Wild Child (Rock Royalty #6)

by Christie Ridgway

  Their leather vests were stitched with patches that she didn’t read. She already knew what they proclaimed, and she already recognized them as members of the Unruly MC.

  It appeared that Cami did, too.

  And not in a good way.

  The night’s dreamlike feeling sizzled as if doused with water, and some of the evening’s pleasure evaporated into the air, leaving the faint but acrid smell of smoke.

  Chapter 11

  Brody was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch, and he wasn’t about to let anything ruin the evening. Not only had he and his tribe been enjoying their beers and bar food, but best yet, Ashlynn had been finding her place among them.

  And beside him.

  The expression on her face as he sang to her had been open and sweet. He’d seen her wild and he’d seen her guarded, but until tonight he’d only managed to guess at what lay beneath. All the vulnerability he’d sensed deep down had been shining in her big, beautiful eyes, and it had called to his nature at the most primal of levels.

  But the instant those miscreants had come into the roadhouse, she’d sent a swift look at Cami and then pulled free of him to greet the arrivals. He missed the feel of her in his arms.

  She was animated as she ushered the newcomers to tables across the room. Their attention focused on her, none of them appeared to take note of the other large party in the place. But one of the Rock Royalty seemed unable to yank her gaze away from them.

  From a particular member of the new group, Brody corrected himself, following the direction of Cami’s stare. Unlike the others that accompanied him, the man she watched was clean-shaven, and his hair was short instead of long and scruffy. They all wore jeans, yet his were in better shape than the rest, and no patches on his black leather jacket identified him as one of the Unruly MC or any other motorcycle gang.

  But he carried himself like a man accustomed to danger. He was a big guy, though lean, and he traveled light on his feet. His instincts must have been finely honed because suddenly he turned, his gaze sweeping the room.

  Cami ducked behind Payne’s bulk, and the stranger’s glance moved over them without stopping. Then he shrugged and lowered himself into a seat that Ash indicated.

  With the man’s back to them, the atmosphere on the Rock Royalty side of the room lightened a little.

  “Well,” Cilla said, cheery as spring. “Shall we play some pool?”

  Ren shifted in his chair and uttered one word in his low, deep voice. “Cam.”

  Hell, Brody thought. Was this the time and place to press the woman? But he had a little sister, too, and if the shoe was on the other foot, he wouldn’t have let the moment pass.

  Cami had given them a clear confirmation that something had happened between her and the dark-haired stranger. And it didn’t take a genius to guess it hadn’t ended well.

  For months, they’d suspected she had a secret someone. There’d be times when they’d go to one of her gigs and her set list—or a more poignant tone to her throaty voice—led them to believe she was singing to one man in the room.

  But when the lights came up, all that would be in evidence was a shadowy corner or an empty stool.

  They’d teased her about it, but she’d stayed mum. There was no point to silence now, however, because heartbreak was written all over her face.

  “Wanna go?” Ren asked, his gaze focused on his sister. “We can be out of here in thirty seconds flat, and I guarantee no one will see you leave.”

  Cami bit her bottom lip, then tossed her head. Her auburn hair swirled around shoulders that she squared like a soldier. “I’m good, I’m fine, I’m absolutely perfect.” She pushed up her long sleeves to reveal the trailing-vine tattoo that climbed one forearm. “I want more beer.”

  “Me, too,” Cilla said, with more loyalty than enthusiasm.

  The other women quickly put in their own orders.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” Brody volunteered.

  Afterward he’d waylay Ash and take her emotional temperature. He’d been making progress in wooing her—and God, that’s what he was doing!—and he didn’t want to lose any of his forward motion.

  His mind replayed her peaceful expression while sleeping in his arms, the delight she’d shared with him when the cat had made its approach, that dawning wonder on her face when he’d sung to her.

  He was getting in there—into all the mystery that made up Ashlynn Childe. Gaining her trust and getting access to her heart was the way to his own happiness. After years of wondering if he deserved any or dared to try to find it… The funny thing was, it had found him.

