RUTHLESS: The Complete Rockstar Romance Series Boxed Set

by Vivian Lux

  My brother regarded me coolly. "Should I be?"

  I shrugged. "When have I ever been able to tell you what to do, Conway?"

  He exhaled sharply through his nose. It may have been a laugh, or as close to a laugh as my brother got. His sense of humor was squashed out of him sometime around the age of five. That was right around the time he looked around and saw the inequality in the world and got really fucking cynical about it.

  Being poor pissed my brother off enough that he dedicated his life to rising above the poverty line. And he'd done well for himself, driven by shame and a grasping materialism.

  I didn't feel shame back then. I don't really feel it now, either, but back then I did have the feeling of missing out on things. I was really good at blocking out the stuff I didn't want to deal with -- hell, that's how I stayed with Lizzy for long after the marriage actually died. It would have been better for me if the rich world was locked away from us, out of sight, so I could ignore it. But the older Con and I got, the more our world expanded, and all the things we missed out on came in sight.

  Conway saw all the things he wanted and went to work. At fourteen, he started running deliveries for our Uncle Mitt, who was really our granduncle. Uncle Mitt was seventy then, still sharp-brained and even sharper-tongued, but he saw in Con a fellow kindred workaholic spirit.

  I went to work too, but far more grudgingly. The second I scraped some money together, I'd spend it. At sixteen, I pulled enough together to buy my first clunker, a 1987 Crown Victoria. It was thirty years old and burning oil, but I brought it to my Uncle Mitt and he showed me how to fix it up and soon it was my baby. As one of the oldest in my grade, I was one of the first to drive the girls around, and for a while, that Crown Vic was the great equalizer, putting me on the same footing as the rest of my class. As long as I had a car, I didn't have to go home to feel up girls. That Crown Vic had a wide bench seat in the back, perfect for lying down.

  I just had to keep it running.

  Finger-picking my guitar was good practice for fine tuning an engine. Uncle Mitt saw what I could do with my clunker and he started giving me more work. By the time I was seventeen, I was richer than I'd ever been.

  Then Lizzy came over. She actually dared to come over to my side of town, with tears on her face and a hand on her belly.

  It was mine, she said. And then I had to go to work for real.

  "If you're worried about Rory, she's holding up fine," I told my brother, crossing my arms over my chest. "Lizzy and I both think that."

  "Yeah, I'm worried about her," Conway rumbled. "Cause I know what it's like havin' your family fall apart."

  "You honestly think I'm gonna pull the same kind of shit Dad did?" I seethed. "Gotta tell you bro, I'm having a hard time deciding not to punch you in the face."

  "Nah, you're not gonna pull that shit," Con drawled. "But it ain't gonna matter."

  "Tell you what, how about you get married at eighteen to a girl you barely know and raise a kid and man the fuck up for people other than yourself. Then you get to talk to me about how I should be going about this."

  Conway's nostrils flared. The idea of having a kid and consequently fucking it up terrified him to the point where he barely dated at all. The guy was pretty committed to being a bachelor for the rest of his life, which was weirdly admirable in a way. And also disturbing. "Ain't gonna happen. I made my peace with letting my fucked up bloodline die out with me a long time ago."

  I winced. That kind of talk from him was rare, but not rare enough. "Con, listen. You think everything is set in stone and nothing can ever change. You think cause we grew up all fucked that we're gonna repeat the same mistakes. Well I'm telling you, no I'm fucking promising you this, okay? I'm promising you that I am not going to repeat the same patterns." Even as I spoke them, the words rang in my head with uncomfortable truth. "I'm not stuck in that rut. I'm breaking out."

  My brother regarded me for a long, uncomfortable moment. I waited, clenching and unclenching my hands, waiting for him to say something. To apologize, to tell me I was right, to say he believed in me.

  Silently, he swirled around in his office chair to face his computer.

