Rock Reckoning: A Rockstar Suspense Romance Collection

by Cari Quinn

  He also had a true family, even if he’d made it for himself out of his band.

  And that wife you’d have no use for.

  “What makes you think I want anything from you?” I gave Simon a pleasant smile. “Looks like you’re on my doorstep, not vice versa.”

  “Barely even a step.” Simon shook his head and pulled out his wallet, shocking me into silence as he tossed a sheaf of bills at my feet. “This is it, isn’t it? You’re coming around to cash in. I’ll make it easy on both of us. You get paid,” Simon lifted his gaze to mine, “and get lost.”

  “I didn’t ask you for a bloody thing.” I bent to grab the pile of money, fisting it for a second while my palm tingled.

  What must it be like to be able to pull out that much green and fling it around as if it didn’t matter? My life would be so different if I had this much cash at my disposal. I could do anything I wanted. I’d be beholden to no one but myself.

  But fantasies were just that. Another kind of make-believe.

  “That’s more your mother’s style than mine,” I added, rising to throw the money back in Simon’s face.

  The words stung as they were meant to. Not just him, but me.

  It was never supposed to be this way. I still wasn’t sure why it was. How I’d come to this place.

  Become this man.

  Simon jerked forward and gripped me around the throat, his hands squeezing until spots swam and danced at the periphery of my vision. Swinging blindly, I drove my fist into Simon’s stupidly hard stomach and enjoyed a moment’s satisfaction when the bastard stumbled back. And then he launched himself at me as if he’d been sent directly from the depths of hell.

  The punch to my jaw snapped my head back. This time, the spots encroached from all sides. I swore and spat out a mouthful of blood before giving back as good as I’d gotten, using my knees and fists to inflict damage.

  To bring the kind of pain I’d shoved down for too many years.

  Because of this asshole.

  Because of my mother.

  Because of my father, a man I’d never met.

  Because of the man who’d brought us to England and ditched us as too much trouble.

  Definitely because of Jerry.

  All the people who were supposed to give a shit, but just did not.

  Somehow I found myself on my back with Simon’s shiny boot an inch away from my ribs. Without warning, Simon stopped and stared down at me, his eyes wild, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away almost casually, his gaze narrowing on my torso.

  “Fucking cherry blossoms.” Instead of his expression softening, it grew harder, his brows snapping down. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not an easy mark.”

  Everyone was easier than they wanted to believe. All it took was knowing on which soft place to apply pressure, and how much to use.

  I sat up and shoved both hands through my hair, stopping short as Simon turned away to do the same. Not quite the same. Simon’s movements were stilted, jerky, and when he raked his hand through his hair, he fisted it.

  Must be nice he could still make a fist. I wasn’t even sure how many blows I’d landed yet my knuckles stung. The skin was split, the joints already swelling.

  But I had to hope I’d brought Simon some of the same pain he’d inflicted so eagerly on me. The same aching ribs, the same throbbing jaw, the same smarting cut near his mouth.

  So much the same, even in this. And so different.

  “You think you can just use my name, my life, everything I fucking fought for, and it won’t have consequences?”

  I braced my hands on the floor behind me, feigning a relaxed posture even if the reality was anything but. I’d be damned if I gave Simon an ounce of satisfaction at having rattled me. He didn’t deserve even that.

  That was what I had to keep telling myself.

  “Your name, is it? Not our father’s. Not mine, just as much as yours.” I lifted my chin as Simon turned and glared. “You got everything else, so why not take that too, right? Why leave me with even that?”

  Simon’s harsh laughter ripped through the flat. “I got everything? From who? My father,” he enunciated carefully, “was a mean fucker who enjoyed splitting my lip and my ribs just for something to do. My mother disappeared, leaving me with that son of a bitch. Whatever I’ve gotten, I’ve gotten for myself. I made myself, you bastard. I made the name Kagan.” He stepped forward, deliberately stepping on my bare toes with his shiny fucking steel-toed boots.

