by Lyrica Creed
“Scarla,” I replied and put my own hand out.
“And you’re Gage’s sister?”
“Stepsister.” And then I amended, “Actually, ex-stepsister.”
“Ah. Thank God!”
“What do you mean?”
Caroline only beamed, letting the conversation drop when the band filed past. The audience began to shout the moment they spotted their idols.
Fire Flight rocked two more songs and then said their goodbyes for real. I saw Gage look across at me but we were separated by too many bodies, and he was bustled in the reigning chaos of camera phones and screaming fans.
“It was nice to meet you.” Caroline smiled as she herded her son and his friends off the stage and beyond.
I responded likewise and drifted along with them. The fence of security herded Fire Flight ahead, presumably to their dressing rooms, and I returned to the hospitality room. After a few minutes of smiling at the few strangers who shared the space with me, I felt out of sorts and wished I’d made more specific arrangements to meet up with Gage.
After a glass of wine and several more minutes, I tried to figure out transportation to his house. Possibly a cab. Or the chauffeur service he’d once texted to me.
“Ms. Smythe?” One of the faces I remembered from backstage entered the room and greeted me. He possessed a laminated pass like the one hanging around my neck. With a wave of his arm, he gestured, and I followed him into a crowded room.
Everyone seemed to have a drink in hand. The decibel level of many simultaneous buzzing conversations rumbled around me. Again, I was left on my own in the midst of a crowd triple the size of the hospitality room. I stifled the urge to run out as I took in the scene.
From the few who noticed my entrance, the reactions to my presence were varied. Women in barely there clothing glared, while a few flicked dismissive, bored glances over me. I recognized faces from the other bands who had played their sets before Fire Flight. A few men sized me up with interest—and at least a couple of lascivious leers—despite their arms being full of other women.
Coke was everywhere. The white powder dusted, dotted, lined, and littered flat surfaces around the room.
I was again plotting my getaway when I spotted Gage on a couch. He had been hidden from my direct view by the two women on his lap until one got to her feet. His hair was damp and waving about his face, and he wore the jeans and tee shirt he had left the house in earlier, instead of his stage getup. He was speaking intently to the remaining woman who was practically humping his leg, and his hand rested on the bare skin showing between her short shirt and the low waist of her jeans.
The beautiful girl smiled, putting her lips to his, and I averted my gaze. While seeing my rock star stepbrother on stage had filled me with pride, seeing him in full-on backstage rock star mode made me queasy.
Using both hands, he set his lap ornament aside, and was about to stand when the other girl returned and held a beer and something else out to him. He grinned his thanks, accepting the bottle, and that’s when his gaze roamed around the room and fell on me. His eyes widened, and he curved a pleased smile, instantly springing to his feet. The girl waved the device in her hand to get his attention, and he frowned at it before turning his back on the skank.
I basked in his purposeful stride toward me and returned his steadfast gaze as he crossed the room.
Colt, who was closer, intercepted and squeezed me in a hug. “Hey, Scarla. What can I do you for? There’s beer, wine, cocktail bags…”
“Scar.” Gage shouldered Colt aside. “Where’ve you been? I had to send out a search party.” As he joked, I noticed the girl who’d brought him the beer pinch her nostril and snort from the paraphernalia she had waved. I wondered if Gage would have partaken if he hadn’t looked up and found me watching. “What can I get the prettiest woman in the room to drink?”
“Your sister,” here Colt emphasized the sibling connection, “is the hottest, in or out of the room.” He grabbed my hand. “Follow me, Scarla. I’ll party you up.”
As I was literally dragged away by Colt, I craned my neck toward Gage and shrugged, unsure what to do. Snatching my arm from Colt’s grasp would cause a mini scene—one Colt didn’t deserve. He had, after all, been a complete gentleman to me and had come running to my rescue in the a.m. hours the night Gage had OD’d.
“You enjoy the show?” Colt kept up a conversation, ignoring the premixed drinks and making me one.
