by Lyrica Creed
“Would you like me to open it?” Drying her hands on the frilly apron at her waist, the exotic woman moved to a control box. “Lovely day.”
To my surprise, the glass slid back into itself and then into the wall until the outside blended with the inside. Smiling and thanking her, I wandered onto the polished planks, drawn closer to the view down the mountainside. One level down was an infinity pool, and I descended the steps to stand at the edge of that patio, viewing the steep decline.
The city lay below—a slightly different view than I had from my bathroom. I checked the texts and emails on my phone while finishing my coffee and made my way back up to the house. The maid was no longer in sight, but a plate of muffins covered in plastic wrap adorned the butcher-block island.
I wrapped one in a napkin and strolled to the other windows in the kitchen and adjoining great room. The first bite halted me in my tracks, and I took another, savoring the lemony sweet goodness and burst of flavor from the seeds dotting it. There was still no sign of Gage or the dog I’d seen the night before. After throwing my trash away, I explored the rest of the house while mentally working out my search plans for Ivy.
The outside walls of the bottom floor were almost all glass, with plank patios and cushy outside furnishings beyond. I assumed they might all be slide-back walls like the one in the great room. Besides what I’d already seen, the downstairs included a bedroom, which the maid was moving about in, and a locked door.
Spying a descent of stairs beyond an arched doorway, I moved in that direction.
Framed press clippings and gold and platinum singles and albums decorated the walls on either side of the curving stairway. The last step dropped me into a room resembling a movie theater, and I paused in awe.
Directly in front of me was a bar with four stools behind it, facing the large screen on the wall several levels down. Behind the stools were shelves of liquor and boxes of snacks. A popcorn machine looked at home in the corner of this area. A level down, pushed up against the front of the bar was a giant lounging pad with numerous pillows of all shapes and sizes stacked along the wall that made up the bar front. I easily imagined sprawling out on it right now and watching a movie.
But I walked down the next level to the back row of recliner seats. There were four on this level, and then two, each wide enough for two people on the next levels. Narrow tables with cup holders nestled between the cushy leather lounging chairs.
And on the last level, directly in front of the large screen, was a thick white furry rug.
My thoughts went again to the night before, wishing things had gone differently, and that Gage and I had ended up in here watching Spiderman or The Fantastic Four. He had changed into such an ass. I couldn’t see a movie night happening now, even if I ended up staying a week while searching for Ivy.
Picking up the nearby remote, I sank to the footrest of one of the comfy chairs. My thumb pressed the power button, and the screen flickered to life.
The scene was a guitar close up with long, strong fingers spidering up and down the frets. Surround sound pounded out the tune of the performing band, and I hastily lowered the volume. The camera backed away, bringing the guitarist slowly into full view, and I gasped when Gage appeared, larger than life. His head bobbed with the beat as he played, his restless feet moving a step here and there. The camera panned out more, and gradually the entire band came into view.
Many times, I’d listened to Fire Flight or watched the band’s videos. After all, Gage was the closest I’d ever had to a big brother, so I was proud of his talent and accomplishment. However, it was odd watching him onscreen now when I was immersed in his world.
The enjoyment he found in his playing was evident in the euphoric expressions playing over his face and his body language. Every move was an assimilation of the sound.
And then he stepped closer to the mic and began to sing as he played. His voice sent shivers shooting through me. He was beautiful and oh-so-talented. It was hard to believe the asshole who was either sleeping off a hangover upstairs or had left without a word before I woke was the same man.
My mind drifted away from the stress of my missing friend. I settled more comfortably in the chair and watched until the set came to an end and faded to black. From what I could tell, I’d been viewing a recorded version of one of Fire Flight’s live performances. A video company and contact information were the only credits that rolled when it ended.
A menu appeared on the screen with the choices repeat, main menu, or guide. I chose guide and channel surfed. When was the last time I’d whiled away a half hour watching TV? Besides, I was uneasy wandering around his house while he was nowhere to be seen. So I stayed put, pausing on one channel or another, here and there. Not necessarily because something caught my interest, but because my thoughts were once more rampant with where to begin my search for Ivy.
Should I bother my stepfather while he was out of town on business? Gage might be able to point me in the right direction or make an introductory phone call for me.
Another flip of the channel had me catching my breath again. I’d landed on the Playboy channel or some similar station. The passionate couple onscreen were getting sexy beneath an outdoor shower. Instead of navigating to another network, I glanced back to the open door at the foot of the staircase and darted up the levels to close it. Interestingly enough, it had a lock, and I twisted it before sitting back down and propping my feet up.
My fascination with porn was something I had fought in my teen years. But as I grew older, the guilt gradually faded. It wasn’t as if I was into the hard stuff. I simply liked to watch sex. It cleansed my mind of my problems.
Also, it did what it was supposed to do—stirred my libido. And this aided me in my own stress relief. Sex had never been what it was hyped up to be. Although Derrick got me close, no one had ever really rung my bell. Watching sexy films or looking at pictures allowed me to take care of myself—no men needed.
Not that I was comfortable enough to do that here even with the door locked. Besides, seeing so much skin—and body parts—on a large screen was weird. After a quarter of an hour I turned the power off and headed back upstairs to see if Gage had appeared.