  The pinch of pain grounded me. Reminded me of all that was at stake.

  I wouldn’t hesitate.

  When I didn’t speak, he did the honors himself. “If you think you’re going to steal it from me, Brit, you’re wrong.”

  I yanked my feet out of reach of Simon’s boots and jerked to my feet, slowly rising to my full height. Everything ached, as if I’d gone a few rounds with a prizefighter instead of a pussy-soft rockstar.

  But Simon knew all the places to hit. All the same blows I’d delivered myself. And I wouldn’t be hurting alone tonight.

  I smiled slowly. “Can’t steal what you don’t own.”

  Six

  Simon took a step toward the door and I let out a long, slow breath that vibrated through my ribs.

  Maybe he’d just fucking leave and I could lick my wounds in private. Literally.

  I needed to regroup. To explain to Jerry how this could all still work. Sure, I’d made a change, but we could deal with this.

  Giggling sounded behind me and I spun around, narrowing my eyes as the blond and brunette women I’d forgotten about climbed down the ladder from the loft. The blond climbed, the brunette sort of slid down the steps, crashing into the annoyed blond and giggling some more as she righted herself. Then she stopped laughing altogether as she followed her sister’s gaze to me and my brother. She pursed her lips and tugged on the short, fluffy skirt she’d dragged on with her bra and cropped jean jacket.

  The newest in London fashion, I was sure.

  Stupid. So stupid to forget they were up there. They could’ve heard our entire conversation. And from the sly look on the Natasha’s face as she sashayed forward in a swingy black dress that barely hid her crotch, she surely had.

  “Well, who’s this? I don’t think we’ve met.” Her statement—and her smile—was for Simon, as if I didn’t even exist.

  That I felt a moment’s hurt at the dismissal just proved I’d had far too much to drink.

  Simon cursed and turned away. “Fucking skanks.”

  Natasha gasped.

  “Listen, Natasha, you and Tammy should leave. My brother and I are having a wee chat.”

  “I am not your fucking brother.”

  “If you’re still doubting reality, the birth certificate makes it clear.” When Simon pivoted back toward me, I gave him a bland smile. “Assuming you can read. American schools aren’t the best, now are they?”

  “Brother? Well, isn’t that interesting?” Natasha tapped her chin while Tammy frowned.

  “My name is Tanya. Not Tammy. You’re a right bastard, aren’t you?”

  No doubt there.

  “This isn’t for you.” I didn’t spare the women another glance. “It’s been fun, but all fun comes to an end. Here, let me see you home.” I reached for the wallet in my jeans, found it missing.

  Lovely. It had better be on the floor in the loft or these two ladies and I were going to get personal again. In the meantime, I knew where there was a stash of cash.

  I bent over and hissed a breath through my teeth as I gathered a few bills off the floor. Rising, I handed them to Natasha. “There you go. Off with you. Be safe.”

  “Off with us?” Natasha pushed me, and I set my jaw. “Who do you think you are? Wannabe rockstar.”

  Her sneer along with the contempt in her voice so soon after Simon had used the same tone on me shoved me over the edge.

  Not tonight.

  Not ever again.

  I’d
had just about enough of that kind of mockery to last a lifetime.

  Music, is it? Think you’re like Simon, do you? But you’ll never be like him. Never.

  I turned and stared down at Natasha, tilting my head as I gave her a cold smile.

  “Better a wannabe rockstar than a confirmed nothing. Scurry along now.” I pointed at the door and fought to keep my sore arm steady. “Before I help you to leave.”

  “You think you’re so important now that you’re on the telly. Wrong. You’re so wrong.” Natasha’s smile reeked with insincerity. “Wrong about a lot of things.” She stooped to pick up a bright pink bag on the couch and reached back for Tanya’s arm, propelling her toward the door.

  Tanya giggled as she broke away and scuttled forward to snatch up one of Simon’s strewn-about bills, waving it gleefully in her fist. Natasha snatched her arm again, cursing under her breath, and yanked her toward the door. At the last moment, she turned back and pulled out her mobile phone from an unseen compartment in her bag, aiming it at me and Simon.

