Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (8 page)

“Miss Charell.” The voice behind me sends a sharp chill down my spine, a sense of foreboding that makes me clench my teeth to keep them from chattering.
The fuck is this asshole doing here?
I turn slowly and stare at Brayden Ryker with all the confusion and frustration that I'm feeling right now.

“Stalker, much?” I ask with a brief lift of my shoulder. See this guy here, he gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies. He didn't, but he does now. After everything that happened at the concert, and the way he covered it all up, he's about as transparent and readable as a report from the CIA. I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. Considering he's probably a good two hundred pounds heavier than me, that's not all that far.

Brayden Ryker crosses his arms over his chest and smiles at me, all bright and cheery like.
Jesus H. Christ. Maybe he found the body?
I turn back to the secretary and lean over, giving her my best shark smile, all teeth and no happy.

“Why don't you just take down my number and have Mag call me back when she gets the chance? Seems like something's come up.” The bitch behind the counter very grudgingly hands me a business card and a pen, waiting with pursed lips while I jot down my number and toss it back to her.

When I turn back to look at Brayden, he's gone, standing outside the glass doors in the harsh yellow sunlight and the oppressive city heat.

“You following me or something?” I ask as I step out next to him, lighting up a cigarette and asking myself why, why, why I had to get involved in all of this shit. I stare the security guard up and down, from his boots to his sleeves of floral tattoos. For someone who's in the business of protecting others, he sure does let a lot of people go six feet under. “You're not really in security, are you?” I ask and Brayden shrugs, like he has no intention of answering my question.

“Do you like music, Miss Charell?” he asks me as I lean back against the glass windows behind me and hope to hell I'm leaving prints or streaks or something that the secretary will have to come clean off. Knowing Los Angeles though, it'll probably be some poor, underpaid sap with too much work and no respect. I stand up straight.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, tilting my head to the side and letting blonde hair cascade over my shoulder. “Mostly eighties stuff, the occasional pop song. I guess I like rock 'n' roll okay if my brother's not involved.” I smile tightly. “Why do you give two fucks about any of that?”

“I don't actually, but I figured I'd make small talk while we wait for the van.”

“What fucking van?” I ask as a white mini makes its way around the corner.

“That one,” Brayden says, curling his fingers around my arm. “Get in.” The strength of his grip tells me that's not a suggestion – it's an order.

“Are you pissed about that whole leaving-a-corpse-in-KK's-hotel-room thing?” I ask as soon as the van doors are closed against the sweltering heat. There's no point in beating around the bush; Brayden must know about the body by now. He might be a shitty security guard, but I get the feeling his inadequacy in that area is by choice. The man is a perceptive beast. “Because you totally started it, and I'm definitely not apologizing.”

Brayden ignores me, draping his arms over the back of the seat and closing his eyes for a long moment. I keep my legs crossed and pretend I don't give two shits about being almost, sort of, kind of kidnapped by the sexy Irish brute.

“What's your deal anyway? Leaving a dead body in a bathtub? I mean, I'm no saint, but that's kind of fucked up.”

“That was clever, using the wheelchair and all. Did you think that one up on your own?”

“Maybe,” I say, tapping my fingers against my thigh and wishing I was anywhere but here. Preferably naked in front of a camera at the Tattoo Terror studio. Instead, I'm weaving through the streets of Los Angeles in the back of an nondescript white van with Oregon plates. Fun. “Why? You looking to hire some new recruits? Because I need a job and let's just be honest, you
suck
at providing security.”

Brayden laughs, but the sound's all crispy and bitter and broken, like this is a man that's got nothing left to lose.
Wonderful.
And that doesn't make him seem scary at all.

“Sydney Magnolia Charell, how do you like your life?”

“That's not a weird question at all,” I say, folding my arms over my breasts as the radio switches to an Amatory Riot song and Dax's drums come pummeling out at me. The sound gets under my skin and makes me shift in my seat, leather creaking under my skintight jeans. My sore pussy is a nearly constant reminder of what we did earlier this afternoon. Can't escape an ache in the seat, huh? “Can't complain, I guess. I'm not on the pipe, not working as a prostitute, and currently in possession of all four of my limbs. Why?”

“Because you're marked by the families,” Brayden drawls, like he doesn't give a fuck that he's speaking in tongues and freaking me the hell out.
I'm not gonna end up broken and buried shallow, am I?
“Well, one family anyway. I have no clue what's up with the other.”

I turn to Brayden and steeple my hands against my lips.

“Okay, look, this is gonna sound a little … bitchy, but can you speak English? Like, in a way that I can understand because
marked by the families
really doesn't mean shit to me.”

Brayden Ryker leans in close, his moss colored eyes locking down on me. If I was a weaker person, I'd crumble under that gaze. But fuck, I've been stripping since I was sixteen and I have seen some shit. I'm not even sure there's a person alive today who could break me with a stare.

“Imagine you have … money. Lots of it. Enough that you can have anything you want.
Anything.
”

I raise an eyebrow and reach up, flicking my pink triangle earring with my fingers. It was my mom's. She wore it when she was hot shit in the eighties. I kind of have a thing for that decade. Can't help myself.

“Okay … that's sort of like asking me to imagine a triangle with four sides, but shoot. Keep going. I can follow a train of thought like nobody's business.”

“Now imagine that you'd lost your appreciation for even the most basic of things like luxury or comfort or sex.” I lift the other brow and part my lips with a pop.

