingers tickle behind my knees.
“No, everything about you turns me on.”
Someone knocks on the bedroom door and pushes it open before we answer. Garrett sticks his head in the room. “Dude, you have your own apartment. Get out.” He waggles his eyebrows in what I assume is his sly way to let us know he needs the bedroom for carnal purposes.
Sure enough, two girls giggle behind him.
Chaser places his guitar in its case and takes my hand. “We’re leaving, ya perv.”
The door opens wider, revealing Jacob standing behind the two girls. “Don’t act like you’ve never done the same thing, Chaser.”
Chaser growls, and Jacob glances at me. “Whoops. Didn’t see you there, Mallory.”
My cheeks flare hot when our eyes meet, and I quickly look away. Why should I be embarrassed about the situation Jacob caused in England? But for some reason, I can’t stop the reaction. Why can’t my body react by kneeing him in the groin instead?
“We’ll get out of your hair.” Chaser’s gruff tone nixes any other conversation.
As we pass, Jacob reaches out, wrapping his fingers around my arm to stop me. I shake off his touch, and he holds his hands in the air. “Hey, I’m sorry about what happened over there,” he says in a low voice, not meant to be overheard.
Chaser moves in behind me, curling an arm around my waist.
“I misjudged you. You’re nothing like th
em.” Jacob jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the girls who just entered the bedroom. “So, I’m sorry about that.”
Despite his dilated pupils and non-stop jittering, his words seem sincere.
“Thank you, Jacob.” I won’t tell him it’s okay or let him off the hook completely, but I accept his apology.
Chaser squeezes my hip, offering his support or thanking me for making an effort to get along with his bandmate. I’m not sure.
Jacob glances up, nods at Chaser, then shoves the bedroom door open, letting it swing halfway closed behind him.
“Well,” I say, taking a second to absorb the interaction, “I never expected an apology from him.”
“It’s the least he should do,” Chaser grumbles.
“I’m willing to let it go.” I’ll still never fully trust Jacob. But I refuse to be the reason for any tension within the band.
Tucked into the corner of the living room, Alvin’s behind his drum kit, tapping out a beat, when we enter the living room. He tips his head back and grins at us. “Let’s rock it, Adams.”
“I’ll be right back.” Chaser kisses my cheek and runs out the door. My gaze follows his legs up the stairs, and my ears pick up his footsteps as he jogs into our apartment, grabs his guitar and probably his amp, before pounding back downstairs.
“All right.” Chaser tosses his notebook on the low coffee table and sets up his gear. “This is what I’ve got.”
Alvin double taps his sticks and beats out a steady rhythm while Chaser’s fingers fly over the strings in a repetitive pattern. Whatever they’re doing is completely infectious, and I find myself moving along with the sound.
Chaser peeks up at me, winks and then pulls something out of his pocket. He slips it on the fingers moving up and down the neck of the guitar. He slides it over the strings, wringing every drop of sound from the simple notes.
“What’d you do? Get a slide?” A shirtless Garrett brushes past me to get to Chaser. “Do that again.”
Alvin and Chaser launch into another round of the hypnotic riff, while Garrett sets up his bass. I move to the other side of the room to stay out of his way.
A few minutes later, Garrett joins in, dropping a pattern of notes around Chaser’s riff.
“There she is. Queen of the road,” Jacob belts out the words as he strolls into the living room. He stares at the guys for a few seconds before dropping onto the couch and closing his eyes. “Give me more.”
Blow My Fuse (Hollywood Demons Book 2) Page 4
