by Lyrica Creed
I could have been any rock star’s kid. My mom dated dozens of famous musicians over a decade and a half, and I use the word dating very loosely. Any one of them could’ve been the one.
But I hit the rock star daddy lottery.
That’s what people are acting like anyway. It’s sickening.
I’m Scarlette Conterra daughter of Tyler Conterra, rock icon who fatally overdosed three weeks shy of joining the twenty-seven club. His millions multiplied into billions over twenty years, and I’m days away from reaching trust fund age.
I’m not going to lie and say it won’t give me a thrill never again to worry about paying my bills. Being offered my own onyx charge plate and invited into elite social sites is also a strange kick. But I’d give it all up and go back to bartending my way through college to have one real memory of my dad—one little clip in my head or fuzzy image that I know for certain is not part of a YouTube video or a Google Image.
I can’t imagine anyone will believe that. But it’s true.
*
Achy eyes and blurred vision kept me from continuing. My thumb rested on the keypad of my phone while I squinted the almost tears away and read what I’d typed.
What the hell?
I was supposed to be writing a two-hundred-word essay on ‘The Biggest Misconception About You.’ It was one of five such questions on the application to my dream college of naturalistic medicine.
This rambling monologue, although very true, was unacceptable.
Extremely personal.
Bringing up a new screen, I watched the icon blink and thought back to a couple of months ago. What was the biggest misconception about Scarla Smythe? Never mind that girl faded into nothingness a few nights ago on the red carpet.
Scarla Smythe was safe.
Scarlette Conterra was terrifying.
Chapter Gage
So damn sexy. In body and soul. And she was his girl.
For now.
The clock in his head never stopped these days. Rehab loomed closer with each second, waiting to take him from her.
He was going to miss her birthday. He was going to miss her everything. For months. It made him crazy to think about, especially when their relationship was so new.
Sifting through the pictures his publicist had sent, Gage stopped on one.
Scarlette stepping from the limo, protectively centered with him on one side and Colt on the other. His hand was behind her, resting on her back. Colt’s hand was curved above her elbow. Her dazzling smile looked as natural as if she’d been appearing at publicity events forever. It was Colt and he who were glaring into the camera lens.
One or both of them had remained protectively by her side the entire evening, sometimes both holding her hands at the same time, and sitting on either side of her at the feature. For once, he hadn’t wanted to punch Colt for having his hands on her.
The two of them appearing together with her saved any speculation in the tabloids that would have occurred if she had shown up alone with him. It was natural enough. Her stepbrother and his bandmate. Her stepbrother and the guy who had loaned the ‘Scarlette Rose’ and other memorabilia to the film.
Letting the picture drop, he picked up another.
Scarlette posed by a huge poster of Tyler. The family resemblance was so striking that he doubted anyone could look at her next to her father without a lump in his or her windpipe.
He jumped in surprise when her arms wrapped his neck from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Where’d you get those?”
“Fax.”
“I didn’t know there was a fax here.”
“Everything’s here you could ever need.” He watched as she perused the matte prints. “In fact, I was thinking. Why don’t you stay? Until you go to school. You could even do the enrollment from here. Logan, my PA, takes classes at USC. He can help you get set up. Ivy could come stay with you some. Right? I could make one call. Rent it for another month.”
“Whoa. Slow down.” She eased around to sit on his lap. They both stared at the surf rolling in and Rascal prowling the jetty. They’d arrived at the bungalow on a private beach in Los Cobos around midnight, after the documentary screening a few nights ago.
They had fifteen days together before he would go into rehab for an estimated three to six months. This time he’d have to stick it out, or be handed into custody to do county time.
He knew he was making her crazy with possibilities and plans. Dates and details. He’d had a bank account opened for her and had already deposited more money than she’d need to get by until her birthday. He remained antsy, spouting a constant fountain of information he thought she’d need while he was gone. He wanted to make sure she didn’t want for anything, and a piece of him knew some of his suggestions were a hope to ensure she’d still be his when he returned.
