Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  I stand in the entrance hall of my father’s house, as still as an armored knight in a museum. Though I grew up here, I hate this place. Every wall is painted a shade of white. For me, white is purity. But here, with the Grim Reaper as its owner, it’s death.

  The death of dreams and hope and love. The death of my sister. This is where Mom and I—Dad, too—returned after Steffie was gone. Completely gone. Dad had her cremated and her ashes scattered in Galveston Bay.

  He made sure nothing remained of her.

  I glance up at the ceiling, where a huge chandelier hangs from the center. Mom once ordered staff to dust and shine it monthly. The crystal gleams, but it in no way resembles its former glory.

  Like me and my life. I cover my face for a moment. Like Georgie.

  My bitterness toward her might be misplaced. I don’t know. Maybe, I deserve what she’s done. I abandoned her and then flaunted meaningless affairs to her. Not to her, specifically, but I knew a woman in my life would be reported upon. I hadn’t had a public ‘girlfriend,’ or my version of one, in years.

  I hurt Georgie, so she hurt me.

  I recoil from the idea. Though I have proof each time I remember her words, the Georgie I know isn’t vindictive. She’s sweet and innocent and in need of my protection.

  Not much makes sense right now. My days have suddenly gone from every hour being filled with activity to aimless waiting. The tour has been canceled. The new album put on hold. Even our trip to LA to make nice with the record execs and studio heads I fucked off is up in the air. For me, anyway. I’m sure the guys will go on their merry way once they kick my ass out of the band, a move they’ve wanted to make for months.

  All because of that little bitch.

  I never thought anyone would surpass the depths of my hatred I have for my father. Despite how much Kiln’s a fucking asshole, not even he has managed it.

  Georgie has. I want to fucking kill her.

  Still, I mourn her loss and what I believed I meant to her. Hypocritical of me? Fuck, that answer escapes me, too. The only thing I’m one hundred percent sure of is I want Georgie. I want her to suffer, cry, and beg my forgiveness.

  Headcase that I am, I also want to protect her from whatever threat she faces. The public. The attorneys. Me.

  Dad barrels past me as he walks into the house. “We need to talk,” he throws over his shoulder.

  “I need a shower.” I have nothing I’m interested in saying to him. Repayment for the assistance he gave to me to attain my release will come later when I jump through hoops on behalf of the music.

  My music. But never really mine. Dad owned it the moment he got control of me. Young and arrogant and stupid, I never thought about not giving my all. Even lost in drugs, I did the best I could. Had I used sense, I would’ve sabotaged it all. My band. My career. That’s the fuck-you Dad deserved and the justice Steffie required.

  I don’t have it in me anymore. Not music. Or inspiration. I’m lost and empty.

  Kiln, Jaeger…all of them are staring at me while Dad’s barking out words to a helpless maid. It all flies over my head. The place I’ve pretended not to be for so long has caught up to me—at Rand Mason’s whims. I’m truly at his mercy. There’s not only manufactured photographic evidence to taunt me with. This time, there’s statements to police, radio interviews, and a baby.

  I paid my bail, but Dad vouched for me. His lawyers did what mine were unable to do. Got me out of fucking jail.

  “Tomorrow is soon enough for us to talk.”

  “My lawyers won’t be here tomorrow,” Dad bites out, nodding to the three attorneys, although Joe Groveston, the lead attorney and my father’s friend, isn’t around.

  I need to move, get the fuck out of this entrance hall and away from all these motherfuckers. My aunt’s here somewhere. Her car was parked in the driveway. I’ll hang out with her.

  “The attorneys are here now, so they can begin unraveling the fucking mess and keep you out of jail.”

  I hate him and myself for never finding a way to get out from under his thumb. My life has never been my fucking life. It’s been his since I was sixteen. And still…still…my world is crashing around me.

  There’s no escaping fate. I’ve run, but not fast enough. It’s caught me. As karma. Newton’s law. Fucked up the ass. Whatever. It’s happened.

  “You’ve gotten yourself in over your head because you couldn’t keep your cock out of that little slut.”

  Dad calling Georgie a little slut snaps my sanity. I’m as tightly strung as a taut bow. Fists swinging, I connect with his stomach. Another one and another and another. I don’t care where the hits land. I fucking hate him.

