The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance)

by Sterling, Jillian

  "Just this last track and we're golden," Vince said, changing his tactic. "You guys are getting a hotel room for the night."

  I blinked. "Hotel?"

  "Bus needs some work, can't sleep there," he said with a smile. "I've booked you rooms at a Motel 6."

  "And you're staying where?" I muttered under my breath.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, are you staying there?" I shouted to the glass.

  Vince guffawed. "Come on, Nikki, you know I can't stay there."

  "Of course not," I muttered, shoving the earplugs back in. "Let's just get this done."

  It took another hour, but we got the track down. Vince and Dion stayed behind to work out the mix, and I headed to the club for sound check. Between a sleepless night waiting for the tow truck and then a rushed afternoon recording session, I exhaustion creeped through my bones.

  Presley and Jett were perched on the barstools when I arrived. Presley was sipping a Shirley Temple.

  "What's with you?" Presley asked, her lips pursed around the straw.

  "I need a nap," I said. "They got any Red Bulls?"

  Presley shrugged. "The bartender finished her set up and split."

  "Crap," I muttered. Just my luck.

  "How'd the recording session go?" Presley asked.

  I yawned. "Okay, I guess. Vince seemed happy."

  "Did you hear about tonight?" Jett asked, practically giddy. "Where we're staying?"

  I was too tired to share the enthusiasm. "The motel? Yeah, Vince mentioned it."

  "It'll be nice to be out of those bus bunks," Jett said. "After those, a Motel 6 bed will feel like we're sleeping on Hypnos."

  Presley sighed at the name of Britain's most exclusive (and expensive) mattresses. "They have those at the Four Seasons. I love the Four Seasons."

  "It'll be nice to have some privacy for a change," I added, feeling a blush creep up my neck as my thoughts went straight to Dion.

  Presley smirked. "Are you saying Fanboy followed us to Spokane?"

  "Maybe he's the one that sent those flowers?" Jett suggested, nodding to a vase of blood red roses at the end of the bar.

  "Someone sent you flowers?" Presley said, her voice a smattering of jealousy mixed with incredulity.

  My heart just about burst from my chest, waking me up real fast. I raced to the end of the bar to investigate them. No one ever sent me flowers before.

  I extracted the card from the long stems and ripped open the envelope. My racing heart stopped dead when I read the note.

  Rose are red, you're fucking dead.

  I folded the note over and dropped into a bar stool between my sisters.

  "So, who's it from?" Presley asked.

  I shook my head. "No one."

  "No one doesn't send a dozen long stem roses," Presley teased. "Not unless he's serious."

  I held out the note to her. "I think no one is."

  She snatched it out of my hands. Her eyes went wider with each word she read. "Holy shit!"

  Jett closed the book she was reading. "Holy shit what?"

  "It's another threat," Presley said, holding the paper out to her. "I mean, not exactly a poet whoever it is. Nik, we've got to call the cops. Call Vince. Call someone."

  "We know who's doing this," I said, my voice low.

  "Dion," Presley said, her eyes narrowing.

  Betrayal is like a knife to the heart. It slices in, exposing the most vulnerable part of you.

  Jett reached around me and took the note out of Presley's hand. "Don't be so quick to point fingers at Dion."

  "Who else could it be?" I argued.

  She shook her head. "Who the hell knows? The world is filled with crazies. But Dion? I think he's accepted you as part of Rogue Nation." She read the words on the note. "And his songwriting ability is way better than this shitty 'roses are red' poem lets on."

  "That bad poem could be a ruse," Presley snorted. "Dion accept one of us? I doubt it."

  "According to Rafe he has," Jett insisted. "And I think my source of information is better than your assumption."

  "He said something to Rafe? About me?" I asked. Hope knotted in my stomach.

  "Rafe said he said that you were the best thing that happened to the band, and that without you, the band would have been done. Kaput. That's some compliment coming from a guy like Dion."

  Presley shook out her hair. "I don't buy it."

  "You are such a conspiracy theorist," Jett scoffed. "Quick, who was on the grassy knoll?"

  "What the hell do garden gnomes have to do with this?" Presley asked.