Mustering up all the enthusiasm I’d felt while watching the performance, I nodded and enthusiastically babbled. When I looked back to where we’d left Gage standing, women were once more draped all over him.
“Hoarding the smokin’ hottest babes all to yourself is not allowed!” The newcomer’s voice boomed as he approached.
I’d managed not to become flustered when Gage and Colt had lavished me with flattery. But when the famous drummer from one of tonight’s other bands perused me with a smoldering look while talking shit, I couldn’t control the embarrassed flush I felt staining my face.
“Fuck off!” Colt’s swear was light hearted and dished to the other guy with the barest quirk of a smile.
I accepted the drink he passed me and quickly took a gulp as the drummer returned, “No fuckin’ way. What’s your name, sugar pie?”
“Scarla.” A few sips fortified me enough to deal with a rowdy rock star, and I returned, “And yours? Sugar?”
Colt snorted in amusement and turned away to mix another drink presumably for himself. Gage fixed the drummer with a dark look as he moved closer with his current flock of groupies in tow.
“You make me laugh, sugar pie.” Obnoxious rock star hitched his chin up a notch. When his lips tipped, the lines around his mouth were more pronounced. “Haven’t had to introduce myself in a decade.”
A decade was laughable. The man had been a well-known face for two decades. He was clearly in denial of his true age, and the twenty-year-old women clinging to him seemed proof of the fact.
“Really? A decade? Everyone you’ve met during that time has psychic powers?” Here I bit the inside of my lip, aware I was being a bitch and that my prejudice against obnoxious celebrity musicians was goading me on.
A pucker of a confused frown creased the skin between his eyes. Instead of shooting me the finger or walking off, he shook off his own groupie women and swaggered closer. I wanted to step back when he invaded my space, but I rooted my feet to the floor. Combing his fingers through my hair, he stared into my eyes, and tipped his head downward. “I know you, don’t I? How well do I know you, Scarla?”
Again, I felt heat burning my face. Did he think I was a past one-night stand who was bitter at being cast aside? “You don’t. We haven’t met.”
“You don’t know her. She’s not from the States.” Gage now moved into our bubble of space. “You mind keeping your hands off my sister?”
Colt pushed the fresh drink at the drummer, obviously trying to aid Gage in diffusing things. Ignoring the plastic cup, Mr. Obnoxious peered more intently into my face. Realization dawned on his features and he blinked rapidly.
I fell a step back and wheezed a panicked breath. For a man who’d been too ignorant to understand my ‘it-would-take-a-psychic-to-know-his-name’ joke a minute ago, he certainly was quick to put two and two together from Gage’s careless sister comment.
“Scarlette. Scarlette Conterra.”
I felt my head bobble side to side in denial. My eyes darted, hoping no one else was listening. A few of the girls who remained attached to Gage, Colt, and the drummer had stilled and were scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes.
“That’s not her name.” Gage loomed even closer, practically a human shield between me and the rest of the room. His words were steely, and he stared hard at the side of the drummer’s face, but the guy hadn’t broken eye contact with me.
“You look just like him. My God, your eyes…”
‘Ghosted’ is what I’d privately labeled such scenarios in my past. It had happened on and off t
hrough the years. Former band members, friends of my father’s, or anyone who knew him from more than a picture, always had the same reaction when seeing me. Sometimes, after experiencing such moments, I’d studied my father’s pictures, striving to see myself as they saw me.
“No, she doesn’t.” This time, Gage put out an arm, swinging the other man around to face him. “You’ve mixed her up with someone else.”
The man came out of his astounded fugue and backed up a step. He nodded at Gage and then to me, but the knowledgeable light still burned bright in his gaze. “Yeah. I guess so. Now that I’ve taken a second look. Not sure what I was thinking… A pleasure—an honor—to meet you.”
I let out a relieved breath as the man moved away, casting one last look back toward me. He knew. No mistake. But I had misjudged him. He was cool. The girls followed him, bored with me now that I was once again a ‘nobody.’ Possibly, they were willing to believe the mistaken identity.
