Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

  “Did you know it was planned?” he asks. I’m assuming the questions will all come from Walter, while Irene continues to jot in her notebook.

  I shake my head. “I knew nothing—but I can’t say I believe there was much actual planning involved.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know much about the press or fans or how all that works for rock bands, but it’s my understanding that when things like this happen, it’s because word gets out about something, and things just . . . occur. Spontaneously.”

  “Hmph.” Walter sounds seriously disapproving.

  He glances at his desktop, and I assume he has notes he’s referring to. He nods to himself as if he’s found something of interest and looks back at me.

  “And these . . . news reports of your behavior and that of—” he peeks down again “—Mister Noah Dexter?”

  “I explained this to you on Monday.” It takes everything in me to keep my voice pleasant rather than let my irritation come through. “I was dating Mister Johnson. Drake Johnson,” I add, providing Irene with her specifics. She nods, and I continue.

  “I discovered he was cheating on me. Being unfaithful,” I correct, because of the sudden frown on Walter’s face. “I ended the relationship immediately, but Mister Johnson apparently wanted me to overlook his infidelity. Mister Dexter and I had dated in high school, he happened to be there at the time, and he escorted me home.”

  Walter doesn’t need to know whose home or that there were large quantities of tears and Crown Royal involved—or any other specifics of the night. He gets the facts. Only what I have to tell him.

  He doesn’t respond, just looks at me, while Irene holds her pen ready, as though anxious to write more. I sigh and continue.

  “Apparently, Mister Johnson took exception to that. He therefore gave an interview full of li—”

  I cut off the word lies, because Walter looks suddenly disapproving. “Uhm . . . falsehoods and deliberate misunderstandings in order to cause trouble for me. As he has.”

  I wave my hand around to indicate the room and try to pierce Walter with my gaze. He’s looking at his desktop, then glances over at Irene before finally returning to stare at me. Or somewhere in my general vicinity.

  “You think this was deliberate?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you did not respond to these . . . falsehoods?”

  “I have now.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. Mister Dexter and I conducted an extensive interview with Vanessa Payne.”

  I haven’t a clue if either Walter or Irene know who Vanessa is or her reputation for honest reporting, but I put it out there anyway. I’m sure Irene will write it down, and they can look up Vanessa and her credentials for themselves.

  Not that it’ll help me, because I’m beginning to wonder if anything will.

  I swallow a sigh and say matter-of-factly, “The video is available on the Wycked Obsession website. Both TMZ and Entertainment Tonight are rebroadcasting parts of it this weekend.”

  Walter looks like he just sucked a lemon. A very unripe one. “I don’t know anything about this . . . Wycked Obsession or those entertainment—things.”

  Good God. What am I doing here?

  I aim for a patient tone. “Mister Dexter is a member of Wycked Obsession. It’s a very successful rock band, which explains the interest. You know, the reporters and the . . . er, crowd?”

  Walter blinks, nods stiffly, sends a look in Irene’s direction that I interpret to mean, are you getting all this?

  “I’ll provide you with links to the interview.” I make the offer more to Irene. “I’ll email you both with the information this afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” she says stiffly, and goes back to writing.

  “Er . . . all right.” Walter looks at his notes again. “Now, about Mister Dexter and this paternity suit—”

  “That is none of my business,” I interrupt firmly. Insistently. “Noah—Mister Dexter—and I hadn’t reconnected at the time that accusation was first made against him, and he denies it. He’s working through legal channels to resolve it, but that’s all I know.”

  “Then why did this . . .” He pauses, reads for a moment. “Elyssa Ross involve you?”

  I swallow a sigh. He’s like a dog with a bone about this stuff. And why? It has nothing to do with me except that I know Noah personally.

  “I don’t know.” I try for a tone that isn’t as prickly as I actually feel. “I assume jealousy because of my friendship with No—Mister Dexter, or because he won’t see her. I believe she’s trying to force his hand, and she thinks she can use me to do it.”

  “And how do you see this resolving?”

  How do I see this resolving? What the hell is he asking?

  “What do you mean, Walter?”

  I stare at him until he answers.

  “Do you think Mister Johnson will cease his efforts?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why is that?”

  I’m not going to tell Walter anything about Noah or the band’s business, so I just say, “Mister Dexter has spoken with him. I believe they came to an understanding.”

  “I see.” Walter’s mouth purses in that sour look again. “And the situation with Miz Ross?”

  “You’re referring to the situation that is none of my business and doesn’t involve me?”

  His face looks worse than sour now. It’s bitter and angry.

  Oops. Looks like I pushed a little too hard, but he nods.

  “Yes.”

  “As I understand it, a paternity test will be performed as soon as the child is born. Mister Dexter feels he will be vindicated, and the situation will be concluded at that time. I have no connection to it in any way.”

  And so it goes. Walter wastes another thirty minutes asking the same questions over and over, phrased a little differently each time as though he can trick me by rewording things.

  As though he’s sure I’m lying.

  I’m offended, pissed off, and less and less certain that any part of me actually wants this freaking job back! It frustrates me through the remaining interview, and preoccupies me as I leave his office. I don’t even stop to give a word of encouragement to Ruby.

