Sparks (Wild Irish Silence Book 1)

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Sparks (Wild Irish Silence Book 1) Page 2

by Sherryl Hancock


  “Yeah, so?” he said defensively.

  “So, maybe she should get her feet wet with someone less complicated,” she suggested gently.

  “Like who?” he asked.

  “Like,” she said, trying to think of someone, “oh hell, I don’t know, like someone like me.”

  “FYI, you’re famous, love,” Brenden pointed out.

  “Yeah, but not like you, Beege,” Jordan said, shaking her head. “You’ve got your hands in so many pots at once, is she going to be able to handle all that?”

  “Look,” Brenden said, putting his hand down on the table between them, “she wants to be my assistant, I’m going to let her, okay?”

  Jordan looked back at him for a long moment, sensing the undercurrent of tension. Finally, she nodded slowly.

  “Okay,” she said, not willing to question his judgement more than she already had.

  Jordan knew that Tabitha was dedicated to her father. She had every reason to be; Brenden had struggled to raise her on his own, and had done everything in his power to make sure she received the best of everything. He gave everything of himself to his daughter. Even when things were the worst with him, he gave Tabitha nothing but the best.

  It was something Jordan had witnessed a number of times. Brenden was given to bouts of depression. There would be whole days when he wouldn’t get out of bed. He’d sleep and drink, and that was all he’d do. Even then, if Tabitha was home, he’d put on the best act of his life to make believe everything was fine. Tabitha hadn’t even known about the depression until she was fourteen, and only then because she’d come home to surprise him for his birthday one year and had found him curled up in bed at four in the afternoon.

  Jordan and Devlin had been the ones to tell Tabitha about Brenden’s depression. And it had taken all three of them begging Brenden to get him to see a doctor about it. He was given medication to take when he felt the depression coming on. Sometimes he took the meds, other times he allowed himself to sink into the depression. He told Jordan that he needed times like that to regenerate himself. Jordan couldn’t argue with him on that point. It was true that creative personalities needed down time. As long as the downtime didn’t last for weeks on end, ending with the sufferer in the hospital with malnutrition or dehydration or worse. Brenden had landed himself in the hospital a few times, but Jordan and Devlin had helped cover it up.

  Jordan was, however, sincerely worried that Tabitha wouldn’t be able to handle the chaos that was Brenden’s career. She also knew better than to try to talk Brenden out of something he’d already decided, so she left it alone.

  They spent the rest of the day relaxing and Brenden saw her off, hugging her tight before watching her drive off in her blue Corvette Stingray.

  ****

  A couple of days later BJ sat in a coffee shop down the street. He was sipping his coffee, when a tabloid newspaper was dropped next to him on the table. He grinned, knowing it could only be one of three people. The coffee shop he went to was a tiny hole in the wall, and he sat far in the back corner. Most of his acquaintances didn’t even know he went there. Only Jordan, Tabitha, and Devlin McGregor knew where he went when he went “for coffee.”

  “Mornin’ Dev,” Brenden said, grinning.

  “How the fuck do you do that?” Devlin asked. He motioned to the blond-haired waitress.

  “Only you, Jordan, and Tabbie know where I get my coffee,” BJ explained. “Tabbie’s in New York and Jordie is probably in London by now.”

  “Ah,” Devlin said, nodding, his deep blue eyes going to the waitress as she walked up.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Devlin told the waitress.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, smiling provocatively, “anything you want Mr. McGregor.”

  “Ohhhh …” Brenden said as she walked away with a highly attractive sway of her hips.

  Devlin’s eyes watched her, even as he reached over to pick up Brenden’s cup and take a sip. He sat back and lit a cigarette, glancing at the “no smoking” sign as he did.

  “So, you give up on that bridge or what?” Devlin asked.

  “Nah,” Brenden said, shaking his head, “I just need to get my head back into it. So what’s this for?” he asked pointing to the tabloid.

  “Ah, shit in there about Stone again,” Devlin said.

  “And that’s new?” Brenden asked, grinning.

  “No,” Devlin said, laughing, “but he’s talking shit about you again.”

  “That’s not new either, man,” Brenden said.

