by Lyrica Creed
“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.
“There’s not a problem with that. Happens all the time. There’s a contingency clause in your contract. They can still record the other members under Fire Flight. If they decide to keep that name.”
“Right.” Statistically, changing the vocalist didn’t bode well for a band. It was more probable they were hanging on to Colt until they could decide if they could make a buck from his talent and name as a solo artist. “Thanks, man. Later.”
The moment the call ended tone sounded, he threw the phone. It hit the wall and incredulously bounced to the floor in one piece.
In truth, he had known doing the right thing—giving Colt the publishing rights he deserved—was likely to bite him in the ass. But he’d needed it off his conscience. He’d never felt right about letting the label manipulate him and in doing so causing him to steal. Now that Colt had equal ownership in at least a third of Fire Flight’s songs, all they had to do was make another album. They could easily tour with that much of the old stuff plus new.
“Argh!” The bellow rose and spewed like bile from his throat. He kicked at the laptop stand. When it didn’t topple, he swept the computer from the surface and watched with a strange combination of grief and satisfaction as he lost the last half hour of work on the new song.
Standing at the edge of the room, where it opened onto the patio, he tried to calm himself with the sight of Scar floating in the pool. The Bluetooth headphones in her ears had kept her from hearing his tantrum.
Retrieving his phone, he scrolled through his contacts and typed out a text to his assistant.
Clear morning?
Sent 4:21
LP
Aye. Be there in a bit.
4:26
Remembering he had trashed his black bag in a gesture of goodwill, he quickly sent another message.
the works too.
Sent 4:27
LP
Right. No problem.
4:29
Scarlette was still in her swimsuit, but out of the pool. The sight of her centered him some. Wandering out, he took the chair beside her, and they discussed dinner. With her phone in hand, she was soon intent on ordering their supper while engaging in a game of footsie with him. When the doorbell rang, he sprinted from the patio and through the house.
With his assistant trailing behind him, he headed to the studio. Putting everything in a safe place for later, he spoke over his shoulder.
“I’m going to be away for a while.”
“Rehab.”
Gage nodded, knowing it was fairly common knowledge by now among his staff and friends. He turned to find the other man staring beyond the room pe
rimeter at Scar with as much interest as every time he’d seen her—despite the cleanup chore of puke on a car mat tainting the last time.
Remembering he’d never properly introduced Scar to Logan that day, he briefed him. “That’s my stepsister, Scarlette. I’m going to give her your number. Anything she needs. Understand?”
“Yeah. Sure.” The other man seemed too eager to oblige and pulled his phone from his pocket. “What’s her info? I’ll put it in right now.”
Logan’s nonchalant inquiry while drooling over Scar had Gage gnashing his teeth. “I’m not giving out her number.” Not that he even knew by memory the number she was giving out to anyone other than her inner circle. The second number and extra privacy protections were part of having her cell provider classify her account as ‘celebrity,’ which she had done around the time of the documentary release. “It will come up as restricted.” Like his. Even if someone added the number to his or her contacts, when a ‘celebrity’ call came through, it always showed restricted access instead of a name. “That’s why I told you her name. So you’ll know who she is if she calls. But she may never call. I just want to know there’s someone she can turn to if she needs help with anything.” Besides fuckin’ Colt, dammit.
“Whatever.” His assistant shrugged and smartly decided to play it cool. “You going to introduce us at least?”
“Fine. Yeah.” Once again cursing the gods of fate taking him away from her for any length of time, he walked his assistant outside and commenced with the introduction.
Scar and Logan shook hands and immediately after the pleasantries, launched into a conversation about USC. He returned to the studio, watching them while he cleaned up his tantrum mess before Scar saw.
Tick damn tock…
Hung Out by Lyrica Creed is available now on Kindle Click Here
Acknowledgements
The Gages in my life.
Corinna Reilly for all of your help and input with this book.
Debbie Williams for your editing expertise.
Lisa Gillis for lending out Jack Storm
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