BJ Sparks was the one who made Jordan Tate a star; he’d taken her in and coaxed her to greatness. Everyone knew it and were in awe of it. Jordan wasn’t the first to achieve stardom at BJ’s hands, but she was definitely the first to achieve it so quickly.
Kenny told Cassie and the rest of the band to take a break for the rest of the day, telling them that he had something he needed to do “for the boss.” He didn’t tell them he was burning a CD for BJ Sparks because he didn’t want to get them excited or scared to death before it was necessary. What he did do was take the time to mix two of the more powerful songs they’d done, ones he was sure would make incredible singles. He made sure they sounded fantastic before he gave them to BJ that afternoon.
New York, 2000
John had had it. One more collar let off by the judge on a “technicality.” Technicality had come to mean, “Your officers had garlic for lunch and it offended my client’s sensitive nostrils.” It was bullshit to the nth power and John was sick to death of the American justice system.
“Fuck this shit,” he said, tossing his gear bag in the back of his trunk.
He knew he needed to get out of this line of work before it ate him alive. He was trained to do one thing: to be an enforcer. He’d been a member of the New York Police Department for six years. His eight years as a navy SEAL had helped him to become a sergeant in two short years, and he had originally worked in Vice under another ex-SEAL, Don King. But King had recently retired to San Diego, California a few months before. He and King had been good friends; the man was older, but they both understood the brotherhood they’d been part of, so they’d gotten along well. John attributed the loss of his boss and friend to retirement as just another reason he couldn’t handle the department anymore. His new boss was an asshole who was more about politics than actual cop work.
As John drove home he checked his messages, rolling his eyes at the message from his ex-wife. It was always something … His ex-wife, Pamela, had been unable to handle the life of being a navy SEAL’s wife. She’d started complaining about him being gone all the time, and not being able to always tell her where, or why he had to go. She’d been all for him going for SEALs when he’d been offered the chance. He’d realized too late that she’d been more interested in the up in pay and the better shot at good stations, not the actual idea that her husband was part of an elite group. Of course, she’d played the “my husband is a SEAL” to the hilt for anyone that would care, but to him she treated him like any other “swabbie,” as she liked to call him.
As if her roots were something to be proud of, she was classic “trailer trash” from San Diego, Imperial Beach. When she was eighteen she graduated high school, got pregnant, had an abortion, and then got pregnant again, and promptly tried to pin it on the first guy she could lay after that. John had been the unlucky sod. Fresh from boot camp, he fell for her hook, line, and sinker. Being a street-wise kid from Chicago, he should have known better, but Pamela was the classic California blond. She’d wrapped her long legs around him and he forgot to think.
Fortunately for John, she’d lost the second baby, more than likely due to the poorly performed abortion she’d had only months before. Unfortunately for John, it wasn’t before he married her. After that, he was offered the opportunity to try out for the SEALs, and he grabbed it. And she held on to him like he was a life raft in a hurricane.
Their marriage lasted exactly four years. He finally got tired of her whining and told her that she needed to do better than him. He divorced her, losing part of his pay every month, but it had been worth it to get her out of his face before he killed her for being such a pain in the ass. He still heard from her regularly. He took her calls like he took the calls from his mother. He listened, made few comments, and got off the phone as fast as he could.
As a child, he’d had three stepfathers; his biological father had moved on a month after John had been born. They all moved on at some point. Eventually, John figured out why. His mother was a raving bitch. She drank until she got drunk enough to spew venom about anyone and anything. And she’d scream, hit, throw things, whatever got her the most attention. By the time John was fourteen, he was embarrassed to go anywhere near his house after school. He preferred to wait it out at a friend’s house. He never invited anyone home, never knowing what his mother would do or how she would act. He’d made that mistake before. He’d brought home a friend one day, a guy that was actually a couple of years older than him. His mother had gone into her bedroom and come out wearing a sheer teddy that barely covered her scrawny body. John had been sure he would puke right there. He’d hastened his friend out of the house, and never invited anyone again. It was just too unstable.
When he’d turned eighteen, he’d joined the navy and gotten the hell out of Chicago for good. He became a SEAL a year after joining. He’d been back to Chicago a couple of times. His mother had made a few efforts to clean up but never managed for long. He’d given up trying to help her. He’d stayed in the navy until he was twenty-seven, then he’d been honorably discharged. He’d made his way to New York, and become a cop as fast as he could, once again to avoid going home. He’d met Don King a year later, and then he’d felt like he could go far. Don had been a captain over Vice at the time, and John could see himself achieving something akin to that. Of course, he didn’t have Don’s degree in administration of justice, and that would definitely hinder him. So, he’d started going to night school and finally accomplished his Bachelor’s in Police Science, with a minor in Psychology the year before, shortly after Don had left the Department.
But now he didn’t know if he even wanted to be a cop anymore. Why? So every collar he made, the judge could find a reason to let the guy off? What was the point in that? He didn’t see one. He was thinking it might be time for a career change, but to what?