  I moved to the office door. My break was long since over, but I couldn't resist getting in one last parting shot. "Good talk, man. Thanks for the encouragement, means a lot," I shot over my shoulder. It was bratty and immature, but fuck it. And fuck him for letting the flood of his past drown his future.

  There wasn't much left on my job sheet and I finished the work quickly, working with the kind of controlled fury that made every thought as bright and keen as a knife blade. Everything seemed sharp as hell, like I was on the verge of some kind of monumental insight, but whatever it was stayed just out of my reach.

  The sun dipped low in the sky, and it was getting pretty close to quitting time when the car pulled into the lot.

  I don't know how I knew it was her. Some kind of sixth sense, maybe a kind of animal instinct. That same sharpened focus that gave me such clarity.

  She was here.

  It was her.

  I knew that Piper Stowe was driving that rental car even before she opened the door and stepped out onto the dusty lot.

  In the low light of the bar, she'd been beautiful. But in the full force of sunlight, backlit like some kind of vision from a movie screen, she knocked the fucking breath out of my lungs. I tightened my grip on the wrench so that it didn't go clattering to my feet and make it clear that I was staring at her as she walked toward me. No, she wasn't walking, she was striding across the lot, her long black skirt flapping in the light breeze.

  My God, how had I not realized how gorgeous she was?

  She walked up to me, and stopped inches from my face, willfully invading my space like she was daring me to take a step backward

  But I didn't. I stayed there, inches from her face, inches from her lips, and I could see the pulse at her throat again. The other night, I vowed that someday I would kiss that place, feel the pulse under her skin throbbing against my lips, and for one weak moment I almost kept my promise.

  "You've got my car?" she said, interrupting my reverie.

  I swallowed hard. "Yeah," I said lifting my chin. "It's around back."

  Walking through the back lot of my nondescript garage with Piper Stowe at my elbow was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. It was like she was an alien, invading my planet, shaking everything up with her presence. Miggsy looked up from his work, and blatantly stared, mouth open, to see her standing next to me. I knew he probably had no idea who she was, but that didn't matter. She was definitely from another world.

  "Here you go," I said. "All four tires have been replaced, and we rebalanced everything to make sure you didn't have any problems with your suspension."

  "Good," she said shortly.

  "Yeah, it's all good."

  "Should I pay you or something?"

  "You can pay my brother in the front office."

  "Okay," she said. But she didn't move. We both stood there, next to her car, unable to move from each other's side as if we'd been magnetically held together. To step away from her, to break that bond, seemed completely insane. I needed to keep her here, I needed her to stay, because something, something was happening inside of me. She was shaking something loose that had been stuck for so long.

  "What are you doing tomorrow?" I blurted.

  She looked up at me, staring, and didn't answer.

  But that didn't matter, I had to say it. "I'm planning something, and it would mean a lot if you came."

  She turned a quarter turn so that she was facing me dead on. She planted her feet wide, hips' width apart like she was squaring up for a fight. "A date?" she said. There was a challenge in her voice.

  I never back down from a challenge. Or a fight. "It can be," I said.

  She shook her head minutely. "I was just wondering. Never been on one before."

  That took me aback. "Bullshit," I said.

  She shook her
head harder this time. "Nope, not bullshit. I have no idea what to do on a date."

  This woman was an infuriating mystery that I was determined to solve. I nodded slowly. "Honestly, I've probably never been on one either, so just winging it here. I'm holding an open mic night at Halligan's. I sort of wanted to play for you."

  Her mouth twisted. It could've been a smile, it could've been a grimace, I had no way of knowing. She looked down at her boots and walked away from me without a word, heading around the corner back to the office. I watched her with that same sharpened focus, and even though she hadn't said a word, something in the way she moved told me I'd be seeing her again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Piper

  Sometimes when we're standing on autograph lines, a fan will slip us a burned CD. Sometimes they're arrogant about it, insisting that we drop everything and listen and get them signed tomorrow at the latest. Sometimes they beg and cry and get their snot on my sleeve. Very, very rarely are they polite and upfront.

