Getting Lucky (Jail Bait #4)

by Mia Storm

  “Well, that was a nice little temper tantrum,” she scolds. “You over it now?”

  I press into the seat and fold my arms over my chest. “He totally humiliated me.”

  She turns to the driver, who’s now standing behind her in the door. “Take us back to the hotel, please.” She shoves me over and slides in next to me. “He’s just trying to get into your head so you don’t upstage him on tour. Marking his territory, like peeing on a fire hydrant.”

  “And I’m the hydrant in this scenario?” I ask with a glare.

  She gives me an exasperated look. “My point is, just treat him like a big, stupid dog. He’s doing it to get a rise out of you. If you don’t react, he’ll stop.”

  “That was The Tonight Show!” I say with a fling of my hand at Rockefeller Center as we pull onto the street. “How many people watch that? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? And that douche made me look like an idiot.”

  “You were fine, Shiloh,” she says, looping her arm over my shoulders and tugging me close. “But in this business, you’re going to have to grow a thicker skin. So far you’re a media darling, but at some point, people are going to start criticizing. If you show weakness, they go for the jugular and it becomes a feeding frenzy. Whether it’s someone like Tro Gunnison, who’s just looking for publicity, or some other artist who’s jealous of your success, or your producers who aren’t with you artistically, or the media just looking for a story, you have to learn to let the jabs and criticism roll off and don’t take the negative to heart.”

  I tip my head back and grind my teeth. “I hate him.”

  She presses her lips to my temple. “Guess you’re not over that tantrum after all.”

  I don’t move except to settle into her a little. We weave our slow way through New York City traffic. It’s only a few blocks to the hotel, but it takes forever.

  “What would you think if I filed for legal guardianship?” Billie asks as we sit at a light.

  Her words send a jolt of…what? Panic? Not exactly. But not excitement either.

  Hope. Her words send a jolt of hope through me that makes me feel like I’m going to throw up.

  When I was little, I used to fantasize that my mom would come for me. I used to waste hours imaging our happy reunion and how we’d leave San Francisco and live in a white house with a big yard and have a dog. I think I got that from watching too much Nickelodeon.

  I thought I was too old for that stupid fantasy now.

  “Why would you want to do that?” I ask without looking at her.

  She peels me off, though I now seem to have a death grip on her, and looks into my eyes. “You don’t want me to?”

  I breathe deeply when I realized I’ve stopped. I’m long past thinking there’s any chance my real mom is coming for me, and Billie’s the closest thing I’ve ever had. She’s been fair and I know she cares about me.

  “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” she says when I don’t answer. “You’re still a minor, and a ward of the state. There are a lot of moving parts in this business and it just seems like it would un-complicate things if you had someone other than the State of California who was legally responsible for you.” She pulls me back to her side and says, her lips against my temple, “And if I could have picked a daughter, it would have been you.”

  The ice in my heart melts a little and my suspicion melts with it. “Remember it’s me you’re dealing with. You may regret it.”

  I feel her head shake slightly against mine. “Never. Now let’s go celebrate the start of an incredible career!”

  #

  Billie’s been in the bathroom throwing up all night. A bad scallop in the Coquilles Saint Jacques at the swanky French restaurant we went to after The Tonight Show taping, she thinks. But that’s not what’s keeping me awake. How are you supposed to sleep when the biggest thing that’s ever happened to you is about to happen?

  Madison Square Garden. Sold out. I know they’re all coming to see Roadkill, but still.

  At the thought of his band, a pair of wolfish eyes stalk into my mind.

  Tro fucking Gunnison.

  He’s like that bad scallop you can’t get rid of no matter how many times you puke. I haven’t been able to shake him out of my head.

  I know Billie’s right. This is what he wants, to get under my skin. I hate myself for letting him. And the truth is, I never have to see him again. I open for him. There’s at least twenty minutes between my act and his while the roadies break down our equipment and set up Roadkill’s. Once we’re out of New York City, Billie’s contracted a tour bus for us, so after our set, I can escape to my own space. I’ll be long gone before Tro fucking Gunnison ever graces the audience with his presence.

