Joplin grew pale. She looked like she wanted to vomit—Kane understood completely. He dropped her wrists and stepped away.
“Better you don’t toss your cookies over the railing,” he said with an arrogant jerk of his head. “Bathroom’s that way.”
Breathing through her nose, in and out, Joplin shook her head.
“I’m fine.” Joplin reached for him, then dropped her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Where are the tears?” Kane smirked. “Well, shit. One of my best lines, guaranteed to bring on the waterworks, and what do I get from you? Nothing. Not even a sniffle.”
“Your story was a line? A lie?” Joplin drew in a shaky breath. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” he said. “Or no. Doesn’t really matter either way.”
“Bastard,” she hissed.
“Exactly.”
Kane lifted the tequila and took three hefty gulps. As the liquor burned its way down his throat, he saw a change in Joplin’s eyes. If she didn’t hate him, she was well on her way. Mission accomplished. He took another drink to temper the pain of his breaking heart.
Joplin piled her hair onto her head, her shaking hands clipping the wonky mess into place. Turning on her heel, she walked into the hotel room. Alone, Kane slumped against the railing, half-hoping the iron bolts securing it to the building would break. No such luck.
When Joplin marched onto the balcony, her shoes in one hand, her bag in the other, Kane closed his eyes. He was a mess. Why couldn’t the woman leave him to crumble in peace?
“Final rehearsal is at ten o’clock,” Joplin said in her best all-business tone of voice. “In the morning.”
Kane should have known. The woman had a job to do and nothing—not even a piece of scum like him would stop her.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “With bells on.”
Joplin’s pointed gaze landed on the almost empty bottle.
“Are you certain?”
Kane was tired, his defenses at zero. Worried that at any second, he might fall to his knees and beg for Joplin’s forgiveness. Before he humiliated himself, she needed to leave. Now!
“Want me to write my promise in blood?”
“Tempting, but no,” she said. “Simply show up on time and functional.”
Joplin almost turned to leave. When she stopped, Kane swallowed a growl.
“For the record? You can spin all the tales of woe and hardship you like. Whatever you say or do, Kane Harrison, I will never shed a single tear for you.”
Listening, Kane waited. Naturally, Joplin didn’t slam the door. She exited with a cool and controlled click. Alone—finally—he walked to the phone.
“Room service?”
“Yes, sir. How may I help you?” the chipper voice answered. God, he hated chipper.
“I’m in room 1822. Would you send up some tequila, please? Coleccion if you have it.”
“Certainly. On the rocks or straight up?” the chipper voice inquired.
“The whole bottle.” Kane saw no reason to mess around.
“Of course. Anything else?”
Why couldn’t everyone in his life be so accommodating? Kane collapsed onto the sofa. And non-judgmental. Thoughtfully, he tapped the phone against his cheek. Was one bottle enough? If he ordered another, the voice on the other end wouldn’t care. However, word of his nocturnal booze fest might get back to Joplin. Or Jax. Or both.
“Just the one bottle,” Kane said.
“Yes, sir.”
Very accommodating. Kane sighed. Maybe he should live in a hotel forever.
“One more thing.”
“Yes, sir?” The voice paused. “Would you like a second bottle?”
“Not now, but…” Joplin’s face popped into Kane’s head, filled with hate. “How late are you open?”
♫~♫~♫
ALONE, THE HOTEL room door locked, Joplin yelled. Not loudly, but with purpose. Her muffled scream filled the room for a good sixty seconds. For good measure, she hurled her shoes against the wall.
Angrier than she’d ever been, Joplin paced the room, ranting and raving. The fact that Kane wasn’t present to hear didn’t matter. He would never know the kind of vitriol he’d unleashed, but she knew. And she wouldn’t forget.
As Joplin worked her way from one end of the room then back, she ran the scene on the balcony through her mind. She flirted. Flirted! Something she knew was wrong and inappropriate.
