Rock My World

by Masters, Cate

  “Not a fan, eh?” He shot a dubious glance at her boots. “Let me guess. Country music?”

  She tilted her chin. “Classical.”

  “Wagner, Rachmaninoff, Beethoven? That sort?” He knit his brow. “Nothing contemporary?”

  She repressed the urge to apologize. “My parents forbade it.”

  Another full body scan, ripe with appreciation, left her feeling more naked than she could remember.

  He took her hands in his. “You’re all grown up now, Cyn. Take a walk on the wild side.” Spoken like a flirty tease, and a challenge that invited her somewhere soft and warm, where her wildest, most decadent dreams could come true.

  Her heart did a fluttery flip. When?

  The door burst open, and she startled.

  A thin young man wearing a headset pointed at Rex. “Mr. Reynolds. You’re up.”

  Thumbs caressing her hands, he stared placidly into her eyes.

  Had he heard? “Rex?” she softly prompted.

  “Mm.” He appeared to be lost in some dream world, somewhere behind her eyes.

  She wanted to slip into that dream.

  He eased nearer. “Tell me, Cyn. What would your ideal day be like with the one you love?”

  The image that came to mind made her smile. “A picnic in a field of wild flowers, relaxing on a cozy quilt and watching the clouds drift by, and after that, watching the sky fill with stars.” He popped into the vision, long legs crossed on her favorite old blanket. Tension flowed from her body, leaving her muscles loose. Had he purposely asked the question to help ease her nervousness? “What about you?”

  “I’d have to agree with you.” He arched a brow. “Afterward, I’d love to fly to London, hit the pubs, see some old friends. We could walk along the streets, take in the sights.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” She had no trouble seeing herself linked arm in arm with him, strolling through London.

  “Mr. Reynolds,” said the young man more insistently, and glanced down the hallway.

  She squeezed Rex’s hand. “They’re waiting.” Not that she wanted to break this moment.

  “Bloody hell.” He dropped his hold, shot to his feet and strode off, brushing past the poor assistant.

  The young man’s quizzical surprise became anger when he turned to her, then he whirled on his heel after Rex.

  Great, she’d managed to disappoint two more men, plus piss them off. Don’t turn that dial, folks. Lots of excitement coming up next.

  She blew raspberries and turned her attention to the flat screen. She braced when Rex strode onstage with the same intensity. He shook hands with Mr. Kane and dropped onto the plush chair beside the host’s desk.

  Google him. Listen to a few songs. She whipped out her phone and launched the browser.

  Kane tossed out a few one-liners, his typical wry jabs. Beneath the host’s professional demeanor lurked a true fan of Rex’s band, obviously excited to be in Rex’s presence. When Kane gushed about Rex’s rock god status, Rex shifted and brushed invisible lint from his knee.

  A wince, and Rex dropped his gaze. “Completely blown out of proportion by the media.”

  Cynthia halted the search on her phone. Hm, self-deprecating. She liked that in a guy. A link popped up for a video of his band—Template, good to know—and she clicked Play. On the cell screen, Rex wielded his guitar like a sword, lunging at the audience, leather jacket flapping. The instrument screamed as if being murdered, wailed in agony.

  Wincing, she held the phone away. Nope, not a fan, she could absolutely say now. Too bad. She’d wanted to like his music.

  A movement on the large screen mounted to the wall caught her eye. Rex and Mr. Kane stood at microphones, the host wearing a wide headband and playing a guitar. A duet? She flicked off the video on her phone and listened. Ah, a parody, she guessed. Kane imitated Dylan, and Rex did an impeccable impression of Bruce Springsteen, if she guessed right. His gritty voice reached inside her, dredged up parts of her she’d forgotten, and lit them on fire.

  At the finish, she clapped. “Wonderful.” She’d have to tell him later how much she loved it. Ease past their earlier awkwardness.

  Kane abandoned the stage. Rex adjusted the microphone. “Switching to something lighter. This is for the sweet lady I met earlier.”

  Jealousy sizzled through her. What sweet lady? How many women did the man meet each day? Probably dozens.

