Rock (Hard Rock Harlots #4) (3 page)

“
N
o
,” Shades says. “Hell no. Killer Buzz Float will
not
tour with Banging Betties. Not now, not ever.”

I blink at him.
What?

And,
yes! Lawd, yes! Praise Baby Jeebus!
I mentally clap.

“Because it’s your ex and kid? Who fucking cares?” Rax replies. “Those Betties have
fans
. They’ll bring in new blood for us. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

“But … they suck,” I say, regaining a smidge of composure. “They’re overproduced, undertalented, incompetent hacks. And their singer is probably keeping Auto-Tune in fucking business. Her vocal chords must be a hot mess to
still
sound that bad despite all the digital help. Twenty bucks says those Betties can’t even read music.”

“How do you know it’s Shades’s kid, anyway?” Jinx pipes up.

All heads turn her way. She shrugs a shoulder as if to scrape off Rax’s you-must-be-joking glare-spatter.

How, indeed?

Rax leans back into the couch. “You can’t deny the thing looks like him.”

Okay, he’s got a point.

“She’s not a thing,” Jinx says softly. “Her name is Gabrielle. Call her Gabrielle.”

It’s a girl?
Humph.
Well, even if the little fucker isn’t his, Shades still withheld a lot of important information from me. He may have slept with Eliza after we got together. If so …

I smash my lips together to hold back the RAWR!

My jaw quivers, and a tornado of tingles gathers inside my swollen nose again. It takes every ounce of alcohol left in my body to talk the pain down.

Shades drops his gaze to the space between his feet while the rest of us cut him shifty glances. Tension thickens the air to the consistency of nearly visible shit steam.

Sigh.
I may be mad at him, but I don’t like everyone ganging up on Shades. I should deflect the attention elsewhere. He and I will have a long discussion about this baby shit later.

“Okay, enough of that. This isn’t about the kid.” It totally is. “It’s about the band and what’s the best for
us
. Either way, we’re second billing. Not exactly where we want to be.” I shoot a scowl at Jillian, like it’s her fault Killer Buzz Float can’t seem to break free of the “always a bridesmaid, never a bride” curse.

But I know as well as anyone, the blame doesn’t lie with her. Or any of us, for that matter. It’s the simplicity of the iAge consumer. The fast-food mentality. The lowest common denominator.

He who cranks out the music fastest, wins. The bands that grab Joe Sixpack’s attention with flashy outfits, lame clichés, and look-how-awesome-I-am social media commentary are the ones who make it to the top—not those who can actually
play
an instrument. Musicians who are ruled by passion, years of intense training, and practice no longer have a place in this all-you-can-eat society. We’re the endangered species.

I’ll admit, Killer Buzz Float played the glam rock card to get some new fans when we first broke out. We even added Eve to our performances for extra titillation. But the difference is, we’re
musicians
, not talentless, audio shit-slingers who know more about prefabbed GarageBand riffs and Auto-Tune vocals than complex time signatures, key changes, and unique chord progressions.

We’re
artists
who’ve perfected our craft over decades. They’re snake-oil salesmen salivating at the promise of fame and programming their do-everything computers to
sound
like music. Where’s the beauty in taking the easy way out when you could
craft
something truly moving—something
lasting
—out of nothing but vocal cords, wooden sticks, and some guitar strings? Where’s the beauty in improvisation? Or hitting a wrong note and figuring out how to cover it? Where’s the
art
?

Creators vs. destroyers.

Guess who wins?

Again, I say, fuck those Betties.

Except maybe for Eliza, who seems to be the only one of the lot who has any musical gifts.

Nah, fuck her too for being Shades’s ex.

“The only way to get top billing is to pay your dues,” Jillian says pointedly to me.

“What a crock of shriveled marsupial balls.” I reach up and smack the bulkhead of the bus a little harder than I mean to. Ouch. Again. “If Banging Betties paid any dues to land that gig, I’ll guzzle a vat of battery acid and chase it with a bottle of bleach.” It’d probably go down easier.

“Jeepers, Letty, you sound a little jealous.” Rax screws up his face. “Wake up and smell the Top 40.”

I flip him a bird so hard, I nearly dislocate my finger on liftoff. “I won’t sacrifice my integrity as a musician by praying at the altar of some bullshit
list
propagated by tinny-voiced blowhards who can’t
spell
the word ‘xylophone,’ let alone play one.”

He tilts his head. “Does your integrity as a musician pay for the monthly service on your phone?”

Grrr
… I grit my teeth. “Don’t you dare drag my phone into this, asshole.” Nobody fucks with my phone. Nobody.