  “Say cheese, pretty boys.”

  I swore and rushed forward, barely managing to snatch the handle of her purse before she dashed into the hallway. I struggled to hold onto it, but she was moving fast and my fucking hand was practically useless after plowing it into Simon’s iron gut.

  She yanked free and disappeared down the hall in a blur of blond hair and cold fury with her sister keeping pace at her side.

  I shut my eyes. Could this night—nearly morning now—get any worse?

  Oh, yes, it could. I still had my brother in my flat and Jerry to speak to. And I might be missing my goddamn wallet.

  After kicking the door against the wall—and nearly howling at the agony—I walked through the flat, bypassing Simon entirely to aim for the loft ladder. I faced the stairs as a hiker might view Mount Everest, then I began to climb.

  That I didn’t shriek like a little girl was a personal victory.

  Heaving myself into the loft, I took a second or a hundred of them to catch my breath. Then I flung myself painfully over the bed, throwing my legs out on the other side so I could feel around on the floor. Nothing.

  Those two larcenists had picked me dry.

  “Bloody hell.” I stood up and kicked the mattress, which did nothing but make my recently abused toes hurt even more.

  Still nothing compared to the pull across my torso. If that bugger had cracked a rib—or more than one—when I had the talent show finals coming up, I was going to rip out every pretty brown strand of hair on Simon’s head.

  He was probably gone by now, for fuck’s sake. Why that sent disappointment crashing through me, I didn’t even know. There would be plenty of time, and we were actually moving a little ahead of schedule with this unplanned visit.

  Assuming Jerry didn’t have my head for what I’d done.

  Somehow I made it back down the ladder. I turned to find my brother watching me out of dispassionate eyes. Flat blue rather than my changeable green. He was one color and I was a million of them.

  He hadn’t wasted the time while I was occupied. Far from it. He was at my small corner desk, rifling through papers and books—my song books, for God’s sake—as if he had a right. All the while, he watched me as if he was daring me to challenge him.

  Rage burned through me, consuming the helplessness and sense of futility that had filled me at the first sight of my brother. For all that I’d prepared, all the time I’d had to come to terms with this reality, seeing him in the flesh was so much different. To know we shared the same DNA, the same parents, the same dreams…

  Once. We’d shared the same dreams once.

  Simon clutched one of my battered notebooks in his puffy-knuckled fist. “What’s this?” he taunted. “Little songs you write in your spare time? Do you even write your own words? Or is that something else you steal?”

  Not all we shared obviously. We also shared the same hatred for one another.

  “And whose words would I be stealing now? Yours? You don’t write much anymore, do you though? Too occupied with prancing around in your leathers. I imagine it pays as much or more as what you do with your band.” I smiled while every instinct inside me demanded I pry that notebook from Simon’s hand, no matter what it took.

  But that would give Simon more of the fight he was spoiling for. Would certainly show more weaknesses for my elder brother to exploit.

  Instead, I’d exploit some weaknesses of my own.

  “I imagine your pretty little wife doesn’t care how you make your money, as long as she gets to pretend to fuck you onstage and convince herself she’s the only one—”

  Simon flew at me, and I darted behind the couch, putting it between us. Not because I wouldn’t fight. To the death if it came to it. But I was in the goddamn finals, had worked my ass off to get there, and I’d be damned if Simon stole that from me.

  “Oh, big talker now, aren’t you? Hiding behind a sofa. So tough.” Simon shook his head. “You think you know what it is to suffer? Did your father ever lay you out black and blue, until you were too weak to even stand? And forget calling for help. There was no help. The people who were supposed to care didn’t pay attention. Just gutter trash, that Kagan kid.”

  Sympathy tried to bloom inside me and was ruthlessly squelched. I understood far more than he gave me credit for, even if the manner of delivery had been much different.