Tired, stressed, Joplin didn’t think through the possible pitfalls before she followed Kane into his hotel room. Her motives were pure—at first. As he guessed, she wanted to make certain he didn’t overindulge in the bottle she had spied tucked under his arm.
Kane could party as hard as he wanted. However, part of her job was to make certain that come showtime, he and the other members of Razor’s Edge were at their best. Tomorrow was the opening night of the tour. The world would get their first look at the band and with the audience packed with celebrities, music critics, and social media influencers, first impressions were everything.
Despite her strict code of ethics, Joplin knew Kane was her weakness. Her Kryptonite. Perhaps she could have controlled her worst impulses if he hadn’t been at his most appealing. The deep, whiskey-coated voice plus a twinkle of charm in his dark eyes.
However, Joplin couldn’t place the blame on Kane—not at first. She made up the game. Five things they had in common. Easy peasy. She meant to breeze through the list. Let him know they weren’t so different.
How was Joplin to know he would distract her—that she would distract herself? How could she guess that bad boy Kane knew the art of light, teasing banter? Under the dark, brooding rock star was a rom-com movie hero in disguise.
Joplin made up the game, and she made the first move. Kane would have stopped her. At the last second, he turned out to be the sensible one.
Given a chance to come to her senses, did she stop? Did she walk away? No. Joplin kissed him. And boy, oh boy, Kane kissed her back.
Joplin stopped mid-stride and sank to the edge of her bed as just the memory of Kane’s lips on hers melted her insides all over again. How? How could he hold her in his arms with such warmth and tenderness one second then turn into a cold beast the next?
And the lies. Joplin shuddered. She believed Kane’s story, every horrifying word. Why would he make up something so vile? So—
Joplin gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. As she set aside her hurt and anger, the fog cleared, and the vison was worse than any nightmare. Kane hadn’t lied. The things he described, the abuse by his father made her soul ache.
Kane had told her the truth to stop Joplin from making a mistake by sleeping with him—or what he perceived to be a mistake. He had told her the lie to make certain she would never have anything to do with him again.
Joplin slid to the floor and did what she swore she would never do. She cried for Kane. She wept for the boy who lost his innocence too soon. Her tears fell for the man who thought he wasn’t worthy of love.
How could Joplin show Kane the truth? How could she convince him that he was good? She rubbed her chest, the spot directly over her heart. How could she tell him that he was loved?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
♫~♫~♫
AS ALWAYS, JOPLIN watched Razor’s Edge perform from the wings. Different town, different stadium, different layout. Yet during each stop on the concert tour, she found her own little spot, out of the flow of traffic.
Once the lights went up and the first note was played, Joplin wasn’t needed. For all intents and purposes, she was invisible. Theoretically, she could have stayed in the dressing room—or remained at the hotel. But she didn’t trust theories. What if the one time she relaxed, something disastrous occurred onstage? Something only she could fix?
Razor’s Edge was Joplin’s responsibility. With a two-week break from touring scheduled to begin the next day, she wouldn’t lose focus now. After all, she’d shepherded the band t
hrough the first half of the tour, and everyone was still standing.
Since the fateful night, Joplin tried and failed to seduce him, Kane had drawn a line in the sand—a buffer he expected her to honor. His demeanor toward her was cool but respectful. When she spoke, he paid attention. When she asked a question, he answered using as few words as possible.
Kane made his position clear—they were work colleges, not friends. He wasn’t interested in negotiating.
Joplin understood Kane’s need to pretend nothing happened. Even if he thought she believed his lies, he’d revealed a part of himself—dark and ugly—he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Great. Fine. Dandy. Joplin decided to act like an adult and respect Kane’s boundaries. She turned a blind eye to the parade of women who latched onto him—with his blessing—in every city. Not her business.
Besides, the women he bedded were temporary. Here today, forgotten tomorrow. Joplin couldn’t blame Kane for taking advantage of the veritable smorgasbord of female companionship.
Of course, as his manager, she felt it was her duty to educate Kane on the dangers.
