Rock the Dream (Redfall Dream #1)

by B. B. Miller

  “I won’t,” I promise. “I love you, too. And I’ll tell you every day until I can do this again.” I pull his lips back to mine, surprising him, but he moans into my mouth and clings to me. The desire is overwhelming, but I wrench myself away, my eyes welling. “See you soon,” I mumble and yank open the door to leave while I still can.

  “Not soon enough.” His whisper draws my eyes to his, and I think I manage to return his lopsided grin as I let Colin lead me to the elevator. The last thing I see as the doors close is his bleak half-smile, and Tucker’s hand clapped on his shoulder.

  It’s the image that stays with me as I sink into the plush leather of the waiting SUV with Colin, and later in my first-class cocoon. Staring out the tiny window, I wallow like a champ, clinging to the dull ache in my heart like a badge of honor, at least until I feel the thump when we touch down in San Francisco.

  Taking a deep breath, I wipe my tired eyes. I’m being ridiculous. I know this. I’ll see him again in a few weeks. He’ll be back for a break before beginning the North American leg of his tour, and he promised we’d spend some time at his house in Bodega Bay. In the meantime, I have work to do.

  I join the stream of other people trudging through the airport to collect luggage and try to tuck the bliss of the last few days away. A chime alerts me to a text, so I drag my phone out of my pocket—the words bring an instant smile to my face and a skip to my step.

  I love you, beautiful girl. I can’t see you soon enough.

  Kennedy

  “HOLD UP.” I turn around from the microphone, glancing at Sean and finally drop my hands from my faithful Les Paul. My knuckles throb with an ache that still lingers, but I welcome the pain. I’d do it all over again to protect Abby.

  Sweat pours off Sean, soaking his ridiculous white mesh shirt under his leather vest. His drumsticks are poised in the air, ready to play more, but thick tension radiates between us and we need some air. “Let’s take a break.”

  Sean tilts his head up to the exposed rafters in the rehearsal hall we’ve commandeered for the rest of the week. “Thank fuck. Thought you were going for a world record there for a while.”

  “We need the practice,” I note, not that they need reminding.

  “Because we’re not ready?” Matt tries to ease the gnawing tension that’s been building, passing his bass to one of the roadies with a roll of his neck. Unfortunately, we’re missing the one thing that will bring balance back to the group. Cameron has yet to surface.

  Calling the police would be a PR nightmare, as Nicole Hays, my PR manager wisely pointed out. The last thing we need is bad press at the start of this tour. Tucker is doing his job, chasing down every lead he can find, but so far, he’s come up empty. To say we all are walking a precariously thin line is an epic understatement.

  “Not even remotely,” I mumble, leaning my guitar on one of the stands by the stack of amps. Tucker shoves a bottle of water into my hand.

  “A little hard to be ready when one of us isn’t here,” Sean mutters, twirling one of the drum sticks through his fingers the way he always does after we play. He’s a bundle of frenetic energy, always in perpetual motion, but it’s even more pronounced today.

  Twisting the cap off the water I take a long sip.

  “What if—”

  “Don’t go there,” I cut Sean off. “There’s not a ‘what if.’ It’s like I told you, this tour doesn’t work without all of us. We’ll find him.” And even though my voice sounds confident, for the first time with this group, I’m anything but.

  “Don’t you think we need to at least talk about a backup plan?” Matt lifts the strap of his bass over his head as we enter into hour four of rehearsals.

  “It’s not an option.” I wait while a couple of roadies make yet another adjustment to the amps.

  “We could get some guest guitarists,” Sean suggests. “Shit, between the three of us we know everyone worth playing with.” He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, looking exhausted. We’re all sharing that familiar look these last few days.

  I turn to face them both. “How many times do we have to have this conversation? We’re in this together. This is our album, our tour.”

  “Yeah and in case you missed it, we sound like shit without him,” Sean adds quietly.

  “How would you feel if you went off the radar for a while, and we just replaced you with some other drummer without even having a conversation with you?”