  Kiln starts toward me but halts at my mad-dog growl. He raises his hands, conceding though he has every right to shoot me. Supposedly, he’s my bodyguard, not Dad’s. I’m of no value, so he should want this opportunity to get me out the way. Maitland and Quint grab me from behind and tackle me to the floor. I wrestle away from them and spring to my feet. They’re fast, latching on to me and holding me back.

  “Why the fuck would you get on fucking television and accuse Georgie of sleeping with several fucking men?” I fume, struggling to free myself from my drummer and my keyboardist.

  The thought of her with any other man but me drives me insane.

  Dad’s lip is bleeding and a laceration is above his right eye. The old, stuffed-shirts he has for attorneys are watching the scene with avid interest. It’s obvious they think I’m the bad seed, the ungrateful son of the awe-inspiring Rand Mason.

  “You’re out of your goddamn mind. As far as I knew, someone—other than me—would be chosen as the paternal match. One person, not a bunch of different assholes. I didn’t agree to that. Do you know what that makes her look like?”

  Dad dabs at his split lip. “What she is. A drug addicted whore.”

  “The more it seems she gives up her pussy, the better it is for you,” Kiln points out, unperturbed I’m losing my shit.

  Why should my killing rage matter to them? They don’t expect any better of me. This is what I do. Fuck or fight.

  “Do you want exoneration, Sloane?” Jaeger asks curiously. “Or do you want her?”

  Both. I want cleared of all charges, and I want my hands on Georgie.

  When I refuse to answer, Quint seizes the opportunity to speak.

  His grip tightens on me. “You told us you wouldn’t touch her.” Betrayal rings in his voice. Even as I said it, so long ago, I knew I lied. I didn’t know what else to do, not trusting them to understand and not wanting to implicate them in my reckless behavior.

  “It’s no longer your problem.” It isn’t. I’ve done this. Not them. Me.

  Snatching a cold cloth from the same maid he was snarling orders to earlier, Dad clears his throat. “Crowell Daniels has an interview lined up, to tell the world about her exploits. Her fake IDs. How she convinced him she was eighteen. He signed a sworn affidavit, attesting to her coke habit. What she did to pay for those drugs. Little cocksucking whore,” he growls in disgust. “I’ve promised he’ll be safe from retribution from her brothers.”

  From her brothers, huh? What about from me?

  My eyes narrow. As angry as I am, as bloodthirsty as I was, it’s incomparable to the acceleration of my heart, the black fury possessing me at hearing that motherfucker’s name. He kept Georgie strung out. He licked her pussy and stuffed his dick in her mouth. Plain and simple, his actions toward her is murder worthy.

  Now, he wants to go on national television, capitalize on Georgie’s bad judgment and fuck her over even more?

  She refuses to recognize what a motherfucker Crowell is. I’ll bet, despite everything, she still, to this fucking day, considers him her friend.

  On the other hand, he wants to humiliate her. He also expects to live after he’s through.

  Attempting to control myself, I jerk away from Maitland and Quint. I’m not what Rand Mason accuses me of being. I’m not a fucking murderer. A fighter? You b
et your fucking ass. During brawls, the skulls of motherfuckers are accidentally bashed in all the time. Every now and then, knives appear and somehow end up in throats. These facts need explaining to my father so Crowell can utilize his fifteen minutes of fame with the full knowledge of imminent fucking death.

  “Listen to me.” My voice is calm and my eyes flicker between my bandmates to Dad’s attorneys. I scowl at them. “If you don’t want a real murder charge pinned on me, call Crowell and tell him to fucking hide. If he goes through with this bullshit, he’s a fucking dead man.”

  Dad pales, as if he has a fucking conscience. As if he loves me and wants to save me from the sin of killing.

  “Do you understand me, Dad? He’s a dead man if he does this to her.”

  Dad recognizes I’ve reached my limit on what he can do to or say about Georgie. I’m at the point where I don’t give a fuck about much. I’ve cracked and I need a hit to glue the remnants together once more. I intend to get one, as soon as I break away from this group.

  “Okay, son. Okay.” Dad raises his hand. “Call Mr. Daniels, Jaeger. Do what you have to, so Sloane’s directions can be followed.”

