by Cari Quinn
You own me just as much.
She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t, because if she allowed herself to, she would end up spilling everything about those photos. She’d ask about the redhead, and tell him that they’d have to cool it until her divorce was final. Not really cool it, of course, because she didn’t think she could last another week without feeling his hands on her—
“Lila?”
She inhaled. Work. Right. She had a purpose to fulfill, and it wasn’t to dwell on her sudden need to make up for a lifetime of sexual deprivation.
“She wants to front a band. If I can’t present one to her that meets her standards pronto, she’s going to walk, and Tolino was circling pretty hard after the show.”
“Make it happen,” Donovan said again. “Do you need me to scout for you?”
“No, of course not. I said I could do it, and I will.” Without glancing away from Donovan’s icy blue eyes on her laptop screen, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Michael had stopped playing his ski racing game. She’d bought the console and games for him months ago, hoping he might stay over for a night or two like he had in the old days.
The circumstances sucked, but at least they’d gotten to talk this weekend around the landmines of drama. Last night, they’d dropped into bed after sharing some fun family stories and laughing late into the evening.
Separate beds, thank you very much, Crandall.
They’d cleared the air about the pictures, and Michael had promised to ensure his friend destroyed the data. He’d also vowed to be a little wiser in picking his associates in the future.
But she had another favor to ask him, and it wouldn’t keep much longer. She’d put it off until the last possible moment. Once Donovan disconnected from their Skype call, all pretense of a happy reunion would be off the table.
“I’ve heard rumors that Luc Moreau from The Grunge might be replaced. You could try putting some feelers out in that direction.”
“What?” Lila stopped plotting world domination—or at least her corner of it—long enough to concentrate on Donovan. “What kind of band replaces their lead singer?”
Whereas the members of Oblivion would fight to the death to hold onto theirs. Loyalty was forged in the narrowest spaces.
“One that wants to succeed and unites to kick him out.” Donovan tapped his steepled fingers together. “Luc’s become a problem. He’s getting too much media attention for all the wrong reasons. He’s a hothead. Hotheads always get their comeuppance eventually.”
She gave her boss a thin smile. She was no dummy. Donovan was also jabbing at Nick. She’d heard him called that by people who didn’t understand him once too often recently. Not that he wasn’t one. Oh, there was no doubt there. The way he’d stampeded into her apartment after finding Michael at the door proved the charge. She just wasn’t about to tolerate hearing it.
“Depends on the reason they’re running hot, don’t you think?” she asked, her face betraying nothing. She knew her mask was effective, because she’d been wearing it for years.
“There’s always a reason for bad behavior. Rarely an excuse.” Donovan shuffled papers on his desk. He kept an office in London, as he traveled there regularly and still had many friends and contacts from his days in the music scene. “I can get you the contact numbers for The Grunge, if that’s an avenue you’d like to pursue.”
“I saw their show at the Starlight. They’re extremely talented. I’m just not certain they’re the best fit for Molly’s voice.” Nor was she sure her plan B would be any better, but rocks and hard places didn’t leave a lot of room for negotiating.
She slid her gaze to Michael, who was listening to her end of the conversation and pretending not to. He’d asked an awful lot of questions about Ripper Records this weekend.
They were both doing their share of scoping. If their common interest would end up being mutually beneficial remained to be seen.
“I recognize that tone, Lila. You have a band in mind. One that I know?”
“Nothing definite yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do a bit more reconnaissance. Have a successful call with Mr. Carson tomorrow. If you need me to join, just let me know.”
As always when it came to Blake Carson, Donovan’s jaw locked. There was a story there, though she doubted she’d ever get to hear what it was. Donovan made a combination lock look like child’s play. The safe of his secrets was locked down tight.
He nodded. “I should be able to handle it, but thank you.”
“Safe trip back,” she said with a smile.
All the while she chanted to herself: Stay away longer. Stay away longer.
As much as she liked Donovan and enjoyed working with him under normal circumstances, at the moment she would appreciate the freedom to just do her thing.
Right now, her thing included sliding away from the dining room table to eye her stepson, who’d begun skiing down a twisty hill fast enough to mow down a line of trees. He was practically horizontal on the couch, his long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him. Today he wore a Halo T-shirt and his wrist was loaded with an array of bracelets. Black cord, chunky silver, braided leather. His hair was spiked high on top, making him look just like a rock star. All he needed was a little eyeliner and a smirk and the girls would line up around the block.
Whether or not she was ready to see the boy she’d helped bring up collecting panties as trophies was another point altogether, but first things first.
“Mike, can you turn off the game for a few?”
He moved far too quickly for someone who’d purportedly been relaxed. A moment later, the TV and game console were both off and he was pulling out a chair at the table. “What’s up?”
“You heard me talking to Donovan Lewis. My boss at Ripper Records,” she said as he nodded.
“Yeah. Dad’s mentioned him a few times. Says he pisses music.”
Lila lifted a brow. “You mean music’s in his blood?”
“No. Dad says pisses, because he likes to mark every bush he passes.”
“Sounds like Martin,” Lila said drily. “Anyway, we have a new artist we want to sign. You’re familiar with Oblivion.”
