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

by Cari Quinn

  “Ian is just a thorn.”

  “For you as well, it sounds like.”

  “If he hurts Zoe…” She trailed off and folded her hands on the desk. “The bottom line is we don’t know what Ian is up to. If anything. He may just be a young man with a guitar, plenty of drive, and far too many curls.”

  “My hair isn’t like that,” Simon muttered, touching it to make sure it hadn’t gone nuts on him from the humidity since he’d left home. His was a little wavy, sure, but curls like Ian’s? No. Definitely not.

  “Or he may be someone who bears watching,” Lila continued, pursing her lips. “Which is where you come in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Donovan and Sabrina came up with the idea to have you work with Ian.”

  He barely heard the words before he slammed his hands on her desk. “No. Hell no!”

  She scarcely blinked. “Knowing that would be your reaction, I told them no. I didn’t even want to consider it. To be honest, I felt blindsided by the way Ian was contracted to Ripper Records without my knowledge. They know the relationship we have. It goes beyond manager and artist, and yes, that’s on me for letting those lines blur. But Donovan knows.”

  “He only gives a shit about how fat his wallet gets. People are meaningless to him.”

  “Careful,” Lila said. “You don’t want to go so far you can’t take back what you’ve said.”

  “No worries there. I’ve thought Lord Lewis overreached since day one.”

  “Since day one when he signed you and made you and your bandmates international stars. How dare he.” She examined her nail polish. “Since you’re you, and I’m me, I will acknowledge I don’t always agree with Donovan’s methods. But I never doubt the decision-making behind them. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Simon grunted. Yeah, easy for her to think that. She wasn’t the puppet he wanted to make dance.

  Or in this case, sing.

  “Ian has a ton of buzz behind him. Partly because of his look, partly because of his antics onstage, partly because of his British accent and his way with the ladies. The rest? All has to do with his voice. Donovan has approximately one other male artist on his roster with that kind of range who would blend well with Ian’s style of music. And I’m looking at him.”

  “Bullshit. He wants to cash in on the feuding brothers crap.”

  “You stand to make a fuckton of money for what amounts to not a lot of time in the studio. We’re thinking one four-song EP. Three new songs with the two of you, and the live single already released from his last show.”

  Simon smirked. “The one where he nearly lost his pants?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? And seeing as you can’t make it through a show with your shirt on, I wouldn’t act too haughty if I were you.”

  “Why should I do this? Just to make money? Just so he makes money? So Donovan makes it?”

  She shrugged. ‘“Seems like a good reason to me.”

  “What about fucking personal integrity?”

  “What about getting a chance to see him up close and personal, day in and day out, for a few weeks? What about figuring out if he’s running a con—or putting our concerns to rest on that score, if it turns out he isn’t?”

  “Our concerns? Is that what we’re calling them now?”

  “You have yours, I have mine. We both want to make sure he doesn’t pull something. Who better to ferret out what’s behind his golden smile than you, someone who came from a similar background and can smell a con from fifty paces?”

  She had him, and she knew it. But that didn’t mean he was going to go down easily. “I don’t have to deal with him. Donovan can make his requests, but I never signed a contract saying I had to shine Ian’s balls. If I say no, he can’t do a damn thing to me.”

  “Nope. You’re right. He can’t. And if Ian’s up to no good, absolutely no one is going to figure it out because everyone else is too blinded by dollar signs.” She smiled thinly. “But you don’t need to trouble your pretty little head about that.”

  “You just boxed me in, didn’t you?”

  “I prefer calling it showing you all the variables and letting you decide.”

  “Three songs.” Simon pushed his hands through his hair. “That’s it?”

  “As it stands now, yes. If your collaboration takes off—”

  Simon snorted. “It will not.”

  “If it takes off,” she repeated, “there is the possibility of a few shows. But that’s not anything to concern yourself with now. You may not be able to work together well enough to produce anything of merit. And if not, we’ll just chalk it up to a failed experiment.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Well, you certainly aren’t wearing your team-player jersey.”