“Sex is free,” she told him one week into the tour before she tossed him a box of condoms. “Child support isn’t.”
“Thanks,” was all Kane said. He tucked the box into his back pocket and walked away.
Insufferable man. However, they fell into a sustainable routine. Kane partied hard, and Joplin bit her tongue.
However, despite the sex, booze, and drugs, as the circles under his eyes grew heavier and darker, and he lost weight, Kane was always on time for rehearsals and never missed a show.
“Try to find something to fault me for,” Kane taunted when Jax raised his concerns. “You can’t, old buddy. So, do us both a favor and keep your opinions to yourself.”
On the surface, Kane was right. There was little to complain about. Razor’s Edge was on fire. With each performance, the band’s popularity soared. The songs they recorded in Los Angeles were rocketing up the charts.
By the time the tour ended, the band would be poised to write their own financial and artistic tickets. If they managed to survive until then.
Tensions were on the rise—understandable given the endless travel and the pressure to stay at the top of their game night after night. However, Joplin felt something more was tearing at the band, and not just the growing and palpable animosity between the two founding members.
Skye dealt with pressure from her father. Jax loved her, wanted her, but was unable to act on his feelings. Their relationship began and ended on stage. As for Morgan, Joplin had no idea what was wrong. He kept to himself most of the time. Beck was a sweetheart, but even he had his limits.
And then there was Kane. Joplin suspected the demons she glimpsed were only the tip of the iceberg. Her feelings for him were jumbled. Guilt. Exasperation. Love.
Joplin sighed, turning her attention to the stage. She recognized the opening chords and watched as Kane stepped up to the microphone. He didn’t possess Jax’s love of the spotlight, nor was he blessed with his best friend’s vocal range. But he made up for what he lacked with sheer, unadulterated magnetism.
The raucous audience grew quiet as Kane’s whiskey-deep voice dared them to look away. The song told an age-old story of love and loss. The lyrics led the listener down a path of betrayal. There was no flicker of hope at the end, only sadness.
Enthralled and entranced, the audience was with Kane every step of the way. Before the last note faded, the crowd surged to their feet. They didn’t care that his songs were raw and unapologetically dark. The fans loved his music. They loved him.
With a sigh, Joplin blocked out the pandemonium and focused on Kane. Earlier tonight before he stepped on stage, he looked like hell. A man on the edge of extinction. Something happened when he picked up his guitar. His body was infused with a jolt of energy, a renewed lifeforce.
Some might call the change in him superhuman. Others might fall on the side of miraculous. Joplin knew the truth. The answer was good old rock and roll.
Unsure how often the music gods would grant Kane another night of salvation, Joplin gave a silent prayer of thanks for the upcoming two-week break from the tour. They all needed time off, from preforming and from each other.
If Joplin had her way, Kane would spend a big chunk of the fourteen days stretched out on a warm, sunny beach with nothing stronger than iced tea to quench his thirst.
Where Kane’s personal life was concerned, Joplin’s opinion meant less than nothing, and she had a sinking feeling she knew who he would put in charge of his free time. Countess Delilah. Lord, she hated that woman.
Joplin’s phone buzzed. A welcome respite from her sour thoughts, she moved away from the stage and toward the dressing rooms. She slipped into the first one she came to and closed the door behind her.
“Uncle Danny,” Joplin said. “What a nice surprise.”
Never one to beat around the bush, Danny skipped the pleasantries and jumped right to the point.
“Who is Countess Larraine?”
Delilah Larraine, aka, the countess, had become a plague on Joplin’s existence. She was a harpy. A groupie who zeroed in on Kane after the Phoenix show and hadn’t given him the chance to come up for air since.
The countess used her alimony settlements to follow Kane from city to city, concert to concert. Sure, he was a big boy, capable of uttering the word no. He was also a man, easily dazzled by a Texas-sized pair of surgically enhanced knockers. Joplin glanced at her B-cup chest and rolled her eyes. Where a woman’s body was concerned, she believed in the right to make your own choices. But come on.
