Burnt Sugar (ACE Series Book 2)

by Layne Harper

  He nods and drives off.

  Then I grab my phone and send a text to the family telling them that something came up. Vince Asher hit on me, and now he’s ready to take me to dinner, even if it’s to talk shop. He’s exactly the kind of man that I need to get back on the dating horse.

  “Ready.” Am I acting desperate? Probably. Is Vince used to women who are smoother and know how to play a good game? I would guess so. But this is me, and I’m just a mess.

  He steps back as his eyes move from the top of my head to the points of my toes. “You look gorgeous.”

  I shrug. “Thanks.” My hands smooth over the linen. “My mother and grandmother insist that wearing jeans in church is an insult to Jesus. I don’t know about all of that, but I do know their raised brows and judgy smirks compel me enough to slap on a dress.”

  Vince makes a fist and brings it to his mouth as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  “It’s okay. My sister and I quote Steel Magnolias frequently. If you don’t have anything nice to say just go sit by Grandmother and her friends.” Pausing for a second, I adjust my bag. “That’s not exactly the quote, but you get the idea.”

  A trickle of sweat rolls down my cheek bone. “Want me to take you to the muffuletta shop, which is next door to Eddy’s Bar and the dry cleaners? Sandwiches are good, and I’m hot and could use a cold beer.”

  Vince makes a sweeping hand gesture. “Lead the way, my dear.” Then he takes my hand, and I melt. It has nothing to do with the heat.

  Chapter Seven

  Aaron

  August

  Latoya Carren @BeautifulCarren

  I’m looking for you @RealJohnnyKnite. Tweet me where you’re partying. #KissKissBangBang

  Michelle Lou @BlackEyes

  @RealJohnnyKnite I’ll show you my #PinkCadillac and I don’t mean the car.

  Rock Star Groupies @RockStarGroupies

  @VivaValdez was photographed leaving the Miami airport. @RealJohnnyKnite is in town for a show. #CoupleWatch

  Candy McKay @ACERocks

  @RealJohnnyKnite don’t let us down. We want #PinkCadillac and the other songs from #AlisVolatPropriis

  “I hate all these girls propositioning you.” She shakes her head in disgust as she scrolls through Twitter. Before I can acknowledge her comment, she asks, “You want sammich?”

  I’m so irritable that I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. Every nerve ending is on high alert. I just want to be left alone with my guitar, notebook, and fucked-up head. “No. I’m good. Order whatever you want.” My eyes never leave the corner of the gunmetal coffee table.

  “I surprise you, and you don’t even give me attention.” Her voice is whiny, which further adds to my irritation. My daughter doesn’t whine and neither should a grown-ass woman.

  Sighing, I quit strumming the guitar strings. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you surprised me, and I wasn’t prepared for a visitor.”

  We’re in Miami. I was hoping to check out some local talent—always scouting for my label—and meet up with some friends. Viva’s surprise visit has put me in a shitty mood, and I can’t figure out why. It’s like as soon as I opened the suite door and saw her standing there, the ache in my hand hit new, off-the-charts levels. Like even though I haven’t so much as taken a Tylenol, I was about to hit up the narcotic pain relievers Billy keeps in his backpack.

  As she walks over to where I’m sitting, her peach silk robe falls open revealing her dark olive skin, taut abs, and small, but firm tits. She’s stunning. I should be buried deep inside her feeling like a new man. Instead, I feel like I’m ninety-years-old.

  She sucks on her forefinger and drags it over each nipple making them stand at attention. “I’m good surprise?”

  No. She’s a distraction and right now. I just want to be miserable. “You’re beautiful. Really, I’m a lucky guy to have you, but I’m not feeling good. Run down from the tour, and I just need to be alone. You know, to like, regroup, and shit.”

  She crosses her arms as her bottom lip curls down, brushing her chin. “I’m calling my friends then.”

  Oh! Thank God.

  “That would be nice. I’m sure you could use a night out. Have fun . . .” I stop myself. I almost called her sweetheart. That word should never exit my lips again. “Viva,” I finish. “I’ll give you my credit card.”