“Okay, enough already.” Jillian steps between Rax and me. “Whatever we decide to do, it has to be unanimous.” She pauses and looks at each of us in turn. Tucking her straight, short hair behind an ear, she says, “It’s late. Some of us have had a long day. Sleep on it. We can talk about our options tomorrow. But we have to come to an agreement soon.” She pauses as if to add something, but then seems to think better of it. “I gotta go out for the night, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

Wait, where’s Jillian going? She’s never left us for an entire night while we’re touring.

“Everything okay?” Jinx says.

Jillian nods. Her face is inscrutable. Something’s up with her.

“Behave yourselves while I’m away.” She waggles a finger, grabs her purse, and exits down the stairs.

The six of us are left staring at each other. No one says anything for half a minute. I grab my hoodie and slip it on. Fuck this shit. I slam the baggie full of ice on the bus floor. “I’m out,” I mumble and head for the steps.

“Letty, wait,” Shades says behind me.

Without looking, I flip him off. He can go find his Betty and bang her tonight. I’m done.

Footsteps follow mine. As I hit the blacktop, Eve’s words dance from the open window and surf my wake. “I’ve never seen her so pissed before.”

Not sure I’ve ever
been
this pissed before.

“She’ll get over it.” Rax’s voice fades.

I snort. Mr. Sensitive.

“Go back to the bus, Shades,” I toss over my shoulder. “I’m not in the mood for you.”

His boots pick up speed, slapping pavement, eating up the ground between us. Acid rises in my gut, clearing the way for the impending explosion I’ll probably regret later. But I’m living in the moment and can’t see enough of the shady future to know what’s good for me. So, I turn up the heat full blast and let the whistle on the kettle scream.

I spin around. He runs into me, his face pinched with too many emotions to decipher. I shove him. He stumbles. When I realize I just took it up several unnecessary notches, I lift my arms in surrender. Shouldn’t have done that. Yet, I can’t soothe the burning in my cheeks.

Shades captures my hands in his, folds himself around them, and yanks me against his chest. “What part of ‘I love you’ did you not understand? In the eleven months we’ve been together, have I ever given you a reason to believe I’ve got anything but stupid, hopeless, head-over-ass love for you? That there’s anyone else I’d rather spend my entire fucking life with?” His pupils widen in the dark, and something protective—something threatening—leaks from his skin. But the powerful energy doesn’t threaten
me
. It threatens anything or anyone who would dare come between us.

My muscles unclench. A wave of relief sweeps in like a breeze on a hot day, and I stop struggling against him. My laid-back, easy-go-lucky man has been replaced by a dude who has something to lose.

He grabs either side of my face and tilts my head up to meet his fierce eyes. His lips invade my personal space without touching. Warm breath, strong arms, passionate loyalty. This is the Shades I want. The one I need.

“Answer me, Letty.” He lowers the volume, but not the intensity. That amps up higher.

I’m cornered. Turned on by this show of alpha aggression. And maybe a little acquiescent under the heat of his demanding tone. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you haven’t given me reason to doubt you.”

He nods slowly, trapping my undivided attention under the chokehold of his penetrating stare. The metal loop highlighting his brow sparkles as it arches. “Good. Now, are you gonna let me explain, pussycat? Because I’m not sleeping alone tonight.”

Who is this new Shades? And does he have a twin?
I’d like one three-way with a well-done Letty patty, a squirt spritzer, and a cream pie for dessert, please.
Must be the uniform giving him all this confidence. Or maybe it’s fatherhood.
Gulp
. Either way, the brassy new attitude looks damn fine on him.

“Okay. I’ll hear you out.” I glance around the parking lot. “But not here. Let’s take a walk.”

“One stipulation.”

I nod for him to continue.

“No judgment passed until I finish. Deal?”

Why do I get the feeling I’m not gonna like what he has to say?

Because he knows damn well he fathered that kid, and it’s already driven a huge wedge between us in the short time since we found out. Imagine how the rest of this shit will fall out.

It’s gonna change the way we live. It’s gonna influence our decisions as a couple. It’s gonna take time away from
us
.

But only if we let it.

If
I
let it.

My stomach sinks. I paste on an understanding smile I don’t come close to feeling and squelch the sudden urge to vomit. “Okay, no judgment. Tell me all about your baby momma.”

S
hades scoops
my hand into his, and we head down the sidewalk. It’s dark as shit out here—way past midnight—and kind of chilly. Normally, I’d be the first to whip out my genius phone (it’s far more intelligent than the average smartphone) and find an attraction to walk to, but it seems more appropriate to wander for this convo. Let the sidewalk take us where it will.