  True was polite and upfront. That was why I was driving out to the dusty, dive bar to see him play.

  That was what I told myself anyway.

  As I drove, I tried to fashion this into a test. Something I could use to chase the high I'd felt the night I met him. Going back again felt like cheating. Lightning rarely struck twice. When you're a danger junkie, looking for the next high, routine is the last thing you want.

  But I was driving to see him anyway and I thought that maybe it might be because he asked me to.

  And the fear that struck inside of me was all the danger I needed.

  There were only a few scattered cars in the lot. Not a great turn-out for open-mic night, and my heart did a sort of nosedive for True. Though I had a feeling that if he knew my heart sank for him it would piss him off.

  I slipped in quietly, a far cry from my show-stopping entrance the other night. The fear, the nerves, the trembling hands and the racing heart all started at once. I reached into my bag to hold my phone, my finger poised over the call button. If I had a panic attack, Lowell would come.

  But I didn't want Lowell to know I was here. He'd want to know why, and I wouldn't have an answer. Last time it was to force myself to deal with the fact that my brother was about to be a father and couldn't be my sole support system anymore.

  This time, I wasn't sure why I was here.

  But when I saw him kneeling, fiddling with the guitar mic, I remembered.

  Hurriedly I slipped in and sat in the way back. I didn't want him to see me before I was ready to be seen. I needed a moment to take it all in.

  He was wearing a white button down shirt, casually undone at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. I recognized the roped muscles that rolled under his bronzed skin, the definition that came from practiced strumming. He was a guitar player, for sure.

  I studied his forearms intently so I didn't have to look at the rest of him. The rest of him was just... too much. I could only take him in in snippets, a glance at the way the muscles in his thigh bunched under his blue jeans, a tiny peek at the way he grinned at someone in the corner revealing the little creases at the corners of his eyes. Slowly I pieced together a jigsaw puzzle of him in my head, and then I closed my eyes, unwilling to look at him head on. Instead I looked around the venue.

  There was no stage. Just a cleared-out space on the floor with a few folding chairs ringed around in a semicircle. And at the very center, knelt True. Quickly, I looked away. Booths to the side were already occupied by a few patrons who looked extremely uninterested in what was going on. So I turned back...

  Wait, where was True? I'd been scrupulously avoiding looking at him, so much so that it was like he'd just disappeared. My heart started racing again for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. I slid forward, ready to go look for him.

  A swinging door that probably led to the kitchen slammed open and he came back out again with a beat-up old acoustic slung against his back. Why was I smiling all of a sudden? It wasn't like I was excited to see him play. He was a guy with a guitar. My life was filled to the brim with guys that played guitar, and I fully expected him to be no different. This was all a waste of time.

  I looked down at my fingers as they compulsively went through their scales and I couldn't figure out if I was nervous for him or for myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  True

  She didn't want me to see her, so I pretended I couldn't. Not that it made any fucking sense. Because I couldn't figure out how the entire bar wasn't just staring at her open-mouthed, transfixed with how goddamn beautiful she was.

  But for some reason she hadn't come forward, hadn't said hello. She was hiding, so I let her hide. It seemed like something she needed me to do for her.

  The fact that I'd pulled this together in a day was pretty evident in the paltry crowd who'd showed up. My brother had claimed he needed to work, but Miggsy showed up, sitting at the corner of the bar, nursing the same sweating bottle of beer for the past hour. Other than them, it was mostly regulars, sitting, looking extremely confused about what the hell was going on.

  And Piper Stowe.

  As if I could forget her.

  I sat down on the folding chair and shifted around on the uncomfortable metal, heart pounding in my throat. Every cell in my body was aware of where Piper sat. If I fucked this up, it would be more than just an embarrassment, I realized. I felt like it would be something akin to betrayal. To her, and her time and talent and whatever fucked up little dance we were dancing with each other. My heart was a fucking jackhammer. There was no getting around the fact that I was rusty as shit. I knew I could be better...