  “True, but he’s saying you attacked him in London when you were there a few months back.”

  “He could be so lucky,” Brenden said, making a sour face. “He got into my face and I shoved him back. Not exactly attacking him, is it?”

  “No, not exactly,” Devlin agreed, grinning. “Well, you know Stone, he’ll do anything to make himself look like the victim.”

  “He’ll do anything to get his face in print, Dev,” Brenden said.

  Los Angeles, 1984

  Brenden met Jeff Stone two years after he moved to California, having emigrated from England. Jeff was the lead guitarist for the band Hot Rock, and they were playing at Gazarri’s on the Sunset Strip where Brenden tended bar. At the age of twenty-three, Brenden had his five-year-old daughter Tabitha depending on him. So he was doing whatever it took to keep food on her plate and clothes on her back. Jeff was in a band that hadn’t really gotten off the ground. He was an easygoing guy, who was apparently from a rich family. So he just played at being a rock star, as the guitarist for Hot Rock. He enjoyed the limited fame that playing in a bar band gave him; it got him women and some extra cash he didn’t have to beg his dad for.

  Jeff noticed quickly that the bartender seemed to attract women like flies to honey. Jeff liked to be where the action was, and Brenden got a lot of action. They took to hanging out together when the bar closed. Brenden, with his rich dark auburn hair and blue-green eyes got women in droves, band or no band, and Jeff was happy with Brenden’s cast offs.

  A year later when the lead singer of his band quit, Jeff asked Brenden if he could sing. Brenden shrugged, and said he’d give it a shot. Brenden had a voice that, with some practice, would blow any talent scout away. He honed it over the next year in the band, pushing Jeff to write better new material. Jeff was happy just sticking with cover tunes. He didn’t really care if he ever made it, sure of his daddy’s money and not worried about making anymore. Brenden was serious now about the music. He’d learned to read and write music on his own, and taught himself how to play guitar, although never expertly. He was constantly writing down music ideas and lyrics in a mountain of notebooks he kept everywhere. They were his creative genius in progress.

  At twenty-three, however, Brenden had a five-year-old daughter he was struggling to raise. The babysitting costs were eating up a lot of his money. He’d brought as much money with him as he could scrape together before he’d left England, selling everything he had, but he didn’t want to touch the precious savings if he didn’t have to. His daughter’s security was paramount to him. He wanted to make sure if something ever happened to Tabitha, he’d be able to take care of her. Making it in the music business had become a necessity to Brenden. He was a good singer, he’d realized that early on. His voice had a very rich quality that was lacking in a lot of rockers in the business. He thought he honestly had something unique. If he could just get Jeff off his lazy ass long enough to give him the power behind his voice that he needed.

  One night, while tending bar, as he had to on his nights off from the band, Brenden saw another band play. He also heard the power he needed. It was in the form of a guitar solo played by a then eighteen-year-old kid named Devlin McGregor. After talking to him at a break, Brenden found out that Devlin had been playing guitar since he was six years old.

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do,” the younger man said, his eyes shining brightly.

  Brenden knew what he needed; he needed Devlin
McGregor’s style behind his vocals. He called Jeff that night and told him to get his ass down to the bar. When Jeff walked in, Devlin was back on stage with his band. Brenden pointed to Devlin up on stage, playing the shit out of Def Leppard’s “Switch 625.”

  “That’s what I need you to sound like,” Brenden told Jeff in a no-nonsense tone.

  Jeff looked at the other man, then back at Devlin. He couldn’t do it, he knew he couldn’t. He’d never been that good on guitar. But he knew that if he didn’t, Brenden, who had quickly become the band’s leader, would see that he was out. It pissed Jeff off, because he’d started the damned band in the first place! But, he knew he had to try to give Brenden what he wanted.

  Over the next two months, he did try but to no avail. Brenden made an attempt to be patient, but nothing helped. Finally, he called Devlin McGregor down to the rehearsal room they were using. Devlin came down, and when Jeff walked into rehearsal that day, he heard Brenden and Devlin doing a song the band had been working on for months. It pissed him off no end that it sounded really good, better than it ever had.

