My jaw dropped, not because her offer was shocking. My stepfather was a big Hollywood producer. I had seen plenty of women proposition him. Seasoned and aspiring actresses, some barely legal, came onto him everywhere he went hoping he would cast them in one of his films. No, my reaction was one of dismay. Being this close to my idol and having things unfold like this was a far cry from my fantasies.
“I’ll pass.” Ashland pried her fingers loose and lifted his chin. “Go on back and do whatever you please without me.” Silky strands of platinum brushed the collar of his shirt as he turned away from her. His eyes sweeping right over me without interest or acknowledgment, he strode smoothly toward the portable riser that would be pulled onto the middle of the stage later tonight when the Dirt Dogs performed. He withdrew a pair of sticks from his back pocket and skirted around the drum kit that sported the band’s name and the iconic bulldog surfboard logo before he lowered his significant frame onto the stool behind it.
Don’t just stand there like a dork, Fanny. My heart rate quickened. Introduce yourself. Get a picture with him at least. My sister would never let me hear the end of it if I passed over a golden opportunity to meet my idol.
“Uh-um.” I cleared my throat and shuffled closer. He lifted his gaze, his fingers stilling on the cymbal fastener he had been tightening. Piercing blue eyes met mine. Pinned in place, I was unable to move. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. The solid floorboards seemed to go fluid beneath me. I was drowning in pools of aquamarine. They weren’t the lighter shade of Lincoln Savage’s, his adopted cousin and the lead singer of the Dirt Dogs. They were a deeper, more complex hue that spoke of the ocean. Not the distant view I could see out the windows of my bedroom, but the ocean in those professional surfing photos where it all seemed alive; the overspray a smoky exhalation, the currents’ eddies swirling thought and the waves’ cosmic forces of turbulent emotion.
I swayed, buffeted by the force of his gaze knowing that my little fantasies had been one dimensional nothings. There were layers of complexity in the 3D Ashland Keys. His eyes alone could tie me up for hours. “I’m…uh…” I found it difficult to harness my thoughts. The words stuck to my tongue as he focused intensely on me. No longer dismissive, he slipped his gaze over my body in a slow approving way that stripped me of more than just my halter top and cutoff shorts. “I’m Fanny,” I managed though I sounded like I had just sprinted up three flights of stairs. “Fanny Bay.” I left off the Lesowski. I wasn’t proud of that association.
“‘Tomorrow Today’.” His intensity receding, his sculpted and-oh-so-kissable lips curved up on one side. He knew me. Well, he knew my song. Of course he did. We were nominated in the same category though my little acoustic tune wasn’t near the equal of his chart-topping hit. “You’re on before us.” He laid his sticks on the top of his snare and stood. I lost his eyes for a moment, my gaze drifting away from them and the defined strength of his handsome face, to take in his massive shoulders, his tapered waist, his narrow hips and the untucked hem of his shirt.
“Yes, that’s my song.” My breath hitched as he and all his alluring male perfection approached. “And yes, I’m on before you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Fanny.” He stopped in front of me and my heart nearly did, too, hearing my name flow from his lips. He had such an amazing voice. Soft. Low. Seductive. “‘Tomorrow Today’ is a fantastic song and your guitar picking on it is perfection.”
“Thank you.” Heat rose to my cheeks as I lifted my gaze and found myself ensnared by the fathomless blue depths of his eyes again.
“I saw your acceptance speech at the Golden Globes.” His voice rumbled compellingly lower. “I’m sorry about your mother. I know it’s incredibly hard losing someone you love so unexpectedly.”
I swallowed and nodded. Most people didn’t know what to say and shied away from offering sympathy. Obviously he wasn’t one of those. In fact, he was so confident, his commanding presence such an arrestive force, I got the impression he didn’t shy away from much. “I’m sorry about Dominic.” He and his band had recently lost one of their founding members. Dominic Campo, the original bassist, departed the band to join the military and had died tragically while overseas. The Dirt Dogs’ song and my own were both Oscar nominated tributes to loss. Mine had been featured on a character driven film with a redemptive theme and theirs on a blockbuster WWII action film with a much more somber tone.