“Continue.”

“Then imagine that the only things you give a crap about, these very rare, very special things are then taken away from you by someone you hate.”

“Can you wrap this up,” I ask as I spin my finger in a small circle. “Because I have a feeling you're about to lay some shit on me.”
I should've stayed back at the house with the boys—or in the hotel with Dax.
I swallow hard and close my eyes for a brief second, opening them back up with a flick of lashes.

“So, what do you do?” Brayden asks, tilting his head to the side as we pull around the block and come right up to the gate of the mansion. Full circle. Everything always comes full fucking circle.

“I get those things back?” I ask, not sure if there's a right answer to this question.

“And if you can't?”

“Then I guess I'd settle for a steaming hot plate of good ol' fashioned revenge.”

Brayden Ryker smiles wide at me, leans over and opens the door to the van.

“Exactly. So forget about your contract, forget about Mag Delano, and forget about a future if we can't figure this shit out. Fight the tide and you'll lose. Trust me, I tried that once and it didn't work out so well for me. Now, get out and don't leave the house again without a goddamn fecking bodyguard.”

“Do you ever use ankle weights when you practice?” Ronnie asks me, standing in front of his kit with a slight half-smile. On the bed behind us, Treyjan Charell scowls and flips me the bird when he sees me watching him. I think I hear him say something about boning his sister, but whatever. Sydney's a big girl. Pretty sure she can take care of herself.

At least, I hope so since she's not even fucking here.

I hold back a sigh as I curl my fingers into fists. After Sydney ran out on me—pretty fucking literally—I sat there for all of ten minutes and then asked Brayden's guys to bring me over here. But when Ronnie let me into her room, she was gone. Apparently, that was a surprise to everyone and not just me.

I try to focus on Ronnie McGuire. When the King of the Kit invites you to a drumming lesson, you attend, whether you like it or fucking not. Small miracles, Turner Campbell doesn't seem to be around.
Thank the fucking dark gods.

“To be honest, it never even occurred to me,” I say as I bounce my legs up and down, testing the extra weight on my ankles. Some distant part of me's thrilled that I'm getting lessons from a rock god, but the more present, more cynical part is reminding me that this guy spent a whole decade getting high and drifting through life on poisoned candy clouds.
How the hell is he as good as he is?
Maybe he just tweaked all the hell over his drums? I don't know.

“I always practice heels-up and heels-down with the weights,” Ronnie continues as Lola Saints watches from a nearby chair, her eyes fixed on her new boyfriend, hands folded over her knee. “Play for a while like that and then toss the weights aside. It'll feel like you're on fucking speed or something. Your feet'll friggin' fly. Trust me, it's amazing.”

“You know, it's almost like you take this whole drumming thing seriously,” Lola jokes, tossing Ronnie a wink that he returns with a long, lingering gaze that makes me fucking uncomfortable as hell. Didn't they
just
meet? And they've already got that lovey-dovey look that people kill for.

I sigh and spin the sticks in my fingers. When I agreed to come in here, I was kind of under the impression that Sydney would eventually show up. I know it's stupid as hell, but I was hoping she'd watch me play. Instead, an hour in and she's still missing. I shouldn't give a shit. But I do. Goddamn it.

“The fuck is going on in here?” Turner Campbell asks, appearing in the doorway with his hands tucked into his front pockets. I stifle a groan and make myself take a deep breath.
So much for frigging miracles. Never mind, screw the gods. They seriously must have it out for me.
Turner's eyes drift over to me, dark brows raising as he takes me in with an annoying smirk. My fingers tighten around the sticks until I hear a small crack. Yeah, I hate him
that
much. “Trying to teach the Little Drummer Boy a thing or two?” he asks Ronnie, scooting into the room dressed in a white T-shirt that says
R-E-S-P-E-C-ME.
Hilarious.

“Question,” I say, setting the sticks down and standing up from the stool, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why am I a
Little Drummer Boy
but Ronnie's not? Huh? I thought you said drummers were a dime a dozen?” Turner rolls his eyes like I'm the one who's a fucking idiot.

“I said pretty boy drummers were a dime a dozen.” Turner snaps his fingers, brown eyes twinkling. Something must've happened with Naomi at the hospital, something good. “Clearly Ronnie's not pretty,” Turner says, giving his friend a disapproving once-over. “And he's old as fuck, so he doesn't count as a boy either. He might be a whore with like a dozen kids, but nobody ever said gods were infallible, right? We make mistakes here and there.”

“We?” I ask, not at all amused. Some people think Turner's cute or charming or whatever, but not me. And it's not just because I'm not gay or bi or whatever, but just because he's annoying. As fuck.
God, I hate him.

“Yeah. We.” Turner slips a smoke from his pocket and lights up while we stare each other down. “Got a problem with that?”

“Down boy,” Sydney says, sweeping into the room behind Turner and slapping him hard on the ass. I get that she's just fucking around with him, but holy crap. In an instant, I go from annoyed to enraged, like I'm about two seconds away from picking these sticks back up and shoving them down Turner Campbell's million dollar throat.
Stupid son of a bitch.

My eyes catch on Sydney's as she sweeps over to the bed and tosses a pair of pink stilettos down next to her brother.

“Where the hell have you been? And where's my chair? Why the fuck doesn't anybody listen to me?” We all continue ignoring Trey. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Clearly he's the omega in the room.