  “What about Ian? What does he think about this idea?” He waited a beat, then shook his head as she glanced away. “Oh, he doesn’t know.”

  “Hardly made sense to tell him if you weren’t onboard.”

  “Three songs only. No shows.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “What if he’s not interested? Then what? You hire a PI to make sure he isn’t planning on taking advantage of your fresh-faced cousin?”

  “You’d be surprised the means I have. You were my first choice. But rest assured, you’re not my only option.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting. So, are you in or out?”

  Simon fisted a handful of his hair before letting it go and running his hands down his thighs. He should talk about this with Margo—hell, with Nicky, who would probably see this as infidelity to Oblivion—but Lila wasn’t one to wait for him to have the necessary conversations.

  Besides, Margo would advocate Simon doing this. Not because she trusted Ian any more than Li or Simon. But she’d see it as Simon either achieving closure with the situation…or possibly opening a door to a new relationship with his brother.

  Christ, even the word didn’t slot right in his head. He didn’t have a brother. He’d always been an only child. Hadn’t minded it, either.

  Maybe as a kid, he’d wished he wasn’t alone. But that was a long time ago.

  Alone, as Ian had been too. Just without the non-blood family Simon had made. And now he’d have blood too, with his child.

  Margo would quietly nudge him to say yes. So he would know one way or the other if it was possible for him to forge some kind of…anything with Ian. Just in case.

  And Nicky, well, he’d be pissed regardless. With advance warning or none. It wouldn’t make much difference. He didn’t do well with things that might take away from the band.

  “You know your husband is not going to like this.”

  Lila arched a brow and folded her hands.

  “Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Let me handle Nicholas. Is your answer yes or no?”

  Simon sucked in a breath. God help him. He better get some credit for doing this good deed from someone. Anyone. He’d settle for an extra BJ or two from his wife, but he demanded some kind of recompense. Cold, hard cash was not enough.

  “I’m in. But if this turns out to be a horrible idea—”

  “It’s my fault, and you’re to get a month off at Christmas, no press commitments or otherwise.” Lila smiled. “You and Margo both.”

  Simon grinned, but he didn’t mention that they’d need time off then anyway, due to the little fact of his wife giving birth.

  One bridge crossed at a time, please.

  “You got it.” He’d made it to the door before she spoke again.

  “He’s doing some shows up north right now, but expect to hear from me with studio dates by the end of the week.”

  He grunted. Sooner than he’d wanted. Fuck, this was actually going to happen.

  But if Ian was up to more than just wanting to sing his knickers off, Simon would figure it out and shut the bastard down.

  “Simon?”

  Lila’s rare usage of his name made him pivot toward her and arch a bro
w. Usually, it was Kagan or Mr. Kagan or nothing at all.

  “Thank you. I can trust you, and that’s priceless.” She swallowed hard. “Especially when it comes to Zoe.”

  “There may be nothing to find. He might be just a dude who wants to make music and fuck girls. Even if that girl is yours, sorry to say.”

  Briskly, she nodded. “But you’ll find out.”

  “Yes.”

  And if he didn’t like what he learned, Ian would discover even another country wasn’t far enough away for him to hide.

  Nineteen

  The fucking drummer thief was late.

  I picked up my pack of smokes and lit one, tipping back my head as I watched the plume curl toward the pretty little awning of the outdoor café. A cigar bar no less. I could fucking smoke freely for the first time in a long damn time. My hair was tucked under a cap and I had on dark glasses, much as I wished as I could’ve worn Zoe’s. The ridiculous pink gained me more attention though, so I’d had to go with the fashion victim choice of huge black. My clothes were the standard student attire—baggy jeans, slouchy shirt.

  Perfect camouflage, as I hadn’t been in school for years and certainly not secondary school. As if any institution of higher learning would have me.

  Still clutching the cig, I poured vodka down my throat as if it was past midnight instead of just past noon. From a flask of course, because I was classy as fuck.

