A Shit Storm: Runaway Rock Star (Silver Strings Series E Book 1)

by Lisa Gillis

  “Oh.” Relief surges through me. Finding out she barely knows that asshole is another highpoint of my day. Hopefully tonight is the last we’ll see of him. “How’d you meet up with their band?”

  “Here. Hold this right here…” Her fingers brush my skin as she places the bag on my jaw. “They were signing in at the show when we were. Their space wasn’t ready yet, so Sladen asked them if they wanted to hang out in ours. At that point, Slade, the goofball, didn’t know all we had was a tarp.” She laughs with the memory, and golden hues flood my senses. We’re retracing our steps toward the room a lot slower. “When their place was ready in ‘tent freaking Beverly Hills city’, they invited us to hang with them.”

  “I didn’t expect any of the bigger bands to be here.”

  “Yeah. They usually have one big band to draw the crowd, even in a college town. Last year Death’s Angel played.”

  “I missed out. Never seen them live.”

  “They rocked.”

  We’re nearing the room and my feet begin to drag. “Want to take a walk?”

  “Sure. Let me run in and get some money for the soda machine… unless you still have some…”

  I burst out laughing at the blatant amusement on her face as she alludes to my splattering Wesley’s feet with coins. “Yeah. I’ve got it. We’re good.”

  After stopping for canned drinks, we made our way to the pool where we talk for hours. I learn Sash and the guys had begun Splynter in their senior year of high school. After graduating, they’d all taken classes at a local college while drumming up gigs.

  When an opportunity came up, they pooled their resources and bought one of Detroit’s abandoned houses in an upscale neighborhood. They’ve been remodeling as they can.

  Only Mark is still enrolled in college now, a year later. Sladen took out a small business loan and began a tattoo parlor. That’s where Sash’s sleeves have come from. She actually draws many of the stencils for his designs, including her own.

  The conversation lapses and she eyes me. “You haven’t said much about yourself. Your parents still pushing college in the fall?”

  “Not really.” I lie.

  It seems important to my mom that I begin Texas Tech in September. I’m already enrolled. But it’s not what I want to do. Dad says he understands because music is his passion too, but in the end, he caved to mom and asked me to try it out for a year.

  I tell Sash none of this right now though. One of the reasons I’m here is because Splynter is looking to add a guitarist and Sash recommended me. I don’t want them not to give me a chance because they think I’ll bail on them and go to college in the fall.

  We talk for a long while. Sash and I have never run out of things to say. Sometimes our Skype calls have lasted for hours. When we make it back to the room, thankfully anyone who was a guest is gone.

  We tiptoe around in the dark, as Sladen and Mark are both asleep, one in each of the king-sized beds.

  “Rock. Paper. Scissors.”

  “Why?” I put my hand out.

  “I could be a bitch and take the non-snorer since you don’t know any better yet. But I’m going to give you a fair draw.”

  We play our game for our sleep buddy, and Sash ends up with Mark who by this time has already begun his log sawing session. But I’m not sure being only a few more feet away from him blocks any of the sound.

  Nevertheless, I fall into a deep, contented sleep.

  After checking out of the motel, Sash saddles up with me as I follow their tour van the two-hour drive to my new temporary home. Two hours of her arms around my waist is heavenly.

  Chapter 13

  One Day at a Time

  “Mariss?”

  “Yeah. Hang on. Coming.”

  “You don’t have to. You can stay here with my mom and the girls.” The keys jingled as Jack closed his fingers around them and then released again, over and over in one of his many nervous gestures over the last couple of days. Realizing what he was doing, he stopped and instead gripped them so tightly they bit into his hand.

  “I’m coming,” she insisted, and he breathed a selfish sigh of relief. Turning away from the window overlooking the ocean, she added, “I was just wondering if we should check in with that Brittany girl again. Do you think she was telling the truth? I mean, what if she does know where he is or if he’s right down the beach right now…”

  With her face bare of cosmetics, Mariss normally looked as much like a teenager as the girl they’d spoken to a couple of days before. But this morning, despite her lack of makeup, the stress in her features had her looking older than her thirty something years.