“I’m getting her out of here.” Gage already had me turned toward the door, and I allowed myself to be propelled forward. By the time we exited into the hallway, a large man fell into step beside us. I had heard Gage mention bodyguards and presumed from the way this man accompanied and parted the fray as we moved ahead that he was one. We dodged the many roaming people and Gage ignored the excited yells of his name as we rounded corners.
“Gage! Gage! I love you! Gage! Please!” Pleas and selfie sticks fell by the wayside as he crouched and like a bull, barreled his way through with me tucked under his arm.
We were picking up followers, and the bodyguard guy leaned to Gage. “Sir, where are you headed?”
“Just away.” Gage took a look behind us, and I saw the resignation and desperation on his face. “Away, please.”
The man ushered us into a side hall and then quickly into a room off the hall. The door clanged closed and the blissful sound of silence floated in a peaceful cloud around us.
“You okay?” Gage dropped the shelter of his arm from my shoulders but maintained contact when his hand slid down my arm.
“Damn. That was intense.” An ugly sense of déjà vu weighted my memories.
“Yeah. Well, I know you know how it is.”
But I didn’t anymore. My mom had moved us out of the country when she could no longer stand being the most hated woman in the rock world.
During her affair with Tyler Conterra, Henni Smythe had been loathed by female fans for being his baby mama, by male fans when their icon fell to the clutches of a woman who ran around on him, and by all fans when his depression supposedly caused by her constant infidelity had led to drug addiction and ultimately death. With Gage’s father, Henni had achieved for a short time an untouchable status with the press. But without him, she’d taken me and run when it all became too much.
Taking a look around, I saw a wall of active screen feeds. A guy wearing a staff shirt stood up from the observation deck. The two men spoke while glancing every so often toward Gage and me.
“I gotta text Bill.” Gage pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
“Is the helicopter our ride back to the house?”
“Unfortunately, it was only our way here.” His texting slowed and then stopped, and his eyes raked over me. “You’re shaking.”
“I should’ve brought the jacket.” I curved a smile at my jest and rubbed my arms even though I wasn’t cold. But Gage didn’t seem fooled.
“I’m sorry, Scar. I wasn’t thinking. I was an idiot.”
“I won’t deny the idiot part.” I lifted my brows and resisted sticking my tongue out at him like I did when we were kids. “But what are you sorry for?”
“For saying who you are. For saying something that had him putting the pieces together.”
“Mr. Remington?” Burly bodyguard dude appeared. “I’m going to escort you to your ride if you’ll just give me a moment.”
As the man spoke into his headpiece, assuring someone on the other end he had us safe, Gage and I moved closer to stare at the screens. It surprised me to see the party room we’d run from was monitored—as well as the stage area, the hallway outside the dressing rooms, and several other busy areas.
My eyes swung to the exterior camera footage.
Limousines and other vehicles were in a line. Fans dotted the area becoming a blob just outside the exit, and I worried. “Is that where we’ll be going? Will we go through the craze again?”
“We’ll keep you cloaked. I’ll make sure you’ve got shades and a hoodie. Whatever you need in case your picture is snapped. There’ll be no recognizing you, okay?”
I nodded, totally trusting him. Before I looked away from the screen, it came to life, the throng of people surging one way. Several people pushed through the crowd, and a limo door opened to admit them. One of the individuals turned back, looking almost directly at the camera before being shepherded into the car.
Ivy!
Chapter 20
“Sure it was her?”
“Yes!”
Her scream was so shrill, Gage almost plugged his ears.
“Why do you keep asking me that? Wait, the PI called, didn’t he?”
They were lying on the pad surrounded by pillows in the theater room watching DVR’s of ‘That Metal Show.’ He reached for the remote, backing the volume down. “He just texted.”