  Jett burst out laughing. "Grassy knoll, you halfwit. You know, the President Kennedy assassination?"

  Presley blinked at her. "I thought he died in a plane crash."

  Jett rolled her eyes. "That was his son," Jett said, exasperated. "And you still want to fly?"

  "He wasn't a musician," she stated.

  I waved my hands. "Hey, guys, on me, okay? Threat to my life here, remember?"

  "Sorry," Jett said, pulling her red curls back into a lose ponytail. "OK, gnomes notwithstanding, I just don't think it's him. I mean, Dion exploded when he found out you were joining Rogue. Like, epic tantrum. For days. I don't see him hiding behind anonymous notes."

  "True," Presley said, drumming her manicured nails on the bar. "You don't live in the house anymore, so you missed the drama."

  "Lots of slamming doors," Jett agreed. "He and Vince nearly came to blows."

  "Vince was totally defending you the whole time," Presley added.

  "Well, he was really defending Grimm's bank account," Jett clarified.

  Presley rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Nik, you need to tell Vince. He'll fix this. He fixes everything."

  "Thanks, anyway, Presley, but I am not joining the Vince Davis fan club."

  Jett fingered the note. "She has a point."

  "Not you too?" I pleaded.

  "This shit's getting serious. We need to do something before—" Rafe walked into the club, and Jett clamped her mouth shut.

  "Before what?" he asked. The three of us zipped our lips closed. He shrugged. "I know all about it."

  Jett held up the note. "You do? And what do you think?"

  "Just let them have their bidding war. Sit back and enjoy."

  Presley cocked an eyebrow. "Bidding war? What bidding war?"

  "Wait? Are you talking about the same thing?" he asked.

  "We're talking about this," I said, snatching the note from Jett. "What are you talking about?"

  "Oh, damn," he muttered. A pained look spread over his face. "Okay, but you didn't hear it from me. According to what I just overheard, there's a bidding war between Grimm and SubPop for Satan's Sisters."

  That sound? That was my jaw hitting the floor.

  Presley blinked at him. "What?"

  "When I was leaving the recording studio, Dad was on conference call with Grimm and Eric, the A&R guy discussing it. And from the decibel level of Grimm's voice, I'd say SubPop is winning."

  Warning bells went off in my head. "Wait. Who the hell is negotiating this deal? Vince?"

  "Who else?" Rafe said, cracking his knuckles. "And if you tell him I told you, I will deny the whole thing. No joke, don't screw me."

  "Screw you?" I snorted. "Sounds like we're the ones getting screwed. Vince is not supposed to—"

  "If not Vince, who?" Presley jumped in. "We're pissing in the wind, here, Nik. We have no one going to bat for us except him."

  "We have us," I reminded her. "We do this shit all the time."

  Presley tossed up her hands. "We negotiate door splits with shitty clubs, Nik. A record deal? That's kind of big league."

  I turned to Jett. "Vince is not signing us with Grimm Records."

  "Sorry, Nik," Jett apologized. "I'm with Presley on this one. I just want the best deal, and one that includes holding onto my publishing rights. You sound paranoid."

  "Vince is negotiating for us, and we're taking his advice," Presley said. "Case cl
osed."

  "There is no case closed," I protested. "What happened to making decisions together?"

  "Why do you hate him so much?" Presley questioned. "He's done right by us the past several years."

  "Way to revise history," I scoffed. "He's never treated us like Rafe and Dion. You know, like his kids."

  "We're not his kids," she yelled.

  "He's our stepfather," I argued.

  "That's what the legal system calls it, sure," she said. "But come on Nik! I was 16 when he married Pamela. I was hardly looking for a new daddy. Even you, at 12? After what mom and dad put us through, the last thing we needed was another parent to screw us up."

  "After what they put us through, I sure could have used another parent," I grumbled.

  Jett touched my arm. "I think you need to be a little more circumspect, Nik. He gave us a good life. Better than what we had with mom. Alone on the road? Tour bus after tour bus? Sometimes sleeping in on the floor of the van with the gear? Groupies ain't no fun with kids on the bus. Remember that?"

  "A roof over our heads? A stable home? A closet full of clean clothes? Food in the fridge? We can thank Vince for that," Presley huffed.

