No Place to Hide (Rocking Racers Book 2)

by Megan Lowe

  He chuckles and scratches at his beard. If I had to guess I’d say he’s mid to late forties, about five foot nine with auburn hair, amused brown eyes, and a beer gut.

  “My mother tells me you’re not on her approved list of reporters.”

  “Surely she’d have to know who I am to disapprove of me,” he says as he takes a seat at my table.

  I shrug. “I don’t doubt she does.”

  “But you don’t,” he says, stealing one of my sweet potato fries.

  “I don’t care who you are, my mother doesn’t like you. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Rumour has it you’ll only deal with me.”

  “Rumours can be misleading.”

  “Is this one?”

  I take a bite and swallow before I answer. “No.” He smiles triumphantly.

  “So just who do you work for?” I ask as he settles in, ordering his own meal. It’s a good thing; I’d hate to kill the only journo I’m willing to work with because he ate all my chips.

  “I’m a freelance journalist and a consultant with a small public relations firm.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “So that’s how we’re going to play it?”

  “Do you care who I work for?”

  I shake my head as I take a sip of my cider. “No, but just to be clear, you are a real journo, aren’t you?”

  “Just what is a real journo?” Frank muses. “These days anyone with an iPad and a blog can call themselves a journalist.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” I point out.

  “I have twenty-three years experience in the music, print, and public relations industries,” he finally gives me.

  “You’ve followed my band’s career?”

  He nods. “From the start.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  I glare at him. “You’re supposed to be convincing me to screw over my mother by working with someone she clearly doesn’t like. Don’t ruin it by playing dumb with me, Frank.”

  He chuckles. “You were a breath of fresh air when you surfaced. Five girls, the youngest barely a teenager, who rocked and rocked hard. In a market dominated by artificial, cookie-cutter pop stars, you girls offered a real alternative.”

  “And now?”

  “You still have a massive, and more importantly, loyal fan base. That’s good.”

  “But?”

  “But it doesn’t exactly inspire growth. If you have a million people who are content to eat up the same shit you’ve always served, from a business point of view that’s great, there’s no risk there. From an artist’s point of view, however....”

  “It gets old,” I finish for him.

  He smiles. “Exactly.” His meal is put down in front of him and he wastes no time digging in.

  I lean back in my chair, my own meal abandoned for the moment. “What did you think of the new stuff I played?”

  “The Palais show?” he asks through a mouthful. We make quite a pair. I nod. He puts down his burger and swallows. “I think they’re exactly what you need in order to move the band forward.”

  “So you think it would be worth our while to record them? Release them as an EP?”

  “I’ve been saying you girls need to do something different for years.”

  I tilt my head, considering him. “How is it you’ve managed to escape the wrath of my mother? If you’ve been expressing a minority opinion, it’s a wonder she hasn’t had you killed.”

  “Well, I have made her shitlist, so I wouldn’t say I’ve escaped her wrath. As for her not putting a hit out on me? Not being known by my real name helps,” he says, a smile on his face.

  “Except now she knows who you are and all of your secret identities, Clark Kent. Surely that’s not part of your master plan?”

  “Isn’t it? I’m now the only journo you’ll deal with. Seems like things are working out just fine.”

  I laugh. “Come on, let’s finish up here. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

  We finish eating and pay before I lead him to a nondescript, unmarked black door equipped with a passcode lock in the formerly seedy northern end of the CBD. I type in the digits needed and open the door. Immediately the sound of Blake whaling on the drums hits us.

  “A studio?” Frank asks.

  I smile and gesture inside with my head. “Come on.”

  We walk down a dimly lit corridor before I go into the first room we reach.

  “Quinn,” I say, getting her attention, “meet my favourite journo, Frank.”

  “Hi Frank,” she says, offering her hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, shaking her hand. He takes a look around. “Who’s producing this?” he asks finally.

  “I am,” I say proudly.

  “Does your mother know you’re doing this? How are you managing to get around her? Who’s paying for all this?”

  “Is this off the record?” I ask.

  He waves a hand. “Sure, although I bet there’d be a huge response if people knew you were putting down these new tracks.”

  “The stuff about my mother stays off the record, the rest you can do with what you like.” He nods. “And in response to your question, we’re taking turns in occupying my mother. She has ideas about a perfume line. I’m sure she knows we’re doing this but is indulging us for the moment. She probably thinks we’re doing this for fun.”

  “But it’s not,” Frank says.

  “No it’s not. You’re not the only one in the business who thinks we should branch out.”

  “Your record company has approved this?”

  I nod.

  “Wow. So what have you got so far?”

  “Not too much. Obviously we can’t all be here all the time, so we’ve had to get as much down as we can, when we can. Things are a bit of a mess at the moment, but we’ve made a good start on a couple of the new tracks.”

  I play him what I’ve put together while Blake takes a break.

  “So what do you think?” I ask once he’s finished.

  “I think they’re good, great in fact.”

  “But?”

  “You’re overcompensating.”

  “What?”

  “You’re overcompensating, trying too hard to make up for the fact you don’t actually want to be here.”