The first floor was quiet. There were no sounds or sign of the housekeeper even. Trekking up the stairs, I passed my bedroom. Pausing before the door at the end of the hall where I’d last seen Gage, I knocked. When there was no answer, I twisted the latch.
Despite the time of day, the room was pitch dark except for the illumination cast from the muted television. Wearing only black Diesel briefs, Gage was sprawled atop the sheets in a huge bed with his dog lying near his feet. The canine’s ears perked as he eyed me, but the animal made no sound or move to leave his sleeping master.
There was no explanation for the phenomenon happening next. I blamed it on the video clip of him still swirling in my head along with the sexy flick just minutes ago. I stood, helplessly frozen, admiring his shadowy body. Even worse, despite him being a narcissistic rock star and my almost brother, I felt a tug of attraction.
He stirred for a split second and woke with a start. “Scarlette! What the hell?” In a reflexive motion, he grasped the edge of the cover sheet, pulling it up to his waist.
I couldn’t see his face, but his aggravated tone had my feet moving back a step. “Yeah, sorry. I just needed to ask you some stuff.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost two.”
A cross sound between a growl and a groan hissed through his lips, and he sat up, scrubbing at his eyes.
“Um, do you have anything for a headache?” Unconsciously, I pulled at my ponytail, loosening it.
“Like what? Like Tylenol?” He seemed to wait for a cue, and I wondered what else he had for a headache. Thanks to the media, it was no secret my stepbrother battled chemical addiction and had recently been in rehab after being so strung out he almost nodded off during a talk show.
Hoping I’d misread that curious gleam in his
eyes, I nodded. “Or aspirin. I can get it if you just say where.”
“Bathroom.” He tipped his head toward a closed doorway to the left of his bed. “The top drawer on the end. And could you grab my phone? It’s in the dock right there by the shower.”
Natural light spilled through the bathroom windows. Dodging a towel on the floor, I found a bottle of over-the-counter pain-relief easily enough and shook two out. I turned for his phone and paused, enthralled by the view inside the yawning glass door of the shower stall.
The large rectangular tiles were shiny and white—and scrawled on. Automatically, my brain registered the words directly in my gaze.
Once upon a time when you were mine.
We murdered happily ever after, fairy tales, and rhymes.
Lyrics? Obviously. He’d always been a musician, through and through.
Every wall of the cavernous shower was spotted in places with red and black lyric graffiti verses. An Expo marker rested on a tiled ledge.
Distorted flickers of reality,
Contorted givers of immortality,
Aborted triggers of fatality.
I had even overlooked a few verses on the glass shower door.
She fed me and bled me, a woman so deadly.
Some of the lettering was slightly faded. Definitely not something done in the course of one shower.
“You find it?”
“Yeah.” I shook from the surprised spell and grabbed the phone. “I was just looking at your shower décor.” I babbled, hoping he didn’t think I was nosing around the couple of prescription bottles also rolling around in the drawer where I’d found the medicine. “The lyrics.” I prompted with a grin when I saw he was clueless.
“Oh. Those.” His gaze followed my progress across the room, and he returned my smile. “Inspiration strikes in the shower.”
On your knees,
so eager to please…
Shaking away the lyrics implanted like snapshots in my mind, I tossed his phone to land beside him on the bed, and tried not to wonder why I was fetching it instead of him getting up already. But it was impossible not to speculate. Was he sporting morning wood? At the threshold to the hallway, I called over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Yeah. To you too. I’ll be down in a minute.”
I waited in the kitchen, on a stool, cradling a fresh mug of coffee and eating another of the delicious muffins.
Gage showed up and crossed directly to the waiting breakfast plate. He plucked a muffin and slid a coffee cup beneath the maker. His actions seemed routine.
He wore jeans and a faded vintage Beatles tee and sported a spicy, soapy fresh-from-the-graffiti-shower aroma.
Tilting my head toward the housekeeper, who held a bottle of spray and wiped down the outside furniture with vigorous hand movements, I asked, “What happens when she gets to your shower?”
“All concerned about clean sheets and showers, aren’t you?” He raised an inquiring brow, but squinted in what looked to be remorse when I felt my face flame. “Sorry about being a shit last night.” A spoon clinked against the side of his mug as he stirred in sugar while answering my question. “I take a picture of my notes and make a big ‘X’ on the door when it’s safe to clean.
“The life of a rock star.” Possibly, there was a tone in my sassy answer, because his eyes narrowed again, this time in contemplation, and I added my apology. “I’m sorry too. I can be a bitch. And last night I was.”
He nodded in acknowledgment and reached for another muffin.
“Those are really good.” Eager to dispel the awkward aura, I nodded to the remaining half a dozen on the plate.
“Poppy seed. I think.” He picked up the plate revealing an index sized card. “Yep. Lemon Poppy Seed.” Obviously, he felt the same because he engulfed the second helping as quickly as the first.
“The recipe?” I wondered, when after reading the card, he carelessly let it fall onto the countertop. With a shake of his head, he explained that the name of the dish, the ingredients, and any serving instructions were always left along with the food.
