Play For Me

by Tam DeRudder Jackson

  Spotting the monk, I carried my half-empty bottle of Australia’s finest beer with me while I walked the girls over to where he sat in front of one of the bars.

  “Hey Jack. Look what I’ve got.” I grinned. “You know I like to party with multiple ladies at once, but I’m up for sharing if you’re interested. Blond or brunette, which do you prefer?”

  Jack Whitehorse, Balefire’s drummer, saluted me with his beer, took a pull, and said, “Wouldn’t want to horn in on your fun, Blu my man. You enjoy yourself.” He smirked at me before turning his attention to the ladies in my arms. “I have no doubt you two beauties will enjoy yourselves.”

  He took another swig of beer and gave me a pointed look to shove off. I stared back at him for a long moment, daring him with a smirk to do something.

  Jack joined Balefire a couple of years back when our old drummer decided he couldn’t stay sober and tour with us. Though it drove our lead guitarist Dakota Perri nuts, Jack preferred to keep to himself, and not once had I ever seen him wander off with a woman while we were on tour. One time, Jack overheard Dakota and me talking about his preferences, and he burst out laughing, so I guess he likes girls after all. You wouldn’t know one way or the other from his behavior.

  I leaned in and spoke directly into his ear. “It’s the last night of our Asian tour, Jackie-boy. You haven’t indulged in any of the first-class exotic pussy on offer anywhere we’ve been. You’re worrying me, man.”

  Jack pulled a face and sat back. “We discussed this on the jet, Blu. I’ve got someone special waiting for me back home.” Addressing the girls, he added, “Thanks for the offer.”

  Dakota and Adam Tron, our bassist, said Jack hooked up with a hottie last summer after we played a show back home at Red Rocks, but I think they might have been jerking my chain. From where I stood, Jack had earned his nickname “the monk.”

  When I’d offered him one of the girls with me, I already knew his answer. The standing joke between us involved me offering whatever candy I scored during or after a show and Jack politely declining. Dakota liked to steal his phone and program it with a wake-up call featuring a prerecorded come-on from whichever girl he took to his room after a show. The joke had worn pretty thin with Jack these days. The two of them had almost come to blows over it more than once, so I might have been walking on thin ice making my offer tonight.

  Still, with it being our last night on tour for a while and all, I thought Jack could use a good time. The two pretty sheilas I had my arms around could be exactly what he needed to pull him out of the dark mood he’d crawled into since last fall. Couldn’t say his refusal surprised me though.

  I poked the bear anyway. “If you change your mind, buddy, here’s the spare key card to my room.” I let go of blondie long enough to fish the card from my back pocket and hand it to him. “Don’t bother to knock. Just let yourself in. We’ll welcome you right into the party, won’t we girls?”

  “Sure, Blu. Anything you say.”

  “Whatever you want, Blu. We just want to be with you tonight.”

  Jack laughed and took the card. “Ain’t gonna happen. But thanks again for the offer. You all have a nice time.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  I noticed he pocketed the card before taking another pull off his beer. Interesting.

  Dakota and I often shared girls when we were on tour. Sex, drugs—in our case booze—and rock ’n’ roll were big draws when we started Balefire back in high school. Tron had never been into sharing women, and apparently, Jack favored Tron in that department. Unlike Jack though, Tron did entertain his fair share of the ladies whenever we hit the road on tour.

  After ten years together, Dakota, Tron, and I remained best friends and committed to the life. Changing drummers three years ago, though, amped up the music, and none of us could deny how much our new drummer improved our sound. Not only was Jack Whitehorse a virtuoso drummer, he was also a damned fine songwriter. On this tour alone we’d written like ten or twenty new songs. As much as I enjoyed touring, I couldn’t wait to go home, relax my vocal cords a bit, and hit the studio to record our new material.

  The giggling of the girls pasted to my sides brought me out of my reverie, and I smiled at each of them in turn. “Looks like you’re going to have me to yourselves tonight, ladies. You do know how to share, don’t you?”

  More giggling answered my question.

  I walked the girls down the bar and signaled the bartender. “Hey buddy. Snag me a couple of bottles of champagne, would ya? And three glasses.”

  Speaking to each girl in turn, I asked, “Champagne all right with you?”

  “We love champagne,” brunette said.

  “Whatever you want, Blu,” blondie added.

  Something about the girls’ unconditional willingness to do whatever I suggested irritated the back of my conscience, but I finished off my beer, set the empty on the bar, and pushed the nebulous thought from my mind before it crystallized into something I had to deal with. I grabbed the bottles of champagne the bartender set in front of us and gestured to the girls to snag the champagne flutes before I escorted them from the after-party to a different kind of party up in my suite.

  Ashleigh

  “I swear I have never seen a young person who loved her flowers as much as you do, Ashleigh Baker,” Diane Connolly commented from her side of the fence separating our yards. “You’re renting your place, aren’t you, darlin’?”