When Scarlette had seen her friend, he had hired an investigator to track the limo down and therefore Ivy. Earlier in the week, the Private Investigator had reported to them. He’d made prints from the video, traced the limo by the license plate, and had questioned the occupants. The girl hadn’t been Ivy. Gage had demanded the investigator check into it more and hadn’t told Scarlette yet. Until now. Now because he’d gotten a text confirming his guy had a face to face with both the drivers and the passengers in the car. They had all named the same girl who wasn’t Ivy. Now he pulled the picture up for Scarlette.
“This is who they are saying the girl is. She’s the girlfriend of one of the band members.”
She took his phone from him and stared for several long seconds. Her hand fell to the cushion, and then she sat up and studied it again. “This isn’t who I saw.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. But I don’t know what more to do. Do you want me to have him watch the house?”
“Which house? There were three others in the car besides her.”
Exactly. He watched the emotions play over her face and hated feeling helpless.
“Besides, it would cost a lot. To have him do that.” She passed the phone back.
“Doesn’t matter. Hell, Scarlette, we’re the lucky ones. We never have to worry about money.”
She remained quiet, her hands now folded across her stomach just above the waistline of her distressed black denim shorts.
“We’ll get someone on all the houses. Don’t think about the cost. I’ve spent money on stupid shit. I bet you have too.” Now she twisted a wry smile, and happy to see that curve of her lips, he teased. “Yeah? Really? I was joking about you. What has the practical and responsible Scarlette splurged on?”
“Does my mom’s psychic count?”
Her grin had been deceiving, and now his own fell away as he noted the tinge of bitterness coating her inquiry.
“Your mom has a psychic?” Of course she did, whether she wanted one or not, it was fashionable. And the Henni Smythe he remembered was fashionable at all costs…
“Had a psychic.” Her lips pursed, and this time he recognized the hostility. “When she ran up an arrears balance of more than fifty thousand, he quit seeing her.”
The anger in his chest burned so strongly that he pressed his fingers to his ribcage. It was something he’d never considered, but should have known. He wondered how much of Scarlette’s inheritance the woman had blown through. He now reflected how fortunate it was that half of Tyler Conterra’s estate had been socked back into a trust fund.
The press was abuzz regarding Scarlette Conterra’s up
coming birthday since the amount had quadrupled three times over since his death. Already rock royalty, Scarlette was about to inherit another fortune and reign.
Since her father’s name was everywhere lately, it was no surprise when almost on cue, an ad trailer previewed an upcoming documentary and Tyler Conterra’s face filled the screen.
The resemblance between father and daughter was striking, now that Scarlette was only a few years younger than her father had been in his last pictures.
Her eyes fixated on the screen, and he curled his grip around the remote in case she wanted the channel switched away from what she was seeing. The thirty-second preview soon faded to the show they had been watching, and he let the clicker fall again.
His fingertips skimmed her hair. For the fiftieth time, he studied the unnatural shade and realized how stupid he’d been to blow the cover she’d so carefully created. “I thought you just decided to go red.” Hell, in his defense, women changed hair colors like shoes… “But it’s to help you stay down?”
“Yeah. These eyes when combined with that weird blondish-brown hair color make it impossible for me to hide.” She was still lying down, and she crossed her bare ankles. “You missed my raven years.”
“I’m glad. Can’t picture you with black hair.” He sifted the tresses through his fingers and looked up from her sexy manicured toes—toes he had the sudden urge to run his tongue over. “Red though… You look good in red.”
His fingertips slipped to her chin, and his callused thumb ran over the softness of her lips. Her lashes flickered in initial surprise and then her eyelids seemed to fall instinctively closed.
“Is it hard for you? The twentieth coming up?”
As well as Scarlette coming of trust fund age, the press had been gearing up for the twentieth anniversary of Tyler Conterra’s death. Books, documentaries, new ‘never before released’ footage and pictures. The event was only a couple of weeks away. And she was in L.A. looking for her friend instead of safe from the media on an island in Seychelles or somewhere equally as desolate.
He wasn’t speaking only of the hype surrounding the upcoming date, and he knew she wasn’t either when her reply was a whisper.