A few weeks later he had his answer. It fell right into his lap in the form of an out of work actress of limited fame. She was having problems with her boyfriend, and he wouldn’t leave her alone. She was running away from him yet again, when she quite literally ran into John.
“Whoa, hold up!” he said, as she tried to move past him.
“I gotta go!” she said. “I need to get away from him!”
“Who?” John asked, glancing over her shoulder.
“My boyfriend, he’ll kill me!” she yelled, again trying to move past him.
Just then the boyfriend came around the corner. John swiftly moved the woman behind him and took up a defensive stance. The boyfriend took a swing, and John caught him with a right hook that took him off his feet and landed him on the pavement.
John stepped forward, looking at the man lying on the ground.
“Let me guess,” he said, glancing back at the woman who was staring agape at what had happened, “your boyfriend?”
“Y-yes,” she said, her eyes wide as she glanced between John and her boyfriend.
“Don’t give the girl anymore trouble, huh?” John said to the man lying on the ground, his smile contrite.
“Fuck you!” the boyfriend said.
John took one booted foot, placed it squarely on the man’s chest, and leaned down closer, putting on just enough weight to make the guy start writhing.
“What was that?” John asked politely, leaning with his arm on his bent knee.
“Nothing, man, nothing! Get the fuck off!” the other man yelled.
John shook his head as if in dismay. “Such language, what are they teaching kids these days?”
The other man gasped for breath as John increased the pressure subtly.
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, I won’t touch her again!” the boyfriend yelled, holding his hands out in surrender.
“Good, that’s just what I wanted to hear,” John said, moving his foot and putting his hand out to help the other man up.
The guy got up and ran in the other direction. The woman grabbed ahold of John’s arm and said, “Oh my God, you’ve got to be my bodyguard!”
“
I’ve got to be your what?” John asked, seeing what he’d just done as normal police work.
“Bodyguard, you know like Kevin Costner was for Whitney Houston?” she asked, her eyes shining brightly.
She was busy admiring her rescuer. He was tall, around six five and had dark brown hair, worn just past his collar, and he the warmest chocolate-colored eyes with long dark lashes framing them. He was very handsome in a rugged, Marlboro man way.
“Uh-huh,” John said, unimpressed, “that’s not my line of work, honey.”
“What is?” she asked, smiling up at him.
John pulled his jacket aside showing her his badge.
“Oh, you’re a cop?” she asked, still looking excited.
“Yeah, just the common flat foot,” he said, his tone a bit condescending.
“Well,” she said, smiling warmly up at him, “you can guard my body any time,” she told him winking.
“Is that so?” he asked with a grin.
In the end he’d taken her to bed, and “guarded” her body for hours on end. But it had planted the idea in his head. Get paid to watch out for people. That’s what he did as a cop, but he didn’t get paid much and the frustration level was just too high.
He started out with one client, a friend of the woman he’d “rescued.” Eventually he became quite well-known in New York. He then started networking, contacting Don in San Diego, and going out for a visit. Don had made some interesting friends in the law enforcement community, including the new Chief of San Diego PD, Midnight Chevalier. He’d gotten an opportunity to meet the chief herself as well as her husband. He’d also met members of her team and they’d even discussed his new career change. Many of them had agreed that it was getting harder to be in law enforcement these days. By the time he’d gotten back to New York, he felt like things were looking up.
****
Six months after signing their contract, Cassie and the rest of Fast Lane were in the studio working on backing tracks for their album. They were all surprised when the door was thrown open, and even more so when they looked up to see BJ Sparks standing in the doorway. He was looking straight at Cassie. She looked back at him, unwilling to lower her eyes, even though she was instantly nervous that the man himself had seen fit to check on them personally.
There had been a lot of talk about BJ Sparks. Fast Lane had heard a lot of it since being signed to the Badlands label. BJ Sparks was tough, and if you didn’t pass muster, he was more than happy to toss you out on your ear. He was considered a musical genius, always having his finger on the pulse of the music industry. He always seemed to know when the climate was changing, and adapted his musical style and that of the artists on his label accordingly. BJ Sparks was always one step ahead of the competition. It meant being brutal at times, and BJ didn’t have a problem being the bad guy. They didn’t call him the baddest bad boy in rock and roll for nothing. He was without tact when he chose to be. He could pick a person apart with mere words, or even a look. It was a talent, and he’d honed it to a fine art.
“You,” Brenden said, still looking directly at Cassie.
He gestured with his head to the door behind him that he held open.
Cassie glanced at Tom, unsure what to do. Tom started to unstrap his guitar, his intent to go with Cassie clear.
“Just you,” Brenden commanded, his eyes still on Cassie, even though they’d flicked to Tom for a moment.
Cassie nodded, sensing Tom’s tension instantly. She knew he was worried about what BJ Sparks would say to her. Tom really was the head of the band, but it was obvious that BJ didn’t want to talk to him. Cassie put down her headset carefully and walked toward the door. BJ stood back, letting her walk past him. He then closed the door and started walking down the hall. Cassie followed feeling a sense of dread.