“So am I. So the hell am I.” His eyes swam in sudden emotion that mirrored my own. “Well, I better get back to it.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, his shirt sleeve bunching up at his elbow to reveal more of his muscular forearm and tanned skin.
“Oh. Yes.” Duh. I was holding him up. “Could I get a picture with you first? Just a quick one. Otherwise my sister won’t believe me if I tell her I met you.”
“Sure.” The heaviness leaving his eyes, the right corner of his mouth tilted his amusement again. “How about a selfie?” He didn’t pause for me to answer, which was a good thing because when his lips tilted my mind whirled. “C’mon.” He reached for me. “Come and stand right here beside me.” My breath left my lungs in a whoosh when I felt him curl his long, slender, talented fingers around my bared shoulder. Skin to skin, an ember of heat at the point of contact ignited a deeper fire inside of me as he drew me into his rock-hard side. Being held by the living breathing man I had idolized from afar for so many years was surreal. “Don’t be shy, little rose…” His amusement brightened his voice. I didn’t have to glance up at him to know that his half-smile had blown up into a full grin. I realized I was too obvious in my adoration. He knew I was flustered, and he was enjoying teasing me.
“Alright.” Ignoring my skyrocketing pulse and the electrical shivers racing over my skin from his touch, I slid my cell from the pocket of my shorts and took a quick shot knowing he was going to look cover model great in it while I was just going to look like a wide eyed lunatic.
“I love you.” The heat already on my cheeks became searing flames. What the hell, Fanny? Could you humiliate yourself any worse? “I mean I love your music. It got me through a lot of rough times.” I blew out a breath, ducked my chin to my chest and tried again. “What I’m trying to say, but utterly failing at, is that I’m a big fan of the band.”
“Hey, no worries. I get it. You should have seen how tongue tied I got when I met Dave Grohl the first time.” He repositioned so he was directly in front of me again. My eyes still downcast, I noticed that even his suede Chukka boots were sexy. “Look at me, Fanny.” Not a request, a command spoken in a deepened tone I found impossible to resist. I lifted my gaze. “No reason to be nervous. I’m just a guy who plays drums. And it’s cool that you like our music. It’s flattering in fact.” I discovered that his expression matched the sincerity of his words though his eyes continued to sparkle his amusement. “It’s a total rush to be appreciated by an artist of your caliber.”
“I’m not an artist.” One of his platinum brows lifted in surprise. “Not like you anyway. Not that I aspire to be. I love music, don’t get me wrong. When I create for myself my music gives me a space to belong. It’s just not what I want to do for a living. Being in front of an audience. On stage by myself. Touring alone with a bunch of strangers. It takes the joy out of it all. You know?” Both of his brows were raised, and his ocean blue eyes didn’t just sparkle now they shimmered like the water at midday. Probably because I was blathering. But I couldn’t help myself, being this close to him. He was so incredibly good looking he made my thoughts mushy. And he smelled divine beneath his top note of too many shots of tequila. Like the ocean where it meets the shore. Like a summer breeze. Like freshly peeled citrus. No, like a gentle wind moving over a grove of oranges beside the sea on the most perfect summer day you could ever imagine.
“Actually, I know exactly what you mean. I’ve been doing a lot of reevaluating lately.” He cocked his head to the side and studied me again with that unwavering intensity. And now I saw something behind those eyes, somethi
ng significant, a tangle of some sort that needed unraveling. “I’m at a crossroads myself.” The air seemed to crackle or at least it had for me since the moment our gazes had connected. “But I’m curious. Fanny. You’re very good at what you do or you wouldn’t be here. So what would you do if you didn’t sing?” Eyes on mine, his expression hesitant, he slowly reached for and gently brushed aside a ruby curl that had escaped the elegant twist the stylist had fashioned to complement my designer gown.
“I’d make perfume.” My words spilled out in a rush as he tucked my curl behind my ear and his roughened fingertips skimmed my smooth skin. A shiver rolled through me.