The ingredients but not the measurements. It seemed weird. But when I voiced it aloud, he thought my question just as weird.
“In case of food allergies. Why? You wanna bake muffins, Scar?”
The teasing glow in his eyes took me back to our teenaged days, and I enjoyed the fuzzy feelings. “Maybe.” He eyed me again, and I turned to the window to escape this familiar and yet unfamiliar gaze.
I waited until he’d had a few sips of his coffee and then asked if he had a car I could borrow.
“Where are you planning to go?”
“I’m not sure. I thought you could help me figure that out.”
I told him the story of Ivy. “It was her dream to meet those guys. She’s talked about them and downloaded or bought every Rageon song for years. When she told me they were playing at Key Arena, I emailed your dad, and he was great enough to send VIP passes and tickets to ‘Will Call.’” Here I paused, remembering Gage and I had gone to a couple of concerts in that venue.
Gage fixed himself another cup of coffee, and I watched his movements, studying the black circles beneath his eyes as I resumed.
“I was going to fly into Seattle and go with her. But I didn’t end up having the money and was slammed with assignments due. At the last second, she went with a friend.”
He was listening intently as he seized yet another muffin and pushed the plate my way.
“No thanks. Anyway, Ivy texted a couple of times during the concert and throughout the after-party, sending me pics and uploading pics and videos to Instagram. She was thanking me and saying what a blast she was having…”
My eyes fell to my lap, and I could feel his gaze on the side of my face.
“The last texts I got said something about how great the guys were. She’d been invited onto their bus and was having drinks and on her way to the next venue with them. She sent me a pic of the inside of the bus. And I never heard from her again.”
“When? How long ago was this?”
“About a month ago. When she didn’t answer my texts or calls for a few days, I called her mother.” Even though Ivy didn’t live at home anymore, her mom was worried as she’d never gone a full day without talking to her. “Her mom filed a missing person report, but nothing is coming of it. The authorities don’t seem serious about it, given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances?”
“You know. Girl idolizes rock band. Most likely goes on the road with rock band if that’s where she was last seen.”
“And it was Rageon, you said?”
“Yeah. Her voicemail filled up and stayed that way. And now her number is disconnected.” I added the last bit of information to convince him this wasn’t a ‘runaway with the band’ scenario.
He rubbed a finger to his chin, thoughtful, and I noticed that although his hair was drying in damp waves from a shower, he hadn’t shaved.
“If I think on it a minute, I’m sure I can figure out some link I have to someone who knows one of them or where they hangout.”
“Thank you!”
“But I can’t go with you or anything. I’m on a deadline in the studio. You can use one of my cars—or my driving service.”
Chapter 9
“Well, I’m off!” Scarlette’s voice floated ahead of her. She appeared in the doorway of his studio before Gage could respectfully cover the evidence of the line he’d just blown.
Her brows puckered in a disapproving frown. Since she’d already seen it, instead of putting it away, he stood, rounding the table his goodies were spread upon.
“To the Rainbow?” He’d told her about two women who worked at the bar and grill and who frequently partied with Rageon, among other bands.
“Yeah.” Her eyes were now scanning the gear, equipment, and furnishings in the room.
Since he kept the room locked, especially when anyone was over like his hookup the previous night, he knew this was the first
look she was getting of this room. Her eyes seemed wider in appreciation of all she was seeing—except for the drug paraphernalia.
“Wow. So after the shower, this is where it all happens, huh?” She’d trailed around equipment and cords to stand before a rack of guitars. Turning to face him, she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.
He couldn’t get used to the new color of her hair. It was beautiful on her. But he’d grown up with a Scarlette whose childhood golden blonde hair had gradually turned a sunny shade of brown when she became a teen.
“Yeah. My part of it anyway.”
“You write the songs?”
“Mostly.”
“They’re great, Gage. You’ve done well.”
After her anger the night before and semi-chilly demeanor today, the sincerity of the compliment threw him for a moment. And because she was practically his sister, it embarrassed him. Strangers could sing their praises all day and all night. But it felt odd coming from someone who knew him so well.
“Know how to get there?” He changed the subject. He’d offered to call his driver service, but she’d turned that down.
“I’m sure my phone’s map app will get me there fine.”
“The cars all have maps too.”
“Cars?” The ‘S’ hissed in emphasis at the end of the one word question.
He walked her to the garage. The light flickered on the moment he opened the door. Motioning her ahead of him, he paused before entering to select from the fobs hanging in the key panel. Following her, he found her again surveying her surroundings with her lips agape.
“Do I get to pick?” She ran her fingertips over the hood of a bronze Bentley.
“Hell to the no!” He feigned horror.
“C’mon. I’m a good driver…” She’d moved on to his yellow Lotus Esprit GTA.
“And that’s why you wrecked your Subi the day after your sixteenth birthday.”
“It wasn’t the day after. And that wreck wasn’t my fault.” Stopping before his Ducati bike, she regarded it.
“Says you.” He joked, knowing full well the fender bender she’d been in as a teen and had texted him pictures of, hadn’t been her fault. He held up the key fob.