  “That would never happen. I’d never just disappear like this,” he counters defiantly.

  “Well, we never thought he would either, and look where we are,” Matt adds.

  “I’m not going to do that to him. I wouldn’t do it to any of you. Think about everything we’ve been through. You honestly think he’s not going to show?” I ask, feeling the frustration boil over.

  Matt and Sean exchange a look that makes me think they’ve been talking about this behind my back. Vaguely, from across the room, I hear the thick wooden door to the room shut, but I’m past the point of caring who hears me unleash on them. “Then give me a name!” My voice fills the hall. “Tell me someone who knows the material the way he does. Who can play it like he can. Who is even half as good as he is.”

  Slowly, a grin appears on Sean’s face as he focuses his attention to the door, pointing his drumsticks across the room as he bounces on his stool. Matt and I follow his gaze and a wave of relief washes over me, followed quickly by an unexpected shot of alarm.

  Flanked by Colin and Tucker, Cameron takes a tentative step toward us. His clothes are disheveled, and he’s gripping his guitar case to his chest like a lifeline. Under the glare of the overhead lights, he looks haggard, like he hasn’t slept in a week. He approaches cautiously, and I take in his bloodshot eyes. He’s a little worse for the wear, but he’s here, and to me, that’s everything.

  He looks between the three of us, his mouth curving into a smile before he finally speaks. “I hear you’re looking for a guitarist.”

  “Please tell me you’ve found a replacement for Brodie.” I lean forward on the couch in the suite at the Corinthia in London, glancing at the computer screen as Nicole’s face comes into view. I’m going to have to give her a raise for dealing with the chaos that seems to follow me. These last few days have been particularly challenging, and she’s been working all hours handling the madness.

  Rumors are big business, and right now, they’re flying. It started with grainy photos of Abby and me in various locations around London. Twitter blew up, and I’m sure Nic has said, “No comment,” a thousand times in the past couple of days.

  Rumblings that we had lost our tour manager have been making the rounds. The sharks are circling. Redfall, according to every single media outlet, is on the verge of breaking up.

  “You’re so bossy. Good morning to you, too,” Nicole teases, taking a long, loud, exaggerated sip of coffee from a black Redfall mug. She lifts the mug to the screen. “These are in high demand these days, what with you guys breaking up tomorrow and everything.” She smirks from behind the cup, and I can’t help but laugh. “And would it kill you to shave?”

  “You don’t like the scruff?” I brush my hand over the stubble on my jaw.

  “Doesn’t matter what I like. Your fans will probably love it. So, I’ve been working on a few leads,” she starts, sliding on her bright red glasses. “Dawson Hampton. He ran point on the Foo Fighters tour last time around. He’s coming in today.” I’m impressed with Nic again. Dawson is a legend in the business.

  “I’m surprised he’s even free.”

  “He took some time off. His wife had a heart attack earlier this year. Puts things in perspective, if you know what I mean. He’s only doing selective shows now,” she adds. “He won’t be cheap.”

  “I know. It’s worth it, though. I can’t deal with the logistics of this shit anymore.” Between rehearsals, we’ve all been pitching in, trying to navigate the insane touring schedule, but despite our best efforts, the well-oiled machin
e shows signs of breaking down.

  “The lawyers have Brodie’s release ready to be signed,” Nicole states, bringing my attention back to where it should be. She looks up from the tablet, hesitating for a moment. Despite her attempts to hide it, I can see the worry etched on her face.

  “Spit it out, Nic.”

  “I got a tip today. Brodie’s making the rounds with the media, gauging interest in a tell-all interview.”

  I feel my jaw clench with aggravation. “I’d like to see him try. He’s signed a confidentiality agreement.”

  “Doesn’t matter what he signed,” she interrupts. “If he doesn’t use your name, he’s probably free and clear.”

  “Everyone knows he’s worked for us for the last decade.”

  “Exactly. You might want to think about beating him to it. I’m sure I don’t even want to know some of the stories he could share. Talk about a PR nightmare.”