“Your boy toy’s band? Yeah.”
She only let that one go because she saw the twist of his lips. He was teasing her, and she’d allow the taunt from him when she wouldn’t from anyone else. “Molly is Jazz Edwards’ little sister. Jazz is Oblivion’s drummer.”
“Oh yeah. Hot as hell little thing. She looks like she’d be a wild—” He caught Lila’s stare and cleared his throat. “Right. I know who Jazz is.”
Figures Michael had a crush on Jazz too. Who didn’t? She’d been Nick’s lover as well. If Jazz hadn’t been in love with Gray practically since birth, Lila probably wouldn’t have even been in Nick’s sights.
And wasn’t that a pointless and depressing thought.
“Molly will only sign with Ripper if we get her a gig. She wants to be part of a band, and apparently she thinks it’s our job to find one on the verge of stardom and bring it to her doorstep, signed, sealed and delivered.”
“She’s worth it.” His confidence surprised and shook her a little, if she was honest.
Michael had grown up in the lap of the music business. His father had helped start Prime Music, one of the largest labels in the biz. He’d ended up selling his stake years later for mondo bucks and moved on to work in development at yet another label, behind the scenes where he had little contact with artists.
So complete was his divide from the production end of things that he hadn’t even blinked when Lila had sought his blessing a few years ago to work at Ripper Records. He didn’t care what she did, because it likely wouldn’t matter much. He’d called her bands her “little acts” once, practically patting her head, and she’d smiled through gritted teeth and pretended she didn’t want to fillet him with her steak knife.
“I saw the vids of the show last week, when Kagan lost his shit—again—and Molly stepped i
n. She’s gorgeous and damn, what a set of pipes. How old is she?”
“Young,” Lila said sharply, making him hide his grin behind his hand. “So keep your prurient fantasies to yourself.”
“Nah, c’mon. You know I’m saving myself for you.”
She rolled her eyes at the old running gag between them. He’d been saying the same thing since he’d had half a chin of straggly hair. “Tell me more about your band.”
“From Molly to my band, huh?” His eyebrow winged up, and for the first time she noticed the little spike through it. Good Lord, he’d turned all grungy rock star on her when she wasn’t looking. A fact only driven home when he looped an arm around the back of his chair and leaned back, revealing the spikes also on his belt.
As his stepmother, she was a little freaked out by the transformation. As a woman on the hunt for new talent, she was on the verge of pouncing.
“Our name is Warning Sign,” he said after a moment when it became obvious she wasn’t going to reply. “We’ve had a few shows around town, but we’re still in a building phase.”
Normally she had a pencil she could flip through her fingers while she listened to the spiel. It unnerved her how uneasy she felt without her prop. Or maybe this interview was cutting just a little too close to home. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, mainly because there’s only the three of us.”
“Worked for Nirvana,” she pointed out, to which he gave a quick, pleased nod.
“Yeah. If we had a Kurt Cobain, we’d be golden. I have the strings, but I’m not a singer.”
Gee, whom had she heard that from before? “You know Nick’s a guitarist too.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You don’t think he’s good?”
“He’s a fucking legend, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the prick.”
She had to laugh. “No, you do not. Who else is in your band?”
“West is on the piano and he writes most of our music with Ryan, who basically can play anything. He plays drums, bass, occasionally rhythm guitar. Shit, he even has a pair of bongos and a harmonica. Whatever you need, he’s your man. Me, I’m lead guitar and I do a lot of our lyrics.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She wanted to take notes. Normally she would be, but she wanted to keep this informal as long as possible—until it wasn’t.
But right now, she’d lighten the mood. “That jerk Jerzee isn’t a member, right?”
“God, no. I told him he was never sitting in with us again. That ended when he tried to shake you and Donovan down for cash.”
She went very still. “What do you mean Donovan too?”
Again, he cleared his throat. “Ah, I didn’t mention that before, did I? Turns out he sent the pictures to you and Donovan. Yours didn’t have a request for money. He just wanted to scare you a little. Donovan’s set contained a note, saying there were more incriminating photos where those came from and he wouldn’t hesitate to sell them to the paps. He tried to act like he had some pictures of your boss too. What kind of photos could he have of Donovan?” Michael shook his head. “Guy makes no sense. He’s been watching a few too many spy thrillers.”
So much for her wondering how Donovan had been so all-knowing. He knew, because he’d gotten a mail delivery of his own. Fabulous.
She officially couldn’t sit there and dwell on any of this a moment longer.
Rising, she flattened her hands on the table. “How do you feel about taking me to meet the band?”
“My band? Now?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Look, don’t do me any favors, okay, L? I don’t deserve them. After that jackass stunt I pulled, and how out of it hand it became, I should be doing something for you.”
“Oh, you’re going to. I have,” she glanced at her slim bangle watch, “until the end of the day today to secure a band for Molly to join. It needs to be killer, and she has to be impressed beyond measure. If she is, I’ll give her and that band a contract. Today.” She pursed her lips. “Is your band worth a contract, Michael?”
His jaw dropped before he jumped to his feet. “You bet your ass it is. Let’s go.”
