She thought no one could ever top Sebastian’s ‘I Remember You’…even seasoned lead singers were intimidated and backed off from making covers of that song.
Until now and him…the hot guy from the bus…
He had prototypical rock god looks—lithely muscular, broodingly dark, and oozing with raw sexiness. He even rocked the tight jeans and the tats. Who was she kidding? The man was smoking. But it was his voice that really sealed the deal.
He sang the power ballad with aplomb, sailing through the high notes with ease... totally owned it. His voice poured out of that mouth without artifice or gimmickry…filling up the emptiness of her soul to fullness. It sent goosebumps to spread out all over her body.
Strangely, she felt connected to him on a much deeper level. She was equally surprised when she felt a strong sense of possessiveness—that the song and his amazing voice was meant for her…more than everyone else inside the venue.
The bar was bursting at the seams with bar rats hollering and screaming for his attention. He wasn’t paying them any mind. He never took his eyes off from her.
People began to turn to where she was sitting. She could feel her cheeks growing warm as she tried not to freak out from the collective sea of curious stares. She ignored them and concentrated on the singer. Bad move.
Even from across the room, she saw the undeniable hunger in his intense eyes. He eyed at her like a condemned man and she was his only salvation.
Her heart sped up as her chest tightened.
He was openly, unapologetically, eye-fucking her .
She was jostled out of the moment when Karen elbowed her side.
“Amazing, isn’t he?” she screamed.
Karen’s room mate, Diane, snorted.
“Better watch out, ‘lil girl…he fucks like an animal, too—” she drawled.
“Don’t mind her, honey. She’s bitter 'coz she never got a call back,” Karen retorted.
Figures.
“Who’s he?” Tiara found herself asking.
“That, my dear, is Zeke Blade.”
Even his name made her shiver.
She couldn’t recall feeling this strongly for anything or anyone in the past. It scared her. Enough to want to run out of here before his set ended.
Zeke Blade? No, that ain’t right. His name should be Trouble.
Big Trouble.
***
ZEKE
Zeke knew he had to move fast lest she disappeared again.
He cornered her before she could open the door, placing both his hands flat on either side of her body.
“Hi.”
Her head snapped up, her beautiful eyes mirroring her fear and turmoil.
“What do you want?” she whispered. Her lilting voice was lovely to his ears, warming his insides in a way no alcohol can.
Damn, she was so close, he could smell her. And he wanted more than a whiff…he wanted the entire bouquet.
“I just want to talk,” he declared. “I’m Zeke, by the way.”
“We have nothing to talk about,” came her jumpy reply.
“I have to disagree. We have plenty of things to talk about. If you’ll only give me a chance…Tiara.” Shit, he never pleaded with a girl before.
Her eyes narrowed. “How’d you…”
He smiled down at her. “I can be resourceful when motivated.”
“Look…Zeke…I’m grateful for what you did on the bus. I really am. But you didn’t have to intervene.”
“They wouldn’t bother you again. I made sure of it.”
“I can handle those boys on my own—” she seemed flustered, especially when he couldn’t stop looking at her delectable lips.
“Are you doing anything tonight?” he asked.
“What?!”
“Will you go out with me?”
“Why?”.
“Why what?”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“I just want to take you out for dinner, babe.”
“No…sorry.”
“It’s just dinner, Tiara. It’s on me.”
Her eyes widened before she lowered them and smiled almost sadly.
“I can’t go out with you.”
He frowned. He didn’t expect that. “Why not? You have a boyfriend?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. And that’s not it. I don’t date. And if I do, I don’t think musicians would be a good idea.”
He was crushed. This chick was really doing a number on his ego. “Ouch.”
“I can list ten things why I shouldn’t.”
He leaned toward her ear. “And I’m gonna tell you why you should.”
She was about to speak but he held a finger to her lips to silence her.
“One, a musician knows how to listen. He can tell your moods and nuances just by hearing your voice.”
“I don’t need a shrink.”
He chuckled. Man, he’s got his work cut out for him.
“Two, he believes in emotion. How can he not? It’s bound to happen after hearing tons of love songs inside his head.”
“I don’t do emo either.”
That made him roar with laughter. She was spicy and he liked it. A lot.
But he was running out of lines.
Time for his trump card.
“Lastly, if you go out with a musician—meaning me—you’re the girl I’m gonna sing for, the face to all those songs I’ve sung in the past. Only you. So, I’m gonna ask again and hope you’ll reconsider. Tiara Angela Bailey, will you have dinner with me?”
***
ZEKE
A decade and a half later…
He was freezing his butt off. NYC has turned into an iceberg. He was sure of it. Zero fucking degrees and not even a degree more! The weather bureau lied through their teeth. Incompetent fools. The air was so frigid his nuts would certainly fall off from exposure, rendering him useless. Not truly a great loss, as his southern bits barely seen action months after he got out of the hospital to recuperate. He hardly left his Miami home except to take his dog, Duke, out for a run along the beach during mornings.