“You have Thanksgiving traditions at your house when you were growing up?” Shades says out of the blue. It’s the first weekend of November, but nowhere near Turkey Day. Wonder where this is leading?

“We never had a house. My dad was a firm believer in absentee parenting, so I didn’t see him much after he and my mom split. It was just Mom and I with an occasional appearance from my bat-shit crazy grandma. We didn’t …” I focus on the stars above and channel some of the warmth from Shades’s hand into mine. “We didn’t stuff turkey asses or eat their scrotums. At least, not that I remember.”

Shades laughs softly. “Turkeys don’t have balls.”

I stop and face him. “Hell yes, they do. They’re inside, near the kidneys, instead of outside. If you bread and fry turkey sacs, they taste like deep-fried mushrooms. At least, that’s what I heard. I never tried one myself. Fat Johnny used to keep turkey poppers in the back at the Barbeque Shack for his ‘special customers.’ Dipped ’em in ranch dressing or hot sauce. He always got the shits for a week after.” I shiver at the memory.

Shades’s face cycles through a series of expressions ranging from amusement to disgust. “It scares me you know so much shit about turkey nuts.”

“Yeah, me too.” So glad I don’t work for that nasty fucker Johnny anymore. Come to think of it, it’s been almost a year since I quit the Barbeque Shack to join the Cherry Buzz Float-Killer Dixon tour. Wow, time flies.

“I guess my family’s a little more … traditional,” Shades says. “You know my dad owns the Armstrong Hotel chain.”

I nod as we resume our trek to nowhere.

“He hosts a big shindig to celebrate Thanksgiving every year at the hotel in Boston. He and my mom invite politicians and their wealthy asshole friends. The party’s not about family at all. It’s about the appearance of generosity. And about being seen.

“I married Eliza in Vegas a year ago in March, mostly out of love, but also out of rebellion against my parents. Our elopement didn’t go over well. Dad gave me a bunch of shit about
us
not mixing with
them
. How it doesn’t look good. Total bullshit excuses that left me with more ammunition for despising him.”

I shake my head. One thing I don’t tolerate is fucking racism. What a dick.

“Anyway, it didn’t work out between her and me. Our schedules never synced. She was hardly ever home, doing gigs with Banging Betties, who were starting to gain popularity up north. We were both too immature to deal with masquerading as grown-ups together. We decided to be adults for the first time in our lives and call it quits. We filed for no-fault divorce. It was finalized the week of Thanksgiving.

“There was never any animosity between Eliza and me about the breakup. We stayed friends and kept living in the same house together. There was no reason not to. The lease was supposed to end in November. I’d been splitting my time between Boston and Athens for months with my first band. Then Killer Dixon fell into my lap. After I hooked up with Rax and Toombs, I planned to move south right after Thanksgiving. She had a new roommate coming in December first. It was all good.

“When Turkey Day rolls around, I decide to stick it to my dad. I invite Eliza to the party at the hotel so I can show off my hot ex-wife one last time before I hit the road. I wanted to prove to him I’m not the total fuck-up he thinks I am. Me and Eliza, we were like pigs in shit over the power we had to bring out so many eye rolls, snotty glances, and pearl clutches. We spent the whole night pushing my parents’ buttons with totally over-the-top PDAs, ass grabs, and lewd stares. By the time we left, we were half in the bag and horny as hell.

“So, we went home. We fucked all night. Our way of saying goodbye. Thanks for the memories. It was a good run while it lasted. Bon voyage.” He waves his curved palm at nothing like he’s Miss Fucking America leading a parade down Bourbon Street.

I inhale deeply and release my breath in a quiet whoosh. We stop at the next corner, and I face him. No cars in sight.

“You loved her.”

“Wouldn’t have married her if I didn’t.”

I frown. Of course he did. Dumbest question ever.

“Well, let me qualify my statement.” He pauses and sinks his soulful eye-barbs into me, masking their entry with words that rock my mountain: “I
thought
I loved her. But only because I hadn’t met you yet.”

Yank!
More ouches. Damn, those barbs smart! But this is a good ouch. A really, really good ouch.

I blow a raspberry at him. “You’re just trying to get in my pants.”

He grins. “Maybe. But it’s also the truth.”

Truth.
That shit is pretty relative. Despite him injecting me with love venom that liquefies my insides like a spider fixin’ to go down on a fat fly, I extract one of my biggest and most valid concerns—health—from my sweaty ass cheeks and wave it under his nose to see if he flinches. When a partner promises me he practices safe sex, I take him seriously.

