Rock Reclaimed: Rockstar Romantic Suspense (Rock Revenge Trilogy Book 2)

by Cari Quinn

  “Technical terms?” Dr. Jensen smiled. “About the size of a large lemon or a peach.”

  “We’re keeping lemon drop.”

  Margo laughed. “Yes, we’ll keep the name lemon drop for now. But if we’re keeping it a secret from everyone, maybe it should be a secret to us too. You know, a surprise.”

  “I can’t wait that long. I can’t even wait to give you Christmas presents and I only buy them a few weeks ahead.”

  At the doctor’s bright smile, Margo shrugged. “He’s weird, but he’s mine.”

  “Well, I think it’s adorable. I’m glad to see this surprise is a wanted one.” The doctor wiped off the gel. “Next visit, we’ll get a better picture of your little one. I’ll get a printout for you while you’re getting dressed.”

  Margo sat up and looped her arm around Simon’s waist. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Margo tipped up her chin to find Simon dashing away a few tears of his own. She tugged him down by his shirt and kissed him. “Look what we made.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers. “Fucking amazing.”

  Leave it to her husband to drop the f-bomb in the middle of sweetness. It was how he’d won her over, after all.

  He cupped her face. “So, what do you think about getting a real house to go with our new lemon drop?”

  “What? We can make the penthouse—”

  “No. I want the baby to have a backyard and a place for a dog or whatever.”

  “A dog?”

  “Yeah, a crazy mutt like Nick’s. I want that for us too.”

  She pressed her cheek into his hand. “Well, I guess we’re getting a house then.”

  He swung her off the exam table and hugged her. “This is going to be fucking awesome.”

  Twelve

  Cocking my head, I grinned. Perfect.

  I’d placed Zoe’s stolen camera on the bed and wrapped a spare towel around the top of it like a turban. After captioning it “spa day,” I uploaded it to Instagram and tagged Zoe as I did every day.

  It was a rare bit of recreation in a life that suddenly didn’t leave me a lot of free time.

  The world of a rockstar—even one in training, like me—moved about a dozen times faster than the regular world. I thought I understood that prior to signing on the dotted line with Ripper Records.

  I knew nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  After the meeting with Sabrina—or Rina, as her friends called her, and her friends were not me—and Roman at Ripper Records, I’d been ushered to Roman’s design studio for a “lifestyle assessment” and profile, and a lengthy chat with Roman about my preferences in everything from hem length to whether I tucked left or right. I was informed that normally Roman would’ve had one of his top assistants interview me, but Rina was a good friend so I got the special treatment.

  Which I suspected was bollocks. Somehow overnight, I’d gone from lukewarm interest to “sign this guy now.” I supposed the fact that my Instagram followers had gone from sixteen to more than ten thousand in that timespan didn’t hurt.

  Who knew heckling Zoe would garner so much attention? My singing was an afterthought to my hair and my accent and my rings, but it was a start.

  Sabrina sat at my side the entire time at Roman’s. She also remained in the room during myriad fittings and clothes selections. I’d balked momentarily, but only for a moment. I didn’t mind stripping in front of women as a rule. Just usually I’d at least kissed them first.

  This was a far different situation. She knew more about my dick than my physician, and it didn’t even phase her. Or me, beyond the first five minutes or so, because I knew she was just trying to show it off like a prize summer sausage at a county fair.

  As far as personal interest on her behalf? None. Less than none.

  I’d been ushered from the design studio back to Ripper Records to sign paperwork. It had come after the original fittings, because there had been last-minute adjustments and Sabrina hadn’t wanted to wait to meet with Roman until the contract came through.

  Some might say she knew they had me on the hook. I preferred to see it as she trusted I wouldn’t split with the very important Ripper Records trade secrets about the necessary tightness of denims.

  It occurred to me as I was signing, I should have my own agent look it over. Assuming I had one, which I did not. It also occurred to me I had much bigger problems than predatory record contracts.