  “You had your father in your life. I did not. Because she left with me, hoping she’d found a better score. A better meal ticket. Instead, she ended up whoring for her dinner and leaving me to fucking starve more nights than not. So pick your poison.” Simon’s bruised gaze met mine. “Do you want to die from violence or neglect? Both leave you just as finished.”

  Most of it was true. The vital parts. Sure, some was a kind of fiction, if only because it was shaped to lead to a predetermined end.

  I walked around the shitty furniture I’d gotten secondhand at thrifts and moved to my small, battered desk. I’d spent so many hours there, scribbling words that deep down, I’d never expected people to ever hear.

  I showed a cocky face to the world. My mother had taught me that early on.

  Never let them see you sweat. Some will enjoy it. Most won’t care. Either way, it’ll do you no good to ask for help, so pretend you don’t need it. Don’t need them.

  I’d learned well. Slipping on that confident persona was how I got ready for the stage, just as some musicians did vocal warmups or gargled salt water. My prep was acting as if the world couldn’t fucking touch me.

  Couldn’t break me, as it had tried to do so many times already.

  I bent over the desk, feeling around the back of it for the secret compartment where I kept my most important papers. No combination lock vaults in my palace.

  Damn good thing those valuable papers hadn’t been stored in my wallet.

  The move put Simon just outside my peripheral vision. My goddamn brother could’ve laid me out if he so wished. But I figured some of the fury had to be bleeding out of Simon, if not the confusion.

  It was about to get even worse.

  I flipped open the compartment I’d carved into the desk with my own hands and pulled out the rolled tube of paper that was both my meal ticket and my destruction. Proof that I was the legendary Simon Kagan’s brother.

  An amazing gift.

  A giant legacy I wasn’t sure I’d ever have the chops to fill.

  If I’d even be given the chance.

  Use what you’ve got. Don’t think about what’s right or wrong. That’s sucker talk. Think about what belongs to you.

  The Kagan name was mine, for good or bad. As much mine as Simon’s. By saying it on TV, I’d known what Pandora’s box I was opening. Before I’d acknowledged the familial link, people had wondered here and there. I’d gotten questions. Same last name, same looks, same business. But wondering wasn’t the same as telling the world.

  I gripped the paper and turned, holding it out to Simon, who stared down at
it as if he expected it to burst into flames at any second. Just in case it did, I had the original in a “secure” location.

  Taped underneath my bed.

  “What is that?”

  “Read it.”

  Simon took the paper and unrolled it slowly, smoothing the paper against the arm of the sofa. His forehead wrinkled, but he didn’t look up. His focus stayed glued to that paper as he reread the words over and over again. Then he rolled it back up and dropped it on the couch as if it was garbage.

  “That proves nothing. Anyone could slap some fake seal on paperwork and add the names they found on Google.”

  “Look at me,” I said quietly. “Do you think this face is from plastic surgery?” I barked out a laugh. “Where do you suppose I raised the money? No trust fund here. Nothing but what I’ve worked for and done for myself.”

  At least so far.

  Simon finally met my gaze. “Why now? Why say what you said on TV instead of contacting me?”

  “What in the hell should I have contacted you for?” I kicked the pile of money Simon had left on the floor. It was scattering all over the place, thanks to the window I’d left cracked open.

  And why shouldn’t Simon fling his money around? He obviously had plenty to burn.

  Handy, that.

  “Let me guess,” I continued when Simon remained silent. “So you could insult and berate me? I used your name—my name—on TV because I’m going to win that competition. And the only ones who worry about what’s fair or right are those who don’t mind losing. I’ll use every piece of leverage I’ve got to get where I’m going.”

  It wasn’t supposed to be about me. But music was all I had. If I could make them happy and me too, we would all win.

  Except my beloved bro.

  Simon crossed his arms. “And where is that, exactly? Why don’t you spell it out for me?”

  “I want what you have.” I went on even as Simon snorted and dropped back his head. “I want to make my mark. To show the goddamn world that I’m here and I matter. I matter, damn you. Just because I wasn’t first doesn’t mean I don’t count.”