Rhythm of the Road

by Autumn Jones Lake

  Z shrugs. “Sounds like we will one way or another.”

  “Might as well roll with it,” Rock adds. “That what you’re suggesting?”

  “If Ice already has this set up, he’s not going to back off just because we ask him nicely. And if we rat him out to Priest, that’s not good for anyone either. Sounds like it’s a done deal.”

  “Might as well do what we can to make it beneficial for everyone.” Rock focuses on me again. “If they come at us for RICO at some point, they’re going to want the ones directly involved. They’ll dick all of us around, no doubt, but I think we can manage to minimize our risk.”

  “All right.” I’m not as convinced as they seem to be. “Still thought you should know.”

  “Fuck yeah.” Z slaps my arm. “Thanks for keeping those big ears open.”

  “Anything else?” Rock asks.

  “Oh, Ice has cameras stashed all over the clubhouse.”

  Z shrugs. “So do we.”

  “No, bedrooms too.”

  He cracks up, slapping his hand on the table. “Didn’t warn a brother?”

  “No,” I growl. “Pants said something about the porn house being wired so Ice can keep tabs on his girl. Prompted me to take a closer look at my room.”

  “That’s probably the answer to how he managed to hook someone at ATF,” Rock says.

  “My thoughts too.”

  “Better be careful if you bring Shelby there,” Z warns. “She doesn’t need a ‘country superstar railed in biker clubhouse’ video all over the Internet.”

  “Fuck off,” I growl.

  “Just sayin’.” He holds up his hands in a “no harm” gesture.

  Rock side-eyes him. “Extorting law enforcement is one thing. Betraying a brother that way is something else entirely. You think Ice is capable of that?”

  “These days, I think anyone’s capable of anything.” Z’s dimples vanish, his face turning dead serious. “Only brothers I trust with my life have New York stitched on their bottom rockers.”

  Rock lifts his coffee cup in Z’s direction. “Amen to that, brother.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Shelby

  Another dressing room in another city.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, waiting for Cindy to begin her magic.

  Greg knocks and pushes the door open. “How are you feeling tonight?”

  “Good.” I bit my lip. “You haven’t gotten any more calls from my mom, have you?”

  His mouth twists down.

  Bad sign.

  “She really wants you to call her,” he finally says. “She’s worried about you.”

  “Well, then I hope you told her I’m peachy.”

  “Yes,” he answers slowly.

  My gaze drops to his hands, narrowing on what looks like a black envelope in one.

  My stomach drops.

  “Oh, yeah. Someone dropped this off at the ticket office for you.” He tosses the envelope in my lap.

  Not again.

  “Where’d it come from?” I stare at the envelope the same way I’d stare at a rat swinging by its tail.

  “Don’t know. Probably fan mail.” He shrugs and walks out.

  Cindy frowns at the envelope. “Looks kinda like a kid’s handwriting.”

  No doubt whatever’s inside won’t be kid-friendly.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” she asks.

  “I guess.” I pick it up and rip open the flap. Just like before, there’s a piece of black paper inside. Slowly, I tug it out and unfold it.

  Same silver writing.

  This time, the note’s longer and scrawled on the page from top to bottom. Fear twists my insides.

  My Shelby,

  I hope you enjoyed your time with your new boyfriend. Soon you won’t have any need for men in your life besides me. I was so disappointed to see you cavorting around with some strange man again like a whore. But that’s what your industry does to young, beautiful girls, isn’t it? Turns them into whores.

  It’s a conundrum because your music is how I met and fell in love with you and yet your behavior disappoints me.

  I don’t want to hurt you, I promise.

  I just want to make you happy. And I will.

  Soon.

  All my love.

  M

  By the time I’m finished, fear has melted my brain into a puddle that can’t form any rational thoughts.

  With my heart racing, and what-the-fuck alarm bells clanging like crazy in my head, I toss the letter and envelope on the counter. “Holy shit.”