  Moving closer he curved his hands to her hips, pulling her to his length. “I don’t think she was lying. But if you want to talk to her again on our way to the airport, we can stop. And if it makes you feel any better, the investigator James hired to stay here is going to keep an eye on her comings and goings.”

  “What do you think his emails mean? That he’s fine? Where is he that he’s fine?”

  “I don’t know, honey.” He brushed a kiss to the silky softness of her hairline.

  “Did James trace the ISP or whatever?”

  “He did.”

  “And?” Leveraging her palms on his chest, she shoved away enough to tip her head back to stare into his eyes.

  Stepping back, he put more distance between them as if that would lessen the blow. He’d gotten his hopes up for nothing over the latest emails. As he explained it to Mariss, he watched when her shoulders slumped with this new weight.

  The first email—the one beginning this nightmare—had been timed to send out from J.J.’s own email address. The ones they’d received each night since had apparently come from something known as a temporary email provider. As well as only being viable until the receiver opened it, it was only traceable to a main server that handled all of its traffic, regardless of where in the world it originated.

  Chapter 14

  Movie Night

  SENDER: Tristan

  SUBJECT Hi

  Mom and Dad, I got a job today. Bussing tables. I know, weird since I hate cleaning the kitchen. I miss you guys and June and Zoe. And JuJu and PopPop. Everyone. But it feels good to be doing something on my own. I hope you understand. Love, your son T

  I’m not sure what exactly I feel for Sash other than lust so strong it sometimes hurts. But it really doesn’t matter, as all of us guys seem to be friendzoned. She even went out on a date a couple of nights ago!

  We are all sitting around what’s been modified as the den. The tv is on with one of their laptops connected to it, and we’ve been watching You Tube for a half hour.

  The structure of the old house is beautiful, and they’ve done a lot of work on it. When they first showed me around, I saw some rooms on the first floor—like a turret room Sash has set up as an art studio—that still haven’t been restored. And the entire second floor hasn’t yet been tackled. In these rooms, there are holes and peeling paint on the drywall, and the hardwood floor is dull and often stained where carpet had once been and was pulled up. But in the rooms they live in—like this one—the wainscoting and floor gleam. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings in almost all of the rooms. My eyes drop from the ornate molding around the high ceiling to their faces creased in a recent bout of laughter.

  “Did you see the comments on this one?” Sladen brings up another video.

  “Chick from Splynter looks like she’s going to hurl?”

  “Cut it out. You were freaking amazing.” I can’t stop the compliment. I’m tired of listening to her put herself down, even jokingly.

  “Thank you, Trey.” Her eyes meet mine, all humor gone in appreciation of the praise.

  We share a moment. I feel it with a flutter to my insides, but I fight it off.

  Every instinct tells me Sash is dangerous to my wellbeing. I could be hurt worse than with Gabrielle.

  Stretching my cheeks into a grin, because I’m pretty sure another few seconds of starin
g would be creepy, I pick up my guitar and head outside to the porch.

  Today I had worked waiting tables. It was my first day on the job. Sash had vouched for me at Chimps, the restaurant where she works. I’m tired. But because I sleep on the couch, I can’t crash until they do.

  A cat is stretched across the opposite porch rail, and it blinks a few times in my direction before arching its back. Hopping down, it moves closer and then stops on the doormat and begins grooming itself.

  Looking at the stars, I experience a pang of homesickness. For my cat, my room, my patio, my parents, and sisters.

  Every day when I press the send button on an email, I know I’m hurting them all.

  My fingers move on the strings, and when I realize I’m playing one of my dad’s hits, I cease.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Sash startles me out of my skin. She drops to sit on the steps. “I love that song.” She begins to hum and then sing the verse.

  Fuck me.

  My heart slams so hard I’m surprised she can’t see my shirt move, and this goes down as the weirdest moment I’ve ever experienced.

  With a hitch of her chin, she motions me to play again. So I do. My paranoia is about to do me in. I’m terrified she’ll snap out of her trance and see not me, but my dad.

