Key Change: A Slow Burn Rockstar Romance (Common Threads Book 3)

by Heidi Hutchinson

  When I rounded the corner, my Canada Goose–wearing quarry had disappeared, and I nearly halted in surprise at the empty passage. The itch at the back of my neck persisted though, so I kept moving forward, away from Milwaukee Avenue and whatever had disquieted me.

  The sound of traffic behind me was dulled by the tall brick buildings on either side of the narrow alley. I glanced behind me. No one had followed me in, and the tension in my chest eased slightly, right until the moment I turned back around and almost collided with Hipsterman.

  “Why are you following me?” he demanded sharply.

  My shock instantly quieted to cold calm, and I took a wary step backward.

  His hand shot out to grab my arm. “Answer me, damn it! What do you want?”

  I twisted out of his grasp, and he looked stunned at how easily I’d done it. But then his eyes flicked over my shoulder and went wide with fear.

  I spun, then grabbed the Canada Goose jacket to jerk Hipsterman away as a redhat lunged. Redhat held a fixed blade, and I instinctively kicked at his knife hand as I reached for my own blade, which I wore in a sheath at my back. He dodged my foot and swung to face off with me just as my knife hand came up. I knocked his red baseball cap off as I sliced him across the forehead—a clean, shallow cut, just like Grandpop had taught me. Blind them with their own blood, he’d said. It stings and barely leaves a mark, but head wounds are nasty bleeders.

  Redhat jumped back, snarling in a foreign language as blood streamed into his eyes. He swiped an arm across his face to clear the blood, then zeroed in on the knife I held defensively in front of me. He sent a glance over my shoulder, grabbed his hat off the ground, turned, and ran.

  Adrenaline shot through me, and my feet were moving before my brain had a chance to catch up. This redhat had been the invisible one from the train, but I reached Milwaukee Avenue and discovered that even with blood running down his face, he had melted back into the scenery.

  I didn’t enjoy having been surprised, and I retreated back into the alley, now empty of both Hipsterman and Redhat, to wait out the adrenaline aftermath away from people. There was a doorway at the back of one of the Milwaukee Avenue–facing buildings, and I spotted Hipsterman’s grocery bag sitting there. I waited, wondering how long it would take him to come back for his steaks, but based on the fear I’d seen in his eyes, I figured he’d probably gone home to hide in the closet. The steaks would be eaten by rats if nobody claimed them, so after the adrenaline crash, I picked up the grocery bag and continued down the alley in the direction he had run.

  The alley emptied out into a neighborhood full of condos and parking structures, and there were no Canada Geese in sight. I turned left and continued up to West North Avenue, eyes peeled for my hipsterman in every window, but I saw no one resembling him or Redhat anywhere.

  Well, that was the most interesting game of Tracker Jack I’d played in a long time.

  I dissected the incident in the alley as I walked home to my Humboldt Park rental. Hipsterman had definitely seen me in the market. His sliding glance had been too disinterested. I knew I could blend into the background. It was a skill I’d practiced every summer I spent hunting, and I’d turned that skill into an asset for my close-protection work. But I wasn’t invisible. Granted, I wasn’t one of the big bodyguards people hired to intimidate and terrify. I was young and female and decent-looking enough to be a friend, or sister, or girlfriend—someone who actually belonged by the client’s side. Hiding in plain sight meant I was seen but never really noticed, and that was why my invisibility to Hipsterman had bothered me so much.

  It definitely wasn’t because I’d wanted him to notice me.

  His brand of pretty wasn’t my type. His easy, charming smile at passersby definitely wasn’t appealing to me. And flirting with every woman in range was so far off my list of desirable traits it might have been written in smoke.

  I was two blocks from my destination and lost in uncomfortable thoughts when I heard the car. It was coming too fast for the yellow light above me, and my hands were already reaching for the woman in front of me at the curb. I grabbed her coat and yanked her backward as the car slid around the corner.

  “Hey!” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was protesting the bumper’s near miss or my grab.

  “You okay?” I asked the woman. She wore smoky black eye makeup the way tutorials have never been able to teach me, and her long, straight hair was hot pink. The t-shirt she wore proclaimed “Feminist as f*ck,” and it made me smile because my friend Anna had one just like it.

  “Bloody hell,” she said, tossing her head toward the departed car. Then she turned to me and stuck her hand out. “Thank you.” She looked at me another second. “I’ve seen you walking here before. I’m Lynn.”

  “Dallas,” I said as I shook her hand. I’d seen her too. The hair was unmistakable. “Nice shirt.”

  Her smile grew wider. “Nice reflexes.”

  The light changed and we crossed the street. When we got to the other side, Lynn turned right with a wave. “I owe you a save someday,” she said as her bright pink hair bobbed away.

  “No worries, it’s my job,” I said quietly, mostly to myself, as I continued on my way.

  It was my job—saving lives, protecting people who were threatened, keeping people safe. Usually my clients were women, but sometimes having a female close protection agent on a man was the best way to stay under the radar. Which brought me right back to Hipsterman’s radar and why he’d been so finely tuned to me and so immediately afraid of Redhat.