“Let’s get something to eat.” As she made the suggestion, her fingers fiddled with his hair, massaging his scalp in a way that was both relaxing and erotic.
“I was hoping you were going to say let’s get naked.”
“Food first. I’m starving. Aren’t you?”
Truth was, he rarely got hungry these days. Too much stress. But he exited his pity party, and continued to play with the toys beneath her shirt. Best part of this vacation? Scar hadn’t put on a bra yet. “I could eat.” He lied, regarding food and even tried to sound enthusiastic. “Want to go out, or stay in?”
“Let’s go out since…” Her eyes drifted almost closed when he cupped and squeezed. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid. It’s really different.”
“‘Out’ it is then.” He pushed at her, and when she vacated his lap, he popped her fine derrière with an openhanded swat.
They had seafood for dinner at a rooftop restaurant. He even downed a couple of glasses of wine. What did it matter whether he went into rehab almost detoxed or loaded again? When Scar refused a third glass, and he motioned their server to top his off, he tried to ignore the question in her eyes.
After that, it was easy to suggest one of the trendy clubs instead of heading back to their lodging. She argued for a bit, but he was persuasive. “C’mon. We can pretend it’s your birthday.”
With a smile of agreement, she nodded, and they soon had a band around their wrist and a stamp on their hands. Holding her hand, he drew her onto the dance floor, and tried to pretend there was no tomorrow. No next week. No long months ahead.
They rested at the bar after every couple of songs before hitting the floor again. He loved watching her hair swing around her shoulders, the feel of her body when it was against his, and that special spark in her eyes accompanying a smile she curved only for him.
When he felt a familiar prickle—the tingle that normally meant a fan of the band had recognized him and was currently staring while contemplating an approach―he ignored the tingly warning. They were thousands of miles from his stomping grounds of L.A. He was wearing a long sleeved tee and jeans to cover his trademark tattoos. Surely, the little needles in his neck were a false alarm. Besides, Scarlette had just twisted away, and her fine ass was begging his attention. Clamping his hands on her waist, he pulled her to him. When the song ended and the next began, she pivoted to face him, eyes glittering with a happy glow.
At some point, she seemed to either come to the same conclusion he had about his drinking, or amiably gave in when stopping him proved a lost cause. She ordered her favorite drinks and wore a huge a smile on her face as if it were really her birthday.
“So what’s my present?” She snuggled close in the car. “If it’s my birthday, you have something for me, right?”
“Oh, I have something for you all right…” He only glanced up front at their driver while attempting to tunnel his hand up the inside of her thigh and beneath the fabric of the shorts she was wearing.
“I mean a real present.” Her tone was pouty, but he knew she was playing him with her words when her legs parted enough to let his fingers inch up a bit more. Just enough to almost reach—and frust
rate her. Her barely discernible whimper tickled and teased his eardrums.
“I’ve got your real present right here. In my pocket.” His face was bent close enough to hers to see her lips quirk, despite the darkness. And as he’d hoped she would, she crossed their laps with her own hand and rested it on the fly of his jeans.
When she squeezed, he buried his lips in her neck, letting her hair caress against his face. Time became meaningless but obviously passed, because their car stopped. It took him a moment to realize they had been stationary for longer than a traffic light.
“Scar.” Biting back a groan, he grasped her wrist, stopping the pleasurable attention of her fingers. “We’re here.” He zipped his fly.
As the night swallowed the red taillights of their taxi, they ran up the walk without stopping until they stood at the concrete seawall between the beach and house. Their mouths fused together. The gale night wind whipped around them, and they began a dance to their own song.
Clothing pooled at their feet. He rubbed intimately, against her as he breathed the plea into her ear. “Okay?”
