She shook her head. “I need both hands free, just in case.”
“We have two airport security people with us. Just trust me on this.”
Recognizing that she wasn’t an expert on the current situation, she conceded the point and reached out to grip his hand. At least I’m on the right side.
“Smile for the cameras,” he reminded her, and they stepped off the escalator, into the crowd.
The security officers kept anyone from getting too near, but the core knot of media followed closely as they moved toward the exit to the car service pickup area, some holding out microphones, others holding up cameras. Their shouted questions seemed to jumble into each other, but Nell heard “confront” and “revenge” and “make trouble” — looking for dirt, indeed. Eamonn kept on smiling, walking in silence, until they reached the sliding glass doors beyond which a limousine waited for them.
There, he let go of Nell’s hand and turned to face the crowd, gesturing for silence. The security officers looked surprised — everyone looked surprised — and a hush came over all of them, waiting for him to speak. “I’m here because I owe someone an apology,” Eamonn said, his voice firm and clear. “I hope he accepts it.” More quietly, he added, “Thank you very much,” to the security officers, then wrapped an arm around Nell’s waist and swept her through the doors, away from the rising clamor of requests for more detail, more comments, more. The security officers blocked anyone from following them through the doors, and they handed their bags to the chauffeur and got into the waiting limousine without incident.
“That was unexpected,” Nell blurted out.
Eamonn nodded slowly. “I didn’t exactly plan it. I just — hearing them shout about confrontation and revenge, they were so wrong, and…”
She reached out and laid a reassuring hand on his thigh. “It was good. Honest. Makes me proud of you.”
He blinked away something that could have been a mote in his eye, or moisture. “Well, I don’t know if we’ve got a chance of getting to Blade before some reporter does, but it’s worth a shot. I’m going to ask the driver to find us a Starbucks drive-thru before we hit the freeway, though. Chai latte?”
“Please.”
Even with a stop for coffee, the drive into the Napa Valley didn’t take much over an hour. Glorious blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon, only broken by a few tiny clouds like shreds of cotton candy, and the powerful black car ate up the miles as its occupants sipped from their to-go cups in air-conditioned comfort.
Eamonn wasn’t saying much, mostly playing with his phone or looking out the window, a rather grim expression on his face. Nell could see he didn’t want to be prodded or talked at.
Eventually, the limousine turned off the highway onto a side road, and shortly thereafter turned again down a long driveway, passing under an arch covered with climbing roses to approach a building with creamy stucco walls and terracotta roof tiles. A glossy wooden sign welcomed them to Rancho Rosal Inn.
“Are we staying here?” she asked.
“They’re staying here. Smidge booked the whole place. There’s a good chance I’ll be thrown out on my ass, but I expect they’ll be nice to you.”
The driveway curved up to a u-shaped drop-off area in front of the hotel. Double French doors had Reception etched into frosted glass panes, and a hand-lettered sign taped to the glass read sorry, no rooms available. A few feet to the right, an archway with a wrought-iron gate gave a glimpse of a courtyard and pool. A fit man in a black Smidge crew t-shirt sat on a folding chair just inside the gate — he turned to look at the limousine pulling up but didn't leave his seat.
The vehicle stopped. The driver’s door opened and closed; he’d be coming around to open the door for Eamonn and Nell at any moment. Behind the tinted windows, they looked at each other. He seemed anxious, doubtful.
“You’ve got this,” she said, reaching out to give his thigh a reassuring stroke.
“Kiss me for luck,” he rasped, his voice gone dry. So she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back with desperation, transmitting his tension, then it melted into something sweeter, better. He tasted of coffee.
They broke apart when the driver opened their door. Eamonn gestured for Nell to get out ahead of him. Ladies first, she could imagine him thinking. Or maybe he just wanted to delay the inevitable for a few more seconds.
The man at the gate didn’t seem fazed when Nell emerged from the limo — perhaps it wasn’t unusual for random females to turn up wherever the band was staying — but as soon as he recognized Eamonn behind her, he tensed and his face went professionally blank. “Easy. No one told me you were coming. They expecting you?”
