My T-shirt seems to have sprouted three armholes. I jam my fist through the neck, then have to take it off and try again. Finally, the long, loose cotton flows down to my hips. I scoop the ends, attempting to tie a knot but my fingers don’t seem to want to work.
Whatever. It looks fine.
I stuff my feet back into my boots and stagger forward. My palms land on the slippery sink and slide.
Bang.
My forehead smacks against the mirror.
“Ouch.”
I rub the spot.
Is this heat exhaustion? Dehydration?
Behind me, there’s a soft screech. The shower curtain rustles.
My heart thunders, trying to gallop out of my chest.
A man steps out.
Holy fuck, I’m in a horror movie!
The fleeting thought that I wish I had a weapon—gun, taser, pepper spray, or heck, even Heidi’s ball peen hammer would be a relief. But I’ve got nothing except the cowgirl boots on my feet. Unfortunately, my legs are encased in concrete. Too weak to even knee this guy in the balls.
A scream sticks in my throat.
Dim recognition tickles the back of my mind.
He’s wearing the same black and yellow polo shirts the other employees of the arena wear. But that’s not it.
The fan. He gave me a fan at one of the shows.
“Shh.” He places one finger against his lips and rushes forward. Malicious insanity burns in his eyes.
Terror steals my breath.
My palms hit his chest and I push. “Get. Away,” I slur.
He staggers back a step, eyebrows lifting all the way to his hairline.
“Easy, little rabbit. I’m here to take care of you. It’s time for us to be together.”
Warnings explode in my head like fire alarms, piercing the fog clouding my brain.
Mr. Creepy Letters is in my bathroom!
I need to get away. Yell for Bane. Grab my cell phone.
“Rooster!” I scream.
“Oh, is that the big, bearded man’s name?” He flashes a sinister smile that stings my guts. “He’s indisposed at the moment.”
What does that mean? Did he hurt Rooster?
Fear that somehow I contributed to the man I love getting hurt rips through my chest.
I’m backed into a corner. The door seems so far away. I reach for my phone, but the man shoves it off the sink. It flies in the air, landing on the floor, cracking my pretty mint green and flamingo print case.
Get out! I try to shove past him, but my arms are two limp strands of spaghetti.
Air wheezes through my lungs.
“It’s okay, Shelby. We’re going to be so happy together. I’ve always wanted the perfect wife to give me a large family.” He licks his lips and drops his gaze to my stomach.
Oh, hell no.
He smiles wide. Rows and rows of shiny shark teeth.
Huh?
I shake my head. My vision blurs and now there are four shark-toothed people standing in front of me.
Something hard clamps around my wrist.
I jerk and twist. Fear burns through the cloudiness in my head. A scream tears out of me, like shards of glass shattering against my throat.
“The time has come. I can’t have you cavorting around with these men any longer. It’s not good for us.”
Inside, I’m madder than a mule chewing on wasps. But my body can’t seem to will the anger into action.
“Shh.” He presses his finger to my lips. “Stay right here.”
He guides me to the toilet and sits me down on the closed lid. My body slumps against the wall.
Do something. The bathroom door’s wide open.
My gaze swings wildly around the bathroom, searching for a weapon.
Plunger.
Eww.
Better than a toilet brush.
I wrap my cotton ball fingers around the wooden handle, willing some strength into my limbs.
There’s rustling, a bang, and a scraping sound. Mr. Creepy Letters appears in the doorway dragging my trunk behind him.
“You’re going to have to be a good girl and get in there for me so we can leave without any questions.”
Like hell. I’m not claustrophobic but who wants to take a ride in their luggage?
“How’d ya reckon we’re meant to be together if ya gotta drug me and stuff me in a trunk?” The words seep out of my mouth slowly.
“I need to get you away from all of this and deprogram you. Then you’ll understand.”
Deprogram. I don’t even want to guess what that means.
“You didn’t finish this.” He holds out the water bottle to me. “Here.”
“Hell fuckin’ no!” I smack the bottle out of his hold but use my hand holding the plunger. My burst of energy fizzles fast. I end up grazing his cheek with the rubber end, knocking the bottle onto the floor. The plunger goes flying into the shower stall.
I stare at my empty hand.
Well, that was about as effective as using a dishtowel to swat at a wasp’s nest.
He lunges, grabbing my wrists and yanking me to my feet. My noodle legs refuse to cooperate, and I sag toward the floor. He uses my weakness, turning us toward the trunk and letting gravity do the work.
My ass lands in the trunk so hard tears prick my eyes. The backs of my thighs hit the metal edge and I yelp from the pain. My elbow burns from hitting something in the fall.
The man leans over, grabbing my ankles, attempting to fold me neatly inside like a damn tablecloth. I scrabble for the opposite edge, curling my fingers around the lip of the trunk.
With a grunt, he slams the lid. It bounces off my head. Good thing or he probably would’ve broken my fingers. In a daze, I stare at my hand. I need my fingers.
The blow to my head finishes the job the drug-laced water bottle started. My ears are muffled, like I’ve been plunged into a lake.