“What?” His gaze had dropped to my mouth. He seemed to have forgotten his question.
“I like combining fragrances with essential oils.” His gaze lifted, his shock at my answer clearing the brief confusion that had momentarily darkened it. It was an unusual pursuit. I was accustomed to looks like his whenever I mentioned my hobby, so I explained. “There are many holistic benefits in oils and scents. So it’s more than just a cosmetic thing to me. I’m only an amateur, but if I had some formal training, like an apprenticeship, and took a couple of business courses I might be able to make a vocation out of it.”
“I can see it’s your passion. You’re lit up like a firecracker just talking about it. You should do it, little rose. We both know life’s too unpredictable to continue doing something that doesn’t make us happy.” He was right of course, and his certainty made me want to find the courage to stand up to my stepfather.
“Fanny!” The fine hairs on my nape stood on end. Thinking of him, unfortunately, had conjured him up. I sighed. I could feel the dark cloud of his disapproval rolling toward me. I backed away from Ashland. I didn’t want the inevitable shit storm that accompanied Samuel Lesowski raining reproach on the drummer, too. I turned and braced, as the director most people knew by name and loved—he had an accomplished PR department—came closer, his long jerky strides devouring the space between us, his harsh brows sharply drawn together.
Shit, I thought. What the hell had I done to piss him off this time?
“Your preshow interview with Entertainment Weekly was scheduled to start twenty minutes ago.” He stopped in front of me, not a single strand of his perfectly styled jet-black hair out of place. Only his hairdresser, my sister and I knew he had started to color it to cover the grey that had crept in at the temples. “The cameras are already set up and everyone’s waiting for you in your dressing room.” He gave Ashland a disdainful glance that would have withered a lesser man before he returned his displeasure to me. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”
Yes, I had, that part at least. “I’m sorry,” I apologized readily. I knew from experience that he didn’t tolerate excuses.
“Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it, Fanny.” He snorted. “It’s not as if you don’t have a history of being irresponsible and a penchant for finding trouble.” He gave the man he no doubt considered to be my most recent example of both a condescending glare down the length of his nose.
“Father,” I acknowledged the relationship though it grated, considering our dislike for one another. “I get that I’m late. I’ll apologize to everyone when I get there in just a minute.”
“Not in a minute, Fanny. Now.”
“I just want…”
“What you want is immaterial. You’re young and impetuous, though you’re old enough to know to steer clear of someone with a reputation like this one.”
“You’re one to talk,” I fired back, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Now just a minute…”
“Exactly. Give me the moment I’m asking for—or I won’t do that thing with Coppola.” He had been trying to arrange a meeting for me with the one Hollywood producer that was a bigger deal than he was for months. When my stepfather wanted something from me, he would most times give me something in return. There was no love between us, but I knew he understood the value of negotiation.
“As you wish.” He nodded. “But hear me well. Don’t squander the success you’ve achieved, Fanny, my dear.” He came closer. His breath blew hot on my face as he grabbed my arm. “We both know your track record of flitting from one interest to another. Your current popularity won’t last if you don’t nurture it.” His fingers dug a deep trench into the sensitive flesh of my upper arm.
“I’ll talk to him.” I winced. My voice was as tight as his grip. “But I’m not signing anything tonight.” Not ever if I could help it. I wanted out of the business. I didn’t want to be more firmly entrenched in it. I lifted my chin. I had pretty much stopped defying him since my mother’s death. Grief had stolen a lot of the fight from me. I was always so tired. I found it took less energy to give in.
“Let me remind you, daughter of the roof you have over your head. Of the food you eat. Your clothing. Your transportation. It’s all because of me and my influence. Even the Oscar nomination wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t included your song in the acclaimed film that I directed. If it weren’t for me, you and your mother would still be combing through trashcans in that godforsaken little fishing town on Vancouver Island.”
“Now you wait just a minute,” Ashland said. “You’re out of line.” He was still standing to the side of us. I had forgotten him as impossible as that seemed to believe. “And you need to let go of her.” My stepfather turned his head. The two men took each other’s measure.