  "We can thank the maids for that."

  "A good education," Jett added. "Private school was all him. So's UCLA."

  I yanked my arm away from Jett. "You'd have gotten a scholarship."

  Presley rubbed her temples. "Stop being so stubborn, Nik. Vince has our best interest at heart."

  "Does he really?" I hissed. "How much money does he stand to make from this deal? Grimm offering a little kickback, maybe?"

  "Hey, maybe SubPop's not the best label for you," Rafe interjected. "Indie cred don't pay the rent."

  "Statistically speaking, Grimm is the hit-making machine," Jett agreed.

  I slid off the bar stool looked back and forth between my sisters. "I cannot believe that this does not bother either of you."

  "What doesn't?" asked Dion, walking into the club. My anger faded at the sight of him. Even in baggy cargo shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt, he looked hot and it was ruining my resolve.

  "Nothing," I muttered, shoving the note in my pocked. I paced towards the stage. "Let's get on with this sound check. Where the hell is the sound guy anyway?"

  "Easy now," he said, following me. He dropped his voice. "What's going on?"

  "Like you don't know," I hissed, settling in behind my drum kit.

  "No, I don't," he said. "How about telling me why you're pissed instead of assuming I'm the asshole."

  "Because you usually are," I snapped, picking up my sticks.

  He stalked over and snatched the sticks from my hands. "No, you don't get to do this. You tell me what you think I did."

  "Nik, are you okay?" Jett called over from the bar. She and Presley were on their feet, staring at us intently. Even Rafe stood like he was ready to pounce.

  "She's fine," Dion called.

  "This whole thing doesn't look fine to me," Presley countered.

  "Especially after sending her those roses," Jett chimed in.

  "You sent Nikki flowers? What's it, her birthday or something?" Rafe asked.

  Presley sighed. "They came with anonymous threat to her life."

  "Oh yeah, that sounds like a dick move, bro," Rafe agreed.

  Dion turned looked between Jett and Rafe. "What the hell are you talking about? Roses? Dick move?"

  Presley lifted the vase of flowers and held them in front of her like they were cursed. "This dick move."

  Dion raked his hand through his sun-kissed curls. "Since when did sending flowers become a dick move?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Jett said. "When the note sent with them threatens to kill the person they are addressed to?"

  "This professional jealousy thing has got to stop," Presley added, plunking the vase onto the bar so hard that water sloshed over the top. "You're taking it way too far now."

  "True story," Rafe said. "The bus thing was kind of funny. But you're dead-on creeping now."

  Dion turned to me. "Want to let me in on the pile on?"

  I pulled the note out from my pocket and handed it to him without a word. He took it, shoving the drumsticks in his back pocket. His posture stiffened as he read the note. He reached the end and crushed it in his hand.

  "Who sent this?" he demanded.

  "You did," I said.

  "Did you call the florist to find out who sent this? Is there a credit card with name on it?" he asked.

  "Well, no—" I started.

  He pulled his hair back from his face, frustration etched in it. "Then why the hell would you accuse me of this, Nik?"

  "Who else could it be?" I countered.

  "I don't know," he said, his voice raising. "Maybe it's Rafe, did you think of that?"

  Rafe stood. "Me? Why the hell would I do that?"

  "Exactly," Dion said. "So why the hell would I?"

  "Enough!" Presley yelled, slamming her hand down on the bar. "Assuming it's not Dion—"

  "Big assumption," I cut in.

  Presley shook her head at me. "Assuming it's not, I think we need to call the cops."

  "No cops," I demanded.

  "Why the hell not?" Presley asked.

  "Because I don't want this in the media. We have too much riding on this tour."

  "I don't know about that," Dion said. "It may fuel some solid press. This could blow up on social."

  I snarled at him. "Or blow up in our faces. No cops."

  "Fine," Presley said. "But we're telling Vince."

  "What will that do?" I asked.

  "Maybe he can put a security detail on you," Jett said. "Nik, there are a ton of crazies out there, and the more Rogue Nation blows up, the more nuts come out of the wood work."

  "You probably should tell Vince," Rafe agreed.