  “What the fuck, man?” Jeff asked.

  Brenden looked back at Jeff, then pointed to Devlin. “That’s what I want you to sound like,” he said simply.

  “I can’t, man. I’ve been trying, damn it!” Jeff yelled.

  “Then we have a problem,” Brenden said simply.

  “No, you have a problem,” Jeff spat.

  Brenden looked back at him calmly, then looked at the other members of the band. The rest of them weren’t rich kids like Jeff either. They were all hungry to make it, and they all knew Jeff wasn’t. Jeff could read total agreement with Brenden in their looks. He knew he was screwed.

  “Fuck this shit,” Jeff said, walking over to pick up the cords he’d left for his guitar.

  He retrieved a few other items in angry silence. The band went back to rehearsing ignoring his angry grunts and stomping. Brenden didn’t notice that Jeff shoved one of Brenden’s many notebooks into the bag with his stuff.

  Brenden didn’t find out about the missing notebook until a year later when Jeff Stone put out his first album. It was financed by his father and two of the songs from the album that actually made it into the top ten on the charts sounded distinctly familiar to Brenden. As well they should have, they were his. That was when the long-standing feud with Jeff Stone had begun. It had escalated a number of times over the years even after the now renamed Sparks had made it in the business. Brenden and Jeff Stone were always trading barbs through the press. Whenever they met face to face, things got violent quickly.

  Brenden told the press that Stone was just posing as a rock star, and that he didn’t have the balls to back it up. Jeff was always telling the press anything he could think of to make BJ Sparks look bad. It was endlessly annoying to be lied about, but Brenden learned quickly to take it in his stride and he figured any press was better than nothing. Unlike Jeff, he didn’t have to lie to get into the news. Whereas Sparks did nothing but hit multi-platinum with every album, Jeff Stone remained consistently mediocre. His albums sold just enough to keep him in the business, but never an outrageous amount. Brenden frequently joked that Stone himself probably bought the albums, just so he’d look like he was popular.

  Los Angeles, 1998

  Across town, Allexxiss Ramsey-Putnam was having breakfast in her dining room. The maid had just brought the morning papers. She still got the London Times, just the banner of the paper still tugged at her heart. She saw that Brenden had once again made headlines. She turned the page quickly, but not before her heart turned over at the picture of Brenden on the front page. She refused to read anything about him. She did everything she could to avoid thinking of him at all. It did nothing but make her heart ache every time she did.

  She didn’t need thoughts of him to cloud her thinking. She had enough in her life now. She was an actress, a “movie star.” Everyone knew her as simply as Ramsey. She was world famous. Her first movie Slow Burn had done anything but a slow burn at box office. It had sold millions in a mere week and Ramsey had quickly become a household name. Her second movie had done just as well, and after five years, Ramsey was still on top. She was just finishing up her eighth movie, and the next one she planned to produce herself. It was a brave leap for her, but she welcomed the challenge.

  She was doing everything she could to fill the gap in her life. She was married, with no children. Her husband was an executive at the movie studio she had her contract with. Artisan Pictures was where Maxwell Putnam put in a lot of his time. He had the token wife, who interestingly enough had made him and his company a lot of money. It wasn’t something he’d expected, but of course the fact that she was beautiful didn’t hurt. Of course she was beautiful, he wouldn’t have put up with her past and married her if she wasn’t.

  London, 1979

  Allexxiss seated herself at the bar. Her best friend had gone off to the “loo” as she’d been calling it since they’d gotten to London. They were on Allexxiss’ sixteenth birthday trip. Allexxiss’ parents had surprised her with the two-week trip for her and Sherry. Allexxiss was looking around in her purse for her wallet, when she sensed someone standing in front of her. She looked up and was caught by the most beautiful light blue-green eyes staring back at her. His handsome face wore a sardonic, knowing grin.

  “You got ID, love?” he asked. His English accent was thick, but his voice was warm and sexy.

  “I …” she’d stammered, unable to look away from his eyes, as her hand fumbled in her purse trying to locate her wallet. “Yes, I have ID.”