A little over an hour later, they walked into a converted warehouse on the outskirts of LA. Converted was a loose term, because there were exposed beams and wires, along with piles of sheetrock and tools propped against the walls as if the transition was still taking place. The neighborhood was not the best.
Lila stepped over a board with a bunch of nails sticking out and rued her choice of business suit and icepick heels. But family or not, she had to play the part. Michael’s band members didn’t know her from Adam, and she was representing Ripper Records.
Not to mention this was important business, and that required a suit, her iPad and an appropriately stern expression lest her stepson think she was granting him special favors.
Or worse yet, that he would be granting her one by signing with her company.
Still, she couldn’t help commenting on Michael’s rehearsal space. “I’m assuming your father doesn’t know about this building. He wouldn’t be happy with your choice of venue.”
“Fuck him. He doesn’t run my life anymore.”
She blinked. Okay, then. Another fan of Martin Shawcross, present and accounted for.
She followed him into another area that was tricked out for serious music-making with Oriental rugs on the floor to cover up the trails of wires, ornate wall hangings depicting artists from Morrison to Marley to Hendrix—and, curiously, Big Bird—as well an an impressive set-up of equipment. This spread rivaled one of Ripper’s smaller recording rooms, and that was really saying something.
“Holy shit. I think I just came.”
Lila narrowed her eyes on the mouthy guy with long dirty blond hair behind the keyboard. He’d managed to speak without removing the charcoal pencil clamped between his teeth.
“Ignore him,” Michael muttered, but she was already on the move.
She marched over to Michael’s keyboardist and stuck out her hand. “Lila Shawcross, representing Ripper Records. And you are?”
“Oh shit. Shawcross. This is the MILF?”
“Technically no, because I am no one’s biological mother. Change that to BILF and you’d be closer to the truth.” She smiled thinly. “Businesswoman, if you please.”
“I’m sorry. Total wrong foot here. I swear I’m only an asshole a third of the time.” He took the pencil out of his mouth and stuck out his hand. “West Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Same here. As long as you don’t enjoy it too much, we should be good.”
He grinned. “My boy Mike’s told me lots about you. I’ll admit to being jealous he had a hot, young stepmother—” He cleared his throat. “He didn’t say you were that hot, I swear. I probably mentally exaggerated, but whoa, you delivered.”
“So now your way of making it up to me is by inferring Michael said I wasn’t attractive?” She sighed. “You’d be surprised how much experience I have with young males who use guitars for penile substitutes. I also have plenty of experience with men who run their mouths in the hopes of keeping everyone else off-guard. Would you like to know my record with those kinds of men?”
“You chew them up and eat them for breakfast?”
“Accurate.” She glanced toward the other guy, who was stationed behind a drum kit with his ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. Upon noticing her inspection, he rose and held out a hand. She moved forward to clasp it. “And you would be?”
Michael strode forward, his long legs eating up the ground. “Lila Shawcross, this is Ryan Waters. Ryan, Lila. And don’t call her a MILF or BILF or anything else.”
“Mrs. Shawcross, so nice to meet you.” His shrewd eyes raked over her face before he turned toward her stepson. “Michael has said lovely things.”
“Lovely things from this country, discussions of my MILF status from that one.” She lifted a brow and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Sounds like my reputation precedes me. As does yours. Warning
Sign, is that correct?” She moved toward the closest amp. A crudely drawn—but eye-catching—logo for the band had been plastered to the side. “Nice logo.”
“Ryan did it,” West said. “He’s our PR guy.”
“I don’t just do PR. But yeah, I’m smart enough not to piss off the first record company rep who’s bothered to speak to us.” Ryan flipped a drum stick out of his hand and West caught it above his head, grinning.
“Piss her off? Come on now. She likes me. She thinks I’m charming.”
“Charming is a stretch.” Lila walked over to the open composition journal on the small table beside West’s keyboards. “You write?”
“I do. Lyrics mostly, with that guy.” West nodded toward Michael. “Ryan handles melodies and arranges. That song right there is our newest one.” He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Charcoal was smeared around his upper lip, but at least he’d finally let go of the pencil. “We can, ah, play it for you, if you’d like.”
She scanned the scrawled lyrics. The song was named “Killer”, but luckily seemed to refer to a relationship that was like no other, rather an actual murderer. The lyrics needed some work, but they were good. Really good.
“I would, very much.” She glanced at Michael. “Where’s Jimi?”
He grinned and loped over to a rack along the back wall that held another assortment of instruments. He took down the deep pink electric guitar she’d given him as a teenager, much to his shock and consternation. She could still remember his question.
“Aw, man, would Jimi Hendrix ever play something like this?”
Then he’d tested the sound of the vintage Takamine and boom, he’d been sold. Ever since, he’d called the guitar Jimi and fallen back on it in spite of all the others he’d collected over the years.
He pulled the strap over his head, glanced toward Ryan, then West, and something unspoken passed between them. A spark of energy and a wealth of knowledge born from years of being friends. She didn’t know how long they’d known each other—though she’d know everything but their shoe size and astrological sign soon—but that look spoke of years of friendship and shared experiences.