  And now he wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass.

  Fuck the Velvet Lemons and the fact he was Mad Dog Maddox’s son. If he could build a house and build a business, he could make something good of himself for Ashlynn to rely upon. For her, he’d be enough if it killed him.

  The jukebox was lit up like a carnival ride and pumping something heavy metal when he managed to get a moment alone with her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked over the clashing chords.

  The motorcycle club hadn’t been the last of the new arrivals that night. Satan’s was starting to pulsate.

  “Can I help?”

  She tucked a tendril of her hair back into her braid. “I think I’m good now, actually. Another bartender came on, another server. The only thing I have to do at the moment is retrieve a bag of popcorn from the storeroom.”

  “Popcorn can wait,” he said, then towed her out to the small dance floor as heavy metal gave way to an old Rascal Flats tune. “I can’t.”

  Her brows rose, then a huge smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and turned her cheeks into pink-skinned apples. The sight staggered his heart.

  “You’re going to dance with me?”

  “Anything to get you in my arms again, sweetheart.”

  Her hands slid across his shoulders as his drew her close. He pressed his brow to hers, then lifted his head to touch his lips to the fading bruise around her eye.

  “This is nice,” he whispered. This is the way it’s supposed to be.

  “Mmm. Brody…” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “About that song…”

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “About that song.” I meant every word.

  “Did you…” The second word faded away as her gaze shifted over his shoulder. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  He glanced around. Shit.

  Cami was approaching the stranger-that-was-no-stranger-to her. With his back to her, the man couldn’t see her coming, and Brody knew it was trouble because there was a decided swagger to her step.

  How many beers had she downed? And where was one of her brothers, Ren or Payne?

  Looking about, he saw the Rock Royalty had gathered around a pool table. No one had yet noticed the little lamb who looked like she was raring to approach the hungry wolf for a throw down.

  Eyes on the brewing situation, Brody considered what to do.

  “Who is that guy?” he asked Ash.

  “I’ve seen him come in with the Unrulies more than once, but I don’t think he’s with them, with them.” Her gaze didn’t meet his. “You know, he’s not patched or anything.”

  Brody was no expert in motorcycle gang culture, but he was getting to be an expert on the facial expressions of the woman in his arms. With a finger, he edged up her chin so he could stare into her starry-night eyes.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Her voice lowered. “His name is Eamon Rooney…I’ve been told he’s their president’s son.”

  Oh, fuck. Cami’s brothers, Ren in particular, would lose his mind if his sister involved herself with a criminal…or even someone associated with criminals. When he’d committed himself to Cilla, he’d committed to his family and to the other members of the Rock Royalty one-thousand percent. Now here was a princess looking to confront a man aligned with a dangerous motorcycle gang.

  Their president’s son.

  Making a swift decision, Brody b
egan to move toward her, but it was too late. With a jerk of his chin, one of Rooney’s compadres alerted the guy of oncoming trouble. Rooney stilled, then turned in his chair. As he came to his feet, Cami kept her place, even though it meant there were mere inches between them.

  Shit.

  Brody wasn’t fluent in Silent Message, but they were flying back and forth between the pair.

  She touched his arm.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Her mouth opened, moved, but whatever she said wasn’t to his liking.

  Stony-faced, he shook his head.

  Cami sucked in a breath, reached for him again.

  Before her hand made contact, he turned his back on her and dropped into his seat. Like he hadn’t a care in the world, he stretched out his long legs and picked up his beer. It was as if Cami didn’t exist in the world.

  For a moment she didn’t move, then she reversed and returned to where the others were still playing pool.

  “Oh, God,” Ash said, wincing. “That’s got to hurt. It hurt just watching it.”

  Brody gritted his teeth. Damn it! That whole episode had rained on their romantic vibe.

  “Don’t look at them,” he said, swinging her around so she faced him. “Look at me, only at me. I’m going to make it all better.”