  My shoulders slump, and I hang my head in my hands. “I should have gotten rid of him a long time ago.”

  “Should have, could have, my friend. It’s too late now. The lawyers have tried to put a gag on him in the release, but this is Brodie we’re talking about. You know that saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”

  “Tell me what to do, Nic, because honestly, I’m at a loss on this one.”

  “Brodie thinks he has the upper hand right now, throwing around the threat of releasing any skeletons you may have lurking around in the closet.” I feel a wave of panic roll through me. He could ruin everything with a single interview. “But exposing you means exposing him. Honestly, I think he’s full of shit. I think it’s a tactic to get you to call him, beg him to come back. My advice? Show him you don’t care. Brodie’s news will be a fading memory as soon as the next story breaks.” I let out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry,” she adds quickly. “That sounded really shitty. Just focus on the tour, the concert for Parker.”

  “How’s the planning going?” I ask, feeling the overwhelming need to steer the conversation away from Brodie. The less I have to think or talk about him, the better.

  “We’ve got the venue secured. AT&T Park.” I grin as she continues, “The website is set up and already taking donations.” I can hear the excitement in her voice, her words coming faster than normal. “Media outlets have received the primer and are already talking about what a saint you are.” She takes a much-needed breath.

  “And we have a Twitter hashtag that’s started trending—Rock the Dream.”

  “I know I probably don’t say it enough, but—”

  “I’m a genius and you love me. I know. Save the praise for when we’re through these next few weeks. Besides, I want to go over the agenda for the morning of the concert.”

  “Bring it on.”

  “As long as the doctors give the okay on Parker being released the morning of, we’ll have a press conference at the hospital.” She gives me a pointed look. “It’s good publicity for them, as long as we can keep Sean under control, of course.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I swear to God that man gives me more gray hair than you do, and that’s saying something.”

  “He’s harmless.”

  “I’ll remind you that you said that one day.” She laughs before pushing on through the agenda. “We’ve already had our camera crews in to film some footage of the hospital, and we’ve done a few interviews with some of the kids who received the swag I sent over.” She pauses, taking her glasses off, her expression taking an immediate downturn. “Some of these kids are so sick, Kennedy. It’s just heartbreaking to see. What you’ve done so far has made such a difference, and I’m not just saying that because you pay me to.”

  “That’s all I want out of this. For them to feel a little better, you know? Give them a bit of happiness, even if it’s just for a little while.”

  Nic’s eyes gloss over, and it stirs up my own rioting emotions. I don’t ever think I’ve seen the woman cry, unless it was at some ridiculous stunt Sean has pulled over the years. She clears her throat and soldiers on.

  “You’ll do a walkthrough of the wing Parker is in after the press conference. Meet a few of the kids, maybe do an acoustic session?” She waits, gauging my reaction. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Good. Then the limos will take you and Parker, his mom and dad, and his nurse.”

  “Wait, his nurse?” I interrupt.

  “It was a condition of the hospital, and his mom insisted, too.”

  “Is she a hot nurse?” I tease.

  She scowls with an exaggerated shudder. “Jesus. Get your mind out of the gutter. You have Abby for that, remember?”

  “Oh, how I do remember. Pick me up one of those sexy nurse uniforms in your travels, will you?”

  “Only if hell freezes over, pervert. Do your role-playing kinky shopping on your own time. No amount of money could get me to do that. Just ew.” She scans her tablet before continuing, “The limo will take you to your place for a photo shoot. Keep in mind, and I need to repeat this to the other guys, the media is going to be following you along with our own camera crew. You’ll need to take it down a few notches, try to keep the swearing to a minimum.”

  “Obviously.” I scowl at her, and she rolls her eyes.

  “Please how long have we worked together? I know you four better than anyone needs to. Just try to keep it PG-13.” I chuckle with a salute.

  She grins, her gaze dropping from the screen to her tablet. “I’ve got a meeting with Landon’s team in fifteen. Apparently, he wants to make sure his name is highlighted in the billing because he’s the center of the universe and all.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Of course he does.”