  But something about running and hiding rubs me the wrong way. It’s not in my DNA. I grew up on the streets of San Francisco, the castoff daughter of two junkies. Tro is nothing compared to what I had to deal with out there. But unless I want this tour to blow up in my face, it’s probably the best strategy.

  The clock says three AM when I glance at it. I shove the sheets aside and grab my guitar on the way to the balcony.

  Billie rolls to look at me. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I should have gotten my own room. This just hit me out of the blue.”

  “It’s not you,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.”

  She pulls herself up to sit against the headboard. “Nervous?”

  “A huge stadium full of Roadkill fans?” I say, hugging the guitar to my chest. “What have I got to be nervous about?”

  She bunches her pillow under her head. “You’re going to win them over, kiddo. I know it.”

  “What if they boo and start throwing shit? You know Tro’s girls have done that to openers before.”

  She swings to sit on the edge of the bed. “They’re going to love you,” she says, but her face looks anything but sure. A second later, she’s running for the bathroom again.

  While she wretches over the toilet bowl, I slip out the glass door onto the balcony. New York isn’t like San Francisco. Even in early June, the night air is heavy and thick. I set my guitar on the small glass table and go to the rail.

  We’re a few blocks away, and I’m pretty sure our room faces the wrong way, so I can’t see Madison Square Garden, but I know it’s out there. I remember thinking on the night of The Voice finals that nothing could ever top it—that everything depended on winning. Now I know that was only the beginning.

  Everything depends on everything.

  Everything I ever wanted is balancing on a tightrope and there is no safety net. Every interview has to be kickass. Every move I make, perfect. Every outfit, daring. Every hairstyle, classy. Everybody has to love me because the bottom line is that every record has to sell. One wrong turn, one false move, and show over. And the only thing waiting for me then is the streets where I started. After having everything, I don’t want to go back to nothing.

  So I’ll toe the line; avoid Tro Gunnison and sing my ass off.

  I’ll make them love me.

  I lower myself into one of the two chairs and pull my guitar into my lap. I close my eyes and, in my mind, I go back to the BART stations of San Francisco. Music starts in my head, and I finger the melody of Lilah’s songs out on my guitar. I feel my only real friend at my side, hear her hum out the harmony to the music she wrote. Then I open my mouth and sing quietly to myself. I need to settle my nerves and this is the only thing that calms me down when I’m this wired. I let myself go home, where I was never really safe, but at least I knew what was what.

  Because here, I’m totally lost.

  Chapter 5

  Tro

  I’ve seen hot. Hot girls throw themselves at me on a daily basis. All the fucking time. Case in point: the blonde under my left arm and the redhead under my right.

  Our road parties have gotten smaller over the last year, mostly because it got too expensive to reimburse the hotel for all the damage, so now it’s just the
band, some of the backline guys, our closest friends, and a dozen or so handpicked girls.

  We’re in the city, so the lot is hotter than average. These two are scorching.

  But the face I can’t shake from my head isn’t just hot, it’s different—heart-shaped with wide-set whiskey eyes, smooth caramel skin, full red lips. Lucky’s heat is more than skin deep. It comes from inside and radiates for miles, like a nuclear reactor ready to blow.

  No matter how much I want to focus on the blonde’s fingers, dancing over the zipper of my jeans, or the redhead’s tongue in my ear, all I can think about is that girl.

  I’m not going to fuck her—partly because we have to work together and partly because she’s just a kid—but I can’t help fucking with her.

  From my drummer Jamie’s Bose speaker across the room, Eddie Van Halen launches into a guitar riff that has me about an inch from coming. Grim, my bassist, cranks the volume, then starts on air guitar, like any of us could touch the great Eddie.