“You don’t have to ask anymore…” She ground out the reply. “Just do it already.” She was on the pill. They’d first gone bareback the night of Colt’s poolside barbecue, and he was now officially spoiled to the sweet silky feel of her. “Gage… Please… Give it to me…”
The full moon lit the white crest of each wave as it rolled in and retreated back into the undulating ocean. He spun her so she could view this raw beauty of nature along with him. He dropped his eyes to the heart shape of her ass lit by moonlight. A groan hummed through his throat when he sank into the honeyed oblivion of her, listening in satisfaction to her sweet sounds.
Her hair whipped and fluttered in the wind, alternately stinging and tickling his bare skin. Clumping a hunk of it in his fingers, he tugged and uttered something nonsensical when she clenched around him and they picked up the pace.
He was floating somewhere on the edge of consciousness when the shadows seemed to move. Spontaneously, he kept her waist clamped in a vice grip with his arm when he lifted his other hand over her mouth and stilled his rhythm. A quick scan of the beach below didn’t reveal any intrusive shadows.
Silenced and stilled, she rested her head back onto him enough to meet his eyes. As soon as he relaxed his hand, she whispered, “What? Is someone―”
“Nope. Only turtles and crabs.” Deciding he’d imagined the shift in the darkness, he pushed it to the back of his head.
Nothing was more important than this right now. His cock knocking on heaven’s door.
He held her, her back plastered to his front while they caught their breath and steadied their legs, and at last, regretfully eased away. They pulled on their clothing and lingered, watching the tide surge in stronger with each roll. When his shirt began drifting away, pulled by the breeze, he stooped to scoop it up, shook it out, and shrugged it on. He watched her dress, pleasantly entranced when she rolled her bra and panties up and stuffed them into her pockets. She sat on the wall, swinging her feet up onto it so she could stare sideways at the pounding surf, but he soon found her watching him more than the sea.
He took a seat, lifting one leg over to straddle the wall. She scooted in to him, placed a leg on either side of him, and sandwiched her arms snugly between them. He encircled her in his warmth. Once more, he was a victim of her hair, but he made no move to capture the flapping strands brushing his face and neck. “What’re you thinking about, Scar?”
“I was thinking… I was…” And he saw it in her eyes. Love. The sentiment brimmed, cresting in her gaze, threatening to spill over. “Gage, I lo―”
Like lightning, he plugged the leaky word with his thumb, rubbing it over her lips before closing in and sipping a kiss from them. “Don’t say it. Don’t dare say it.” The hurt clouding her eyes stabbed at his chest with a piercing pain. “I can’t hear it right now…” Ah hell, that was only worse. Was that a shimmer of tears in those beautiful blue eyes? “What I’m trying to say―”
“You don’t have to say it back.” She broke in. “I just… It was there, and… God, just forget it. Okay? Just―”
Fuck. Fuck. And triple fuck. Could he be any more of an ass? He moved to kiss her again, and she dropped her chin enough to deter him. So he leaned his head on hers. “Scar, my sweet darlin’.” My sweet darlin’? Damn if that corny shit hadn’t slipped from his lips as easily as lyrics on the fly, and in addition, didn’t seem stupid at all. ‘Scar darlin’ felt reverent. The endearment seemed equally surprising to her. Her eyes flicked up and darted away again. “Look at me. Please…” At last, her lashes lifted, and she locked her wary gaze to his. “I love you.” Damn the word felt right when he was looking into her face. “I love you, Scarlette. But, don’t say it back until I’ve earned that from you.”
“But…”
“I’m drunk off my ass after all of your help cleaning me up.”
“Are you making excuses for the ‘L’ word?”
“Never.” He vowed, and for good measure, whispered the three words a third time right against her lips. He could spend a lifetime looking into her contented eyes.
She drew her mouth away enough to speak and said the damnedest thing. “You don’t earn love. It just is. It’s unconditional.”
Yeah. Tell my old man that. His father had mellowed out in the past few years. But Gage had spent a lifetime proving himself to receive any attention from the man and being ignored when he acted out.
He shook his head, ending any possible discussion, eased her down from the seawall, curved an arm around her slim neck, and escorted her inside and upstairs to their bedroom.
