Rogue Hearts (The Rogue Series Book 4)

by Tamsen Parker

  There’s another beat, and the notes that have been swirling in the back of my mind suddenly edge into a saccharine-sweet progression. I might have to tone it down so people don’t puke because of the ear sugar, but that’s how her little huffed laugh feels to me. Like honey.

  “Yeah, I’m sure we can find something to do with a pile of extra money.”

  I hear some typing, and I hope she’s shooting off an email to the accounts staff telling them it wasn’t an error and what to use the money for. Even though what she called about has been taken care of and she’s probably busy, I don’t want her to go. Not yet. If she’s super slammed, there’s no way she’ll hesitate to tell me she’s got to run—she’s done it before and it didn’t make me feel bad. Made me feel like if she was trying to get something done for her client and someone was trying to flirt with her, she’d have her priorities and stick with them. But, on the off chance she wouldn’t mind sparing a few minutes to chat with me too? That’s a chance I’m willing to take.

  “Cool. So, now that that’s taken care of, what are you doing this weekend? I’m headed home to spend some time with my family.”

  “Me too. Headed to Philly for my baby sister’s sweet sixteen.”

  And the song plays on. I think I’ll be able to finish this one.

  6

  Somehow, even though we’re the two people who made this event happen, I haven’t talked to Jordan for weeks. She has people at her organization who manage fundraisers, and I have people who handle logistics and basically everything about my life, so I guess it isn’t surprising, especially since we’ve been on tour and she’s been in the news. We’ve texted a few times, but one or the other of us is always running off or falling asleep, and we never really get anywhere. Plus, texting doesn’t let me hear her voice.

  Now, though, I’m standing backstage and she’s there. Not within spitting distance or anything, and I wouldn’t want to spit on Jordan, ever, but close. God, she’s close. And she looks amazing. Not in a dress but looking more rock and roll than I do. Black leather pants that hug her thick thighs and her wide hips, and damn. Just, damn. If I were Nick, I’d walk up and ask if she was an astronaut, because her ass is out of this world.

  I’m not Nicky, although he’s standing right next to me and from the look on his face, he’s having the same ideas I am. So I punch him. Hard.

  “Ow!” Nicky’s yelp is loud enough for Zane and Rowan and Teague and Christian to look over at us from what I’ve started thinking of as couples’ corner. It’s not like they shove it in our faces, but over the past six months, it’s definitely become them and us. I like hanging out with Nick and he makes me laugh, but I miss having us all together. And it’s only going to happen less often with everyone starting up their own solo projects.

  Zane’s got a few gigs lined up for his solo act, Christian’s got a small tour scheduled for Narrazio so he’ll be on the road with Dylan and I’m sure Teague will go with them. Teague had been saying he was going to have his own solo thing going on, but he’s gotten really into the business end of things helping Christian and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if he went into producing or being an agent or working for a label as a scout or something. He’s good at that shit.

  Which leaves me and Nick—who is currently looking at me like I ate the last of the Cheetos. Or, you know, punched him really hard.

  “What the hell, man?”

  “Don’t say anything stupid. She’s a lawyer, and she’ll sue your ridiculous ass.”

  “No, she won’t. We’re doing her a favor.”

  “Did you forget that she’s doing me a massive favor? Do you want to tell my mom that you were the reason we got booted from the performance and people asked for refunds for their tickets because they were promised LtG and we weren’t there? Show some respect, dillweed.”

  Nick puts up his hands in a who-me gesture. “I would be showing respect. To Jordan’s incredible ass…ets. Assets. You said she’s a lawyer, right? I bet she has a great 401k or IRA or whatever those things are. I was definitely not checking out her ass. Or her rack. Except that you know what? I totally was. I’m not gonna be some weird creeper and grab her, but that woman knew what she was doing when she put that outfit on. I mean, damn.”

  To be fair to Nick, that’s exactly what I’d been thinking. On the damn part. I don’t know if she intended for those pants to be especially attention-getting or if, hell, that’s just what she looks like in pants, though, so I’ll be cool, and not let Nicky within ten feet of her. Not that he can’t shout something inappropriate as well as he can say it. I wish they weren’t in the same stadium.