Rooster, please save me!
Slowly, I slump into the trunk, silently screaming at the darkness coming to claim me.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Rooster
“Sir, someone reported that you’re carrying a gun. We need to search both of you for weapons,” the asshole at my back informs me.
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“Do you give consent to search you?”
“You can see my fucking pass.” I fumble for the lanyard around my neck and fling it backwards. “Shelby Morgan’s my girlfriend.”
He snorts. “Sure, buddy.”
“Listen, you stupid fuck. She’s got some creep stalking her. I need to be there when she gets offstage.”
“She’s got security. You can wait here a second.”
“I’m her security, motherfucker.”
“Sooner we can search you, the faster you can go.”
“Knock yourself out.” My need to get to Shelby blazes hotter than my need to kill this stupid prick.
I have no doubt who’s responsible for this.
Terror melts my brain. Shelby’s in danger and I have no way to warn her. “Hurry it up.”
“Just hold your horses.”
“Sir! Sir! What are you doing!? That’s Shelby Morgan’s boyfriend,” a high-pitched female voice I don’t recognize screams.
Thank fuck.
“I’m filming all of this, Logan!”
Cindy.
“Cindy, get Greg. Or anyone. Make sure someone’s with Shelby,” I shout. Something about this fucking reeks.
“For fuck’s sake,” Jigsaw growls “Let’s fuck them up and go.”
I twist my head and count. Five bouncers surround us now. But it’s not the uneven number stopping me. Jigsaw and I could still easily take them. It’s the pile of bullshit it will cause, delaying us even longer, that holds me back.
“They’re clean,” one of the guards announces.
I push away from the wall, barely restraining myself from punching the closest motherfucker.
Cindy—bless her soul—is still standing beh
ind us, filming everything.
“You better pray I don’t find you later,” I swear at the guard who stopped us.
“We had a report. I had to—”
I don’t even bother listening. My feet are already flying over the floor. The metal door slams into the concrete wall with a clang and bounces back. It clanks a second time. Jigsaw’s heavy boots thunder behind me.
It’s intermission. Shelby’s offstage. People swarm into the aisles, blocking our way. I’m forced to slow to a maddening walk-push pace.
Bang!
I crash through the second door leading backstage. So many damn people in the way now. Crew are breaking down Shelby’s set and setting up Thundersmoke’s equipment. I blow past all of them.
“Logan! What’s wrong?”
Trent’s nothing more than a blur. I don’t stop to answer. Jiggy and I pick up speed as we move past the activity near the entrance to the stage.
My gaze lasers in on Shelby’s dressing room door. Slightly ajar. No Bane. No one in the immediate area at all.
Above us, the ceiling rumbles with sounds from Thundersmoke’s show. Fine, everyone’s probably up there watching, but Bane should still be here.
“Thought he was still watching her?” Jigsaw says.
“He should be.”
I slam the door all the way open. The knob smashes into the drywall. A small part of my brain yells “take it easy” but the rest of my body disagrees. If something has happened to Shelby, I can’t waste a precious second.
“Shelby?”
I rush into the room, my mind cataloging small details.
Piles of clothes dumped on the couch. More clothes scattered by the bedroom.
My fist hits the cheap wood door. “Shelby!”
No answer.
I shove the door open.
My gaze pings around the small room. My brain processes the scene too slowly.
Open window.
Water bottle on the floor.
Shelby’s smashed phone.
The dress she wore onstage crumpled in a heap.
No Shelby.
My instincts scream at me to run.
Find her.
“Shelby!” I shout.
She’s gone.
Rooster and Shelby’s story concludes in
Lyrics on the Wind.
* * *
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EXCERPT from Kickstart my Heart
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Life changing events rarely announce themselves. More often, they slip into your world without warning and shred everything to pieces.
This video is supposed to be a game changer for my band.
Unfortunately, the headache to end all headaches has been fucking with me all day. Between the ridiculous strobe lights and cheesy video concept for a song I already hate, I’m ready to quit, hop on my bike and ride the three thousand miles home. This is supposed to be our big break. I should be more excited. Our manager assured us this video will be in heavy rotation on MTV. What she promised in order to secure that favor, I have no idea.
My bandmates are equally annoyed. They’re just better at hiding it. Growing up in an outlaw motorcycle club the way I did, concealing my irritation isn’t something I ever bothered to learn.
A few minutes later, when the “actress”—hired to play I’m not sure what in the video—steps onto the set, I’ve got a whole new problem.
She’s half-naked. Not uncommon in Hollywood. The odd part is how uncomfortable she looks in her own skin. Especially when you take into account that she’s set-my-blood-on-fire hot. Not your typical bleached stripper look most chicks seem to sport in California. White blonde hair down to her ass, lightly tanned skin and a decent-sized rack. Like a curvier version of the skinny blonde chick on Dynasty. I’d been jerking off to posters of that actress for years. And here’s my very own version.
So my new problem involves my dick getting way too excited for the tight leather pants the wardrobe person squeezed me into.
I haven’t gotten laid since I returned to L.A. Obviously, I need to fix that. Blondie’s exactly my type.