“Hey, Ramón. No, I thought I’d surprise them if I could get here before the gossip reporters did.” Eamonn strolled casually toward the gate, gripping Nell’s hand with a firmness that told her his laid-back body language was faked.
Ramón looked wary. “Maybe you should have called first, find out if they want to see you. Not all surprises are good ones.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble, man. Trust me. This is my girlfriend Nell; would I have brought her with me if I’d wanted to start something?”
“Girlfriend?” Ramón blinked. “That’s… different.” He looked at Nell with new interest and seemed to be softening. “You’re not his usual kind of groupie, baby.”
“Two points.” Nell spoke calmly and firmly, the instructor explaining concepts to a student who’d misunderstood. She didn’t want to antagonize the man, who might be their key to getting inside the hotel — the easy way, at least — but nor was she willing to let anyone talk to her in that insulting tone. “One, I’m not a groupie. I don’t even listen to rock music much. And two, you do not have permission to call me baby. I answer to Nell, Miss Whelan, or ma’am.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Ramón burst out laughing. “I… can’t… even…” he managed to gasp between chuckles. “You’re just so… unexpected.”
“Better get used to it,” Eamonn said with a grin.
“You two planning to be around here much?” Ramón asked, sounding more curious than antagonistic.
“Look, I’m here to apologize to Blade.” Eamonn held out a hand in what was almost a pleading gesture. “My best chance to do that is if you’ll let me in so I can find him and say it face to face. I have no idea what’ll happen afterward.”
“They’ve got a new bass player, you know.” The slightly belligerent edge to Ramón’s voice as he relayed this fact made Nell wonder whether Eamonn had been less than pleasant to him in the past.
“Hard to do without one,” Eamonn shot back, his good intentions apparently souring.
Flipping hell. Nell gave his hand a squeeze, hoping he’d remember that their goal was to get inside, not win a pissing contest with a crew member guarding the gate. “So, Ramón? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Were you specifically told not to let Easy through the gate? I’d understand if you didn’t want to disobey a direct order like that…”
Ramón shook his head. “I’ve been with this crew a good bit of time now. I get told if they’re expecting someone they want to see. Otherwise, they trust me to use my judgment.”
She gave him an encouraging smile. “So, what would it take to get us inside? I promise you, we’re here to make things right, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t know. Your man’s attitude with the crew doesn’t make us want to do favors…” And under his breath he added, “Arrogant ass.”
Nell had lots of experience with students who added things under their breath, thinking the instructor wouldn’t hear or would somehow let it pass. “Oh? I should think arrogance is pretty common among rock stars. Doesn’t it just go with the territory?”
Ramón squirmed a little. “Lots of the time, sure. Smidge, though — Angel always treats us right, one of the few true gentlemen of rock, so it sets our standards high. A
nd Dice has the biggest heart in the world, he’d literally help us do our jobs if we let him. Blade can be prickly when he’s in a mood, it’s true, but he apologizes afterward like a man should, and he’ll party with the crew like we’re brothers.”
“I guess they don’t feel like they have to prove over and over they belong on the stage and not back with the groupies,” Eamonn snapped, then reddened as both Nell and Ramón turned to stare at him. “I didn’t mean—”
“Of course you belong on the fucking stage, man,” Ramón said at once, cutting off whatever Eamonn would have said. “You may be an ass, but you’re a gifted one.” He sighed, an exaggerated concession, and got up to open the gate. “Oh, go on in. Maybe they’ll be glad to see you.”
“Thanks,” Eamonn said. “I almost wish you’d said no, because facing Blade after all that is one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do.”
Ramón gave a dry chuckle and punched Eamonn on the arm in encouragement, perhaps a little harder than necessary, as he passed through the gate.
Right on the pressure point, Nell thought. And they were in.
No one noticed the two visitors at first.