  I leaned back on my heels from my hands-and-knees position in front of the roses I was planting. “Diane, I moved into this place because my landlady said she’d subtract some rent if I indulged my hobby. Win-win.” I grinned.

  The last Saturday in May found me in my favorite place—my backyard garden. My part-time job as a substitute teacher surprisingly limited the time I had to spend in my garden since finding my rental earlier in the spring. I wanted to complete my long list of tasks while I still had the time. Plus, the weather in Denver cooperated so beautifully with my gardening plans that nothing could have kept me indoors.

  “Are you at a point in your planting that you could take a break and join me on my patio for lunch?”

  “Is it lunchtime?”

  A quick glance at the sun high overhead and a rather embarrassing rumble from my stomach confirmed I’d lost myself in my yard again.

  Diane laughed. “Why don’t you ditch your gardening gloves and come over for a bite to eat? I made chicken and avocado sandwiches and a lovely fruit salad with strawberries and feta cheese. And I have a gallon of fresh-brewed sun tea to wash it all down. It’s on my table waiting for us.”

  I stood and brushed dirt and mulch off my bare knees. “You’re absolutely the nicest neighbor anyone could ever have. Let me go inside and wash my hands, and I’ll be right over.”

  “See you in a few,” she said with a smile.

  After living in a tiny apartment for years while I finished college, I’d become claustrophobic. All the noise and lack of privacy and space wore on me, something I mentioned one day at one of the schools where I worked. One thing led to another, and a teacher friend suggested I check out a sweet little house she’d heard had come up for rent. Something with a yard. Next thing I knew, I was living next door to Diane Connolly.

  Yes, that Diane Connolly, mother of Blu Connolly, lead singer of my all-time favorite band Balefire. I’d skipped lattes for a month to save money for a ticket to their show at Red Rocks last summer. It was worth every penny I’d paid and more. I’d fallen half in love with Blu Connolly merely listening to his voice on the Balefire station on my music streaming app. Seeing him perform in person with all that raw energy radiating excitement and fun and sex—did I mention the guy’s moves as he projected his stadium-sized voice to the world?—completely blew my mind.

  Almost as much as discovering I’d moved next door to his childhood home, the home where his mom still lived. The amazing part? Diane turned out to be the most normal, down-to-earth, open, and sweet person I’d ever met. She
also seemed lonely. Ever since I’d moved in, whenever she invited me to lunch most Saturdays or the occasional Sunday, I accepted.

  Ancient elm and willow trees shaded her backyard and patio, a welcome respite from the blazing sun I’d worked under all morning. I seated myself at her table and downed a cooling swallow of iced tea.

  “This looks delicious. You must have spent the whole morning cooking, Diane,” I gushed as I surveyed the feast in front of me—a feast she served on fine china with cloth napkins and fancy silver flatware. The woman knew how to entertain, even if the only person I knew she entertained was me. It seemed no one else ever came to her door.

  “It’s nothing, really,” she demurred. “I saw this recipe for California chicken sandwiches on one of the cooking shows I enjoy and thought I’d give it a try. Go on, dig in.”

  With her avidly watching me, obviously eager for my response to her offering, I cut my sandwich in half and took a bite. Closing my eyes, I groaned in pure ecstasy as a symphony of flavors reverberated over my palate. Smooth, rich avocado, spicy chicken, something sweet yet tangy—the dressing maybe?—and the full-bodied flavor of sun-ripened tomatoes flowed over my taste buds, all bookended with warm buttery homemade bread.

  Opening my eyes, I said, “Diane, are you married? ’Cause if you’re not, I might ask you to marry me.” I savored another bite. “I’ve never had the pleasure of enjoying a gourmet sandwich before, but I think I could get used to it if given the chance.”

  At the mention of marriage, a cloud briefly passed over her face before she banished it with a smile. “I’m so glad you like it. Honestly, I wasn’t sure about the dressing. It’s sometimes a challenge deciding whether certain flavors will work together, like Dijon mustard, fennel, and poppy seed.”

  “Ah. That’s the secret dressing.” I grinned and took another bite of sandwich heaven.

  “There are one or two additional ingredients, but putting those three together worried me a little. I’m so glad you like it.” At last, she cut into her sandwich and took a delicate bite.

  “Like it? It’s borderline orgasmic.” I licked sauce from the corner of my mouth before being polite and using my napkin. After watching Diane with her sandwich, I tried for a more ladylike bite. “I need to eat this slowly, savor it, but it’s so good, I’m not sure I’m disciplined enough to slow down.”

  She beamed and took another dainty bite of her sandwich.

  For a few minutes, we ate quietly, enjoying the food and the lovely early summer day.

  Diane broke the silence. “What are your plans when school finishes this week? Do you have a summer job lined up?”