  “Okay, Yoda, where do I really want to be?”

  He gives me a wry smile. “Yoda and Clark Kent in one day? A guy could get used to that.”

  “Frank.”

  “Only you can answer that, McKnley, but I think you need to stop hiding out here and find out.”

  Ugh, there’s that word again. But does Frank-Yoda-Clark Kent have a point?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Knley

  Quinn and I are finishing up one afternoon later that week when I ask her the question that’s been plaguing me for days.

  “Do you think I’m overcompensating with these new songs?”

  She sighs and starts picking at the mixing board. “I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take you to ask me that.”

  “How’d I do?”

  “Took you longer than I thought.”

  I nod. I can deal with that. “So?”

  “You are putting a lot of effort into these tracks,” she says diplomatically.

  “Too much?”

  “Can you put too much effort into something?”

  “Quinn.”

  “Ugh, fine,” she says, spinning to face me. “I don’t think you’re overcompensating with the music. It sounds phenomenal. But I think you are by living and breathing this 24/7. You’ve barely stopped since we did the show three weeks ago.”

  My shoulders slump. Quinn comes over and hugs me. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just I know there are certain things—”

  “You mean people,” I correct.

  “I didn’t want to say it, but since you brought it up, I don’t think you’ve fully dealt with your break-up with Cole.”

  I blow out a breath. “H
e thinks I’m still hiding.” When she doesn’t say anything, my anger begins to rise. “You agree with him?”

  “I’ve told you before what I think.”

  I slump down in my seat.

  “Look,” she pats my knee, “I get why you do it, truly I do, but I think the point Cole was making, which is more than valid, is that you don’t need to hide with him. In fact, he should probably be the one person you don’t hide from.”

  “So you do think he has a point.”

  “Doesn’t he? Look at us, Knley, we’re all, all five of us, grown women who still let our mother control our lives. This, these new tracks, are the first time we’ve done something on our own, something that we want to do, just for us. We’ve all been hiding behind her, not just you.”

  “But I could be doing more, is what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying you’re twenty-seven years old. It’s time you left the comfort of Mummy’s arms and make your place in the world.”

  “No pun intended, right?”

  “Oh God, I hadn’t even realised I’d done that.” We both laugh. “Cole’s a good guy, Knley, no matter what Ashton thinks of him and his ‘type,’” she says, making air quotes. “You’re good together. He brings out a lightness in you that I haven’t seen in a long time, if ever. Don’t lose that because you’re scared or too stubborn or whatever it is that’s holding you back. He’s the one you’re meant to be with. The time you were with Cole you were happy, genuinely happy, which made such a change from the façade you showed the world before. Since then, the spark that was in your eyes has gone. No, you haven’t broken down, but you’ve thrown yourself into this project and it’s not only because you want it done that badly. It’s because you’re using it to fill the hole Cole left when you broke up. You know we love you no matter what, but we want you to be happy, and Cole does that. He pisses you off, pushes you, but you’re never really happy unless someone is challenging you. Cole understands that. He brings out the best parts of you, Knley, parts I haven’t seen since we were kids. Don’t let Mum and the life we lead take that away from you. Don’t let them take him away from you. You deserve to be happy, we all do. Cole is your happy.”

  “I know he is,” I say sadly. My heart aches when I think about him, which is often. I’ve missed him every single day we’ve been apart. “What day is it today?” I ask, a million thoughts running through my head.

  “Sunday,” Quinn answers, confusion in her voice and on her face.

  I glance quickly at my watch. Two thirty. If I hurry, I might be able to catch the end of his race. “I’ve got to go. Will you be okay to lock up here?”

  “Sure, there’s security so I’ll be fine, but where are you going?”

  “Home. Cole’s racing this weekend, and I want to watch him. If I leave now, I should make it in time.” Despite what he thinks, I always knew when he was racing, even if I couldn’t bring myself to watch. I grab my stuff and rush out the door.

  I hail the first taxi I see, and we make it about half a kilometre before we hit traffic. I sit there impatiently tapping my foot as we get nowhere fast. Looking out the window, I spot the waved roof of Southern Cross station. I’m not a fan of public transport, but at this rate I’m willing to give it a go. Throwing a couple of dollars at the driver, I hop out.

  The ticket machines are a pain in the arse. I mean, what the fuck is a myki? Nevertheless I manage to get one of the fucked-up cards and race to the escalators. Luckily for me, four different lines run through the station closest to my house, and one of them is about to leave just as I reach the platform. I squeeze through the doors as they’re closing and take a seat across from a group of teenagers, three girls and two guys, all decked out in their punk rock finest. They look like me ten years ago.

  “Hey,” one of the girls says, “aren’t you McKnley Rhodes?”

  I nod. “That’s me.”

  “Places used to be like, one of my favourite bands.”

  “Used to be?”

  She nods. “Yeah, I grew out of your stuff.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Well fuck me dead.

  “What do you listen to now?”

  “Halestorm, PVRIS, A Day to Remember, stuff like that.”

  “And we’re not like them?”

  “Not anymore,” she says, a hint of disgust in her voice.