  No shame

  I wasn't going to apologize for it. I'd invited her and she came, didn't that say something? This was my town, my bar, and she was in my territory. Even if she was a big fancy rock star, she still came to see me play.

  I shifted in my chair, and adjusted my mic. "Hey everybody," I said, wincing at the ear-blistering feedback. "Pretty sure you all know me, but if you don't my name is Cash Truman." There was silence, not a fucking peep, not even a whistle or a woo. "Some of you call me Cash, some of you call me True, either one's fine." Still nothing, but the door banged open. I looked up and sighed with relief to see Lizzy walking in, her hand firmly on Rory's shoulder. When my daughter spotted me, she made a bid to leap forward, but Lizzy sniffed and pulled her back, looking around all squirrelly. I figured she must be embarrassed about being made to bring our seven year-old into a bar, but there was no helping that. Just one more item on the already long list of things she could find to hate about me.

  Then she stepped a little to the right and I saw the real reason she was acting all put out.

  "Uh," I said into the mic. "Ladies and gentleman, could you all please give a big welcome to Johnny Banner everybody." I looked up and grinned. "Thanks for comin' out tonight, Johnny. I appreciate the support."

  Banner's lips twisted into a snarl. And then he leaned over and slung his arm over Lizzy. He made sure I was watching as he planted a kiss right on my ex-wife's mouth.

  There were a few whoops and a couple shouts of laughter. Lizzy looked embarrassed. But she didn't pull away. Miggsy turned to look at me with his mouth hanging open, just waiting to see how I would react.

  I strummed a chord on my guitar and then looked over at Piper and realized I didn't give a shit.

  "Hope he makes you happy, Liz," I said into the mic. "But you should know you deserve a lot better."

  Then I shifted back and looked at Piper. And opened my mouth to sing my song directly to her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Piper

  When he opened his mouth and started playing, I actually leaned back a little, cringing inwardly at the clunkiness of his chords, the rustiness of his singing.

  But when he opened his eyes again, and started singing his words directly to me, something shifted. I felt myself relaxing by degrees, each muscle that I'd been holding so carefully tense, start
ed to loosen. My grip on myself, and my need to be in control of everything started to fall away.

  He wasn't singing because he liked it. He wasn't playing guitar because he wanted to. He was making music because he needed to. He needed music in the same way that I needed music, the way it was my lifeblood, flowing through my veins keeping me whole and sane. It didn't take much for me to see that, in fact I think I realized that even before the thought entered my brain. He's like me, I realized, and the thought kept clanging over and over in my head. He's like me. He's just like me.

  He was rusty and out of practice. His technique sucked, and he had picked up some really bad habits like slouching and crunching his shoulder upward. But as he played, his face turned upward, facing up into the light that shone down on him and I could see such joy on his face, such sheer and utter release. Something caught in my throat. I put my hands up to my face, intending to shield my eyes away from such a naked display of emotion, and was surprised that my fingers came away wet.

  I was crying.

  I had no idea why I was crying. I had no idea how long I'd been crying, and I had no idea how long it had been since I last cried.

  Years. Possibly a decade.

  It felt like it was over before it really began, and when the last chord died away, I heard a little noise come out of my throat and realized it was the sound of disappointment. I sat there in my chair, feeling completely spent, feeling like I had run a marathon.

  But no, there was none of that. I just sat there in my chair... feeling.

  Feeling things.

  Terror, danger and excitement. Sadness and relief and incredible joy. All those emotions that had been walled off away from me, visible on the other side but never reachable, suddenly came bursting through and the intensity left me feeling drained and completely spent. Feeling. How long had it been since I really felt something? Really allowed the emotions that I'd been avoiding all this time to come in? I never felt this way, not even in the therapist's office, not even when I talked to my brother, not even when I was playing my own music. Giving that feeling over to True, allowing him to play me through the emotions left me shaking and feeling like I needed to have a cigarette.