  Rex strummed. Though he sang softly, his voice held the same grit and intensity. “Your love is strong. Don’t give up, baby.”

  When he peered directly into the camera, his gaze pierced Cynthia as surely as if he sat in front of her again.

  “You’ve got it wrong. You can do it, baby.”

  “Wait.” She sat bolt upright. “He’s singing to me.” She wanted to shout so someone would hear. The words hit her hard. Enraptured, she tried to memorize the lyrics, absorb them into her consciousness so she could retrieve them later. She sang along as best she could until the finish.

  The audience roared. So did Cynthia. Okay, so maybe she was a fan of one song anyway.

  The door opened and the same young man appeared. “Ms. Winterspoon. You’re up.”

  She jumped up. “Thank you.”

  Despite the assistant’s brisk pace, she wished she would hurry him faster. He halted abruptly, and she bumped into him. “Why are you stopping?”

  He gestured her forward. “I’m not a guest.”

  Mr. Kane sat at the desk, talking into the camera. But where was Rex?

  She heard only garbled yammering until the host spoke her name like a prize the audience had won.

  Polite applause ensued. Not the greatest incentive to walk out there.

  The young man nudged her shoulder. “Go.”

  She peered around the wall. “Where’s Rex?”

  “You’re on. Go,” he repeated, less pleasantly.

  Ask Kane. She hurried out, forgot to smile. Forgot to project the wholesome shabby chic queen.

  “Cynthia Winterspoon. Hey,” Kane said, “how are you?” like they were old friends.

  “So glad to be here, Jimmy. But where’s Rex?”

  The host’s face tightened, smile less bright. His shrug was as sly as the glance he flicked at the camera. “Heading to his next gig, maybe?”

  Gone. She’d never see him again.

  She did her best to focus on the host, and too late, put on her happy face, be the company cheerleader, the shabby chic enthusiast. Her thoughts still swirled around the reluctant rock star.

  But Rex had left the building.

  Chapter Two

  For days after meeting Cynthia Winterspoon, Rex hummed almost nonstop. He laughed at jokes that were mildly funny at best, and pushed his band to stay longer hours at the studio.

  “What are you on, man?” Tad asked more than once.

  “Absolutely nothing.” Rex had become a factory of positive energy. He couldn’t contain it. “Come on, it’s early. I wanted to try an orchestral bit at the opening of this song.”

  “Orchestral bit?” John winced.

  His band mates used to tease him for listening to Wagner, Rachmaninoff, Beethoven… and then switch the next second to Muddy Waters, Billie Holiday, Robert Johnson. He devoured the lyrics of Dylan and the poetry of Dylan Thomas. All art intrigued him. Fed his music. For too long, he’d resisted the urge to experiment. Now the need came on so strong, he might burst if he didn’t. Not that he could let on to these guys.

  He gave a light shrug. “Yeah, something delicate to start, quickly swelling to a dramatic swirl of emotion. Then John will cut in, his searing guitar blending seamlessly.” Rex’s fingers flew across his strings.

  John picked up the riff in a heartbeat and carried it through several bars. “Yeah, I like that last part.”

  Twirling his drum sticks, Tad shook his head. “Not the orchestral bit.”

  Rex resisted a huff. “How do you know unless we try?”

  “What about something like this?” Ervin knocked o
ut a few notes on his keyboard. “A faux orchestra. So you’d get almost the same effect but fans would think we were mocking it.”

  “They’d rip out their ear buds,” Tad nearly spat, “and stomp on them. Fans expect a certain sound from us. Not freaking Lawrence Welk.”

  Rex’s jaw tightened. “Plenty of bands have integrated classical sounds into their songs. ELO. The Beatles. The Stones. If we never try anything new, fans will lose respect.”

  “No,” Tad enunciated each word as if explaining a complex issue to a child, “they’ll keep shelling out bucks to buy our music.”

  Sales. Bloody label execs had tainted his band mates. “Every great rock group experiments. Evolves, for chrissakes. Our music has been stuck in the nineties for too long. Soon we’ll end up extinct.”

  “Don’t knock it. The nineties have been good to us.” Tad tapped his drumstick to the cymbal.