  Was he expecting to be followed? Was that why he’d been so careful not to notice me? I should have realized that a guy with such an easy smile for everyone he saw wouldn’t have gone so poker-faced at my presence unless he’d been aware of me tailing him. I didn’t like giving the guy credit for that level of awareness, but it made sense.

  I shifted his grocery bag to my other shoulder and felt momentarily bad that I’d be eating his steak. The moment of sympathy passed when I remembered there were two steaks in the bag. He’d have company tonight, and I definitely didn’t wonder how she would console him on the loss of his groceries.

  ** END SNEAK PEEK **

  Code of Ethics is available now!

  Sneak Peek: Learn to Fly by Heidi Hutchinson

  Prologue

  Cologne, Germany

  Two years ago

  Luke rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the aggravation and exhaustion from his head simultaneously. His mind raced with flashes––images of the previous six months. He compiled a staggering montage of lights, music, chicks, booze, fights, landmarks, more booze, plane flights, brawls, interviews, parties, and even more booze.

  “This isn't how it's supposed to happen.” He realized his words were probably a waste in the quiet hospital room.

  It didn't matter.

  He had some things he needed to get off his chest and Mike was the only one he told things to.

  Ever.

  “We were gonna become mega rock stars and see the world, remember that? We had a deal. We promised we wouldn't do all the stereotypical bullshit that so many who'd gone before us did. We were smarter than that.”

  He sighed heavily and ground his teeth together at the lack of argument that came from the still figure in the bed. Luke would prefer a straight-out brawl to the steady sound of the ventilator and gentle beeping of the bedside monitor.

  He wished Mike would defend himself––shout, yell, give him an excuse or explanation.

  But the soft hum of the machines keeping him alive was the only response.

  The past twenty-fours had been the worst kind of wake-up call Luke had ever received. He'd been at a bar with Blake, ignoring Carl's incessant cellphone harassment. All while his best friend and drummer had been rushed to a local hospital for a drug overdose. By the time Carl got through to them, Mike was already in a coma.

  No one knew what Mike had taken, but Luke suspected it was heroin. The toxicologist would know soon enough. T
he real question, the one that had Luke's stomach tied into a thousand and one knots, was whether or not Mike had done it on purpose.

  “You can't die,” Luke said sternly, his hands raking back his dirty blond hair. “I need you to wake up, so I can kick your ass.”

  Luke should have seen this coming. He knew Mike had been upset—had been for most of the tour, but Luke was too busy having... a good time. He didn't want to be weighed down by Mike's sour disposition.

  So he had started avoiding him.

  Ignoring him.

  “I'm sorry,” he said, his voice cracking as emotion filled his throat. “I should have been there. I would've stopped you.”

  But that was a lie.

  Luke had spent the majority of the tour completely wasted. He wouldn't have known what to do at all. It was a miracle that Carl, their ever-loyal tour manager, had checked on Mike on a hunch. And it still might not have been in time.

  “Seriously, wake up,” Luke said again, swallowing hard. “I don't know what happened with Ilsa, and I don't know where we go after all of this, but I promise... I promise you won't go through it alone. And I promise I'll be the brother to you that you always were for me.”

  Hot tears dripped down Luke's face.

  “But you can't die. You just can't.”

  Learn to Fly: Chapter One

  Keep Your Eyes Open

  Lenny glanced down at the silver and pearl face of her watch again.

  Ten more minutes, plenty of time.

  She pulled open the large glass door to the downtown Los Angeles business building. Her blonde hair reflected briefly in the mirrors behind the front desk as she strode purposefully past security to the elevators around the corner.

  Going to an interview in a building where her father owned half of the floors gave her a twinge of guilt, but nothing more.

  Glancing over her shoulder at the lobby of suits, briefcases, and clacking high-heels, Lenny pressed the button to call the lift. She shifted on her feet as she swiftly considered her options, and then started up the stairs without waiting.

  She took the stairs two at a time at a full sprint, taking advantage of the need to expel some of her nervous energy. She didn't bother removing her high-heels and smirked to herself at how stubborn she was about even the smallest things.

  She couldn't squelch the anticipation that built in her with every stride—as if she were finally heading in a direction that was taking her somewhere better than where she had been.

  Her long legs quickly carried her to the third floor where she exited, barely winded. She straightened her pressed white blouse and coolly strode to the receptionist’s desk.

  The woman behind the desk looked up at Lenny's approach with a practiced smile.

  “May I help you?” Her deep red hair was pulled back into a tight bun and her wide green eyes were framed by thick, trendy glasses.

  “I have an appointment with Jerry Douglas,” Lenny responded professionally. “My name is Lenny Evans.”

  She almost hesitated saying her full name, but decided that it was highly doubtful the receptionist would recognize it.

  The woman gave her a split-second double-take; Lenny kept her face impassive. The woman narrowed her eyes slightly, but waved her to a seat with a perfectly manicured hand and picked up the phone to announce her arrival.

  Lenny sat in the chair stiffly. She hated the scratchy fabric of the dress pants against her legs and the pinch that accompanied wearing heels. Hopefully it would be worth it. She could suffer a few minutes of physical discomfort if it meant changing the direction her life had been going.