“Keys, isn’t it?” My stepfather’s expression darkened. “Samuel Lesowski. I’ll thank you to stay out of my business. It’s no concern of yours.” He paused like he usually did after dropping his name waiting for the listener’s inevitable acknowledgement.
Only he didn’t get it this time.
“I couldn’t disagree more.” Ashland’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got zero tolerance for bullies. Let her go.” His voice dropped to a menacingly level. “Now. You’re hurting her.”
“She’s my daughter. You have no right to interfere in a family matter. And I don’t think you quite understand with whom you’re dealing. If you value your paltry career at all or that of your inconsequential bandmates, you’ll turn around right now, go back to whatever you were doing and stay the hell out of my way.”
The drummer’s sharp jaw honed to an unyielding edge. He wasn’t going to back down. Samuel seemed to have struck a nerve with him in some kind of personal way. I felt my body grow cold. It was going to be up to me to make him go away. My stepfather didn’t make idle threats. He had risen to the heights he had not only because of his talent, but also because people in the business had learned not to cross him.
“I’m ok.” My eyes were overly bright, my tone tinny. “I don’t need protecting.”
“Bullshit,” Ashland spat, and he was right. I did need a protector. But it was up to me to champion my own cause after all. It was just a matter of give and take when it came to appeasing my stepfather. And I had been doing far too much giving lately.
“Samuel, let go of my arm so I can have the minute I asked for. I’m sure you don’t want a scene. Tonight of all nights. And we both know there isn’t a lot of time, not if you expect me to complete an interview, attend a meeting and perform my song.”
“Alright. Have your one moment, Fanny.” My stepfather’s eyes flared. They were green like the paper he worshipped. “But don’t linger.” He released my arm abruptly. I shifted to face Ashland, my cheeks flaming. I was more embarrassed having him witness this interchange with my stepfather than I had been by my own ineptitude earlier. I didn’t like to appear weak, though it shouldn’t really have mattered what Ashland thought. What should have mattered was how I had allowed things to deteriorate to such an appallingly state with my stepfather. I needed that to change. And I needed to escape this encounter with Ashland Keys with as much dignity as I could muster. I imagined the rock star would gladly get away from me and my problems the moment I gave him leave.
• • •
Ashland
“Well, your old ma
n’s an asshole.” I gritted out the words, my hands curling into fists. I hadn’t been this upset in years. Granted I had spent most of that time in a fog—totally and completely blitzed out of my mind—instead of only mildly buzzed like I was now. But there was more to it. Some had to do with the crossroads I was at, and the rest was the way this girl somehow personified it. I didn’t know why but she felt like the key to unlocking something important, something just out of reach, maybe something that would always be out of reach. Here I was, a member of one of the biggest, baddest bands in rock ‘n’ roll. I had achieved everything in my career I had set out to achieve, yet none of it really mattered. “You shouldn’t put up with his shit.” I hoped a word or two of advice might help her avoid some of the pitfalls I hadn’t.
“I don’t. You’re right.” Fanny nodded solemnly. Features contemplative, she reminded me of a nymph some artist had sketched in bold autumnal colors. Willowy, almost too thin, she had a recognizable inner strength. I’d seen her draw it out like a sword and wield it against her stepfather. I certainly wouldn’t bet against her. “I want you to know I’m done letting him push me around. Done with a lot of things,” she muttered and licked her lips. My gaze dipped to them. They were full, the bottom one more so than the top, a rich ruby color that reminded me of an expensive cabernet. Moistened, like they were right now, they glistened distractingly. Hell, everything about the fiery redhead was a distraction. One I couldn’t afford right now. I should have left well enough alone and retreated to my dressing room after taking the selfie with her.
It was late. It was time to go put on my tux. Hob nob with the elites. Play my role. I had been to enough Oscars to know what was expected of me. But I didn’t feel like mixing and mingling. I didn’t want to get high with my bandmates. I certainly didn’t want to fuck any more random groupies. I had been there, done that and look where it had gotten me. At the dead end of a road no one wanted to travel.
(Complete Rock Stars, Surf and Second Chances #1-5) Page 57