  I fume the whole drive home, replaying bits and piece of the conversation and remembering the judgmental looks on both Irene’s and Walter’s faces. The more I remember, the more pissed I get. I don’t regret my calm and formal responses and behavior, but a part of me wishes I could have gone all psycho-bitch on them.

  I almost smile to myself as I pull into my parking spot next to Noah’s Range Rover. I notice he’s home, too, and I’m glad.

  I can’t wait to tell him about how stupid all this seems.

  I turn off the engine, grab my purse, and lock the car as I exit. I almost walk head first into a tall, heavily pregnant woman with seriously black hair and dark, flashing eyes.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.”

  I give her an apologetic smile, but she doesn’t smile back. She stares at me with an intense frown.

  “You’re her.” There’s little inflection in her voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Her.” This time she says it with disdain. “Paige Hamilton.”

  “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  She smiles, but it’s the oddest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s almost a mixture of satisfaction and hatred—but that doesn’t make any sense.

  “No,” she says finally. Slowly. “Not yet. But I know all about you.”

  “Uh . . .” I don’t really know what to say in return. “Can you tell me who you are?”

  Fury darkens her face, chasing away any easiness. She points to her stomach. “Don’t you know?”

  I blink, glance down at her pregnant belly, and suddenly I do know.

  “Elyssa.”

  “That’s right,” she snarls, and from nowhere, she has a gun pointing straight at my head. “Elyssa,” she repeats.
“And your worst nightmare, if you don’t do everything I say.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Noah

  I come back from rehearsal earlier than normal. Seems like everybody else has something to do this afternoon, so we cut the practice session short. Rye is meeting with a couple of contractors or architects or somebody like that. He’s freaking obsessed with this warehouse project. Knox has a progress meeting with the lawyer who’s putting together new Wycked Obsession corporate papers, changing us from an S-corp. to a C-corp. or some shit like that. All I know it’s supposed to be better. Angel had a meeting he’d scheduled before signing up to help us, and Ajia . . .

  I shake my head with a small grin. Bree doesn’t have class this afternoon, so they had plans. I can just about imagine what those plans involve, but I’m not thinking about that shit when it comes to our baby girl.

  Actually, I didn’t really mind coming home. Wanna be here when Paige gets back from this bullshit meeting her boss called. She told me a little about the asshole, who sounds way too judgmental and critical, but she made me promise to let her handle it.

  So I am.

  I showered when I first got home, because I’m always sweaty and gross after a couple hours of solid drumming. I put on a pair of boxers and thin sleep pants, something I don’t normally even have. Bree’s summer on tour with us meant no walking around the tour bus naked or in boxers, so I had to up my game a little.

  I settle on the couch with a notebook and pen. Too late for coffee and too early for a beer or shot of Crown, so I stick with water. That’s probably better, anyway. Need to be able to think clearly.

  A song’s been scraping around inside my head for a couple of days, and it’s finally come together well enough that I wanna get something on paper. It’s kind of a shock, because I don’t write many of our songs. Mostly Knox and Ajia do it. They’re like the Lennon and McCartney of Wycked Obsession.

  The thought makes me grin, thinking about the writing team of Gallagher and Stone, and them getting that kind of fame. The Beatles may be old school now—more than fifty years since they burst onto the scene—but they were groundbreakers at one time. Gotta respect that.

  Hell, if I could ever get anywhere near Ringo Starr’s accomplishments, I’d be fucking golden. Not everybody recognizes his talent, but I do. Hell, a lefty playing a right-handed drum kit? That takes some chops.

  I’m a better singer than he is but usually don’t contribute much until we’re putting each song together. I’m creative as hell when it comes to laying down the drum arrangement, and a few of my fills have gotten some great notice. I’m proud of them.

  Things are changing now, though. Rye contributed more to our last album, especially Tonight, which is turning into a monster hit for us. Knox and Ajia say they want more input from the rest of us. We brought on Angel.

  And now, I have a vague melody with words.

  Wasn’t supposed to happen.

  I knew that from the start.

  But you came in, and I was lost.

  How’d you do it? You stole my heart.

  I’ve loved you since I knew you

  But different from your desire.

  At first, you were just a kid, my love.

  Now you set my heart on fire.

  Well, Jesus effing Christ.

  I toss the pen to the coffee table, toy with the dangling cross in my ear, and stare at the words. A fucking blind man can see these lyrics are about Paige, and I’m putting it all out there.

  Like my goddamn heart.

  Is that really smart? Is it even what I want to do?

  No answers. More questions.

  Nothing makes sense anymore.

  I sigh, reach for my pen, stare at the words, and try to decide if I want to continue on. Keep what I’ve written. I don’t have to show this to anybody if I don’t want to. I can tear it up and pretend I never wrote it.

  Never thought it.

  It feels so fricking wrong.

  Undecided, I scribble a couple more words, and that’s when I hear the door open. Must be Paige. I want to hear everything, but I need just a few seconds. Even if I end up changing it all or throwing it out, I need to get these last couple of thoughts down while they’re still fresh in my mind.