She followed him out to the parking garage. He walked directly over to a black Escalade. “Get in,” he said, his tone still commanding.
Cassie did as she was told, not even thinking to refuse. He was the boss after all, he held her future in his hands. BJ got in on the driver’s side. He put the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over with a satisfying rumble. Reaching into his leather bomber jacket he withdrew a CD jewel case. He took an unmarked CD out of it and pushed it into the CD player. He proceeded to put the vehicle into gear and drive toward the exit, nodding to the guard on his way by.
Music filled the vehicle, and to Cassie’s surprise it sounded like Fast Lane’s music. Sounded like it, but with way more polish than she was used to hearing. Was this another band? Did he think they’d ripped someone off? Holy shit! she thought. How do we prove that?
She had just started to say something to him, trying to defend the band, when she heard her own voice singing. She knew her own voice, she’d heard it often enough on the playback in the studio. Oh my God! was all she could think. This is us! She was inordinately pleased; it sounded so good, she couldn’t believe what a little mixing on a sound board could do. Wow!
Then she started to worry. What if BJ Sparks didn’t think it sounded good? What if he thought they sounded juvenile, or too dark and angry, or … she had no idea what he thought. She glanced at his profile as he drove. His face gave nothing away. What did he think? She listened to the entire song in silence. When it ended he pushed the pause button on the CD player.
“So, what do you think?” he asked her.
Cassie stared back at him, not sure how to answer that. “I,” she stammered, “I think it sounds good.”
BJ nodded slowly, his look considering. “You think that’s the best you’ve got?”
Cassie hesitated again. Shit, how was she supposed to answer this? Yeah it was the best she had, at least right now, until she learned more. Shit, shit, shit! Finally, she decided to be honest, praying she wasn’t making a big mistake.
“Yeah, I think it’s the best I’ve got,” she said, her voice clear and calm.
BJ looked over at her, his light blue-green eyes assessing her. Finally, a slow grin curled his lips as he inclined his head.
“Good, I’d hate to think I was getting second best,” he said, his tone warmer.
Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t seem to hate it.
There was a long moment of silence, one that stretched to the point of making her say, “Mr. Sparks?”
He glanced over at her, grinning. “Sorry, my mind is running elsewhere right now,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, here’s the thing, I’m putting together a tour of some of the bands on the label, and I need a good opening band.”
He paused for a moment, checking to see her reaction, and noting her surprise.
“A tour?” she asked, her tone reflecting her shock.
“You don’t like touring?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said making a face. “I’ve never done it. But we haven’t even finished our album yet,” she pointed out.
“True,” he said, “but you’re slated to finish within the next month and the tour isn’t for three months.”
Cassie nodded, her mind still reeling with the possibilities. She glanced over at him then.
“You have that much confidence in us?” she asked.
Brenden looked over at her, a slow grin spreading over his face. She certainly didn’t take things and run with them, did she?
“Ever hear of looking a gift horse in the mouth, love?” he asked her succinctly.
She opened her mouth in shock, then realized that was exactly how her question had sounded.
“No, no, sir,” she stammered, thinking Oh shit what did I just do?! “I just thought,” she began again after taking a slow deep breath, “well, I thought you’d want to hear all of our stuff first.”
Brenden nodded, looking sedate. “Are you telling me the rest of your stuff isn’t this good?” he asked, gesturing toward the CD player.
“No!” she exclaimed, then grimaced at her outburst. “I mean, no,” she began again calmly, “I’m not telli
ng you that, sir, I just …” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head.
This was not going well at all. She was probably blowing their chance at a tour, and possibly blowing their whole contract with her own lack of self-confidence.
Brenden pulled into the parking lot of an office building, put the Escalade in park, and turned off the engine. He turned to her.
“Look, Cassie, just trust me on this one for a few minutes, okay?” he said, his smile indulgent to her questioning him. “The thing I need to know is can you sing like that,” he pointed to the CD player again, “when you’re not in the studio?”
“Yes,” she answered immediately, “I’ve been singing like that in the bars for months now.”
Brenden lowered his head, grinning. She had no idea how naive she sounded, he was sure of it. Bands had been singing their guts out in bars for years and never gotten a record deal. In two short months Cassie Roads had landed her band a deal. It was nothing short of a miracle, and she didn’t even seem to know it. Lifting his head, he looked her straight in the eye.
“Prove it,” he said simply, his look a direct challenge.
Cassie looked back at him for a long moment, surprised by the challenge in his voice and the look in his eyes. As Brenden watched, however, he saw her gather herself together. She looked down, took a slow deep breath, and began singing the more difficult part of the song he’d just played. The part of the song required her to hold a note, raising it by two octaves, then lowering it again to even out. She hit the note in perfect pitch, raised it, and lowered then continued until the end of the bridge.
By the time she finished he was nodded in total approval.
“You win that round,” he said, grinning. “So, do you want the tour?”
“I can’t speak for the band,” she started to say.
“You’re their leader,” he said.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “Tommy’s really the leader.”
In the Fast Lane Page 2