  “What is it?” Cindy reaches over and picks it up. A few seconds later, she gasps. “Shelby. Oh my God.”

  She flings the door open and hollers, “Greg!”

  “Cindy, don’t.” It’s a weak protest.

  “Shelby, this isn’t a joke.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “I’m scared for you.”

  Greg stops in front of my open door. “What?”

  “Who left this for her?” Cindy insists.

  He shrugs.

  Cindy grabs his arm and drags him into the room.

  “It’s just some creep.” I shrug, but I’m shaking so hard it probably looks more like a zombie twitch. “I’ve gotten them before.”

  “What do you mean you’ve gotten these before?” Cindy scolds.

  Greg snaps the paper out of her hands and scans it. “Jesus. I knew those pictures were a bad idea,” he mutters. “You’ve got to be more careful.”

  “So what?” I snap, anger burning a hole in my fear. “I’m never supposed to have a life because some creep thinks he’s in love with me? That’s ridiculous.”

  “One of Dawson’s guys needs to watch her, Greg,” Cindy insists.

  “Where’s Logan now?” Greg asks me.

  “I told you we’re plannin’ to meet up in Virginia. He can’t just upend his life to play bodyguard for free. He has a life. A job.” I’m trying to keep my voice calm. I can’t afford to stress out my vocal cords before I go onstage, but it’s hard not to scream in frustration—and terror.

  I have gotten letters like this before. Not these black and silver ones. But ones with similar creepy undertones. Some guy who probably needs medication, thinking he’s in love with me or that I “spoke” to him through the television. Or that my songs contain coded messages only he can decipher. I’ve always cringed, then tossed ’em in the trash. What else can I do? I don’t have the money to hire investigators every time I receive a twisted love note.

  “I need to talk to the record company. They’ll have to hire someone,” Greg says.

  “I’m never gonna see a penny in royalties if they keep sticking stuff on my tab,” I grumble, staring at the ceiling. Why’d I have to open that dang letter with Cindy here?

  “Shelby, honey, we’ve talked about this. You’re never gonna see a dime from this album. Your downloads are through the roof after all the exposure you’ve been getting. I’ll be able to weasel more stuff from them.”

  That’s exactly what I don’t want—to owe the record company another red penny, or I’ll never get my mother out of that damn tiny house. As much as she’s burning my biscuits these days, it’s the one thing I’ve wanted to do more than anything. I always promised myself that if I made any real money with my music, I’d set her up someplace nice before indulging in anything for myself.

  “We need to find you some endorsements,” Greg says. This has been a frequent topic of conversation lately. “Maybe have you audition for films. I’ve had a few inquiries. Something to bring in money outside of music.”

  “But music’s all I wanna do.”

  “We need to capitalize off your fame some other way.” He glances at my boots. “Maybe a line of Shelby Morgan cowgirl boots.”

  “Cheap shit made in China that’ll fall apart in two weeks? No way.”

  “Jessica Simpson had a clothing empire.”

  I grunt at him.

  “Listen, you need to center yourself for the show tonight. I’ll ta
lk to Dawson. Tomorrow, I’ll be speaking with the record company.”

  “Great.” I reach out and grab his arm on his way to the door. “Thank you.”

  His gruff manager face softens. “Of course.”

  Cindy’s hands are shaking when she returns to work on my hair. “We need to take that letter seriously, Shelby. I’ve seen this get out of hand with celebrities before. It starts small with a letter or phone calls. Next, they’re showing up at your front door with a knife.”

  Chills race down my spine and I scowl at Cindy. “I’m not a celebrity. Stop trying to scare the piss outta me.”

  “Honey, you need to wrap your pretty little head around the fact that you are a celebrity.” She squeezes my shoulders. “I’ll feel better when your sexy beast of a man is here to look out for you. I don’t doubt he’ll keep the creeps away.”

  My lips curve into a smile. Dang, I’m missing Rooster something fierce.

  Someone knocks on the door so hard it rattles on its hinges. Cindy reaches over to open it.