  “Those new songs, the ones youse played at the Palais, they were all right but,” one of the guys says.

  “You’ve heard them?”

  “They were all over Facie,” the first girl says.

  “You liked them?” They all nod.

  “They’re different,” another girl pipes up. “All your other stuff sounds the same.”

  “Are you gonna release ’em?” the second guy asks.

  “We’re recording them right now,” I tell them, and their faces light up.

  “Awesome,” the first girl says.

  “Thanks.” I give her a smile.

  “Can I get a selfie?”

  After what feels like a hundred photos with the same duck face pout, I leave the train with a spring in my step. I make it home and am pleased to find the race is only three laps old. Liam is out in front, as usual, and a quick perusal tells me Cole is down in eighth. From the commentary I learn he qualified there. It’s good he hasn’t dropped any spots, but he hasn’t gained any either.

  “Come on, handsome,” I encourage.

  He’s in a tough battle with four other riders, but I know he can get past them. The commentators, however, think otherwise.

  “We’ve got a good battle for fifth going on right now, and I’m surprised to see Cole Matthews is able to stay with this group. He qualified in eighth position, which given his form lately, was a surprise.”

  “I agree,” the other commentator says. “At the start of the season we all thought he was a great signing, but I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying the Ryans would be disappointed in what he’s managed to achieve so far.”

  “Absolutely,” the first commentator says. “As a junior, I’m pretty sure we all thought he was destined for the MotoGP, but that promise seems to have slipped by him.”

  “He did have a decent run when he was in Europe a few months ago though.”

  “Riding a Moto2 bike. MotoGP and the NRS are a whole different kettle of fish.”

  “That’s true, but for the moment he’s doing well sticking with this group. Only time will tell if he’s able to keep it up.”

  For the next couple of laps Cole battles away, moving up to seventh. At one stage he gets up to sixth but can’t make it stick. On the tenth lap though, he’s finally able to make the move stick and is in sixth. There’s a bit of a gap between the group he’s in and the guy in fourth. There’s enough time left in the race for him to get up there, but only if he gets past the guy in front of him quickly. He tries a couple of times but decides against the move; in doing so, though, he opens the door for the guy behind him, who doesn’t hesitate, pushing Cole back to seventh again.

  “Shit,” I curse. It’s now twelve laps down with ten to go. If Cole wants to fight for a podium, he’s got to make his move soon.

  For the next lap, he’s right on the back of the guy in front of him, pushing him, trying to force him into a mistake. It happens on the first corner of the thirteenth lap, when both he and the guy in fifth run wide, allowing Cole to slip by them.

  “That’s it, handsome.” I smile. As if he can hear me, he manages to find another tenth of a second on that lap, posting the fastest time of the race.

  With the rider in fourth running almost a second and a half slower, Cole catches up to him and passes him in no time. But now there’re only seven laps left, and third place is still a ways off.

  “Robinson has been solid all weekend,” the commentators tell me. “He’s been running quick times and looks to be matching Matthews in pace.” I grit my teeth. Robinson is the guy who took Cole out in his first race, denyi
ng Cole a podium finish and causing his engine to blow.

  “I wonder if there are any thoughts of payback running through Matthews’s mind?” the other commentator asks. “After all, Robinson did take Matthews out during the opening round.”

  “He’d say otherwise,” Dickhead One, as I’m going to rename him, says, “but they’d have to be there, especially when presented with an almost exact replay of the situation.”

  I scoff. They clearly don’t know Cole if they think that’s what’s running through his mind. Right now the only thing he’d be concerned with is getting past the rider in third. He wouldn’t care if it were Robinson or anyone else on that bike. The only thing Cole would care about is that he’s in the position he wants. Lap after lap, Cole and Robinson battle, but for all Cole’s effort, Robinson is always just that little bit too far away to pass. Finally it comes down to the last lap. I’m at the edge of my seat, my fingernails long gone, my leg bouncing from the tension. They’re a quarter of the way through when Cole gets his chance, ducking past Robinson on the inside.

  “Woo!” I scream, getting to my feet.

  My joy is short-lived when a couple of corners later Robinson manages to barge his way through. Cole has to pick the bike up to avoid getting caught in Robinson’s machine. That looks to be it as they race through the back half of the track. They explode onto the finishing straight, Cole tucked tight in Robinson’s slipstream, and at the last second he pulls out and charges for the line. They hit it at the same time, the difference, if any, indiscernible to the naked eye. Dickheads One and Two are raving about the finish, but my eyes focus on Cole. He’s sitting up, acknowledging the crowd, but from the glimpse of a smile I can see through his visor, he thinks he got there.

  The finish is played again several times and at varying speeds, the superslow mo finally confirming Cole has taken the final spot on the podium.

  “Yes!” I scream, dancing around my living room.

  A dollar short and more than a minute too late, Dickheads One and Two are praising Cole’s performance, going on about how they always knew he had the potential and how great a rider he is. I can’t stand to listen to their bullshit any longer and mute the TV, enjoying watching Cole soak up his hard-fought-for podium place.