  “I’ve been hitting the local bars on the weekends to listen to the bands playing them and writing reviews for a couple of online newspapers and a blog. The writing doesn’t pay much, but it keeps my name and, more importantly, my work in front of editors.” Setting my sandwich down, I sipped some tea and continued. “I’m hoping someone at one of those venues will give me the chance to write for them full-time. After all, that’s what I went to college for.”

  “Well, I’ve read some of your reviews in the local paper, and I think you’re a very talented writer. As you can probably guess, I enjoy my son’s music, but one of your reviews of some bluegrass band had me tapping my feet as I read it and thinking I might catch that band the next time they’re in the area.”

  “You’re sweet to say that. Thanks.”

  “Speaking of bands, Blu’s Asian tour wrapped up yesterday. I expect him home early next week. If you don’t have any plans, I’d like to have you over for a meal, introduce you to my son.”

  She extended the invitation so casually, so matter-of-factly. Like she didn’t have a clue about her son’s fame. Of course she had no clue about my private love affair with his incredible voice. Good thing we were eating alfresco since I splattered the sip of tea I’d taken all over her patio.

  “Ashleigh! Are you all right?”

  I choked and coughed for another minute before trying ineffectually to wipe up tea from the patio’s flagstones.

  “Fine, Diane. Really.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry about that.” My face felt like it was trying to mimic the color of the tomatoes on my sandwich.

  She laughed so hard that tears ran down her pretty face. The woman damn sure didn’t look old enough to have a son who was nearing thirty. Her good humor at my expense was infectious, and before long I found myself laughing with her.

  “If you could have seen your face when I told you Blu will be in town next week,” she gasped.

  I sobered up at last. “You do realize that normal people don’t just drop that sort of information into a casual conversation, right?”

  “He’s my son, Ashleigh. I brought him into the world and changed his diapers and listened to his teachers love his charm and despair of his wildness. That was something I despaired of even more than they did. Forgive me for forgetting for a minute how famous he is.”

  The visual of Diane changing Blu Connolly’s diapers momentarily sidetracked me as I tried to get a handle on it. “I guess I have a hard time thinking about the guy I saw strutting all over the stage at Red Rocks last summer as someone’s little boy. Especially your little boy.”

  At the look she shot me, I hastily added, “Only because he has a reputation as a wild man and you’re so sweet and normal. You live in a modest house on a quiet street in the suburbs of Denver. You don’t drive a fancy car or flaunt a lot of money.” She cocked a brow, and I rushed on. “Plus, with your trim figure and smooth skin and that thick blond braid you favor, you look more like Blu’s older sister than his mom. How old were you when you had him? Seven?”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Ashleigh,” Diane said, and there was genuine warmth in her voice. “I can’t wait for you to meet my son. I think you two are going to hit it off so well.”

  Acknowledgements

  It takes a team to bring a book to readers. Thanks to Angela Forester for reading an early, early draft of this book, giving me valuable constructive criticism, and encouraging me to finish it. Thanks to Bri Weigel who’s been there for every book both in the Talisman Series and now in the Balefire Series. Your beta reads and comments help me produce better stories. Special thanks goes to my hubs, Grady Jackson, who read an early draft of this one and told me all the things I did right and gave me specific examples of what and where I could improve. The book is better for you having read it, babe.

  To my critique group—LindaRae Sande, K.J. Gillenwater, Sara Vinduska, and Jacque Coburn—thanks for catching things I miss. And thanks a ton for our bi-monthly dinners where you educate me on all things book marketing and production. Having you as friends and colleagues has helped me grow exponentially.

  As always, thank you, thank you, thank you to my team—my editor Nikki Busch who keeps me on schedule and polishes my words to a fine shine; my cover designer Maria at Steamy Designs who creates such gorgeous covers for my words; Chrissy at Damonza for the interior designs that make my words look so pretty; and Levi Meyer at www.wyosites.com for building and maintaining my beautiful website. You make me look good, and I truly appreciate it.

  Most importantly, thank you, readers, for giving this book a read. You are the reason I write. Your opinions matter, and indie authors need your reviews. If you found this story entertaining, please leave a review at your favorite bookseller or on your favorite review site. Thanks so much!

  Follow me at www.tamderudderjackson.com and on

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  Tam DeRudder Jackson.

  About the author

  Tam DeRudder Jackson is the author of the paranormal romance Talisman Series and the contemporary romance Balefire Series. Her favorite “room” in her house is her back patio where she dreams up stories of romance and risk. When she’s not writing her latest paranormal or contemporary romance, depending on the season you can find her driving with the top down in her convertible or carving turns on the slopes of the l
ocal ski hill. The mom of two grown sons, Tam likes to travel, attend rock concerts, watch football and soccer, and visit old car shows with her husband. She lives in the mountains of northwest Wyoming where she spends most of her free time trying to read all the books. Her TBR piles are threatening to take over her office, and she’s fine with that.