  The song ends, and she reaches out, pulling the guitar into her lap. Thankfully, her fingers strum out something besides Jackal.

  When she’s done singing that one too, she stands. “Come in. We’re watching a movie.”

  I have no interest in a show at the moment, but damned if I won’t do anything this girl says. Opening the door, I stand back to let her go first—my mom raised a gentleman—and it gives me a chance to view the fit of her yoga pants.

  “Finally!” Sladen mock frowns. “If you two are done serenading the neighbors, we can get Chick Flick Night started.”

  “Chick Flick Night?” I set my guitar out of the way in the corner, and my apprehension must have been clear.

  “No fear, man.” Sladen speaks reassuringly, and Mark explains.

  “It’s now only known as Flick Night, because until we laid down the law, Sash forced chick flicks on us every movie night.”

  “I did NOT.” Sash is wandering toward the kitchen and turns long enough to object.

  “She did.” Sladen nods and silently mouths.

  Aloud, Mark veers the conversation. “Kind of breaks up practice. Normally we’re practicing every night. Just giving ourselves a break the last few, to chill down from the shows last weekend.”

  “Back to it tomorrow, though.”

  “We’ve got a gig this weekend.”

  “A standing gig. First Saturday every month.”

  Talk bounces back and forth between the two of them and dies down when Mark begins cueing the movie.

  Sash returns during the dialogue with a plastic grocery bag swinging from one hand and four bottled beers in her grip.

  Jumping up, we relieve her of the beer.

  Delving into the sack, she brings out a smaller plastic bag. “Jerky?”

  “That’s me.” Sladen grabs it.

  “Barbecue chips?” She holds up the next snack.

  “Pass.” Mark speaks while keeping his eyes on the plastic bag.

  “Sure?” She smirks with an endearing tilt of her head and a probe of her tongue to the inside of her cheek.

  “Ugh …” He groans. “When you say it like that… Come on. Give me a hint. “

  “No hints.” She plays hardball.

  I’m lost in this exchange. Obviously, some standing game they have going. But mechanically, I catch the bag of chips Sash tosses to me.

  Reaching into the main bag, she brings out the next treat.

  Licorice.

  “No fuckin’ way.” Mark groans and flops backward until the couch cushion catches his weight. When she only smiles, he hops up and snatches the grocery bag. “No. Fucking. Way. I don’t believe you.”

  Sladen howls with laughter, and I quickly open the chips and begin to eat before the guys decide that new guy gets black licorice.

  “I knew it!” Mark pounces on a bag that looks like pork skins. “Licorice …” Distastefully, the word leaves his lips as he tears open his preferred snack.

  Sash settles in what I’ve learned is her chair. She opens a bag of Doritos.

  The rest of us line the couch.

  I remain surprised at how easy it is to feel like I’ve known them all forever. I wonder if they feel the same about me, or if I’ll soon wear out my welcome.

  When the slasher flick is over, Sladen and Mark head to bed. Sash is tapping at her tablet with a stylus, and I eye her as I fit the sheet I’ve been sleeping on to the couch and shake out my blanket.

  She’s intent on what she’s doing, and my curiosity gets the best of me. A weird feeling fists my heart.

  Like, what if she’s chatting with some guy at midnight as she had to me off and on for months?

  Easing around behind her chair on the pretext of taking the empty bottles and trash to the kitchen, I pause and feel a shocked breath leave my lungs.

  Instead of checking social sites on her tablet as I’d assumed, she’s drawing.

  A dragon with its wings spread wide. Fire shooting from its mouth and nostrils. Panicked people on the ground. It’s terrifying and beautiful.

  Her spine straightens, and she pauses, realizing she’s being watched. But she doesn’t turn around.

  Without saying anything, I move into the kitchen and trash what’s in my hand. When I return, she’s powered the device off and is removing a stretchy glove that covers her pinky and part of her hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, as I sit on the couch.

  She shrugs and remains quiet, staring at the dark tablet. I am about to apologize for looking, when she raises her eyes. “What’s your dragon, Trey?”