  “Fucking rock stars. Why do I put up with all of you?”

  Abigail

  “What time does your meeting start?” Maddie asks. I prop the phone between my chin and shoulder so I can use two hands to rummage around my desk for a file.

  “At ten. Most of them are here already; Ralph likes to have a little pre-meeting pep talk with the officers beforehand. How’s Dylan?” He suffered some bruised ribs during a training exercise last week, which pulled him off duty until they heal. The inactivity is driving him nuts.

  “He hates sitting around,” she sighs tiredly. “He’s still really sore, so the most we can do now are blowjobs.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Not sure I needed that little detail,” I comment, rolling my eyes. Her answering giggle is infectious.

  “Who said anything about little?” she shoots back playfully. “By the way, what’s the news from over the pond?”

  I glance at the clock with a beaming smile, my automatic response lately whenever I think about Kennedy. “He should be taking the stage in Madrid in about two hours.” The text from him that awaited me this morning made me swoon. “I didn’t know I was going to miss him this much.”

  “That’s love, sweetie,” she coos. “Oh, I need to go. Dylan can’t find his pain meds. Call me tonight? How about joining us for Thai food?”

  “Sounds good,” I agree, and we part ways. Finally locating the file I need, I add it to my stack for the meeting and check the time—I’m fifteen minutes early. Good. It wouldn’t do to be late today.

  I’m halfway to the large conference room when April intercepts. “Hey, Abby. I wanted to let you know Nicole Hays called me again—she has some great ideas for the hospital visit,” she says, matching her steps to mine.

  “Great. How do you find working with Nic?” I ask curiously. I clicked with Nicole instantly, but was a little worried that I was reacting to the fact that she was Kennedy’s employee. I seem to click with all things Kennedy these days.

  “She’s fantastic. She’s also right on-point with the PR side of things. I kind of want to assimilate her.”

  “How very Borg-ish of you.”

  She laughs and tucks her shiny black hair behind her ear. “By the way, she said something about The Vandels joining the show, too.”


  “Yes! Apparently, Landon Ravine has wanted Kennedy to work on his TV show for a while, and he’s agreed to do it in exchange for their participation,” I explain quickly, still shocked that Kennedy would be willing to do something like that.

  April eyes me skeptically. “Really? You’ve got him agreeing to do his show?”

  “I didn’t ask him to do anything,” I protest. “It was all his idea. In fact, I think he did it before even telling me.”

  “But you hate reality shows.” She stares at me in puzzled amusement. “You always call them . . . What is it? Oh, yeah, ‘disingenuous drivel designed to provoke people’s baser side’,” she quotes meticulously.

  I wish for once that April didn’t have such a good memory. It’s true, I do hate reality shows. But, I love Kennedy, which apparently means I’ll follow him even into reality show hell for a good cause. “The Vandels will be a good addition, however it comes about. What I think personally doesn’t matter.”

  Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “Fine. I won’t tell anyone.” We reach the boardroom and she swings the door wide. But upon walking in, we both stop in our tracks.

  Nadia is smiling at me smugly from her seat next to Ralph at the head of the table.

  “Abigail, April,” Ralph greets us politely. “Please sit down. Nadia requested permission to join us early.” He looks at me directly. “She’s been telling us an interesting tale.”

  Kennedy

  “YOU’RE DOING GREAT, bud.” I smile at the screen as Parker flows into the last notes of the chorus of “Sweet Home Alabama.” It’s far from perfect, but he’s come a long way in a couple of weeks, and given everything that he’s going through, it’s a miracle he can sit upright and hold a guitar at all.

  He lifts his angelic face and smiles. He’s got more color in his face today, his eyes a little brighter, and the bandage on his arm gone. It’s progress. Baby steps, as Abby tells me. It’s much more than that for me. It’s hope.

  “That was awesome,” he gushes, sliding his hand to rest over the strings of the guitar. “When this came the other day, everybody on the floor freaked out.” He lifts the new Gibson I had delivered to his hospital room last week. “They totally didn’t believe me when I told them about you.”