  I finished it off and tucked the flask in my knapsack. Vodka had also been my brother’s choice of drink before love and vocal instability had driven him to sobriety. Wasn’t it nice to know that alcoholism was yet another one of the Kagan familial gifts with purchase?

  Even so, all things considered, my life was going well. Or so it seemed. On the surface, I was one lucky bloke.

  The reality wasn’t nearly so cheerful. I had a knife at my throat in the form of a ticking clock.

  I supposed I was lucky there too, that the knife hadn’t taken shape beyond that relentless tick-tick-tick.

  Yet.

  But my days were full enough I could pretend everything was okay. Here I was, selling out clubs practically nightly, traveling my way up the coast in a shabby-chic tour bus I was pretty sure had once belonged to the Stones.

  Okay, probably a Stones cover band. Close enough.

  After the shows, I went back to my lonely bunk and texted Zoe. She didn’t always answer. A lot of times, her replies were terse at best.

  Working, leave me alone.

  One day, remember?

  Don’t you have some groupie to bounce on?

  Those made me smile the most. She didn’t want me bouncing on a groupie. Under the hurt I’d felt from being ignored, recognition had finally bloomed. She absolutely didn’t want me with anyone else.

  In fact, that was why she refused to be with me, contrary woman that she was.

  Contrary woman I couldn’t get out of my head no matter how I tried.

  Another thing I couldn’t get out of my head was the loss of my drummer. He’d seemed more on the ball than the one they’d given me in his place. Besides, I didn’t like to lose.

  I certainly didn’t like being stolen from. It hit a little too close to home.

  True, I hadn’t exactly made an effort to keep said drummer happy when he’d still been mine. I was still learning in a lot of ways. But once I got him back again and ixnayed this new dude, all would be fine.

  Anthony still had no use for me, but we had a little byplay going now in our shows, so I couldn’t complain. I didn’t care if he didn’t like me as long as he made me look good.

  Fuck, I was almost done with my cig and still no Flynn Shepard. Already this guy was proving himself to be a douche.

  “That’s going to tear up your cords.”

  The owner of the raspy voice currently criticizing me sounded as if he’d imbibed his share of alcohol-soaked cigarettes himself. I took a deep drag, then ground out the cigarette under my heel before blowing out a long, slow stream of smoke. The plume obscured the guy’s face for a second before I was nearly blinded by a pair of mirrored aviators.

  “Well, about time. Gotta say you look just like the glossy countrified pics I saw online of your last CD cover. Where’s your cowboy hat?”

  Flynn paid me no mind as he dropped into the chair across from me. He picked up a menu, ordered black coffee—make that black coffee, darlin’ with an invitational smile for the waitress—and then kicked out his miles-long, jean-clad legs. “You got a chip on your shoulder, kid. Better hope it doesn’t lay you flat.”

  Not the first time I’d heard that sentiment, though never delivered in that particular way. “It’s gotten me this far. You’re late. Is that your version of a chip?”

  “No, it’s that I couldn’t find fucking parking and traffic was a bitch.” He smiled again as the waitress returned with his coffee and eyed my glass of water with disdain. She’d been flirty with me at first, until I’d declined to order anything with a price tag. This trendy San Francisco eatery was far beyond my current pay grade. Or at least the money I still retained. I’d spent most of my extra cash while with Zoe.

  Debts were my goddamn life.

  I’d grab an apple and a bag of chips from a deli on the way back to the bus. It’d be enough to fill the hole.

  “Sorry. This was the best I could do on short notice. Didn’t realize you’d be in town too. Figured we’d meet up when I was back in LA.”

  Flynn shrugged and rubbed his thumb along the side of his coffee cup, his ring making a little click with each pass. “Gotta say, I’m not real sure why we’re meeting at all.”

  Best to say it straight out. “You stole my drummer.” I folded my hands over my stomach and leaned back in my chair. “I want him back.”