  She stands, fastening her robe so quickly that I don’t get the one last look at her boobs that I was hoping for. The door slams as she walks into the bathroom.

  Picking up the guitar, my shark tooth necklace MK gave me the night I bought coke slips from the confines of my t-shirt. Tucking it back, I begin to strum the opening notes of Pink Cadillac. Playing this song is like thumping a bruise. Yet, I can’t seem to stop myself. We haven’t played it since my meltdown, and the fans have noticed. I make it a point to stay off social media, but it’s Grace’s job to keep me abreast of what’s going on with my businesses. She’s pointed out at least ten times how I’m disappointing the fans. They’re posting comments about how good the show is but are mad we aren’t playing our number-one song.

  Why does it cause my vocal cords to freeze up and for me to have a huge freak-out? Is it MK? I don’t think so. Over the years, I’ve written many songs about people in my life. None of them have affected me like this one has. It’s got to be just a coincidence.

  Slapping the smooth wood, I fling my guitar across the couch as rage bubbles in my gut. I need a doctor or someone who can fix whatever is fucking wrong with me. I’m Johnny Knite, not some fucking, fucked-up, pussy, soft rock star who can’t handle his shit. I purposely live in Austin to avoid the primadonna rock star pricks who live indulgent lifestyles. I’m a hardcore motherfucking rocker who lives his songs. I need to man the fuck up.

  Grabbing my phone, I text Doctor Hebert.

  Me: Find me a doc yet?

  Doctor Hebert: Where are you going next?

  Me: LA

  Doctor Hebert: He’ll see you there.

  The bathroom door opens, and Viva comes prancing out in very high heels, tight jeans, and a white sheer blouse revealing a black bra.

  “Viva, look, I’m sorry,” I begin. I am sorry. I’m sorry I’m an asshole to a very sweet girl.

  “Don’t apologize, Johnny. I don’t want to hear your empty words. I’m meeting some girlfriends. Don’t wait up, and while I’m gone, figure out what your problem is. I don’t have many days off, and I don’t want to waste them on a . . .” She gestures at me as if I’m a piece of trash. “On a man that doesn’t know how to love me both mentally and physically.”

  My head falls in my hands as she leaves. Tugging at my hair, I yell, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

  “I don’t know. But I deserve better.” The door slams behind her.

  The word deserve causes a bolt of energy to travel down my spine. MK’s words are set to a hard driving tempo Be the man I deserve. It’s so loud in my head that I can hear nothing else.

  I grab the half-drunk bottle of scotch in front of me and gulp it down. The more I drink, the clearer it becomes. It’s MK Landry’s fault. Even though I’m so goddamn angry at her that if she was in front of me, I’d . . . I’d—what would I do?

  Staring down at my cock, I’m completely perplexed. It’s the first time I haven’t had to work to get my dick hard since I stormed out of MK’s carriage house. “Really?” I ask it, as if it might respond. “Her mean-as-shit words play in my head, and somehow that causes you to get hard? That’s fucked up.”

  I’ve got to quit this bullshit. If I don’t find Johnny Knite soon, I’m going to lose my mind. That’s not a stupid mom saying like you’re making me pull my hair out. I literally think I’m going to wind up in a straitjacket in a padded room somewhere.

  After tugging on my boots, I make my way to Sam’s room. I’ve barely knocked when she opens the door. She looks down the hallway. “Where’s Viva?”

  “Out with friends. Want to go get shitfaced like old times?”

  ***


  Four hours later we’re in the hottest night club on Miami beach. I recognize about a third of the people in our VIP section. Women are dressed in tight Spandex dresses so short that the bottoms of their ass cheeks are showing. Sam’s entertaining a young pretty-boy on one side and gorgeous blonde girl on the other while Billy stands about ten feet from her with lusty eyes. I once thought their sex games were fucked up. Now, I’ve come to realize that it works for them. Besides Rock and Cara, they’re the happiest couple I know.

  Taking a sip of beer, I lean back against the plush, plum velvet cushion and hope I’m giving off the aloof rock star vibe. My legs are crossed, and my arms are stretched out, making it difficult for anyone to sit next to me. I’m out of the hotel room and in public. This is a huge step since my life got fucked up.