The central courtyard was almost breathtakingly beautiful. Crystal clear water reflected the sky from a sunken central Art Deco swimming pool and matching hot tub tiled in shades of turquoise. Chairs grouped around patio tables invited guests to sit by the pool, and three men sat around one of them, poring over a stack of papers. Climbing roses rambled up the creamy plaster walls; stairs at either end of the courtyard led to the second-floor rooms, where a walkway with a wrought-iron railing wrapped around the courtyard, serving as both a balcony and an outdoor hallway. Here and there people came and went, carrying boxes or instruments or clothing — Rancho Rosal was a luxury boutique hotel, but the crew who’d taken it over were there to work, at least at this hour.
A man emerged from one of the ground-floor rooms with a mixing console in his arms and some cables draped around his shoulders. He almost walked right by Nell and Eamonn, then did a double take and paused. “Easy?”
“Hey, Trick. I’m just here to see the guys, nothing bad, only to talk. Point me in the right direction?”
The man gave Eamonn a doubtful look, but jerked his head toward the stairs, muttering, “Don’t get me involved, dude. I didn’t see you; I want nothing to do with this.”
Nell and Eamonn headed up the stairs in silence. Which room? Some of the doors stood open; others were closed. The swimming pool glinted with sunlight in the courtyard below, and roses twined around the railing bobbled in the mild breeze, everything so peaceful and postcard perfect.
A door at the far end of the walkway opened and a woman came out — a young-looking beauty with a halo of vintage-movie-star curls and a silver ring in her lip, wearing a floaty grey dress that clung to her obviously pregnant belly. She didn’t see them at first, but when she did, she froze, her eyes opening very wide. “Oh, good Lord,” she gasped. Her voice wasn’t loud, but the sound carried clearly. “You… you can’t be here! Oh, this won’t be good…” She turned back toward the room she’d come from, her hands raised as if to stop the inevitable from happening.
“Sweetheart, what—” a deep, raspy voice called from inside the room, then a lean man with spiky dark hair and multiple facial piercings stepped out into the corridor, saw them too, and fell silent.
Not good, Nell thought, recognizing the Smidge guitarist and the absolute burning rage rising in his face, just as Eamonn stepped past her.
He must have thought he’d have a chance to say a few words, to begin his apology, but Blade — it was Blade — lunged forward in fury and landed a hard punch that split Eamonn’s lip and rocked him backward a few staggering steps. Then Blade closed the gap and delivered a few more punches, and Eamonn began almost automatically to defend himself and return blows, so that the pair of them were fighting in earnest, blood splattering messily from Eamonn’s lip.
“Blade! Christopher, please stop!” the pregnant woman called out, wrapping her arms protectively around her belly. She clearly didn’t know what to do and was afraid to approach the fight. “Angel! Dice! Help!”
Smidge’s lead vocalist and drummer dashed out of their rooms, along with an electric-orange-haired woman whose spectacular breasts strained her crew t-shirt and the bib of her overall shorts, and two men who looked like security or bodyguards raced up the far-end stairs from the courtyard.
Well, Eamonn won’t hit me. I can break this up, now that help is here to keep them apart. Nell eyed the fighters, watching for the right moment to slide herself between them. She used her right shoulder and hip to check Eamonn backward, creating space, then chambered her left knee up and planted a firm sidekick into Blade’s abdomen with enough force to send him tumbling onto his backside. She kept her eyes on him just long enough to make sure that the blond vocalist and the pregnant woman were holding his arms and talking him down, then she turned and wrapped her arms around Eamonn to prevent him from doing anything foolish until he too had calmed himself.
Blood from Eamonn’s lip and nose was smeared over his chin and down his shirt, and Nell realized with some annoyance that it had transferred to her shirt as well. “That went well,” she said quietly, for his ears only, drawing a rueful laugh from him.
By this time, the security crew had reached them and were pacing warily around.
“I came to apologize,” Eamonn said, talking over Nell’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on Blade. The genuine ring of sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. “I’m sorry.”