Miami weather spoiled him too much, leaving him completely unprepared for NYC’s frigid weather.
Drawing his leather jacket closer to ward off the sudden gust of wintry wind, he lowered his head and briskly walked the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan’s Lower East Side Avenue.
The stretch used to be teeming with crack and meth heads. He knew that from experience. That period of his life was well-chronicled by the press; when he hobnobbed among then-fellow junkies. How they welcomed him like a homecoming king every time he dropped by to get his fix. Why wouldn’t they? They shoot up and got high on his account. They blast and crash together then repeat the process, chasing the highs incessantly…only to find rock bottom and unfortunately for some, dead end six feet under.
He shivered as he literally walked down the unpleasant memory lane.
He should’ve asked his driver to wait for him at the restaurant where he met Corrine Harris, head writer at Rolling-fucking-Stone. They were doing another cover on him, a slant on him being rock music’s version of Robert Downey, Jr…except that Robert got to don a shiny red costume and play Ironman nowadays while he…let’s just say that his present condition was comparable to a rusty sink drain.
He was furious when when he heard about it first-hand. As if there weren’t enough trash written about him over the years that they needed to do another fucking piece.
Next to lawyers, media men (and women) were his least favorite people. Fucking piranhas, all of them were out for his blood from day one.
But his management people begged him to keep his rapier tongue in check and be on his best behavior. Ryker even called him that morning to make sure he’d be at the interview. He’d fallen off the wagon too many times to instill trust. Can’t blame them, really.
Still, that hurt.
“Man, we need this positive shit.”
“So I’ve been told.
Like every hour.”
“Look, Zee…go zen for once and be nice to the little lady,” he said. “Promise me, man. Don’t fucking screw this up. I know you hate publicity but keep it in, okay?”
So he did. Grudgingly.
Ryker never gave up on him for years, even when he was being a selfish twat. Surely he could endure one fucking interview for his closest friend, right?
The interview went on well…for the most part.
It was a neatly devised ploy, the kind that kept him relaxed at the beginning. Easy questions so he’d put his guard down. Corrine was skilled, in the same way a hunter patiently stalked his target before pulling the gun. It belied her mousy, almost delicate exterior.
“So, Zeke…you’re really back for good?”
“You could say that, yeah.”
“TorqueCrash fans will be ecstatic! That would put an end to the rumors you guys have disbanded.”
“You know we can’t do that. It’s the sacred fucking clause. More like a marriage except we can’t divorce each other.”
“You guys hitting the studio anytime soon?”
“Ryker and the rest of the guys are still wrapping up on their individual projects. But they’ve got a couple of good songs ready…”
“How about you? Anything lined up?”
That annoyed him.
“I’ve co-written several—”
Corrine cut him in the middle of his standard answer, seeing through his bullshit.
“While the collaborations with the rest of the band had been amazing, fans were waiting, with bated breath, if you’ll be writing new anthems.”
“Anthems?” he growled before he could stop himself.
She was going in for the kill, baring her teeth.
“Surely, you can’t be that modest, Zeke.”
“That was never one of my virtues, sweetheart.”
“TorqueCrash’s first three albums had been monumental. Songs like “Crazy Bitch”, “Bleed You Dead”, “Cut and Dry” and “Passion’s Angel” had influenced an entire generation of kids. You wrote those songs by yourself and sang them like they were ripping you apart.”
“And your question is?”
“Are you really back on that creative level, now that drugs are out of the picture? Are you inspired about the music?”
How would he answer that? When he’d been in this artistic limbo for almost a decade?
“Let me tell you something, ma petite. Inspiration is like a ho. It comes only when it truly wants to. And I don’t want to force myself on that shit.”
She smiled. She got what she came for. Another quotable. Damn her.
She later backed off. Thirty more minutes and the interview was over. He couldn’t walk away from the restaurant fast enough.
Fucking Julian! He muttered through chattering teeth, thinking of a hundred and one ways to torture Julian Barnes, TorqueCrash’s manager, for putting him right in the middle of this fuckaroo.
Fritz, the driver loaned to him by his bandmate, Ridge, patiently waited on Mott St.
He was all too glad when Fritz held the white Bentley’s door open and he slid inside the warm confines of the car to thaw on the way to his next destination. Or rather, his next pit stop in this “reformation” PR project Julian had in mind.
As a judge for reality talent show, Pitch…a shameless replication of other high-rating productions out there, except that contestants have to go through impromptu challenges. Kinda like The Voice meet Project Runway.
The rock gods were probably laughing at his shit right now.
Damn it, he’d turned into something he vowed he never would be.
A motherfucking sellout.