  My mind starts calculating dates, and I soon realize that today is the one-year anniversary since I left for my stint in rehab. I take another sip of beer as if to spit in the face of the place that fucked with my normal, calm, simple, easy, life.

  A tall, thin blonde straddles my lap shaking me from my thoughts. “Hey, Johnny. Want to go back to your place?”

  Before I answer, she leans down and sucks on my neck. My hands grasp her waist, moving her to my left side. “Not interested.”

  The music is in my head switches from the normal tempo I hear to the theme from Fatal Attraction.

  Not to be deterred, she leans down and bites my cock through my jeans. I hate to do it, but I motion for my bodyguard, Zed. He’s performed this same drill more times than I can count.

  I point toward the girl. Zed taps her shoulder. She looks up, and he says, “Ma’am, come with me.”

  He helps her to her feet and escorts her out of our section.

  Grace flops down on the other side of me, away from where the girl was sitting. The radio in my head switches to Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead sung in the Munchkin voice. “See you’re staying true to Viva tonight,” she yells over the electronic beat.

  Oh shit! I completely forgot to invite her. “Somethin’ like that.”

  Should I text her? I left my phone in the hotel. I could probably find a way for us to get in touch, but I don’t feel like bothering. This is why I stay in my room. Here I am in a club with great music playing, and yet I’m on a couch all alone wishing my sister would take a hike.

  Maybe I need to do coke again. I haven’t touched it since the blow up with MK. Maybe a couple lines of it would fix whatever is wrong with me. It always did the trick before.

  Standing, I give Grace the brush-off and grab Zed. Twenty minutes later, the two of us are in a town car driving back to the hotel to meet my old hook-up. I’ve spent this time convincing myself that cocaine is what I need to feel like me again. I won’t do a lot. Just enough to get back in the right place mentally. Then I can focus on whatever is wrong with my hand.

  Zed makes the exchange and brings it to my room.

  Here the empty baggy sits on the metal coffee table with me leaned over it and a rolled twenty-dollar bill resting in my right hand. Staring at the snow white powder, I reflect on this year, since I completed rehab.

  Jude went off to college. It was hard leaving my baby in another state, but she seems to be doing well at Vanderbilt. Maybe after the incident and my legal troubles, she needed to get away—a fresh start.

  I met MK. She was the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I found love and heartache in a short period of time. I also wrote a lot of ACE’s new album.

  I’ve reestablished myself again in the music world. Instead of being a songwriter and executive, I’ve spent this year performing. Touring is shit, but rocking out on stage with my band makes the travel and hotels worth it.

  So why do I sit here staring at the coke? It’s not like I’ve ever been reflective before I snorted it up my nostrils. There’s a pain deep in my chest that wasn’t there before I walked out on MK. It’s an old war wound. I’ve come to appreciate it as a new fixture of me.

  MK.

  Was I happy before her? I thought I was, but I was really just living. I was a dad to Jude. I was running a very successful label and writing music. Every couple of years, I was touring, but I had taken four years off when Jude was in high school. What MK gave me was someone who made me care about myself. She made me feel alive and scared the shit out of me.

  Putting the rolled-up bill to my nose and sniffing the fine white powder somehow feels as if I’m cheating myself. I certainly haven’t been a saint since rehab, but MK kicking me out of her place made me realize that someone in this world did give a damn about a guy named Aaron—not just Johnny Knite.

  And that’s when I conclude that what I want isn’t divided into neat, little, white lines. I don’t want to get fucked up. Instead, I crave the intense feeling of being cared for, worried about, and loved.

  My body seems to wilt at this powerful revelation. The ache deep in my chest kicks me in my ribs. Lying in the fetal position on the hotel suite couch, cold sweat causes tremors to seize my muscles. My heart races so fast that if I could, I’d call an ambulance. Instead, I fight to breathe and pray that whatever this is, it passes soon.

  Then is hits me. In rehab, they talked about this superfluous term rock bottom. It went in one ear and out the other, but this is what they described. I’ve physically reached fucking rock bottom.