  Outrage drops onto Kiln’s face. “Are you fucking kidding me? Prince Sloane doesn’t want his little girlfriend’s past exposed, so Prince Sloane gets it?”

  I bare my teeth. “And the two peasants have to follow what the fuck I want, or else.”

  “You finally stuck the wrong cunt,” Kiln snarls. “Comeuppance, little brother. The way you fucked over me with Dietrech is haunting you in the worst way.”

  Dad’s face reddens. “Kiln!”

  Jaeger steps between us and searches our faces. “Shut the fuck up, Kiln. We have to put up a united front if we hope to recover our losses. Without Sloane, Dad will be fine. He has money. We don’t. Our fucking asses will end up broke. We need to fix this, to protect our lifestyle.”

  All the fuck I am to these assholes is money. Nothing new, but I’m sick of this bullshit. I wanted to be a rock superstar and I’ve succeeded. It was good while it lasted, but what the fuck did it mean? Not a fucking thing in the end.

  Inside, where it counts, I’m broken. I don’t fucking care. Dad can pin Steffie’s murder on me or not, but I’m done.

  “I quit,” I announce. “I’m resigning from the band. I’m done. Do what the fuck you will, Dad. I’m done,” I repeat, unable to see any other face in my head but Georgie’s, unable to feel anything but grief.

  The day my father changed my entire world, I lost myself in that water and the essence of me died.

  For a moment, I had Georgie and found my soul again.

  If Steffie had just drowned, her death would’ve been hard. I would’ve grieved just as deeply and as profoundly as I have. Nothing would’ve been the same without her. Nothing has been the same without her.

  Her accidental drowning would’ve been horrendous. Her death wasn’t an awful calamity, however. Not only did I lose my sister in a horrible way, I lost my hero, too.

  I’ve lived with this and I’ve made it work. No more.

  Once I lost Georgie, nothing else mattered.

  “Mr. Sloane,” Amika murmurs, as I walk out of the bathroom, two hours later, dressed in only a towel.

  The last member of the staff my mother hired before her death, Amika sits on the edge of my bed. She’s five or six years older than me. Over the years, we’ve fucked here and there. My specialty is casual relationships, best for me. Considering what happened with Georgie, I will never again stray from the success of flings and meaningless fucking.

  “I’ve brought you something to eat.” Amika nods toward the sitting room, her brown eyes alive with heat and mischief, not caring at the lameness of her double entendre. “Do you want me to serve you?”

  Need she ask? “Fuck food for now.” She wasn’t referring to food in the first place, but she enjoys my orders. I crook my finger at her and drop my towel. “Come here.”

  Standing, she unbuttons her dress, the hem flirting with indecency, before pushing it over her shoulders and allowing it to drop to the floor. The sight of her nude body hardens my cock. Her tits swing as she walks toward me. When she reaches me, she fists my dick, stands on her tiptoes and kisses me.

  She smells divine, like sweet lavender and hot pussy, and tastes like mint. The feel of her womanly curves pushes away the memory of the discomfort of solitary confinement. The air in my jail cell was stale and oppressive, worsened by the scent of human waste.

  All atrocities I suffered thanks to Georgiana. The thought of her urges me to deepen the kiss with Amika.

  “Sloane, please.”

  Georgie’s words to me the night we met. Her image rises in my head, haunting me.

  Taunting me.

  Growling, I wrap my hand around Amika’s, encouraging her to stroke my prick. She had been, but, somewhere along the way she halted. Her hands are firm, her warm fingers sure in their movements.

  “I love you.”

  An innocent declaration from Georgie that I believed.

  “Please, please, don’t do this. Don’t send me away. Please. I love you.”

  My nostrils flare at the memory of Georgie’s desperation the last time I saw her. I pull away from Amika’s mouth to lick her nipple, clutching her ass in my hands.

  “Please, please, don’t do this.”

  Fuck her! I squeeze my eyes shut, searching for the words from her interview, the ones where I’ll strengthen my hatred for her and justify fucking a woman I don’t want.

  Determined, I thrust my cock against Amika’s belly.

  “I love you, Sloane.”

  Georgie has taken up residence in my head. I can’t fuck her away. I can’t will her away. I can’t hate her away. As much as my dick aches to come, my heart—my head, I mean—rebels.