  I’m working up the nerve to go say hello—when’s the last time I had to work up the nerve to do anything?—when she turns, and her dark eyes lock on me. Her gaze flicks up and down my body, taking in my jeans and my A Woman’s Place is in the Rebellion tee, all the way up to my glasses and my sick undercut I got the other day at a barbershop in Wicker Park. It’s a struggle not to flex my pecs or pose in a way that would emphasize my biceps. I work damn hard for this body, but I don’t want to be a meathead either. Okay, maybe just a cross of my arms to show off the guns a little. That never hurt anyone.

  Her mouth tightens into a bud, and her chest jumps with a contained laugh. She’s laughing at me, cool. But it’s definitely not in a mean way, since she lays a hand on the arm of the guy she’s been talking to—one of the showrunners, given the headset—and starts toward me, her gaze holding mine as she struts over. Yeah, struts. I’d guess if I even tried to stand up in those shoes I’d end up flat on my face, but she makes them work. Yep. And she is working her way over here.

  I elbow Nicky to let him know to get the fuck out, but he doesn’t move. Seriously, I hope he doesn’t say something insulting or embarrassing, but both of those are distinct possibilities. I love the guy, but his filter is perma-broken. Or maybe he was born without one. As far as I know, he’s always been like this.

  But why the hell am I worrying about Nicky when Jordan is stepping up to me, almost toe-to-toe, and offering me a hand.

  “Hey, Benji. We haven’t met yet, but—”

  I let a smile break across my face because between her voice, how she smells—like almond and aloe—and how her dark raspberry lipstick makes her teeth stand out white, the burnished rosy light brown of her skin, and the perfect halo of dark curly hair around her head, I am done for. Like stick-a-fork-in-me done. I’d let this woman do whatever she wants, like literally walk all over me in those heels and I’ve never thought of myself as a masochist.

  “Hey, Jordan. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  I spread my arms wide and kind of at an angle, because I’m not really a handshake guy. Like, I’ll do it? But hugs are way better.

  She smiles at me, bigger this time, and steps into my arms, her chest pressing against mine, and the volume of her hair kinda getting in my face, but I don’t care as she wraps her arms around me.

  She’s warm and solid and smells even better this close up, with notes of honey and green tea adding to the depth of the almond. And she feels incredible. I’m used to the Hollywood starlets and a lot of the music industry who are thin and hard with muscle or bone, but Jordan’s soft. I didn’t realize it when I saw her, but now my hand is landing on the bare skin of her back and it’s so good I might melt into a puddle. Instead I’ll hold on for dear life and hope she doesn’t realize that I could easily drown in her.

  This is the woman who is so protective and passionate about the families she helps that she was basically willing to blackmail me to get me here. I should be ticked off, but her being so damn mercenary is actually sexy. And the fact that she was ballsy enough to make this happen, and tough enough to go head to head with the US government on the regular… Yeah, I’ve always liked smart, tough girls, but I get the feeling she could level cities with just the smarts in her head, the whip of her tongue, and her sheer strength of will.

  “Hey, guys. I’m standing right here.”


  Shit. Have we really been hugging for that long? It didn’t feel like that long, especially when Jordan pulls away. Yep, my torso feels cold without her pressing against me, and diagonal stripes on my back where her arms had been pressed against me are chilly.

  After we step apart, Jordan knits her fingers together in front of her and I swear her cheeks get pink. I mean, I’m feeling flushed, but it’s hard for me to imagine Jordan being flustered. Much anyway, I suppose she was nervous the first time we talked. But now I feel like we’re old friends and she’s comfortable not taking any shit from me. I hope that will extend to Nick, because if there’s anyone who dishes out a lot of shit that people should just let roll off their backs, it’s Nick.

  “Nick, this is Jordan. Jordan, this is Nicky. Feel free to give him a hard time. The rest of us do.”