His phone had been vibrating his pocket all evening. With a resigned breath, he unlocked the screen and took a peek. Nothing of importance. He almost ignored the blink of twitter mentions and followed Scar into the shower. But the niggling feeling was back. What was blowing up his social media this time?
A dozen or so pictures tagged with his handle had also been tagged with a famous celebrity sighting account. All had been taken inside the club and all were similar @GageRem The Squid #Cabo @CelSight. Some mentioned an unknown woman, and some, in snark fashion, ‘some fugly bitch.’
At least she hadn’t been tagged, but Scar’s mystery days would soon be over. The press was already firing up about her birthday. The moment the documentary released to the public, her face would trump his on the recognition scale. She was already running around as a Tyler Conterra reincarnation now that her hair was back to its natural shade. After being so careful of her privacy for weeks, he’d been careless tonight.
“Seriously?” she screeched. Wearing only a towel on her dewy body, she appeared. Wisps of steam trailed her from the bathroom. He wondered if she had also seen on her phone, but her next words had nothing to do with twitter gossip. “You wrote on the tiles?”
“Inspiration after that blow job this morning.” He proudly noted her blush and began to dig through his bag for his phone charger. When he triumphantly located and pulled it from the rest of the things he couldn’t live without for a couple of weeks, he saw she was still standing in observation mode. “What?” Defensively he added, “Hell. So they add a cleaning charge. Big fuckin’ deal.”
“Will it even come off?”
“Sure.” But he wasn’t sure. He only knew he paid the extra cost for whatever damage he or the band did to a hotel room and forgot about it. Was that wrong? Would someone work overtime re-tiling so the next guest could check in on time? He was rethinking so many things since she’d come back into his life.
She slipped into bed, smelling of shampoo and soap, and her. Opting out of his own shower, he muted the phone before lying down and curling to her.
This was not the ideal time for the story of their relationship to break—if there was an ideal time. Hell, the media hated him right now. More bad press would be another nail in his Fire Flight coffin. And what about Scar? What would be the effect on her?
Her whisper was a breath on his neck, and he felt the barest play of her fingers in his hair. “Are you asleep?” He wanted to be. Damn, he was tired. When was the last time he’d managed to sleep for more than a few hours before waking and staring into the dark? Before his drunken mind processed enough to mumble an answer, she went on, still in a whisper. “I love you, Gage. I do. And despite you being a dick about hearing it, I wanted to say it on the same night you said it to me. Even if you never know it.”
With that off her chest, she relaxed back into her place beside him, and the sheets brushed his skin as they shifted slightly. For about three seconds he contemplated continuing the game of possum before losing it.
Rolling atop her, he kissed her crazy. “Say it again.”
“Mmh, can’t…” She mumbled around his assault, trapped. “You gotta…” He lifted his mouth just barely, and she rewarded him by blurting it aloud. “I love you, Gage.”
“Love you, Scar.” My darlin’.
The days rolled by too fast. All too soon, they were buckled into first class and the Baja peninsula more resembled Google Earth than their vacation paradise.
The phone call came when he was working in the studio, putting the finishing touches on the new version of the demo, so Colt could add his part.
Annoyed, he habitually glanced at caller ID with his thumb ready to mute the interruption. Ben’s name flashed, and he wavered before tapping the green icon, accepting the call from the band’s manager.
“Gage?” Ben’s tone was different. Everyone was treating him with kid gloves these days.
“Who else?” He barked, and swiveled his chair away from the pro-tools screen.
“The label made the decision this morning. It’s not good.”
Heart plunge.
“Give it to me.”
“They dropped you.” There wasn’t finality to that period, and instinctively Gage remained quiet and let the man who’d been Fire Flight’s manager for years continue. “They didn’t drop Powers.”
“Where are they going with this? I own half of Fire Flight.” The band name. The brand. The package. He and Colt had been the only members of Fire Flight signed on that fateful day.