Watching her make out session with my friend Jacob, pisses me off. It’s a ridiculous reaction since I haven’t even talked to the chick yet. But there it is.
After we soak her with the firehose—and I’d love to know who came up with that bit of phallic symbolism, because I certainly didn’t vote in favor of it—she runs off the set, before I have a chance to sexually harass her properly.
I’m thwarted again by the director’s assistant. “Good job, guys. I’ll just need you back at noon tomorrow, so he can film you with your instruments.”
“What the fuck? Why didn’t he get those shots today?” I snarl at her, and she backs up a few steps.
“We only had the model booked for one day and needed to get all her shots in.”
Our singer, Jacob, steps up and glares down at her. “That’s totally bogus.”
“Take it up with your manager.” She snaps her gum at us, spins around, and hurries away.
We stand around complaining, and it doesn’t escape my notice that blondie hasn’t emerged from her dressing room.
As casually as possible, I step away from the guys and go knock on the door. By dressing room, I mean the closet someone threw a desk, lamp, mirror and chair in. There’s no window she could have crawled out of.
Faint sniffling reaches me, and I push the door open.
Poor girl looks like the saddest wet kitten.
“Didn’t anyone give you a towel?”
She glances up at my question and straightens her spine. Big, blue eyes blink rapidly. She’s a tough cookie. Doesn’t want me to know she’s been crying.
“No.” Shivers rack her body, and yeah, I’m an asshole, but I notice her nipples threatening to pop through her flimsy halter top. My thumbs twitch with the need to rub over them, but I keep my hands at my sides.
Pissed that a girl who’s basically an employee of my band is being treated so shitty, I track down some towels. Blondie’s eyes widen in surprise when I darken her doorway again.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” She shakes the largest towel out and wraps it around herself, then unfolds the other one to dry her hair.
“Uh, I’m sorry about the hose thing. We didn’t know about it until the last minute.”
She glances up as if she’s startled to find me still standing there.
“Chaser! We’re leaving!” Jacob calls out.
I can’t tear my gaze away from the beauty in front of me. “I’ll catch up later,” I say over my shoulder.
The guys heckle me, using a fair amount of curse words, but I’m one of those guys who the more you try to talk me into something, the less likely I am to do it.
“You don’t have to stay. I’m fine,” she says.
I’m also a guy who loves a challenge. “No, I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. But I saw the way our creepy director kept eyeing her earlier. No way am I leaving her alone with him.
Well, that, and I want her all to myself.
“Can you close the door?” she asks, pulling me out of my plans to get her naked in my apartment. Damn, she’s got a sexy voice. A hint of a foreign accent I can’t place. Pervy bastard that I am, I keep imagining her proper, princess voice, whispering dirty things in my ear all night long.
“Sure.”
Knowing she’s undressing in that room, waiting on the other side of the door is torture.
I duck into the bathroom and peel off the ridiculous leather pants the stylist stuffed me into. Once I’m in my jeans, feeling more like myself, I return to the dressing room. Quicker than I expected, she opens the door. Again, she seems surprised to find me waiting for her.
“You’re still here.”
We stand there for a second taking each other in. She’s changed into some baggy light denim shorts, a neon pink off-the-shoulder shirt, and plain whit
e canvas sneakers. Far more conservative than her costume for the video shoot. Still sexy as hell on her.
“At your service,” I finally answer.
She gives me a skeptical look.
I flash my most non-threatening grin. “Come on, I’ve got a 1987 FXR Harley.”
Her lips twitch into a brief smile. “I don’t know what that is.”
“A motorcycle.”
Still unimpressed.
“It’s got a special edition blue frame. Harley only built six hundred and fifty of them that year.”
“Oh,” she says in a dramatic voice, clearly humoring me, “well in that case, it sounds like something I shouldn’t pass up.”
“Exactly.”
We make it out to the sidewalk without speaking. When we reach my bike, she stops and stares. “It’s very pretty.”
Pretty. No one’s ever called my bike pretty before. Good thing none of my club brothers are around to hear that. They’d bust my balls for days. “Thanks.”
Still she hesitates. “I’ve never been on one of these before.”
“It’s easy, princess.” I talk her through the proper way to mount the bike and center her weight. In no time, she’s snuggled up against my back, arms around my waist, and we’re cruising down the Sunset Strip. It’s a Tuesday evening, so it’s not as busy as normal. There’re still enough people making the rounds to provide some entertainment.
Instead of taking her home, I drive down to the beach and slip into the first spot I find. Since she’s skittish and never told me where she lives, the beach seems perfect.
“That was amazing!” she yells as she gets off the bike and shakes her hair loose. It’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on her face, and it steals my breath for a second.
“You want to get something to eat? You must be starving after that shoot.”
Again, she seems surprised by my concern, and it makes me wonder if anyone’s ever taken care of this girl in her life.
I’m filled with an overwhelming need to protect this woman I barely know.
My desire to fuck her is overshadowed by my need to learn everything about her.
That’s a first.
Rhythm of the Road Page 40