  Nick rolls his eyes, spreads his arms wide. “Dude, come on. How am I ever supposed to get anyone to take me seriously when you say shit like that?”

  I give him a look, one of those Oh, yeah? looks, because does he really want people to take him seriously? If he does, maybe he should tone down some of the antics.

  “Fine, fine, whatever. It’s nice to meet you, Jordan. Benji says some really great stuff about you, and whoever’s cool with him is cool with me.”

  They shake hands—don’t hug, I note with some smugness.

  While I’d like to chat with Jordan—and since it’s kinda loud back here, I’d have an excuse to be close enough that I’d be able to smell her—I don’t want to leave Nick to his own devices. Partially because he’s likely to get in trouble if left unsupervised, but also, I know what it’s like to feel left out. He’s not going to go hang out with the other guys and Rowan to be a fifth wheel. And I don’t have any concrete evidence that he’s the third wheel here. I’d kind of like him to be, but that’s a dick move since he’s my friend, right?

  Jordan could just be being friendly. She’s never come out and said she had any interest in me beyond my ability to make this fundraiser happen. I thought maybe she might like me more than being friends, but… I don’t want to be that guy who assumes just because she gave me a lingering hug that it’s any more than gratitude.

  So the three of us talk, mostly about the show and how much money we’ve raised for AHI, Jordan tells us about some of their latest cases and crusades, and soon enough it’s time to go on. That’s what I came here to do, right? Keep my end of the bargain? Definitely not get all starry-eyed over the woman who’s basically blackmailed me.

  7

  I like playing concerts. The energy of the crowds, how in sync I get to be with my friends, the spectacle of it, everything combines to make this incredible harmony that makes my heart sing.

  At the moment, though, my heart is not singing. It’s screaming. Because I’m about to do something I fricking never do. Ever. When we inked the contract to do this show, we included that Zane would get to do a solo song, and Christian and Dylan would get to perform their song “Brand New” as Narrazio, which has been hitting the airwaves. Like the impulsive person I can be, I asked Stan to throw something in there about me performing by myself if I chose to.

  Turns out that song that started writing itself in the back of my head when I first talked to Jordan got dumped out on the page fully formed a few weeks ago and I’ve only shared it with one person: Zane. He’s got the best chops for songwriting out of all of us, and he needs company sometimes. He gets lonely when Rowan’s not around. Anyway, he liked it, we tweaked it a bit, and here I am, keytar slung over my shoulder, and about to walk out in front of tens of thousands of people to sing and play, by myself.

  Christian and Dylan are finishing up, and they get a nice round of applause, taking the excuse for an encore which I’m glad to give them, really, but it also prolongs my agony. I’m not really a sports guy, but I’ve seen Rocky, and right now I could really use a coach giving my shoulders a good pounding and my brain a pep talk. And maybe someone to dump a bucket of water over my head. I don’t know if it would actually help, but it would sure as hell be distracting.

  Finally Dylan and Christian are making their way off stage, Dylan flushed an excited red I remember. It’s a total rush to play in front of a stadium full of people, still, and this was his first time. He’s practically got stars pulsing out of his head for eyes. And Christian looks energized too. Not that he slouches off stage after an LtG show or anything, but he looks genuinely jazzed and that’s cool.

  Now it’s my turn. I grip my keytar so hard it might break in my hands. I can’t imagine that when my parents signed me and Kevin up for piano lessons over twenty years ago that this is what they had in mind. Good thing Kevin likes to go with them to the symphony and talk with them about the beauty of the instruments. If he had any musical gifts whatsoever, he’d probably play something distinguished like the bassoon. He wouldn’t be caught dead with this keytar—which my parents would find ridiculous even though it’s fucking awesome is what it is. Better be, because it’ll be my only defense as I step onstage.

  My feet feel like they’re encased in cement blocks, but I force myself to walk, forward, forward. They’re waiting for me. One woman in particular, is waiting for me. I’d wished that she didn’t go out to the front row seats we’d reserved for her and some of the other AHI staff who helped put this whole thing together. But now all she’ll see is rockstar Benji, not so-nervous-his-palms-are-sweaty Benji and I suppose I should be grateful for that. Right?