  Such as the fact a noose was tightening around my goddamn neck with every day I didn’t have measurable progress for Jerry.

  He wasn’t one to just go with the flow. Never had been since I’d known him, and much more was at stake now. I owed him. How many times had he told me that? And I paid my debts.

  Even if I regretted them with every fiber of my being.

  I’d hoped this contract I’d signed would go toward buying me some time. Enough money wasn’t changing hands to take the heat off for long. I hadn’t expected that much. What I’d agreed to only provided a measly signing bonus, with the bulk of money being made on profits from touring and merchandise. And eventually, a record. I’d signed for two EPs on this initial contract, though everyone knew digital copies brought in a fraction of what touring did. If I wanted to make enough money to reduce my debt, I’d be on the road a long fucking time.

  But that was fine. It was better than the alternative. I didn’t want to be that guy if I didn’t have to.

  If I could find any other way.

  Not because I’d gone soft after actually meeting Simon. Sure, he was my brother, but he hated me. He’d made that plain. My very existence was a thorn in his side. Some of that was likely due to the method I’d chosen for our first contact. That had been a mistake.

  Next time I met my long-lost brother, I’d just send a card and flowers rather than outing myself on the telly.

  But the bottom line was, Simon didn’t need me in his life. His was already very full. And mine was…

  Well, let’s just say spending my days on the road suited me just fine. Or it had until I’d come to LA.

  Already things were beginning to change. Small shifts. Maybe it was just the new environment. Giving me ideas.

  Some of them were finding their way to paper. In fact, I was writing more than I had in months. Not since before Jerry had come into my world had my brain and heart unlocked to this extent. My fingers were bloody from playing until the wee hours of the morning, and that was after climbing off the stage in whatever rinky-dink club Sabrina had booked me in that night.

  The goal right now was exposure, and on this short of notice, the venues weren’t the best. So I’d gone where I was sent night after night, and I’d sold the music the way we’d discussed. Not just working on my delivery, but on my persona. Sabrina was remaking me into what she considered the ultimate fantasy, and though I thought that was a load of bollocks, I couldn’t deny the results.

  My social media numbers were doubling and tripling daily, even with the small venues and lack of advance tickets. It had become a game of sorts online to see where I’d surface that night. What covers I’d drag out of my repertoire, which wasn’t nearly as big as I’d believed. I had my own material too, of course, but not enough. Why I was writing like a goddamn fiend.

  They were bringing in producers and hot, cutting-edge writers to work with me. Me, for fuck’s sake. Like I was their investment.

  Like I had a real chance.

  I put the camera on the nightstand and climbed on my bed, fresh from a shower. Time to work on the same fucking song I’d been trying to get out for the last three days. Long before that, really. Since I’d met a sharp-tongued blond with eyes like hot caramels who didn’t give me an inch.

  Who didn’t respond to my tags when I uploaded pictures to my Instagram feed.

  I took snapshots of her camera in every location I performed in each evening, therefore inflaming all the fans who’d been following me since the first night at the Blue Rhino.

/>   A segment of them were even campaigning Zoe to respond to me. Most told me she wasn’t worth my time and they would blow my mind—except in far dirtier language.

  I’d heard less lascivious talk on the porn channel.

  Sabrina called my pictures “brilliant marketing.” A couple weeks ago, according to her, I’d been treading on ground I didn’t dare walk on when I took Zoe’s camera.

  Amazing how things had changed.

  Sabrina probably didn’t care since she knew I had little time to mess with Zoe with my current schedule, unless we banged in a bathroom between sets. I was that booked.

  Besides, Sabrina noticed all the reposts my shots got all over the place. Zoe? Didn’t even acknowledge them. She just kept posting her random photos every few days, oblivious to how my stomach tightened into fists every time I got a notification.

  Wondering if she was okay. If anyone had hassled her since that day.

  If she ever thought about me too.