  I rubbed the back of my neck, massaging out the knots created by this conversation. "Fine," I agreed. "Call Vince."

  If Dion was behind the notes, bringing in Vince would put a stop to it.

  Presley pulled out her phone and pressed a button. She had Vince on speed dial. She whispered into the phone and then pulled it away from her ear. "Vince wants to call the cops."

  "No way," I yelled.

  Presley put the phone back to her ear. "No, Nik wants nothing to do with the cops," she said into the phone. She pulled it away from her ear again. "He's insisting."

  "Put him on speaker phone," I grumbled, making my way out from behind my drum kit. We all huddled around Presley as she put her phone on the bar and hit the speaker button.

  Vince was in mid-sentence. "...Talk some sense into your daft sister and call the damn cops. This is insane."

  "You're on speaker, Vince," Presley said, shaking her head. "We're all here. All of us."

  "Including the daft sister," I added.

  "You are daft," he said. "In lieu of cops, do you want to cancel the gig?"

  I joined the chorus of “no’s” coming from Vince and Rafe.

  "So then we call the cops," Vince said.

  "I don't want the press getting wind of this," I said. "That will turn this tour into a side show and I don't want that."

  "Why don't we call in Alice, let her weigh in on that," Vince suggested.

  I cringed. The last thing I wanted was Grimm's Wicked Witch of PR getting a hold of this. "Let's leave Alice out of this, please. Satan's Sisters are not signed to Grimm Records and I want nothing to do with her."

  "But she is PR for Rogue Nation," Dion reminded me.

  "The drummer doesn't matter, remember?" I shot at him.

  Vince let out another mega-sigh. "Nikki, from what Presley tells me, the threats are getting more specific. I'm worried. I think doing nothing is a mistake."

  "Thanks for worrying, but I'll be fine," I said. "Whoever is doing this is behaving like a schoolyard bully, not an outright psychopath."

  Jett curled her lip. "Don't you think sending flowers with a note like that is kind of psycho?"

  "It's grade s
chool, Jett," I lied.

  "It'd be more psycho if the flowers were dead," Presley pointed out. "Live flowers seems kind of lazy."

  I glanced at Dion, but his face remained unreadable.

  Vince sighed, his breath creating a tinny windstorm through the speaker. "Thanks for the assessment, all of you. No cops, gig on. But Devlin's going to call the florist and see if we can track whoever did this. And I'm asking Beef to trail you tonight."

  Beef was on the road crew and he was exactly that. Huge.

  "Fine, Beef can trail me," I acquiesced, turning my back to keep my smile hidden. Buddhist Beef was opposed to any sort of violence. The protection I'd get from that gentle giant was more spiritual than actual.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "It's all good, Beef," I said, knocking on the door to Dion's motel room. "We're with a reporter, my room is just two doors down. I don't think I'm in any danger."

  A shirtless Dion yanked open the door. Beef grunted a greeting.

  "I'll walk her home, Beef," Dion said, leaning against the door frame.

  "You sure, man? I'll stand guard outside the door," he said.

  "Go to bed, Beef," I insisted. "I'm fine."

  "Okay," he said, hesitating a few times as he walked away.

  "Good gig tonight," he said, watching Beef amble away. "Considering everything."

  His buff body still blocked the door. My eyes moved down his muscled chest to his hips, his jeans slung tantalizingly low with the button undone. Mussed hair, half dressed... My stomach knotted.

  I swallowed down my jealousy. "Is the interviewer here?"

  "Mmm hmm," he said, not budging from the door frame.

  "Want to let me in, then?" I hissed.

  "We need to talk about something first," he said with a smile. My heart dropped into my stomach.

  "Oh god, Dion," I squeaked. "Did you have sex with the Rolling Stone reporter?"

  Dion's rich laugh echoed through the quiet Motel 6 parking lot. "I want to talk about the interview. One of the questions Rolling Stone has about tonight's gig. They know about the threats. Do you want to admit them?"

  I pressed my hand against my forehead. "Crap. No. I don't know. What if they find out I lied?"

  "Alice thinks we should talk about it," he said. "She said to get out in front of the story."

  "You called Alice?" I said, raising my voice. Dion shushed me.