Fuck his life.
He was itching for a cigarette. It was either that or he’d detonate a bomb in the middle of the stage if he would be subjected to another hour of this hot mess. Fortunately, the director called in for a thirty-minute break to adjust the lights and equipment.
“You hanging in there, man?” Dermont Keenan, a music mega producer and fellow judge asked. He was in this show for the past three seasons.
“Barely. Motherfucking A! My fucking eardrums were hurting from all that caterwauling. I don’t know how you all can stand this shit.” Great, he sounded like a sulking diva throwing a fit.
Dermont chuckled. “The last girl wasn’t that bad.”
He tilted his head to the side and gave his fellow judge a pointed look. “Don’t tell me your ears didn’t bleed. Dude, that wasn’t singing. That was screeching.”
Lilian Dowe, a popular RnB singer joined in.
“But Zeke, she was interpreting a Mariah Carey song!” she said in between giggles.
“That made it waaaay worse. Poor song choice,” he grumbled. “I need to get my ears checked after this.”
“Don’t worry, we’re about to wrap this shit up and call it a day,” Dermont offered in consolation.
“Good, because I’m about to put a bullet hole in my head to end my misery.”
Country legend Harmon Lorren, the fourth member of the panel signaled that the break was almost up and they all need to turn their chairs away from the stage for the next and last hopeful.
Hallow footsteps could be heard all the way from the parquet floor of the stage. Definitely male.
Familiar chords drifted around the auditorium, hitting him straight in the gut like a punch.
“Oh my fucking Zeus! Gimme a break,” he groaned inwardly.
“Man, this kid’s about to—”
“Sing ‘Passion’s Angel’. Believe me, I hear. For the tenth-fucking-time! So sick of these hacks butchering my song!”
“Guys!” Lilian shushed. “He’s about to start!”
Zeke slumped back in his chair, bored. He’d been bombarded by rock posers all day and this wannabe wouldn’t be any different—
His train of thought got derailed when the voice of the auditionee rendered the entire auditorium to a standstill.
Harmon, who was seated at the other end, turned; his silver eyes bulging from their sockets. “What the…!”
Zeke overheard Lilian’s delighted laugh. “Ohhhhhh! I want him!” she announced while hitting the button to rotate her chair.
The smile on Dermont’s face was huge. “Dude, this kid…he sounded just like…”
“Me,” Zeke finished for him.
“He’s gonna be on my team!” Dermont declared as he pressed the “yes” button.
“Not if I can help it!” Harmon challenged.
Zeke couldn't move as he anticipated the next lines of the song, right before the first instrumental break. When the kid effortlessly reached the high altitude notes, goosebumps all over his arms broke out.
Holy shit, this kid can takeover my gig and push me straight to retirement, he thought grimly. I’m done for.
He finally pressed the green button and what he saw on stage stupefied him.
“Not only does he eerily sounded like you, the kid even looked like you! The less cynical version...” Dermont said the obvious.
“You sure you didn't clone yourself, Zeke?” Lilian teased. “’Cause if you did, I wanna sign up!”
Zeke didn’t respond as his unbelieving eyes took in the teen singing his heart on stage. A teen who was a dead-ringer for him.
His shook his head, hoping to clear it.
The band came to a halt.
Harmon was the first to ask the kid. “Wow, what’s your name, man? You got some amazing pipes in there.”
“How old are you?” Lilian asked next.
The kid smiled.
“Jaeger Bailey. And I’m fifteen.”
Jaeger?! And he’s fifteen…
Zeke’s heart began to pummel against his ribcage. It can’t be…
“Did you say Jagger?” he found himself asking. He had to be sure…
The kid turned to him, his amber eyes piercingly familiar…
“Nope. It's Jaeger. J-a-e-g-e-r.”
“Jaeger’s a very cool name,” Harmon a
dded.
“Thanks. My mom said it meant "sharpshooter" in German.”
Zeke’s heart continued to pound painfully.
“Is your mom here with you, kid?”
The kid, Jaeger, blushed.
“Uhmmm...no. actually I didn't tell her until about ten minutes ago.”
Harmon chuckled.
“So you’ve run away to be here, in this audition? I have a feeling you're going to be in big trouble after this.”
Jaeger scratched the back of his head, looking very embarrassed.
Zeke used to do that when he was younger.
“What's your mother's name, kid?” he continued.
Lilian shrieked. “What? Why are you asking him that, Zee?”
“He was asking so he can sway the mom. You play dirty, Zee,” harmon added.
Zeke was unfazed. “Her name, kid?”
“Uhm…Tiara. Tiara Angela Bailey. She’s a chef.”
His jaw dropped in disbelief.
Then rage engulfed him.
Tiara Angela Bailey had a lot to answer for.
The Champ: Bad Boys Book 5 (The Bad Boys) Page 21