  Not that I dared go back to the beach. Somehow, that stupid story had gotten out about me fighting those two bastards and I’d been labeled a goddamn hero. Thereby sealing my fate that Zoe Manning would never contact me, ever. Not when she probably believed I’d used her attack as fodder to build my career.

  Odd that with all my sins, her believing that about me bothered me the most.

  So, I’d taken this rare afternoon and evening off to work on the song. It was almost there. I might even be able to perform it in two nights at the Verve, my next booking. Depending on if we could get in a practice first.

  I’d been working with the same set of studio musicians since this whole rollercoaster had started, and we were finally developing a rapport. The drummer had heaved his stick at me and nearly poked out an eye when I’d criticized his timing once or twice—or maybe five times—but that had been a minor skirmish. I’d apologized to him by buying him breakfast after a long night of practice. All was now forgiven.

  That was the nice thing about working with people as poor as yourself. It didn’t take much to impress them.

  I tapped my pencil against the pad in front of me.

  I’m not the one you can bring home.

  Not to Mum, not to Dad.

  I’m far too good to be bad.

  But they don’t know, can’t know, how I could make you scream.

  In my dreams.

  Oh, in my dreams.

  Take this man.

  Take this woman.

  I won’t ask for your promises.

  Can’t make them myself.

  I’ll be gone tomorrow.

  But I’ll be here tonight.

  All night.

  For you.

  Inside you.

  Inside you.

  Oh, yeah, inside you.

  In my dreams, you’re mine.

  In my dreams, you don’t turn away.

  You look at me and see what you want.

  What you’ll take.

  When I give.

  Give for you.

  In your dreams, you see me too.

  Just look.

  Look for me.

  In my dreams, you bend until you break.

  I give until I take.

  The bad boy made good.

  For you.

  Tamed by you.

  Inside you.

  My phone buzzed and I didn’t notice it at first, I was so caught up. Not by my block-printed words on paper. I was seeing past them to when Zoe had curved against me in sleep. If she had turned over, reached for me in the deepest part of the night, even knowing what she’d gone through, would I have been man enough to say no?

  Probably not.

  Comfort came in all forms. I wouldn’t have been able to deny her even as I took some for myself.

  And I craved her now like a chemical burn in my blood.

  I shook myself as the phone buzzed again.

  Jesus, get it together, man. It’s not like you can’t find a willing woman.

  They were waiting for me after the shows. Hordes of them. I had security now. Not big league like I imagined the Oblivion types did, but a guy or two to grant me some space to get to the waiting car. Even so, numbers were thrown at me like confetti. Along with bras and panties and more than a few rubbers, as if I’d neglected to bring my own.

  I didn’t want them. I wanted Zoe. And she was as elusive to me as freedom.

  “Yeah,” I said as I clicked on my phone.

  “Where are you?”

  “Letting a load off.”

  That was how Sabrina and I dealt with each other. She demanded, and I basically said fuck you in whatever rude way struck my fancy. Then she carried on as if she hadn’t heard me, and I did her bidding.

  I almost enjoyed our interplay. Except when her brass balls grew a tad too shiny.

  But I still hadn’t thrown a drumstick at her.

  Yet.

  “You’ve got a set tonight. Surprise cancellation.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ticket sales were in the toilet so the gig got canceled. You’re up. Nine o’clock. Whisky A Go Go.”

  I picked up my pad and stared at the words until they blurred. “What are you on about right now?”

  “I told you, Whisky a Go Go. It’s on the corner of West Sunset and—”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Of course I know Whisky a Go Go. The Doors played there. Joplin. Led Zepp. Aerosmith. Puddle of Mudd. Warrant. All the greats.”

  “Not sure I’d call all of those acts great, but yes, they certainly all did. You’re working with a new drummer tonight, so I’d like to see you get in a practice. We’ve booked you into your usual practice space. You can get there in thirty?”