  Dawson and one of his bodyguards step inside.

  “What’s goin’ on, Shelby?” Dawson’s concerned face helps chase some of my embarrassment away. “Greg said you got some sort of threat?”

  “Not a threat, exactly.” I hand him the letter and he scans it before passing it to the guy at his side.

  “Shoot, that’s creepy,” Dawson mutters. “All right.” He claps his hands together. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. Bane’s stickin’ with ya tonight and until Greg figures something else out. You’re not to go anywhere without him. Understood?”

  His tone leaves me feeling like a naughty puppy who peed on the carpet. “Thank you, Dawson.” I peek up at Bane. His severe expression softens. “Thank you, Bane.”

  Dawson glances around my dressing room. “Where’s Logan?”

  “Home.”

  “You tell him ’bout this?”

  “I just opened it. But I don’t want him to worry.” I shrug. “I’ve gotten stuff like that before.”

  “If it was me, I’d wanna know.” Dawson holds up his hands. “Not sticking my nose in your personal business. Just sayin’.”

  “Thanks, Dawson.”

  He slaps Bane’s shoulder. “Stay on her.”

  “You got it.”

  Bane parks himself on the couch facing the door after Dawson leaves.

  Great.

  Cindy goes back to work on my hair.

  My phone chirps and for the first time ever, I hesitate to pick it up. That letter rattled me more than I want to admit. Or maybe I’m uncomfortable having Bane watch my every move.

  I flick the screen on to find a text from Rooster.

  Rooster: I miss you.

  Me: Miss you too.

  Rooster: Love you. Be awesome tonight, chickadee.

  A few seconds later, a selfie of Rooster pulling a sad face appears on my screen.

  I finally smile.

  “Did you tell him?” Cindy asks.

  I set my phone in my lap facedown.

  Fear swoops into my belly again. A few seconds of texting with Rooster and I forgot all about the creepy letter. What can I do, though? If I tell him, he’ll want to race right out here and beat someone up. While that might make me feel better, I can’t make him drop everything and come hold my hand every time some psycho sends me a note.

  “Nah I told you, it’s probably harmless. No need to make him worry.”

  Wow, that almost sounded believable.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Rooster

  It’s late when I return to the Virginia clubhouse. Parking lot’s full of brothers and the usual assortment of visitors—hanger-ons, club girls, and prospects.

  Jigsaw’s heavy boots crunch over the gravel. He slaps my shoulder. “How’d it go?”

  “Good.”

  “Take a detour? What took so long?”

  I give him a hard look meant to shut him up and hook my arm around his neck, pulling him in close. “Met up with Z and Rock. Heads-up about what’s going on here,” I say against his ear.

  “I missed ya, bro, but no need to slobber on me.” He shoves me away but gives me a quick nod to acknowledge what I said.

  Music and loud voices from the clubhouse pour into the night.

  “All the stuff came,” Jigsaw says. “I didn’t want to mess with it, but it’s locked up at the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I step into the clubhouse, someone lets out a ‘cock-a-doodle-doo’, alerting the whole place that I’ve returned.

  “Welcome back, brother!” Ice shouts.

  The brothers and even a few of the girls surrounding him lift their arms in the air and cheer.

  I walk up to Ice and slap his outstretched hand. “Missed me that much, huh?”

  “Don’t worry. Anya said Jigsaw held things together.”

  I wasn’t worried but okay.

  Anya pops up at Ice’s side. “Do you think we can be ready to open the online store by Friday?”

  Sure fucking hope so. Shelby’s supposed to roll into town late Thursday night or early Friday morning. After her shows and couple days off, I’m planning to follow her out of here. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Ice asks.

  “I set up that interview.” Anya pouts. “I need you to take me there Thursday morning.”

  “No can do.” Ice shakes his head and doesn’t offer any more of an explanation for his refusal.

  Her bottom lip quivers and the corners of her mouth turn down. Is she going to cry? I don’t wanna see this.