  I don’t look behind me, just hold up a finger and continue to write. “Give me a second here, sweetness.”

  I glance over what I’ve written, drop the notebook and pen to the coffee table, stand and turn . . . and stare.

  What the fuck?

  “Elyssa?”

  I stare at the woman who’s been nothing except one big fucking pain in my ass. She’s bigger than I remember, like maybe 5’10” with a solid, almost masculine body. Her belly sticks out obscenely, and I want to cringe. Not because she’s pregnant but because she keeps claiming it’s my kid.

  Her hair is black, weirdly dark, like she dyed it recently, and her makeup is kind of goth. She’s wearing a black dress, combat boots, and her eyes are . . . strange. They’re big, dilated, and her expression looks like it hovers between cold awareness and complete detachment.

  I catch all that in an instant. Mostly I see she’s standing there with one arm wrapped around Paige’s throat—and a gun pointed at her head.

  Jesus.

  Paige is beautiful, as always, but I see the fear in her eyes. Who the hell wouldn’t be afraid at a time like this? Fuck, I’m scared, but not for me. For her.

  Elyssa doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at me like she’s deciding if I’m worth her time and attention.

  I don’t have a lot of choices, so I hold my hands up in front of me, palms out, and say her name again.

  “Elyssa?”

  She nods once, slowly, but doesn’t otherwise say anything.

  I look at Paige once more. She’s dressed primly, for the office, I know, and she’s doing everything she can to hide her fear and appear calm, proper, reasonable. Good girl.

  “You okay, baby?” I ask her, but it’s Elyssa who answers.

  “You wouldn’t know how I am, would you?”

  “Uh—what?” She thinks I’m talking to her?

  “You never called me, Noah. Wouldn’t see me.” She bites the words off in obvious irritation and jerks the gun against Paige’s temple.

  My teeth clench. “Uh, I was . . . busy. You know. The tour and everything.”

  I try to smile, pray it’s charming, but holy hell! That’s the last thing I want to do. What I really want is to rush her, pull Paige free to hide her behind me, and clock Elyssa into next week.

  But, fuck. By the time I get around the couch, she’d have plenty of time to shoot both Paige and me. Or anything else she damn well wanted to do.

  “You weren’t too busy for this.” Elyssa jerks her arm against Paige’s throat and pokes the gun against her temple.

  A small whimper escapes Paige, but she blinks, swallows, and there’s nothing more. I can practically see her pulling her strength tightly around her.

  Goddamn, she’s magnificent.

  I start to walk, slip around the end of the couch, and Elyssa’s gaze follows my every movement. I stop near the back of the sofa, afraid to get too close right away, and ignore her observation.

  Instead, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  Her gaze almost softens. It’s kind of creepy.

  “I came for you, of course,” she says as though it’s obvious.

  “For me?”

  Her expression hardens so fast, I wonder if it was ever anything else. Her eyes narrow and she flicks a quick glance between Paige and me.

  “I had to. You weren’t coming to me. When I saw you on TV—” she squeezes her forearm against Paige’s throat “—I knew the time was up. Now or never.”

  The last word sounds so menacing I have to ask, “What do you mean, ‘the time was up’?” My phone rings at exactly the same instant.

  Paige and I both jump. Elyssa doesn’t react at all.

  Taking my cue from her, I ignore it, l
et the call go to voice mail. Almost immediately it starts ringing again.

  “Uh . . . maybe I should get that,” I suggest. “I mean, maybe it’s important if they called right back.”

  Elyssa doesn’t move. “What could be more important than me?”

  Shit. I search my brain for something. Anything.

  “Maybe some legal stuff.”

  “Legal stuff?” She narrows her eyes, while Paige stays motionless.

  “Wycked Obsession. We’re doing, uh, some corporation stuff.”

  Elyssa stares at me long enough that the phone finally stops ringing. Seconds later, it starts again.

  She jerks her head toward the counter, where my phone sits buzzing. “Get it.”

  I grab it and answer without looking at the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Dude! About fucking time. I’ve been calling.” It’s Knox.

  “I know.” I keep my eyes on Elyssa. “Listen, now isn’t really a good time.”

  “You fucking Paige?”

  “Jesus! Don’t be an indecent motherfucker.”

  “Too late for that,” Knox laughs.

  “Yeah, well, I gotta go.” Wish I could scream at him, tell him what’s going on, but Elyssa and her fucking gun against Paige’s head makes me too anxious to try anything. Right now, anyway.

  Wish I had a goddamn plan or something. That means I need Knox to get off the phone so I can think.

  “Wait!” He sounds serious all of a sudden. “Elyssa’s in town. At least Baz thinks so.”

  I see it all of a sudden. The moment is fucking perfect.

  “He’s right,” I say as calmly as possible.

  “You know for sure?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Jesus. Is she there?”

  “Yes,” I say firmly, hoping Knox is as smart as I think he is. “Paige just got home from a meeting.”

  “You’re home, and they’re both there?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “Okay, okay. Uh . . . something’s weird. Right?”

  “Definitely,” I say again.