  I looked down at myself. I needed to find some clothes. My notebooks. My guitar. Most were easily accessible in my shitbox motel room, and I’d sorted through my stash of notebooks last night, searching for some gems amidst the dirt and rocks, but they were all black composition style, so I had to discern which were the current and which were garbage.

  “I’ll be there. What do you mean I’m working with a new drummer? What happened to Deuce?” I’d bought him an eggs benedict, for God’s sake, while I’d contented myself with the Big Boy special and black coffee.

  “Deuce is working with another band now. He cited ‘artistic differences’ and a need for a permanent gig. He said you expressed to him a desire to not have an ongoing band.”

  “Did I say that?” I scratched my chin, knowing full well I had. “I’ve never worked with a band before. I’m used to playing guitar for myself.”

  “If you want to perform in school plays, sure, that’ll work. If you want to play arenas, you need a band. Preferably one who is committed to you and not filled with studio musicians who have the same loyalty to you as a cheese sandwich.”

  I didn’t understand the connection. Probably yet another example of American slang I wasn’t privy to.

  “I’ll get him back.”

  “Doubtful. His new gig is better than what you’re offering him right now. I’ll see you at the venue. Ninety minutes early for soundcheck.”

  “Oh, sure, I have nothing but time. Ta ta.”

  She snorted and hung up on me.

  I grinned and rolled off the bed, whipping off my towel and letting it fall. This was going to be a good night.

  Thirteen

  It wasn’t a good night. It was a great night. My best yet since I’d been signed to Ripper Records and doing this mini tour.

  After soundcheck and before we went onstage, Sabrina said if we came up with a winner tonight, they’d release a live version of the best song to the streaming services and radio. An actual single. I’d taken that information and run with it, deciding to hell with practicing more before I brought “For You” to the show. It wasn’t as if my cup runneth over with tons of prime material. I’d thought I was a decent songwriter until I had to perform all these songs live and realized I needed more work. All of my skills needed more work.

  Ex
cept one.

  Already I was learning how to make the girls scream.

  The denims tight enough to outline me from waist to thigh were part of it. The black shirt I left unbuttoned halfway down my chest was another. I’d thought Sabrina would want me to get rid of the silver cross I’d worn since I was a boy, but she liked it. Said it would inspire all kinds of impure thoughts.

  Okay, then.

  My hair was a wild, teased mess of curls. Thick eyeliner outlined my eyes and I’d gained a couple more chunky silver rings. Gone were my old, broken-down shoes. Now I wore heavy boots that clomped as I moved across the stage. And I moved a goddamn lot. I’d watched tape of my shows quite often over the past couple of weeks and previously, I hadn’t moved enough. I wasn’t a dancer, but it didn’t take a genius to hear the fan engagement climb every time I did something they didn’t expect. A tasteful hip shimmy. A slide up against the mic as I repeated the chorus on “Last Night on the Road.” A little bit of a growl into the mic on the end of “Built for This.”

  Tonight, I took all of those bits I’d learned and poured them into one show.

  I gripped the mic with both hands, cupping it like a lover from the first note of the first song to the last. Moody blue light surrounded me and my backup band offered the backdrop to a song I’d written a couple of years ago, “Caught Sleeping.” The lyrics tumbled from my mouth, sliding out of me and into the microphone. I couldn’t get close enough. My lips skimmed the metal as I closed my eyes and leaned into the song.

  Caught sleeping, lost in you.

  Missed the call, missed it all.

  Caught sleeping, tangled in your arms.

  Dazzled by your charms.

  And that sweet thing you do…

  When it’s just us two.

  And the night falls, and it’s all the same.

  Caught sleeping, caught up in you.

  Their screams for more fueled me and I stepped back from the mic, waving my arm as I looked up to the second level and the VIP sections, then let my gaze settle on the packed center of the club. I was standing in the same space Jim Morrison had. Behind me, a large banner bore my name. My name was on the marquee outside, where people still lined up to cram inside.