Nell relaxed her arms and turned a bit so she could see what was going on. Blade had gotten to his feet and was clearly still seething. The pregnant woman had her arms around him and was trying to lead him away, but he stood like a rock, his mouth open as though he wanted to say something but was too flooded with feelings to find words.
“Go with Crys, dude,” the blond man said to him. “Let her calm you. We’ll sort this out.” Then he turned to Nell and Eamonn, wry humor in his face. “Maybe a surprise appearance wasn’t the best choice, Easy? And who’s this?” Behind him, the drummer — at least, Nell felt fairly sure that the tall man with the bandana and floppy brown hair was Smidge’s drummer — gave a nod in their direction and then followed Blade and the pregnant woman into one of the rooms, pulling the door closed behind him. The orange-haired woman moved to stand with the security men, not intruding on the conversation but near enough to keep an eye on everything.
“Nell, meet Angel, Smidge’s lead singer and front man. Angel, this is my girlfriend Nell.” Eamonn’s voice was thick, his nose clogged now, his lip swelling.
Angel held out a hand for her to shake, and when she took it, she found he had a firm, confident grip. The handshake of a reliable person. Interesting, for a rock star.
“You’re going to want to get cleaned up,” Angel said, eyeing the blood. “Room 20 at the end of this floor is empty; you two can have that one. Go settle in and have a wash, then we’ll talk. Got bags?”
“Still in the car we came in out front, I should think,” Nell said. “And his bass.” It occurred to her, now, how unwise it had been to leave their things in the hired limousine — especially his instrument — but his mind had been on the apology he’d have to make, and her mind had been on him.
Angel nodded at one of the security men, who headed off down the stairs. “Aidan’ll bring your stuff up. Just… do me a favor and stay in your room until I’ve talked to Blade, okay?”
“You’ve got it,” Eamonn said.
At that, Angel cocked an interested eyebrow. “What happened to your maybe I will and maybe I won’t line?”
Without thinking, Eamonn started to wipe his nose with the back of his hand, winced, and looked down at the bloody smear as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. “A smart woman convinced me that it’s time to drop the asshole rock star act, at least around you guys, so…”
That drew an incredu
lous grimace from Angel. “And what the fuck made you think that act would be a good idea in the first place?”
Eamonn shrugged. “Dunno. I just wanted to fit in, man. You all were so tight, younger than me and so mad about the label pushing you to drop your bassist, and I came in for that audition thinking I needed to be all cool to impress everyone. Tried to play Han Solo to your Skywalker, and it all went to shit.”
“I like this version of you better,” Angel said, shaking his head with reluctant humor. “Now go clean up. Room 20 — oh, key cards. Sally?” He looked around ’til his eyes found the orange-haired woman.
She pushed off the wall and came over to them, fishing in the bib pocket of her overalls as she walked. “Got them right here.” She drew out a packet of key cards and thumbed through them until she found the ones she wanted. “A key card for you, and a key card for you…” She grinned and gave them a big Oprah gesture. “Everybody gets a key card. Nice to meet you, Nell. I’m Sally.” She turned to Eamonn, then, shaking her head with an amused twist to her mouth. “Sorry, Easy — Harrison Ford did it better.” Everybody laughed.
“I’ll talk to Blade,” Angel said, “see if I can get him to sit down with you.” He turned to walk away, then looked back for a moment. “Is that lip going to want stitches?”
“Just one more,” said the man in the skull-patterned bandana as he guided the needle in and out of Eamonn’s lip. He tied a neat surgeon’s knot and cut the suture. “All done.”
“Thanks, Jed.” Eamonn got up from the desk chair where he’d been sitting for the procedure.
Jed packed up his medical kit and straightened to his full height, stretching and rolling his shoulders as he peeled off his latex gloves. “Better to have the stitches and make sure your pretty smile isn’t spoiled. I can’t promise no scarring, but I’ve done my best to minimize it.”
“I don’t mind a man with scars,” Nell said. She sat cross-legged on the king-sized bed, a position which had provided a good view of the stitching procedure.
Rock God in Exile (Smidge Book 2) Page 24