  Grim is the oldest of us by far, probably pushing forty. Years of hard living show in lines around his eyes and deep creases across his forehead. Living large the last few years has tacked a beer gut onto the package. But none of that has slowed him down. His long blond hair is thinner on top than when I first met him six years ago, but he’s still a chick magnet…as evidenced by the three twenty-something girls who are instantly on their feet, dancing with him. I crack a smile when he drains his beer, then grabs one of them by the ass.

  Truth is, Grim is the reason I’m here. His real name is Jim Grimsby and he and some guys he was playing random gigs with came into the diner I was washing dishes in when I’d first left home. He looked badass and the waitress I was fucking at the time told me he was a local legend, mostly for raising hell. I was seventeen, on the run, sleeping in my broken-down car, and had exactly nothing to lose, so I figured what the hell. Walked right up to their table, told him I played kickass guitar wrote shit too. Told him he needed me in his band. Turns out, he was getting ready to dump the others anyway. Asked what I had for original stuff. Took me back to his place and we jammed a little in his garage. I moved in with him, his girlfriend, and their kid the next week. We stole Jamie from a rival band because he’s an animal on the drums, got fucked up every night and played our asses off, got some bar gigs, and that was the start of Roadkill.

  The blonde at my side gets up and starts dancing, all hips and hands. The redhead stands and slinks over, pressing up against the blonde and grinding to the pounding rhythm.

  Jamie whistles appreciatively at them from across the room, then staggers over and drops his mile-tall frame onto the couch next to me. He rubs a hand over his shaved head and slumps into the cushions, so totally baked his eyes are barely slits. “Dude, you gonna tap that?” he asks with a nod at the girls. “Because, fuuuuck…” He drawls the word out as his head lolls back onto the couch and he closes his bloodshot eyes.

  I watch through my buzz as they dance together, and they’re keeping my interest, but just barely. Until they start making out. “Yeah, I’m gonna tap that.”

  He leans forward and does one of the lines off the coffee table in front of me.

  “I was saving that,” I say, shoving him. “Pacing myself.”

  He shrugs and slumps back into the cushions. “Snooze, lose.” When the redhead starts unbuttoning the blonde’s shirt, a lazy grin splits his face and he holds up his fist for a bump. “Fuck, man, I love fucking New York.”

  I bump him and he watches for another minute, then hauls all six and a half feet of himself up and starts grinding against the backside of one of the girls that Grim left behind. She spins, ready to be pissed, but when she sees who it is, she smiles suggestively and starts dancing with him.

  I turn my attention back to the show in front of me as, little by little, the clothes start coming off. The girls’ hands and mouths are all over each other as they dance for me, and it’s pretty fucking hot. When they’re down to thongs, they come for me. I let them drag me off the couch. The guys catcall behind us as they pull me through the bedroom door of the honeymoon suite we booked for the weekend. Grim and Jamie’s rooms are adjoining.

  The whole thing goes on for an hour or so, and I lose track of who’s doing what to who. When they’re done with me, they both pass out on the bed. I untwist myself and I yank on my jeans, because I need a fucking smoke. I find my pack on the dresser and stagger onto the balcony.

  It’s three in the morning, but this city is never quiet. The muggy New York night presses down on me as the rush of traffic and blare of horns wafts up the eleven stories to where I lean against the glass door, staring over the city. And then something else wafts up from below. The quiet chords of an acoustic guitar.

  It’s so faint I have to strain against the noise of the city to hear it. I move to the edge of the balcony in the direction it seems to be coming from. A floor below and to my right, a girl sits on a balcony, her white T-shirt glowing against the smooth brown skin of a pair of endless legs, propped on the rail in front of her. I lean a little more to get a better look, and when she opens her mouth and starts to sing, my suspicion is confirmed.

  Lucky.

  I know her by voice because, after I left the taping at Rockefeller Center, I looked her up online. She grew up in foster care in San Francisco, dropped out of high school last year to be on The Voice, but plans to finish when her schedule slows down. She gives her best friend, Lilah Morgan, all the credit for her success, and has her seventeenth birthday coming up in a month. I also pulled her up on YouTube. I spent hours listening to every track that was posted: everything from the covers she sang when she was competing on The Voice to newer vids from her original CD.