  “Argh.” Rex slammed his fist against the table. “Go extinct, then.” Anger propelled him toward the door in long strides.

  “Where are you going?”

  As far from extinction as he could get. “To clear my head.” A spin on his Harley might help.

  “What,” Tad jeered, “we’re dismissed because we won’t play your way and you’re mad?”

  Mad—a perfect description. Rex couldn’t keep his thoughts straight. Not since the blissful calm of meeting…

  “Do whatever you want.” He waved them off and the closing door blocked out their arguments. Blessed silence. Nothing better, except the roar of his motorcycle and the rush of the wind in his ears as he flew down the highway.

  The ride brought the lush melody back stronger. The headlights streamed through the night, illuminated ribbons of notes along the musical scale, each street light he whizzed past another tick of the metronome. He heard it all so clear, so beautiful. The richness surrounded him, gripped him in its fullness and wouldn’t let go. He floated in the song like a dream.

  The blast of horns provided a split-second warning. Headlights swiveled in unnatural positions through the night. Then came the crunch, the sickening groan of metal bending. The world spun upward. Ripped away from his bike, his helmet smashed the ground in a swift staccato, front, back, side, battering his brain with each rollover. He kept enough of his wits to tuck his arms tight against him, wanting to keep enough momentum to keep rolling and rolling, the farther, the better. Shards of glass and hunks of metal shot past him. He came to rest near the guardrail and pulled himself behind the aluminum rail. Only then did he risk a look at the scene.

  A tractor trailer, jackknifed sideways. An SUV, crumpled like an accordion. His Harley in pieces between them.

  Could’ve been me. The thought drained away with most of his consciousness.

  A shrill noise pierced his mind, jostling roused him, stark lights stung his eyes. “Where…” He finished the question in his head, am I?

  “You’re going to be all right,” a blurry man said. “We’ll be at the hospital in a few minutes.”

  He tried to nod, but only managed to close his eyes. The deepest cold he’d ever known shuddered in his bones. Pain radiated in his skull. He fought sleep with an internal knowledge he might never wake up. Images flashed through his mind. His father announcing to his eleven-year-old self they were moving from London to Sydney. His desperate turn to playing guitar to hide from school bullies. A face he’d shoved to the back of his memories loomed, smile nasty as the hefty boy lifted Rex’s skinny ass and gave his head a swirly in the loo. Rex sputtered with the remembered taste of the foul water. Then his fifteen-year-old self, still scrawny but taller, on the plane to California. The pain of his parents’ split, Mum crying when Father moved back to Sydney. Music became his method of taming the anger. Classmates crowding around the band he fronted, some kid’s graduation party. After that, the gigs became his reason to live, the path he craved but somewhere along the line, the road had grown twisted, he’d somehow turned in the wrong direction….

  Prodding fingers roused him back to the present, his skin pricking, voices drifting around him, close yet coming from a distance. From some recess of his mind, the echo of piano surged up, then the forceful, precise notes of a violin. He floated up and away on the undulating music, and the touch on his skin became barely discernible. Another face appeared vividly, smile welcoming, eyes beautiful and doelike.

  Cyn. He latched onto the vision of her, the very real thrill shivering through him as he kissed her slender fingers. It overshadowed the haze and held him in this world. She was the sole reason he pushed air out of his lungs and drank in oxygen again. He had to get back to her.

  *~*~*

  A desert in his mouth. He smacked his lips, gulped, but nothing helped. He flailed a hand over the side of the bed, groping for something to drink. He usually kept a glass on his nightstand.

  His fingers met metal, cold and unfamiliar. Wincing, he squinted his still-closed eyes and cracked them open. Bright light stabbed his vision. Groaning, he shielded his face with his hand.

  “He’s awake.”

  Who said that? The man sounded familiar but he couldn’t match the voice to a face.

  “Call the nurse,” the man said.

  Footsteps thudded away. Through the thin strip of his sight, he tried to make out the blurry figure.

  “No, you dolt,” the man said. “The buzzer. Oh never mind.” A shadow loomed over him, reaching. A sharp buzz sounded. “Where’s the bloody—”

  From the doorway, a woman asked, “Everything all right?”