“Isn’t there such a thing as too much cleavage?” Joplin muttered.
“Did you say she’s from Cleveland?” Danny asked.
“Dallas, originally. Or so I’ve been told.”
“She and Kane have dominated the gossip pages for the past few weeks. Along with the continuing Jax and Skye speculation.”
“And?” Joplin reminded herself to breathe. “What’s the point?”
“Great free publicity for Razor’s Edge. Do your best to encourage the relationship.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Danny sounded shocked, and Joplin didn’t blame him. No was not a word her uncle heard on a regular basis and next to never from someone who worked for him—even if she was his blood relative.
At some point, if Joplin wanted to move ahead instead of treading water, she needed to stand up to Danny when she believed right was on her side. Personal feelings aside, for Kane’s own good, he needed to drop the countess on her overly pert backside.
“Danny.” Joplin purposely dropped the uncle. “If you’ve seen the pictures, you know Kane has lost weight.”
“Heroin chic?”
Danny referred to the look popularized in the mid-nineteen-nineties, characterized by pale skin, dark circles underneath the eyes, and a very skinny body. Kane wasn’t a model out to make a fashion statement. Nor had he graduated to the hard drug—as far as Joplin knew. She shuddered at the prospect.
Joplin saw no reason to delve into Kane’s substance abuse problems. If Danny wanted to know, he’d find out. He always did.
“Kane is a professional, Danny. And the crowds love him.”
“Which I already know and appreciate. Get to your real point, Joplin,” her uncle prompted.
From the time Joplin was old enough to follow Danny around his office, he drilled into her head that in life, knowledge is power. Didn’t take a lot of digging to find the countess’ motivation. The need for everyone to know her name.
On the backend of her fourth divorce and already on the prowl for number five, Delilah started with a mid-level politician before trading him in for the heir to a national department store chain. Next came an oil tycoon and after a huge, get out of my life quick, monetary settlement, she found a count with an obscure European title, who was foolish enough to bestow
her with his name. After the divorce, she walked away with the title, and if the rumors held true, a good portion of his family’s jewels.
“Countess Delilah is a Kardashian wannabe who thinks Kane’s growing rock star status will get her a reality show.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
Grinding her teeth in frustration, Joplin stifled a sigh. Naturally, Danny saw the upside. Television exposure, no matter how crass and invasive, meant more record sales and concert receipts. Her uncle was a bottom-line kind of man. So, Joplin sank to his level. Right to the bottom.
“You should have seen the way the audience responded to Kane tonight. Razor’s Edge needs him. However, if the countess caters to his worst tendencies. Alcohol. Drugs.”
“Drugs?”
The magic word where Danny was concerned. He’d watched too many friends go down the road to addiction and never come back. He hated all forms of opioids with a passion.
“Yes,” Joplin said, her hands shaking. She wasn’t ratting out Kane. She was trying to save his career—save his life.
“The countess is a dealer?” Danny asked, his voice tight.
“Too smart,” Joplin said. “She always knows someone.”
“Who knows someone.” Danny sighed. “She keeps her manicured hands clean.”
“True. But make no mistake, the countess is Kane’s main source for recreational drugs.”
Joplin’s hand shook when she thought of how the woman exploited Kane’s weakness for her own gain. He was past the point where he could, or wanted, to say no.
“Rehab?” Danny asked.
An option Joplin considered and just as quickly dismissed.
“Kane wouldn’t go, and we can’t force him unless he breaks the terms of his contract. He’s always on time, always professional.”
“Damn contracts,” Danny muttered. “Should add a no drugs clause. Period.”
“Such a thing would never fly,” Joplin told him. “This isn’t the NFL. It’s—”
“Rock and roll,” Danny finished for her. “Stupid business.”
“Says the man who lives and breathes his job,” Joplin chided gently. “Though I know what you mean.”
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