  My mind reviews all the times that I thought I had experienced the worst days of my life: Jude’s traumatic entrance to this world and her being born drug addicted, the woman who birthed her overdosing while blaming me for ruining her life, the son of a bitch positioned between my screaming daughter’s spread thighs, not being able to find out why MK was in the hospital, and no one confirming if she was alive or dead. I realize that I’ve found the lowest point that I can mentally reach. If I don’t take control of my life, it will kill me—the ache in my chest will kill me. I can’t orphan Jude. As crappy of a father as I’ve been, I’m at least her father, and she knows that I love her unconditionally.

  Time passes and eventually the tremors stop to the point that I’m able to scrape the powder back into the baggy, and I crawl to the toilet—my legs too weak to carry me. As I pour the one thing that’s gotten me through every really shitty period of my life into the water, a bright light moves through me, opening my eyes. Coke also cost me the only good thing I’ve ever had besides my daughter. Coke took my MK away.

  My stomach contracts and heaves as the drinks I had at the club splash into the drug-filled water. It’s a purging of sorts. My body rids itself of the demon inside that keeps sabotaging anyone who dares to love me.

  I want MK back.

  No. That’s not correct. It’s not a want, it’s a need. I’m ready to be loved and wanted. I need someone to cherish me. I crave someone in my life who is there because they have intense feelings for me, and I’m not just a paycheck.

  Standing, I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth. I feel better than I have in years. But if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.

  I call the concierge and request a room for Viva. Gathering up her stuff, I have Zed move it to her new room. Before we leave, I scratch out a note on the hotel stationery and leave it on her pillow.

  Viva, it’s been great, but I’m not the guy for you. Sorry. Enjoy the rest of your stay in Miami.

  Sincerely,

  Johnny

  Only MK calls me Aaron.

  Chapter Eight

  MK

  August

  MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy

  You’ll never believe where I am. Dinner with Vince Asher. Notice I didn’t tag him. #HesSoPretty

  Pilar Gomez @CookIsAlwaysRight

  @NoPinkCaddy is a fraud. I found one of her recipes in an old New Orleans Junior League cookbook. #YouShouldBeAshamed

  Rock Star Groupies @RockStarGroupies

  @VivaValdez is dancing @HautNightclub with an unknown guy. @RealJohnnyKnite is not here.

  A drop of olive oil dribbles down his chin. Laughing,
I lean forward and use my napkin to wipe it. Vince’s chuckle fills the tiny space. “You didn’t tell me how messy these are.”

  “But they’re good, huh?” I reply with a wink.

  “That they are. So tell me why a pretty girl in a bright yellow dress would tackle such a messy food? I said I’d take you anywhere you wished.” A couple of black olives escape the confines of the bread and fall to his paper plate.

  I love Vince’s voice. He uses it like most people add hand gestures to a conversation. His inflection and how he turns a phrase is something special. I wonder if he developed this for his TV show or if it’s just a God-given talent.

  My eyes grow wide, and I turn my head. “This is where I wished.” I take a sip of Diet Coke. “But seriously, would you have ever tried this place if I hadn’t brought you?”

  He tries pointing but his sandwich degrades to a wonderful pile of meats, veggies, mangled bread, and oil. “I’m grabbing a fork and at least two rolls of paper towels. Need anything?”

  Shaking my head, I take another bite of my quarter of a muffaletta while I watch him walk to the counter. His plain orange T-shirt skims his sculpted physique effortlessly. It’s tucked into a pair of lightly-dyed denim jeans that also do a great job of showing off his legs without looking uncomfortable. He wears a ball cap, protecting his bald head from the New Orleans sun.

  When he sits down, I ask, “Who’s the team on your hat?”

  His brows raise for a second before he replies, “San Jose Sharks. You not a hockey fan?”

  “No. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hockey game.”

  “We can rectify that. Season begins in October. I’ll take you to one.” He wipes his face and hands, turning them over to ensure he got all the mess.

  I finish swallowing my bite. “That would be fun. So why are you in town?”

  He leans back in his chair, pushing his plate away. “Tomorrow they’re going to start shooting B-roll. It’s my show, my brand, my name. Not much happens that I’m not a part of.”