Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

  Oh, God. I’m here with Wycked Obsession! I know Zayne’s still in rehab, but the rest of the band is right here!

  Rye Myles is bigger—taller and more muscular—than I thought he’d be. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen him mostly behind the camouflage of his keyboards. His black hair is long and straight, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  I’d look more, but then Ajia Stone moves into my line of vision. His distinctive blond hair—the only blond in the group—is pulled back at the nape of his neck. He’s laughing, and his arms and legs are tangled up with a young woman who looks an awful lot like Claire.

  Bree. The infamous Breeanne Gallagher. The sixth member of Wycked Obsession, I’ve heard her called.

  “All right, people,” Noah shouts from beside me. “Now you can start the party.”

  London waves at us, the men stare in our direction, and then Bree squeals Noah’s name as she pulls herself from Ajia’s arms and races toward us.

  “Noah!” she shouts again and throws herself against him. It’s automatic, the way he wraps his arms around her, and even knowing she’s with Ajia, a twinge of jealousy pierces me. She’s so open, so free with Noah, and I feel completely out of place.

  “Damn, baby girl.” He pushes her back to arm’s length. “You’re drenched and getting me soaked.”

  “I was in the pool, and I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “It’s been like a week.”

  “That seems like forever! On tour, I saw you every day.”

  “True.”

  They hug again, and then Noah turns to me.

  “Bree, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Paige Hamilton. Paige, this is Bree Gallagher.”

  “Paige!”

  She squeals my name like we’re long-lost friends, and then I’m being hugged with as much enthusiasm as Noah was. Helplessly, I hug her back and peer up at Noah, looking for direction. He just grins.

  Bree pulls away. “Tell me! Is it true you two dated in high school?”

  “Yes.” I nod.

  “For two years?”

  “Uhm . . . yeah.”

  “Oh, girlfriend.” She slips her arm through mine. “We are gonna have such a talk!”

  “Bree. Anne.”

  Her mouth breaks out in a naughty grin, and then she slowly raises her eyes. “Yes, Noah?”

  “Do not bug Paige. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Noah.”

  “She’s not going to tell you anything,” he warns before he turns to me. “Right, sweetness?”

  His gaze settles on mine. He holds the look between us, but I can’t quite read him. Is he trying to protect me—or himself?

  I smile innocently and say, “Yes, sir.”

  Something flares in his eyes, sharpening the blue into momentary fire, but then it disappears when Knox announces, “Enough bullshit!”

  He waves Deangelo forward, introduces him to London and Bree, and then turns to Claire. “We got . . . I don’t know, maybe thirty minutes or so, Mom?”

  “Of course.” She smiles. “I’ll take the brisket off the grill, and then it needs to rest for at least that long.”

  “Claire,” calls Rye, apparently also following her rule about no more Mrs. Gallagher. He steps up next to her and wraps her in a loose, one-armed hug. “Brisket? I think I should marry you.”

  She laughs. “I am not marrying a man who loves me for my brisket.”

  He shoves his shades up on top of his head and shoots her a sad, pitiful look. “Aw, c’mon. That’s a pretty good reason, if you ask me. There could be lots worse.”

  Silence follows, and as the seconds go by, it almost becomes charged. I glance among the other faces to see mostly sharp, regretful expressions. Only Deangelo looks puzzled, much like I feel. Clearly, something else is at play here, and we newcomers don’t understand it.

  “Claire . . .” Rye looks stricken and sounds miserable, while Noah, still next to me, mutters a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

  Claire blinks, takes a short breath, and then looks at Rye with a smile that’s both tender and motherly. She reaches out to squeeze his forearm, and her voice is warm. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re right, of course—and you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says anyway, and gives her a real, two-armed hug.

  “Don’t give it another thought.” She hugs him back.

  “Let’s go,” Knox calls sharply, and the men turn toward the house. Noah hesitates, steps closer.

  “You’ll be okay, sweetness?” He looks more serious than he did earlier.