  Nearly any new direction would be welcome at this point.

  Adjusting her small purse on her lap—more practical than eye catching—she thought, again, about the conversation she'd had with Simone the night before.

  Simone, the long-suffering girlfriend of her brother Scott, was a well-established photographer from the East Coast. At a shoot the day before, she had overheard a conversation involving an immediate job opening and called Lenny that evening.

  “I didn't get a lot of details, but apparently the job is for a personal assistant and there's a lot of travel involved.” Simone's voice had been hushed, as if she hadn’t wanted anyone to overhear her. That made sense, she had probably been with Scott.

  And if Scott knew Lenny was looking for a way out, he'd pitch a fit.

  Older brothers tended to assume they could run the lives of their siblings.

  “Thanks, Simone.” Lenny had scribbled down the phone number. “I owe you one.”

  Lenny had called the number and set up an interview immediately.

  The required travel was the most appealing part.

  She needed to get away.

  Now.

  She really didn't care––apart from prostitution or porn––what she had to do to make that happen.

  Double doors opened to her right, and a short bald man in a suit came out to greet Lenny. When she entered the posh office, she was surprised to see another man already sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Baldy shook her hand and introduced himself as Jerry Douglas.

  “This is Carl Darrow,” he motioned to the second man, who had already stood up and was reaching his hand to Lenny’s.

  His attire was very different from Mr. Douglas–– plain blue jeans, a faded green t-shirt, and scuffed cowboy boots. She noted his hand was calloused when she shook it, and his posture indicated he was just as uncomfortable in his surroundings as she was.

  His brown eyes narrowed at her as he ran a hand roughly through his hair. He looked her up and down, and failed to hide his grimace.

  “Lenny, is it?” he asked, his voice edged with annoyance.

  Lenny nodded and smiled. “Or Lenna. It was my grandmother’s name.”

  “We sorta thought you were a guy from your resume.” He waived at the paper on Jerry's desk that she had mostly fabricated and faxed over that morning. He didn't even try to hide his disappointment as he seated himself again and Lenny heard Jerry sigh in exasperation.

  “Happens all the time,” Lenny said, attempting to reassure him. She took a seat in the chair Jerry offered, avoiding crossing her legs completely, and just crossed her ankles—turning her knees out to the side in the most ladylike posture she could manage.

  The men exchanged glances before they both sat down. Lenny got the impression they had already made their decision but were going to go ahead with the interview anyway.

  She swallowed hard and squared her shoulders as a small shot of adrenaline hit her system.

  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been underestimated.

  “This job might be a little… unconventional for you,” Jerry began, searching for the right words, trying to be delicate. “It’s long days, long nights, hard physical labor, and you’d be on the road constantly.” His eyes skittered around his desk and his hands straightened his pen, then his name plate, then his pen again.

  “Is it because I'm a chick?” she asked, seeing the slight break in his serious demeanor and his eyes flicked to Carl.

  Carl slouched back in his chair and rubbed his chin with his fingertips. “No, it's 'cause you're pretty.”

  Oh, this was a test.

  She hadn’t been tested in so long she almost didn’t recognize the way her entire body hummed to life. She eased her arms onto the armrests of the chair and let her fingers relax.

  Carl watched quietly. Measuring her reaction.

  Her lips tugged up slightly on one side.

  His eyes narrowed on the movement.

  She remained silent.

  After a beat Jerry interrupted their quiet study of one another.

  “What makes you think that being an assistant is where you'd... fit?”

  Lenny inhaled slowly and let her eyes remain on Carl as she spoke.

  “I'm organized, I work hard, and I have nothing keeping me in town,” she said honestly, her fingertips tingling. “I'm not afraid of
dirt and sweat and I know I can do the job well.”

  Shit.

  She was perfect for the job.

  It pissed him off and gave him hope in the same measure.

  Sure, her resume said she was twenty-five with little to know employment history. He was positive that was a lie.

  Because no one projected that kind of calm self-assuredness without having earned it through experience.

  But, and it was a huge but.

  She was a beautiful woman.

  Blonde, athletic, graceful. She could stop traffic.

  In fact, he half-wondered if she’d accidentally stumbled into the wrong office. Wasn’t there a modeling agency on the floor above them?

  And no, it wasn’t because he didn’t think women were incapable. It had nothing to do with them.

  And had everything to do with the idiots he cared about way too much to admit.

  Frickin’ rock stars.

  They had a lot of talents, being smart when it came to relationships was not one of them.

  Women on tour were a bad idea.

  His head hurt just thinking about it.

  “They can be quite temperamental.” Jerry shook his head. “It won’t be an easy job, being their assistant.”

  “But they want an assistant, yes?” she asked Jerry directly. “I was told the need was immediate.”

  Jerry looked to Carl.

  “This isn’t a glamorous job.” Carl sighed and felt the weight of the upcoming tour press him further into the chair.

  On one hand, he should have told them no.

  On the other, he was worried about what would happen if they hired someone else to manage them on the road.

  If he developed an ulcer this round he was going to name after one of them.

  “You'll basically be a glorified babysitter. You'll haul their shit, keep track of their schedules, and have eyes on them at all times.”