  Ash stilled for a minute as if alarmed by the thought, but then a little smile curved the corners of her lips. She sent him a flirty look that was all sultry Ash, the Ash he’d met that first night in Topanga.

  “Is that a promise?”

  She wasn’t taking him seriously. But that was okay for now, even though it was a promise. His mouth came down on hers, and the kiss ignited. He sank into the hot sweetness of her taste and lifted her off her feet, spinning her slowly. She clutched at his shoulders and laughed into his mouth, and he thought of the ironic trajectory of his life.

  At eighteen, he’d walked out on the childhood-long raucous party that had been his world in Laurel Canyon, never imagining he’d walk into another rowdy gathering twelve years later to find an angel dancing atop a bar.

  His angel. Who’d fallen from heaven directly into his embrace.

  He lifted his head to breathe and then to smile at her, as he lightly set her down on her feet.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  She put one hand to her head. “I think I’m still in orbit.”

  “Part of my plan.” He was coming up with one that would win her over, which included putting an end to Ash’s rough season. It was only sunshine and beautiful possibilities ahead.

  All at once, in mid-croon of some country star, the jukebox switched off.

  The room went quiet.

  And guitar strings started to hum.

  Cami.

  Brody pivoted to see her standing on a small two-top, her legs, in a rough pair of heavy boots, braced. Her gaze was riveted on Eamon Rooney.

  After a moment, his head slowly turned, and she began to sing, pathos dripping from every phrase. If she was drunk, she didn’t sound like it, but Brody figured it took more than a few beers to reveal herself so freely in a public setting.

  “Oh, God,” Ash said again.

  The whole room seemed to hold its breath as Cami stripped herself bare performing the Bonnie Raitt classic, “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” Emotion infused every word as Cami communicated what was in her heart—her acceptance of Eamon Rooney’s rejection.

  And her goodbye to him.

  At the final note, Cami closed her eyes. But when it finished ringing through the room, she opened them. Thank God Ren was waiting at her feet, and without another look toward the tables filled with the Unrulies, she leaped into his arms and let him usher her from the building. Cilla, the other Rock Royalty, and their loves followed.

  “Damn,” Brody muttered. “Damn him.”

  Perhaps the curse worked, because when the door closed behind them, Eamon Rooney raised his beer to his mouth, chugged it down, and then sent the bottle flying into the nearest wall.

  Ashlynn flinched at the sound of shattering glass and started forward.

  Brody held her back, reining in his own temper. “No, baby. Wait. It’s not safe.”

  “Nothing is,” she murmured, but stayed in place as the dark stranger shot to his feet, threw a bunch of bills on the table, and stalked out of Satan’s.

  Ash changed in those few moments it took Eamon Rooney to leave the roadhouse. Brody felt new tension enter her body, and when she looked up at him, the sparkle in her eyes had morphed to a brittle flash. A sense of desperation surrounded her, one he remembered from the night they’d met when she propositioned him with a bottle of booze under one arm and other men’s dollar bills stuffed in her boots.

  Whirling, she broke free of his hold. Her arms flew up.

  “Shots!” she yelled. “A round of shots on the house!”

  And Brody knew, for the moment anyway, that he’d lost her.

  Ashlynn moved about the roadhouse at a feverish pace. Not just because the crowd demanded it—though despite the unceasing rain, the patrons had swelled to a near record number for a usually quiet Sunday evening—but because it kept her busy. There were too many things she didn’t want to think about.

  So she bused tables and doled out beers, all the while smiling and working hardest at feeling nothing inside. Brody had staked out the last stool at one end of the bar. Though aware of his gaze on her the entire time, she didn’t linger near him, nor did she ignore him altogether. That would make it seem as if he mattered to her too much.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  A young woman that was a Satan’s regular waved her over to her table where she sat opposite a man bent over his cell phone.

  Ash whipped out her order book and a pencil from her back pocket, eying the empty glass on the table. “Another margarita, Jean?”