  “Please?” she whines. “I’m worried they’re gonna be dicks.”

  “I really can’t.” Ice turns to me. “You mind taking her? She’s got this thing with the radio station.”

  “The DJs are really crude and gross,” Anya explains. “But their audience is basically who I’m trying to target.”

  “Yeah.” I glance at Jigsaw. Speak up anytime, bro. “One of us can do it.”

  Never mind that it’s not what I signed up for on this trip and Ice has an entire clubhouse of other brothers he could ask.

  She claps her hands together. “Thank you. I’ll feel better having you there.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks, Rooster.” Ice pats my back and moves on to talk to someone else. Jigsaw catches Shonda’s eye and swaggers her way. Lord help the woman.

  I’m really not in the mood to party, especially since I need to have all this stuff set up before the weekend.

  I take Anya aside.

  “Are you sticking around tonight?” I ask her.

  She bats her eyelashes a few times and answers in a breathy voice. “I can if you want me to.”

  Yeah, no.

  “I could use your help with some of the website sign-ups,” I clarify so there are no misunderstandings about my expectations.

  Her shoulders drop and a softer, more natural smile curves her lips. “Oh. Sure.”

  Party noises fade away as she follows me down the long, narrow hallway to Ice’s office.

  She frowns when I pull out a key to open the door. “Ice doesn’t allow me in here.”

  “You’re with me. He knows I need your help with this.”

  She bites her lip and glances back the way we came. Shit. Is she worried Ice will be pissed at her or worried about being alone with me?

  “Okay.”

  My gaze strays to the corner and the tiny red, blinking light. Ice even has cameras set up in here. Really couldn’t give a shit less if he’s somewhere else in the house watching us. Actually, knowing we’re being filmed is a relief. This way, there’s no chance of him accusing me of hitting on his girlfriend—or whatever she is to him—later.

  I drop into the chair behind the desk and motion for her to take the one across from me. “You got your license on you?”

  “Give me a second.” She pulls her big purse into her lap and searches through it.

  While I’m waiting, I jot down a b
unch of addresses and passwords she’ll need. Ice has a copy of everything I’m giving her, and I’ll keep a third copy. Just in case.

  Finally, she hands me her license. It’s real—or one hell of a fake. I snap a quick picture of her holding the license up to her face, then she sets it down on the desk next to me.

  One after the other, I fill in the same tedious information at each film distribution platform.

  “So, five to seven minute clips on the free sites seem to do the best to reel people in,” I explain so she knows why the fuck I dragged her down here. “At least for Stella. Yours might be different, so you can play around with the length until you find something that consistently works for you.”

  “Okay.” She nods eagerly. “I never give the pop shot away.”

  “Probably a good strategy. Give ’em blue balls.”

  She chuckles.

  My gaze won’t stop straying to her license sitting next to the keyboard.

  I’m not judging. She seems to be into this business venture. It’s not like Ice is forcing her into anything. But God damn. She’s a year younger than Shelby. Old enough to make her own choices, sure. Luckier than most girls, I guess. Found someone to bankroll her business. Still, some of the stupid decisions I made at her age flood my memories.

  Not your concern.

  “How long you been doing this, Anya?” I can’t help myself.

  Her eyes widen. Shit, maybe she mentioned it at some point and I forgot. Or maybe no one’s ever given a damn before. “Uh, since I was eighteen, why?”

  “Just curious.”

  She sits forward and drums her nails over against the desk, her gaze darting around the room. “Actually…”

  Please tell me Ice hasn’t been banging this chick since she was a teenager.

  “My stepdad posted videos of me before then…”

  Fuck.

  “I didn’t find out until some kids in school were passing around the links. It took me forever to get the sites to take them down.” She jerks her chin toward her license and the paperwork I’ve been filling out. “That’s all bullshit. They don’t really give a damn.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry. Is your stepfather at least in prison?”

  She frowns, as if prison had never been an option. Holy fuck, tell me her pedo stepdad isn’t still running around?