  “My dragon?” I shift my gaze and my body slightly away from her bubble of space. I know what she means. After seeing the picture, the people fleeing the monster, some turning to look over their shoulder, some intent only on what’s ahead and running away, the double meaning is obvious.

  “Your dragon.” Lifting a foot to her chair, she leans forward, resting her chin on her bent knee. “Everyone has dragons.”

  “Yeah. I guess they do.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Blowing out a breath, she looks disappointed. Not upset as if she wanted my gossip. Saddened because I won’t confide in her.

  I understand where she’s coming from. Late at night, we had typed our secrets to one another into a cyberspace vortex. It had been easy to spill my thoughts and feelings onto a laptop keyboard, or to lie on my bed at home and speak to her on a Skype screen.

  I had told her a lot of stuff, including my breakup with Gabbi.

  But I had never shared my dragon.

  The tv is still on, muted, and I find myself focused on the show to avoid any sort of answer.

  Hopping up, she sprints to the kitchen area where she pulls open the freezer door and begins to rummage around. Returning, she weaves around the furniture, and bypassing her chair, she drops beside me on the couch. When she pushes a spoon at me, I take it. She flips the lid from a quart-sized container of ice cream, tosses it to the sofa table, and sinks her spoon into the creamy mixture.

  Her face relaxes in rapture, and after swallowing, she takes another bite before handing the container over. “Caramel Pecan.”

  My brain freeze-frames the expression on her face that first bite brought on.

  “Figured I should tell you in case you’re allergic.”

  “Allergic to ice cream?” I come out of my stupor to exclaim in mock horror. As I dip my spoon into it, I’m acutely conscious of the strange intimacy of sharing food in this way.

  “Milk. Nuts.” She laughs with me. “Actually, since you seem to live on cereal, I knew not milk. But I have a cousin who can, like, die from a peanut. Soo…”

  I nod. It was true. I ate a lot of cereal.
It was cheap. I had bought a few groceries—what I could carry on the bike, including three boxes of cereal—the day after we’d arrived from the festival.

  “I’m not allergic to any foods.” I inform her as the bite trickles down my throat. Now I understand her nirvana. It’s delicious.

  “Good to know.” Leaving the container in my lap, she reaches over, scraping her spoon through, and when she leans into her bite, I smell her.

  Her shampoo, lotion, clothes detergent—I’ve no idea, but the aroma is tantalizing. Berries. I struggle to place the scent and then do. Raspberries.

  “You?” My question is quick to steer my thoughts away before I’m forced to find a creative way to cover a hard on. Because this little quart of ice cream will be no help at all.

  “Um…” Her head tilts, and her lips clamp onto her spoon as she considers. “No foods. But I’ve got a bad latex allergy.”

  Well THAT doesn’t help matters. My brain conjures up a sleek, glossy black formfitting jumpsuit, molded like a second skin to every curve on her body. Defensively, another image takes its place—a sixty-year-old man wearing a Speedo at the beach last week.

  “Latex?” I finally manage after several silent seconds.

  “You know… Bandages. Like at the hospital…” Her lashes part, and she appraises me with a very wide-eyed assessment. “WHAT did you think I meant?”

  I keep my eyes on the bite I’m shaving onto my spoon and admit, “I pictured a cat woman suit.”

  “You did, did you?” She sounds intrigued, and her spoon is dangling.

  Meeting her eyes, I grin. “Yeah. And a rash covering you from head to toe.”

  Feeling the brush of her foot to my calf, I realize she’s kicked me with those dainty toes and their black metallic toenails.

  “That was mean, Trey Duplei. Give me my ice cream back!”

  “No way! It’s not my fault! You said it!” I scuffle to keep the ice cream in my possession, but after several seconds of her arms brushing mine, and her breath so close, I relinquish my hold.

  Self-defense. Hard-on prevention.

  Collapsing back into the cushions, she makes a show of eating it solo. That’s fine with me because it gives me a chance to beg. And that’s the odd urge I have. To beg her for something…