  She’s pretty damn incredible.

  But what she’s singing now is nothing I heard in any of those tracks. I listen closer.

  The guitar line is simple but not dull and the lyrics are synced to the backbeat. I can’t make out all the words because she’s murmuring, trying to be quiet, no doubt, but the melody seeps through my ears, into my bones, and settles there, causing me to shudder despite the muggy heat.

  It’s been a long time since music did that for me. This girl has something real.

  I slide to my ass, my back propped against the glass door, and take a long drag off my smoke, feeling that silky voice of hers saturate every cell in my body along with the nicotine. She’s still playing two hours later when the horizon starts to pink with the new day, and I’m still listening. Finally, the music stops. I drag my ass up and find out it’s numb. When I look over the rail I find Lucky’s balcony is empty, and I can’t deny the disappointment that sinks like a stone in my gut.

  I duck back into the room and find the girls are thankfully gone. The living room is quiet, so the party’s apparently over. I drop into bed with the echo of Lucky in my mind, but while I drift off, the tune changes as the bones of a new song takes shape in my mind.

  #

  I never come to hear the opener. After the sound check, I usually don’t show up on stage again until Jamie starts pounding out the intro to our first song on the bass drum. But tonight, I left Grim and Jamie drinking in the on-site dressing room and I’m standing in the shadows near the soundboard. I brought a few beers to keep my stage buzz on, and I drain the first as I watch Lucky wrap her second song.

  She’s got lead guitar and there are three guys backing her up: a bassist, drummer, and one who switches between keyboard and rhythm guitar. Her coppery kinks are up in a bushy ponytail near the top of her head and her getup is simple: a black tank top with an open men’s white button-down shirt knotted at her waist, a short camo skirt, and a pair of black boots with spiky silver heels that look more like a weapon than footwear. Classy, but smokin’ hot.

  But, honestly, the music is nothing special—nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times before from a thousand different artists. Even the lyrics are pretty pedestrian. What’s crushing it is her performance. I move to the edge of the stage-side sc
affolding that holds up the rigging and glance out at the crowd. The seats are only about half full, which is not unusual for the opener. But the people who are here are engaged. Many of them are on their feet, dancing in the rows and in the pit. They see what I see—for someone so tiny, Lucky’s stage presence is immense. She’s impossible to ignore. She plays like the guitar is an extension of herself, like she is the music.

  I watch her move as I stand in the wings, reminding myself that she hasn’t even turned seventeen yet. She’s just a baby. But, fuck, she doesn’t look like one—or act like one. I know firsthand that some kids grow up faster than others. I was only a few months older than Lucky when everything went down with my old man and I found myself on the run. I grew up in a matter of days. From what I read in her bio, there’s no doubt this kid was looking out for herself from a very young age. From all outward appearances, not only did she grow up faster than me, but she’s surpassed my twenty-three years by a few.

  And one thing I know, watching her live: with the right songwriting and the right guys backing her up, she’d be unstoppable.

  I glance around the stage at her band. I don’t recognize a single one of these guys. I guess that’s not surprising, since I’ve gone out of my way to distance myself from the whole music scene, but these guys are pretty green, mostly just chunking out guitar chords. Seems like there are a few veterans they could have tapped for this gig who’d at least be trying to keep up with Lucky. And whoever’s writing for her has never had a creative or original thought in their lives. Her fucking producers aren’t doing her any favors. They’re obviously banking on her talent to do all the heavy lifting.

  When I glance at the bassist, a tall, skinny Asian guy with hair all down his face like he thinks he’s some anime character, I find him looking at me, and there’s not the awe in his expression that I usually get from noobs. I’m having a hard time deciding what I’m seeing there, so he makes it clear for me when he moves closer to Lucky and presses his shoulder into hers as they play. Lucky smiles at him and it’s like a boot to my gut.