  “My God, what was that?” she asked, instead of answering. “I go to the ladies room and come back to find drama-rama in progress. Some chick singing like it was an audition for ‘American Heartbreak’! I almost cried.” She glanced across the table. “Kirk, too.”

  The man snorted without looking up from his texting.

  “She has a voice,” Ash agreed. “Now, something else? Food?”

  “But what’s the story?” Jean insisted. “Kirk claims he hasn’t a clue because he didn’t notice what prompted it. He was taking a call.”

  Ash shrugged. “I don’t know, really. You saw the same as I did.”

  “I saw somebody serenading a table full of the Unruly MC.” Jean sent a sidelong look at the remaining members still eating and drinking across the room. “More particularly, serenading none other than Eamon Rooney.”

  And Cami’s rendition of “I Can’t Make You Love Me” had struck a sore point, obviously. The man hadn’t been able to exit Satan’s fast enough.

  But the song had been a wakeup call to Ashlynn, too. She’d been letting down her guard the last few days, cozying up to Brody, and worse, recasting what was sexual attraction as something more magical.

  Bad mistake.

  Much better to stay independent, to keep an emotional distance. Saratoga Ashlynn had been sawdust inside, but now that didn’t seem such a bad idea when the alternative was risking being shattered like Cami Colson.

  Yes, Brody had sung to her, too. Stay with me.

  But she didn’t have the chops to keep a Brody Maddox, so it was so much safer not to want him.

  “Eamon Rooney?”

  Ash tuned back into the conversation at the table. Jean’s companion Kirk had looked up from his phone.

  “I had my back turned,” he said now. “But you say she was singing to Eamon Rooney?”

  Jean nodded. “You know him?”

  “Yeah. From work.” His phone trilled, and he glanced at the screen then held up a finger. “Sorry, have to take this.”

  He got up from the table, phone pressed to his ear as he headed for the door.

  Jean watched after him, sighing a lit
tle. “He’s cute, but I think he’s already married—to his job…or maybe just that stupid phone.”

  “What does he do?” Ash asked, unable to suppress her curiosity.

  “Criminal defense attorney,” Jean said absently, her gaze still on her disappointing—and disappearing—escort.

  The one who knew Eamon Rooney from the cryptic “work.” Had he been the criminal lawyer’s client? Then Cami was better off without him, Ashlynn decided, as the occupants of another table hailed her. She hurried their way, thinking she and Cami may have both dodged a bullet that night.

  On her next trip to the bar, she poured a small measure of vodka and threw it back. When she slammed down the glass, her gaze caught Brody’s. His blue eyes transported her, back to that moment earlier in the evening when he sang to her. Stay with me.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned away as she poured another swallow of liquor and tossed it back. He was a man experienced in this game, so she couldn’t allow herself to read too much into sexual chemistry and musical blandishments.

  A couple slid onto empty stools nearby, and she hurried toward the two.

  “Viv! Irv!” she called, thrilled to welcome the chatty pair. If anyone could take her mind off her problems, they could.

  “Can I say again I loved the coffeecake? Best I’ve ever tasted.” Without bothering to ask, she popped the caps on two ice-cold bottles of their favorite beers. Then she set them on bar mats and topped off a basket of popcorn. “Can I order you any food from the kitchen?”

  “Not yet, honey,” Irv said, lifting his beer to his mouth. “I need a few minutes to enjoy my beer. It’s been a long day.”

  “Oh?” Leaning over, she propped her elbows on the bar top and grinned. “Detailing the Harleys?”

  It was a joke between them. When she’d first arrived in Topanga they’d told her a funny story about their grown kids being unable to reach them in the middle of the day when they were known to be at home. Instead of explaining that a pair of long-married sixty-somethings were enjoying the empty nest and each other in bed, they’d told their worried sons and daughter they’d not heard the phone because they’d been busy washing and polishing their motorcycles.