  The man huffed. “He’s coming to.”

  Enough of this circus. “What are you doing here?” Couldn’t they let him rest?

  “See?” The man sounded triumphant. And arrogant.

  “Father?” Why on earth would he have traveled from Sydney? He hadn’t seen him since high school.

  A nasal chuckle. “Harv, love.” His face floated above the bed. “But as your servant, if you need me to be Dad…” The man shrugged, then his smug grin fell. “Kidding, dude. You recognize me, don’t you?”

  A deep inhale did nothing to clear his head, stuffed full of cotton candy. “I…”

  From the hallway, a woman pleaded, “Please let me in. I’ll only stay a few minutes, I promise.”

  It was her. “Let her in.”

  Harv shook his head once, as if he had the final say. “Not a good idea. She’s some fanatic. Been coming round every day, insisting she had to see you.”

  Every day? “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. Don’t you remember the accident?”

  Scenes flashed in his head, nightmarish and unwanted. He replaced them with the image of her, and immediately conjured her warmth, her caring nature. “I said, let her in.”

  Harv fisted his thin hair. “Christ, have you lost your mind?”

  The door opened and she hurried in. The worry in her face gave way to delight. “You’re awake, thank goodness.”

  “Just now, yes.” He pushed himself higher on the pillow. The small movement strained every muscle. The floaty feeling in his head thickened like instant pudding mixed with sharp spikes piercing his skull. He moaned.

  She rushed to the side of the bed opposite Harv. “Don’t get up.”

  “I’m fine.” But he relaxed against the mattress and drank in the sight of her, an immediate comfort.

  “You will be.” She lifted a container. “I made you cookies.”

  “Cookies?” So thoughtful and sweet, but that was the essence of her nature.

  “Chocolate chunk. I hope you like them.”

  He preferred the warm brown of her eyes, but lifted the lid and sniffed appreciatively. “Mm, yes. You know they’re my favorite, you little vixen.”

  Her smile froze, something about her faltered. “Good.” She tilted her head. “You know who I am, right?”

  “How could I forget? You’re my fiancée.”

  She blinked, and barely shook her head. “I…”

  “Yes, your fiancée.” Ha
rv snapped his fingers. “What’s your name again, sweetheart?”

  He answered before she could. “Cyn.” He loved how her eyes brightened and her face tinged a lovely rose when he called her that in public. The embarrassment fueled their private moments. If he had half his usual energy level, he’d send Harv on a fool’s errand so he could be alone with her. He might not be able to lift his head off the pillow, but other body parts were rising.

  Except she no longer appeared to want the same. Sadness filled those melted-chocolate eyes. as her gaze darted from him to Harv and back. “Cynthia. But—”

  “Babe? What’s wrong?” He reached for her.

  She set the container on the swinging table beside the bed so slowly, it might have been hand-blown glass rather than plastic. “I have to go,” she whispered.

  “Already? But I’ve missed you.”

  Alarm rounded her eyes. She stepped back, then whirled and fled.

  “Cyn!” Her name rang through him like a gong. The effort of calling her, or raising his head, or probably both, made his head swirl. “Go get her.”

  Harv jammed his hands in his pockets. “Let her go.”

  “No, Harv.” Bastard. The man never followed instructions, did he? Though he couldn’t quite pinpoint how Harv had failed him before, the sensation of disappointment, possibly a series of disappointments, left a bitter taste.

  The man’s doleful expression held an eerie similarity to Cyn’s. Harv rubbed his chin. “The doctor warned us this might happen.”

  He banged on the bed rail. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Tell me who I am,” the man said.

  He gulped. “You’re Harv.”

  “Not my name. Who am I to you?”

  He searched the nebulous space in his mind but came up with cobwebs. “The exact title escapes me, but you work for me.”

  Harv shook his head. “I spoon fed you that fact.” His gaze sharpened. “Okay then. Who are you?”

  No name sprang to mind. No identity. He scanned the room for clues but the sterile environment had no personality whatsoever, so gave away nothing.