  The last thing I expected the guy to do was laugh. Hard. As if I was the funniest thing he’d encountered all week. “You do realize Scott has free will, right? He can come and go wherever he pleases.”

  “Scott?” I frowned. “I thought his name was Deuce.” In fact, I was quite happy I’d even remembered his name, and now it wasn’t even the right one?

  Again.

  Flynn laughed harder.

  “Can you kindly tell me the punchline, mate?”

  “This is exactly why Scott,” he enunciated the name, “split. He said you didn’t have a clue how to play well in a group.”

  “I’ve never had a band before,” I muttered, oddly chagrined.

  Maybe it was because Flynn probably had a good decade on me and had a weathered, lived-in look about him that spoke of being utterly comfortable in his skin. Even his jeans appeared permanently shaped to him.

  Or I supposed I could be smartening up enough to learn from my elders. Flynn had been in the business for a damn long time. He’d seen and lived through a lot. I could respect that. Especially since I still felt completely clueless about the world of music. I knew how to sing—though I’d be starting proper lessons soon, so perhaps not—and I was becoming more adept at selling the songs to the audience.

  The rest? All a crapshoot.

  “I’d say that’s obvious.” Flynn sat back in his chair, coffee cup in hand. “How’d you end up here?”

  “You mean here, like San Francisco?”

  “No. At Ripper Records. How do you know Van?”

  I blinked. “You mean Donovan? He has a nickname other than Lord?” I’d heard that one around Ripper so often that even I’d picked it up.

  “Yes, Donovan. Can’t say I’ve ever heard anyone else call him by one. Though I haven’t heard of this Lord business, either.” He chuckled. “Fits him.”

  “Too well.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “So, ah, my brother is famous. You might’ve heard of him?”

  “Could be. What’s his name?”

  That he didn’t know Simon was my relation right off the top lifted him in my estimation. Despite my using Simon’s name to get a leg up, I was growing weary of the comparisons. Perhaps I was even beginning to see why Simon had been so insta
ntly irritated and on guard when it came to me.

  A couple of articles headlined “Ian Kagan is no Simon Kagan” had offered me some insight there. I was sure there’d been the reverse as well. At least I hoped. Comparisons sucked, but they damn well had better be going both ways. I was a newbie, but I had some native skill.

  “Simon Kagan. He’s the lead singer of Oblivion.”

  “Oh, yeah, okay. I know Simon. My buddy Luc has worked some with one of Simon’s bandmates, Gray. And Luc is dating the sister of someone in Oblivion as well. Small world. I didn’t know Simon had a brother.”

  Boy, this guy must really live under a rock. We’d been all over the telly for weeks. The gossip portions anyway.

  “Neither did he, actually, until just recently.” I picked up my water glass, saluted Flynn with it, and tossed half of it back in one go.

  It cut the gnawing ache in my belly, but not a lot.

  “Is that so? That sounds like a story.”

  The waitress came back. “You need anything over here, sugar?”

  “Yeah, I’m starving. Let’s get that appetizer platter to split. That work for you?”

  The casual question nearly broke me. I was so hungry I’d probably eat the whole thing, tray and all. “Sure.”

  If he wanted to split the bill, I only had a nearly charged-up credit card and a few singles. But there was probably enough I could sneak an overdraft lunch tab through.

  What was a paltry fee compared to the mountain of obligations riding my back? And at least I would be fed. I couldn’t shrink away to nothing and maintain my persona onstage.

  In the old days, I’d stolen food when need be. Or I’d gotten it from pretty young things who didn’t think much of paying a bill or two. Everything I did now was much more scrutinized. If I got nabbed for stealing a bag of apples at the nearest grocery, it could end up as tabloid fodder and my whole rickety house of cards would crush me.

  I just needed a few more weeks. More money would start coming in from these club shows. Then I’d take some for myself off of what I’d send Jerry. Not much. Just enough so I wasn’t so goddamn edgy and irritable all the time.