“Like you telling me on the night we got it on with Rax behind the bus that you were always safe?” Much as I’d like another helping of the sweet flattery he’s so fond of drizzling on me, I take a small step back.

“I said, ‘unless I’m in a relationship.’ I was still in a relationship—sort of—with Eliza before I moved to Athens. We’d been married, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get more relationship-y than that.”

“You were divorced.” I stand my ground. “What if she went out before you two got it on and found some cute, green-eyed white boy to mess around with and didn’t use protection? Did you consider the possibility that baby thing isn’t yours?”

His Adam’s apple bobs over a swallow. “To be honest, no. I haven’t considered it. Because I
just
found out there’s a good chance I’m someone’s dad. You gotta understand something, pussycat. I’m as shocked as you are about this. I had no clue Eliza was pregnant. I haven’t talked to her since I left Boston. She comes here out of nowhere with this kid who looks like me, claiming I’m the father. What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, the first thing you should do is arrange for a paternity test. If you’re not the little shit’s father, you can declare Game Over and move on with your life.”

He sighs.

I’m confused by this sudden resistance. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Truth?” He lifts his brows.

“Truth.”

“I kind of don’t.”

My heart sinks. “Because …?”

“Because … it freaks me out. On the one hand, there’s a good chance I’m the kid’s dad. If she’s mine, it’ll change my life—and yours—in ways we never imagined. I can’t
not
be responsible for my daughter’s—” He chokes on the word. Verbally stumbles. Tries to catch himself. Falls regardless.

Two small lines of water flood the rims of his lower lids. He looks away and scrubs his face.

He’s really worried about this. And way more mature about it than I am. Even when faced with the possibility of being expected to unconditionally love someone he’s never met, of taking an active role in raising another human being to adulthood, of having to give up indulgences for someone else, Shades is totally prepared to man up.

Shit. Now he’s got me all choked up too. I turn into the oncoming breeze, willing the chilled night air to evaporate these damn tears before they have a chance to drop. I will not cry over Shades’s little bastard. I will
not
.

He swings his gaze my way again. “Every parent has to accept responsibility for their kid—planned or not. Wanted or not.” He slips into his usual easygoing state, but the casual front is girded with underlying stoicism, strength, and commitment. I selfishly wish it were for me. “I’m not ready to find out if she’s mine. I need time to process everything before I can take that step. Once the cat’s out of the bag—either way—there won’t be any way to get it back in. I gotta get to a point where I can accept whatever cards the universe deals and be prepared to bluff or fold.”

I stroke the bristles on his chin. “You’re too strong to fold, Shades.”

Lips pressed together, he urges me across the street. I have no idea where we are. Hell, I don’t even remember what city we’re in. A big brick building looms ahead. A wire fence squares off its side, and a swing set comes into view behind the woven silver diamonds.

It’s been six million years since I’ve been on a playground. “Come on.” I grab Shades’s hand and run toward the fence with him in tow.

The thuds of our boots are the only sounds here in the middle of nowhere. Such a stark contrast to the ever-present movement on a tour bus. On the road, nothing slows down. No time for stopping. It’s always go, go, go—to the next city, the next audience, the next paycheck.

Wonder if life will ever slow down enough for us to enjoy the little things together. Like sharing an ice cream. Or a walk on the beach with the sun warming our skin. Or blowing bubbles into the wind.

Or flying on a swing.

I slow my pace and look at Shades. “I want to swing with you.”

He perks up to attention. “You mean like, key-party-swing?”

I slap his arm. “No, you douche.” With a grand gesture, I indicate the playground. “
Swing
swing.”

He eases closer and palms my elbows as I smooth the front of his shirt. “We’d be trespassing.” The mischievous tone of his voice suggests he’s okay with breaking the law.

“You’re a cop.” I snuggle into his uniformed chest, turning my tender nose to the side as I absorb the thumps of his heart. “Who’s gonna say anything?” With a tweak of his fake badge, I tilt my face upward and wink.

My man stares down at me, and the frustrations from the last couple hours fade away. Tomorrow the shit will return with a vengeance, but right now I have Shades. My Rock. My dream. My life. He’s all that matters.

I slip my cold fingers down the front of his gross polyester pants and gather his balls. “I wonder if human sacs taste like ’shrooms when you fry ’em.”

He shovels a mass of hair from my cheek and curls his hand around the back of my neck. Leaning close enough to kiss, he says, “How about I dip ’em in that deep fryer pussy of yours, and we’ll find out?”

“You’re on.”