  He didn’t reply, simply stared at her. Her hands were shaking as she finally looked away from his eyes to locate the fake ID Sherry had given her. If this handsome young man busted her with this forgery, she knew she’d just melt into the floor. Sherry had assured her that the ID was well done and no one would figure it out. She handed him the ID, and bit her lip nervously.

  The young man had looked at the ID for a long moment, then his blue-green eyes met hers again. After a long hesitation, he tossed the ID on the bar in front of her and said, “What can I get for you?”

  “A screwdriver,” she said, feeling confident all of a sudden.

  The young man’s eyes bore into hers. “What about a slow comfortable screw up against the nearest wall?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

  Allexxiss’ mouth went totally dry. She had to swallow a few times to get her voice to come back. “I … um … what’s in that?” she asked, feeling like a total idiot.

  The young man had thrown his head back and laughed shaking his head. “It’s orange juice, vodka, Southern Comfort, and Sloe Gin.” He looked at her considering, then said, “Might be too much for you, though.”

  “I’ll try it,” she replied immediately.

  He grinned, nodding. He made her the drink and handed it to her. She tasted it and grimaced at the amount of alcohol. He offered to take it back and make her something else but she refused, saying she liked it. She attempted to drink it for the next few minutes, frequently catching him watching her with a grin on his face. Finally, he slid a coke to her, grinning as he’d turned back to the customer he was waiting on. She took the Coke gratefully, and set the drink aside. She caught that blue-green-eyed stare again a few minutes later, as he once again grinned knowingly at her.

  When Sherry returned, she noticed the handsome bartender right away. She elbowed Allexxiss who was sipping the Coke he’d given her in place of the alcohol.

  “Oh my God, Allex look at that guy!” Sherry said, not bothering to lower her voice.

  “I saw him, Sherry,” Allexxiss said, feeling the slight prick of jealousy that Sherry had now noticed him too.

  Sherry was the more outrageous of the two of them. She was the one that would get up and dance on the bar, or go around kissing all the guys, telling them it was a bet between her and her friend. She was also a fiery redhead, with brown eyes and a body that wouldn’t quit. She was tall with slim hips
and big breasts, and at seventeen men were already falling all over themselves to get at her.

  Allexxiss was the blond-haired, blue-eyed, softly spoken, quieter one. She was small, only five foot three, and less than a hundred pounds, compared to Sherry at five foot nine. They were an intriguing pair and the men in the pub often noticed them. Many times Allexxiss would look away, embarrassed at something outlandish Sherry had said to some man, and she’d catch the good looking bartender’s eyes on her. She would smile at him, and he’d cant his head to the side, grinning at her. She was sure he was trying to figure out what she was doing with someone like Sherry.

  She and Sherry had been friends since grade school, having attended the same dressage classes for horsemanship. They’d become fast friends, and it had been Sherry who’d taught her everything about boys. It had also been Sherry who had encouraged her first, second and third experiences with sex. Allexxiss had yet to see what the fuss was all about. Her first time with a boy, had been with a boy at the club. He was fifteen like her, and so excited about being with her that he sweated profusely. Allexxiss had done her best to ignore the annoying wetness of his skin, but as he had taken off his clothes and laid over her, the smell of his sweat had hit her. Any stimulation he’d caused with his limp kisses, and unsure hands had left her instantly. When his body had entered hers with unnecessary swiftness, she’d bit her lip to keep from crying out from the pain. She’d lain there, just waiting for it to be over. He’d finished his business moments later, and had kissed her on the lips, making her feel even dirtier than she had minutes before.

  Later she’d told Sherry that the deed was done, but “no” she wasn’t interested in doing it again. Sherry had cursed a blue streak about stupid incapable boys, and assured her that she just needed a “man” with more experience.

  The second experience had been with another boy from the club, visiting for the summer. Sherry assured her that this boy knew what he was doing, since he was eighteen. This time, since she had been less nervous about the whole thing, she’d become more excited by this boy. At least he didn’t sweat, and his kisses were nice, making her feel warm. He had caressed her breasts making her warmer still. But then he stopped, and took his pants down, and put his thing inside her. There were no more kisses, no more caresses, just his body pushing into hers. Once again, she was let down by the whole experience.

 

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