  Releasing Amika, I step back and wipe the taste of her tongue from my mouth. “I’m not in the mood for you.”

  Her eyes widen and hurt crosses her face before her gaze drops to my stiff cock. “You’re always in the mood, sir.” Sir. Amika calls me ‘sir’ and ‘mister’ out of habit, and as a show of respect to her boss’s son. I’ve given her money. I’ve eaten her cunt. I’ve used her for my own pleasure. But I’ve never given her the respect she deserves, because I’ve never given myself respect.

  Tired from the turmoil of the past seven days, I rub a hand over my face. My stomach growls. Being under my father’s roof again makes me restless. Still, nothing compares to how unsettled I am being in the same city as Georgie and unable to see her. Disquieted by my fury and sense of betrayal, I convince myself I hate her.

  My stomach growls again.

  “Would you like your meal now, Mr. Sloane?” Amika’s dressed again, her mouth swollen from my kisses. “I can bring the cart in here if you’d prefer.”

  The prospect of real food brings a small smile to me. “I’ll prepare my plate and eat in the sitting room.”

  She hesitates and shifts her weight. “Do you need me to suck your cock?”

  I always need a dick suck, but a sickness invades me. I don’t want her to touch me. The malady began months ago. When I left for Europe knowing Georgie was carrying my baby, I sought to protect my own ass. I’d broken Helen’s rules, slept with Georgie, and gotten her pregnant. After Cassandra led Helen to believe I backed out of an arrangement between her and Parnell because of Georgie, Helen sought to avenge her daughter.

  I believed I could walk away and not care about Georgie’s pregnancy. Misery followed me around and the only time I didn’t suffer was when I was onstage or when I fucked. Through music, I spent my passion and emotion. In pussy, I shed my loneliness and my unending need for Georgiana.

  The snick of a closing door brings me out of my thoughts. Amika is gone, so I head to my closet for clothes. The luggage I had with me on tour was sent here, so I don’t have to worry about a new wardrobe for however long I’m required to remain in Houston. Under my father’s watchful eye.

  Fuck.

 
Once I dress and shove away the irony of my predicament, I walk to the sitting room and find the cart holding silver chafing dishes. As I remove the lid, one of the containers slide and the Sterno flame crackles at the bottom. It reminds me of the fire at one of my concerts and I grimace at the misplaced memory.

  Resigning from the band was past due. I fought a losing battle for months.

  I slam the lid down again, shoving my hand through my hair, the whiff of mint, garlic, braised lamb, rosemary, and truffles making my stomach growl once more. I prepare my plate, then set it on the tasseled silk placemat. Wondering why the fuck I sent Amika away, I go to the bar and pour myself a scotch.

  Drink in hand, I return to the table and sit, ignoring the daunting silence. Cutting into the tender lamb, I shovel it into my mouth. The taste explodes on my tongue, satisfying me. I tear through it and add a second piece to my plate, where everything else is untouched.

  A knock sounds on my door.

  “Come in,” I grunt, in no mood for the company of any motherfucker currently at the house.

  Maitland walks in and shuts the door. Though he’s still capable of fashioning a man bun with the hair sitting on top, each side of his head is freshly shaved.

  “What?” I ask when he stares at me like a dickhead.

  Glowering, he digs in the pocket of his board shorts and tosses me a key. “Your Volante is in the garage.”

  I taste the basmati rice, flavored with saffron and chives. It’s delicious. World travel is a primary reason I’m able to identify ingredients, something I enjoyed teaching Georgie during our stay in Denver.

  Glaring at the roasted baby zucchini because I can’t escape thoughts of her, I suck my teeth. “Did my Aston drive itself here?”

  My fucking car is a much easier topic than Georgiana. It’s a cut-and-dry topic. She’s never been so easy.

  Maitland’s blue eyes narrow on me. “I flew to Denver three days ago and drove it here,” he explains with a touch of indignation. He scratches his jaw and my eyes stray to the enormous gauge in his earlobe. He’ll have deformed earlobes for the rest of his fucking life. Knowing me and my train of thought, he scowls. “Fuck, Sloane. I don’t get high anymore. I stopped years ago. Long before you did.”