  “Sure.” I offer him a steady smile. It’s true, even if I am a little nervous. London, Bree, and Claire all seem like nice, friendly women, but I’m still uneasy. They’re the women most important to the men in Wycked Obsession, and I’m just an old ex-girlfriend.

  Noah lays his palm against my upper back, smooths it lightly down my spine. Predictably, I shiver. He grins—again—and murmurs, “We’ll be right inside. Don’t let them—” he raises his voice an octave or two “— pry anything out of you that you don’t wanna tell ‘em.”

  “Noah!” wails Bree, and he shakes his head.

  “You heard me, baby girl. No pressure.”

  “Fine.” She frowns until I wink at her. She blinks, and then a half-smile curves over her lips. “Fine,” she says again.

  “Shit,” Noah mutters as he turns for the house. “Why do I feel like she just got the best of me? Again.”

  Chapter Nine

  Noah

  I find the guys in the living room at the front of the house.

  “Shit, man, I’m so sorry.” Rye is apologizing to Knox. “I didn’t mean anything. It just came out!”

  Knox stares at Rye, looking kinda pissed, but after a minute or two, his expression smooths out. “I know. I mean, I know you wouldn’t do anything deliberate but . . . fuck, dude! That’s my mom.”

  Ajia’s sitting in an overstuffed chair, so I plop down next to Angel on the sofa. We’re far enough away to leave the other two to a minute of private conversation.

  “What happened?” asks Angel under his breath. “I mean, I don’t want to step in it, too.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry, man. Missus Gallagher—Claire—is recently divorced from her asshole husband. Not Knox’s and Bree’s dad. A fucker who came later.”

  “Well, fuck,” mutters Angel. “Claire’s too fine a woman for that shit.”

  I turn to look him over. “Yeah?”

  He isn’t looking at me but staring across the room to where we can see out the sliding glass doors. I catch sight of Paige pulling her top over her head to reveal her mouth-watering tits in a rainbow-colored bikini top. My dick perks up, and I shift for a more comfortable position.

  Goddamn, I can’t be noticing her this way! This physical awareness I have for Paige is such a bad idea.

  “Yeah,” Angel says low, almost under his breath, and I catch sight of Claire working at the barbecue grill.

  What the fuck does that mean? Claire’s a great woman, I agree. I love her like the mom I never knew, but Angel . . . ? He doesn’t know her. Could he—

  “Let’s get started,” says Knox before my thoughts settle.

  I force my attention away from the question of women—of Paige—and watch as he messes with his phone. He places it in the middle of the coffee table and looks around the room.

  “Gonna record this, if it’s okay. Zayne couldn’t get available to participate, but I still want him to be a part of everything.”

  “Sure, man,” says Angel, and we all nod. I know Zayne’s moved into something heavy in the therapy part of his treatment. He won’t tell me what it is, but I’m guessing that’s at least part of the reason he can’t attend, even by phone.

  “Okay,” Knox says, lowering himself to the floor. Part of me is glad he’s sitting where he is. It forces me to look away from the distraction of the glass doors. If I sneak a peek in Paige’s direction from time to time, well . . . she
’s beautiful, and I’m only human.

  “We got a couple of things,” Knox starts, focusing on Angel. “Hear you’re the best in the business.”

  “Which part?”

  Knox almost smiles. The rest of us are happy to let him take the lead—for now.

  “Studio musician. Arranger. Producer. Take your pick.”

  “I do all right.” Angel doesn’t reveal a thing.

  “Hear you had a project cancel.”

  Angel shrugs. “It happens.”

  “We wanna work with you,” says Knox.

  “How?”

  Knox spreads a look around the room, finding each of us, and then says, “First, we need a bass player ‘til Zayne’s back.”

  “You got a lot scheduled before then?”

  Ajia sits forward, draws all our attention. “Some. But it’s more about rehearsal.”

  “Caught you in Houston. Didn’t sound like you needed to rehearse much then, and you just got off a three-month tour.”

  “We’re changin’ things up,” says Rye from the loveseat across the room. “For one thing, Ajia’s gonna be playing rhythm guitar—”

  “And I’m not stage ready,” Ajia interrupts.