  The audience is buzzing, but they quiet some when I walk onto the stage by myself. They’re not used to that. And are probably wondering what the fuck I’m doing. They’re used to me jamming out on my keyboard. Hell, they probably think I don’t even know how to sing, that I get a mic at my set-up for show. That we keep it off or that I just lip sync. Well, I don’t. I’m no Zane or Teague, but I can more than carry a tune. And since this song will be rare, maybe it will be valued for that? I can hope.

  I reach the tape X marking center stage, and I look out at everyone in the stands. Tiny dots of heads and hands, all moving, with the thousands of flashes from people’s cell phone cameras going off. Even though I’ve got my keytar in front of me, I still feel more…vulnerable than I usually do up here. Between the lack of my board in front of me and the rest of my set-up and without the guys around me, I feel naked. And when I look down and see Jordan looking back at me, it’s worse than playing with just my skivvies on. Can’t count how many times I’ve done that. Hell, Nick and I have even played naked much to the other guys’ dismay. Whatever, they’ll never appreciate how much fun it is to jam out with your junk out, that’s all I’m saying.

  Nah, with Jordan looking at me, her head cocked and her hair looking so pretty, and her knowing why I’m really here, well, I feel like it’s not my body that’s naked, but my soul. That is…not something I’m used to. And not something I can think too much about now. I’ve got a job to do.

  I force my gaze away from Jordan and look out at all the people who’ve come here. I know they didn’t all buy tickets to support AHI. A bunch of them are probably here in spite of AHI’s mission and only came to see LtG. Their money is just as good and is going to help as many people, so what the fuck do I care? I can say I’m glad they’re here, no matter why they are.

  “Thank you, Chicago, for coming out tonight!”

  The crowd explodes in cheers and I smile at them, waving.

  “Already Home Immigration is an awesome organization, and I’m really proud that we could be here tonight to raise money for them and their mission of supporting Dreamers and other people who are as much US citizens as you and me, they just lack paperwork.”

  There’s a roar in the crowd, although not as loud as the last one. Clearly, not everyone is happy about that statement. Well, I don’t fucking care. They came to my show and they’re going to listen to me. You want my music? You’re going to get my politics too, and yeah, a bit of me being a flailing fanboy because while most of my heroes have been musicians I now have a fa
vorite immigration lawyer.

  “I’m especially grateful to Jordan Kennedy, who is one of the best immigration lawyers in this country. She and the rest of the AHI staff work tirelessly on behalf of their clients, and thanks to all of you here tonight, they’re going to be able to help a lot more people.”

  More cheers, and a different part of my brain lights up. I’m as self-centered and praise-hungry as anyone else, maybe more so which is why I enjoy being part of LtG so much, but this isn’t the usual, “Yeah, I know I’m pretty great,” pleasure I usually get. This is something else entirely, something selfless and makes me feel bigger than I’ve ever felt.

  “And in order to keep supporting AHI after tonight is over, I’m releasing a single of the song I’m about to play. It’s just me and my keytar and a song I wrote—but don’t worry, Zane vetted it, it’s not bad. Or he’s a really good liar.”

  I clutch the neck of my keytar with one hand and use the other to push my glasses up my nose. I don’t usually have a problem keeping them on my face, but apparently I’m sweating more than usual.

  “Anyway, if you like it, tell your friends to look up Benji Park and get it. Or hell, I don’t care if you like it, I’ll take hate-listening dollars too. Every cent of the proceeds is going to AHI to continue to support their efforts.”

  More cheers, although I’ve only got eyes for a woman who’s standing in front of me. Her eyes are huge and she’s not clapping. I hadn’t told her about this, but I hope it’s okay with her? Can’t exactly hop down and ask her, now can I? Because I’ve got a song to perform. With a goddamn keytar.

  The center of my heart, it’s beating hard.

  And this feeling—it’s catching me off guard.