  “Okay.” Angel nods. “Got it.”

  “There’s more,” says Knox, and I smile to myself. We argued a lot of possibilities after Zayne had to leave the tour, and we frustrated the hell out of Knox. He fought to maintain the status quo, but the rest of us wanted to expand. Musically. Still don’t know if we really convinced him to take a chance, or if, after his old man caused a shitload of trouble and London lost their baby, he just got tired of the fight.

  “Yeah?” asks Angel.

  “We wanna deepen our sound. Change things around. Add some strings, maybe even horns and woodwinds. Background singers.”

  “Do you really play the fuckin’ harp?” asks Rye.

  Angel’s mouth twists in a grin. “Been known to.”

  “Jesus.” I laugh. “I can see it now. Wycked Obsession, backed by a fucking orchestra.”

  The others join in the laughter, and Angel nods. He understands what we’re talking about, and we all know he does. Deangelo Moore is legendary in the Austin music scene, as a producer, a writer, an arranger, and a musician who can play damn near any instrument a piece calls for.

  “You got arrangements?” he asks.

  Knox answers. “Yeah, but we’d like your input.”

  “Heard you don’t like to . . . collaborate.”

  Knox smirks. “We don’t like interference.”

  “We really respect you, man,” I admit. Knox isn’t great with compliments, and I want Angel to know we’re serious. “We’ve talked about it—”

  “Argued it,” interrupts Knox.

  “—and we wanna take things to another level.”

  “We think we can do that with you,” puts in Ajia.

  “Strictly behind the scenes? Here in Austin, no tours, no concerts?”

  “Is that what you want?” asks Rye.

  Angel lifts a shoulder. “That’s the usual gig.”

  “Let’s see how it goes.”

  Leave it to Knox to still be cautious. But, maybe he’s right, I decide as I think about the band and how we formed in the first place. We’re missing an arm, a leg, part of our heart. Until Zayne’s back with us, we can’t really know.

  “All right.” Angel holds out his hand, and he and Knox shake. “Deal.”

  Dinner is fucking awesome. Claire is one of the best cooks ever, and an invitation to the Gallaghers’ for a meal has always been a lot like finding a pot of gold. We were so damn lucky on tour, because Bree cooked for us all three months. She learned from her mom, and she turned out some fantastic food from that tiny tour bus kitchen.

  We’re all sitting at a large, rectangular patio table in the back yard. Paige is next to me, and the other couples are all paired up with each other. Rye and Angel sit on either side of Claire, and I get a weird freaking feeling in my chest.

  God, I love these people. They’re like my family.

  And Paige? Yeah, it’s damn strange to have her here, but it’s kinda right, too. I don’t understand it—and now isn’t the time to figure it out. You pay attention in this crowd, or you get crushed. Cut off at the knees and eaten alive.

  I admit I was pissed when Knox called this meeting. I was trying to be there for Paige, and we had so much other stuff to deal with after the shit Drake and Marlie pulled. Now, though, I can see it’s probably better that we have something else to do. Maybe it’ll help Paige forget that crap for a little while. Yeah, we have to deal with it—and soon—but some time to relax first might help.

  “I found a piece of property,” says Rye suddenly, and I jerk my attention back to the conversation.

  “Yeah?” asks Knox.

  “Yeah. But it’s not what we were looking for.”

  We? I think for a second. Vaguely, I recall a conversation about finding some permanent rehearsal space and maybe even—eventually—our own studio.

  “What’d you find, Keys?” asks Ajia.

  Rye looks at all of us, and then he grins like I rarely see from him. Can’t help but smile back.

  “It’s a warehouse,” he says.

  I snort. “A warehouse? What the fuck do we need a warehouse for?”

  Claire glares at me, and I mutter an apology. Damn, gotta remember she doesn’t like the F-word.

  “Why not a warehouse?” Rye asks.

  Knox takes a deep pull on his beer and settles back in his chair next to London. “What’re you thinking?”

  Rye shrugs. “I know we were thinkin’ about some practice and recording space for us, maybe even a loft apartment where we could crash. Then I found this place.”

  “And?” Ajia prompts.

  “It’s like a hundred thousand square feet—”

  “A hundred thousand square fucking feet?” demands Knox, sitting straight. He ignores his mother’s glare.

  Rye nods with a grin.

  “What in fucking hell would we do with that kind of space?”

  “Knox.” This time Claire utters the warning. “Language.”

  He frowns. “Sorry, Mom.”

  She smiles her approval, and I catch Angel watching the exchange with unexpected interest. I look between Claire and him and remind myself to keep an eye on that. He can’t be interested in her. Can he? There’s like . . . fifteen years difference in their ages.

  “I got a chance to go inside,” Rye’s saying, and I turn my attention back to the conversation. “It’s got so much fu– freaking potential.” He slides a boyish smile in Claire’s direction, and I shake my head. That little grin gets him out of so much trouble.

  “What kind of potential?” Knox asks.

  “Man, I can see a state-of-the-art recording studio, separate practice area, living space, and—”

  “Living space,” I interrupt with a laugh. “Hell, we could all live there with that kind of square footage.”

  “Yeah.” Rye nods. “That’s what I was thinkin’.”

  “What?” asks Bree.

  Rye shrugs. “The layout gave me the idea. We’d have all the studio, practice, and office space we need, plus every one of us could have our own loft-style condo. They could be huge, like five thousand square feet apiece.”

  “That’s over twice the size of my house,” Claire notes, her eyes wide.

  “Yeah.” Rye nods. “We could put in some other apartments, too, like a place for out-of-town visitors. Maybe a place for Baz, if he wants to relocate here. Or you, Claire, if you wanna give all this up.” He waves his arm. “Hell, we could even put in a gym if we want.”

  “Jesus, man,” says Knox. He shakes his head, looks at the rest of us. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Let’s all go for a tour,” suggests Rye. “Just go in with an open mind and see what kind of vibe you get.”

  “What kind of vibe did you get?” I ask.

  Rye shakes his head. “That’s the th
ing. I was on my bike, cruisin’ to clear my head, you know? I saw the place from a distance, got close, and it just grabbed me by the ba– er, it caught my attention.”

  This time he avoids looking at Claire, which is really too fucking bad. She’s biting her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Where is it?” asks Ajia.

  “Kind of north and east. On I-thirty-five toward Round Rock, then east on two ninety.”

  “A place that size? Must be expensive as hell. Don’t know that we can afford it.”

  “Not as much as you’d expect,” says Rye. “The realtor I talked to said it’s kinda like tryin’ to sell the Bermuda Triangle. Been on the market for a long time, price keeps droppin’. The building’s old, brick, and going to need work. Maybe a lot of it. It’s on about ten acres, which I guess isn’t enough for what most people want. It’s set back away from the road, and there’s been like no interest.”

  “You must not have talked to the listing agent,” Claire laughs. “That doesn’t exactly sound like a hard sell.”

  The rest of us laugh, too. Even Paige, who’s been quiet and watched the conversation like she’s at a tennis match or something. I reach for her hand and give it a little squeeze, just to remind her she isn’t here on her own.

  “Baz found a realtor with great references. Turns out the listing agent is also the owner. Some guy named Raymond Johnson.”

  Paige’s fingers tighten around mine, and I can feel my shoulders go stiff with tension.

  “Ray fucking Johnson,” I mutter, this time not concerned about being careful with my language.

  “Yeah! You know him?” asks Rye.

  I weigh the answers I could give, not sure how much I want to say. It’s Paige who speaks up in the silence.

  “We went to school with his son Drake.”

  I’m maybe a little surprised, but I don’t interfere. If anything about Drake is gonna come up, she’s the one to take care of it.

  “Must not have liked him,” observes Ajia, his gaze darting between Paige and me.

  “He was an asshole,” I agree.

  “He was also my boyfriend until last night.”

  Nobody moves, nobody speaks. Hell, they hardly even breathe until Paige takes a breath deep enough to expand her chest.