Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (58 page)

“Scarla.” Colt’s voice echoed down the hallway, interweaving with the melody Gage was churning out. “Scarla!”

The guitar stopped. As her foot hit the first stair, I heard Gage’s angry rumble. “What the hell is going on with you two?”

“Gage!” Unable to catch his father’s attention, Seth hailed Gage.

Urgency in his tone, piled atop his numerous hails of his father, made her pause and she warily turned.

“Is that one of those drones?” Seth’s face was tipped up, and he inclined his chin in an over-there nod.

Colt and Gage abandoned the fight brewing between them and unlocked their glares to follow Seth’s line of site. Curious, she retraced a few wet steps and gawked at the sky and the dark object against it. It was far enough away to be mistaken for a bird, but it hovered like a bee just beyond the property and about roofline level.

“Motherfucker!” Gage swore, and Colt echoed a version of the curse. “Motherfuckin’ paparazzi drone!”

Seth remained a stationary fixture in the pool, captivated, but both of the men stirred with a purpose. Colt grabbed his phone, and Gage bolted inside through the den instead of his studio entry. He pressed one of several switches on the wall plate the housekeeper had shown her on the morning after her arrival.

To her amazement, a sail-like awning began to glide down the timber structures hanging over the patio and pool.

And she’d been slathering on the highest proof sunblock every time she swam!

Next, he excavated his phone from the pocket of his shorts, and spoke into it to a person she’d heard as a name in his security detail. With another press of a button, the glass crept shut.

Just beyond, on the patio, Colt was having a hard time convincing Seth to come inside. He glanced back, seeing her before becoming a bit firmer with his son, and she took the opportunity to run upstairs.

Paparazzi drones?

A shiver of sheer creeps rippled through her limbs at the thought of a hovering camera lens, spying on them all.

And the reason this paparazzi drone thing had appeared today of all days was both shocking and terrifying. Gage’s revelation earlier that morning of legal matters as well as label matters had her inwardly quaking with dread.

Her big brother was under a shit load of stress, and it seemed his band—his
friends
—were piling on even more pressure by not helping with a song deadline.

Upstairs in her room, she closed the door and flipped the lock. Finally alone—and safe from drones— she dwelled on my mix of emotions.

For the last several hours, she’d done nothing except drift in the pool and—oblivious of the canopy—relax in what little shade there was while listening to Gage struggle with his composition.

In addition to doing his thing, Gage had also phoned the private investigator for her. The professional was now doing what he could to track Ivy. She felt relieved to have an expert on it. It’s what she would have done from the start if she’d had the finances. As it was, she would pay Gage back in a few months—not that they had discussed who the bill was going to. Gage had simply organized it.

The morning had begun so weirdly with the attraction between Gage and her rearing its head again. Then when he’d confessed his legal problems to her, he was back to being the big brother who she wanted to hold until everything wrong in his life was right again.

Considering all of this, she had looked forward to Colt and Seth coming by. And then Colt had acted like a first class ass. She’d wanted to hit him in the head with the pool grapple.

Wouldn’t that have been a shot for the paparazzi drone!

With the tablet still in her hand, she headed into the bathroom, started the bathwater, and remained sitting on the edge of the tub.

Her fingers slid over the screen. A tap to the YouTube icon. A Swype across the keyboard. ‘G-A-G-E-R-E-M-I― ‘ Ah, there it was.

A cornucopia of Gage Remington videos aligned for her viewing choice. She’d already considered what she could type in to narrow the search, but nothing more was necessary. The videos she sought were there, scattered among the suggested selections.

Gage Remington attacks heckler.

Gage Remington stops Fire Flight show.

Gage Remington throws water bottle back.

Gage Remington vs random hater.

Gage Remington has a go at hater. Fire Flight St. Louis.

Gage Remington pissed.

Gage Remington tells audience off.

Fire Flight Gage Remington drunk sings Tough as Nails.

Gage Remington wigs out. Fire Flight.

When the shock of seeing such video taglines subsided, she selected randomly. Sucked into the screen, she gazed over the silhouette of the backs of hundreds of heads. Amid the darkness, the stage was brighter than day, the lights strobing on the members of Fire Flight. With his guitar hanging, Gage clutched the mic, singing, and it was clear he wasn’t at his best. The strength of his vocals seesawed and parts of the verses were slurred. Suddenly, he stepped back, held up a hand to the rest of the band. Bending, he picked something up from the stage and hurled it into the crowd.

She had to rewind to see that indeed, a water bottle had been thrown. From then on, it became a hate fest between Gage and someone beyond the camera view.

“What?” Gage knelt at the edge of the stage, and the reply wasn’t picked up by the recorder. “You know what? Fuck you then. Come sing it yourself!” With a motion, Gage invited the heckler to the stage. “No, I’m serious!” He held out the microphone. “Come on up.” And then things digressed to worse proportions. “Come up or shut up!” An illegible answer from within the crowd followed and Gage responded, “Then come on. If you can sing it better, get your ass up here! What?” Before the altercation was over, Gage had thrown the mic and a loud thud resounded through the audio of the video. Security coped with the restless crowd. Techs jumped into action, one leaping into the audience, supposedly to fetch the mic and another handing off a different mic to Gage.

Her stomach felt queasy. And yet she watched another. In this video, Gage was provoked enough that he lost it and jumped from the stage into the crowd. Security surged forward and soon had him in hand. Colt ran offstage and within a minute, both he and Gage were back and the drums began the beat to the next song.

The next one… Why did she continue to click play? A Gage she’d never seen before ripped his guitar from his body, threw it to the stage, and ran to the edge of the stage where his yells were articulately picked up in the headset. “You have a problem with me?” Behind him, a tech ran onto the stage and grabbed the abandoned instrument while Gage continued, oblivious to anything but whoever he was fixated on in the first few rows of bodies. “Why are you here? Why are you ruining the show for everyone who wants to be here? Fuck off!”

And then the final click out of the many left. The one she realized she’d all along been after. The rambling rant about racism and groups commonly discriminated against who seemed to bring on their own problems that had caused enough discord in the crowd to rile them up into what was considered a riot.
Inciting a riot. Hate crime
.

He was a man possessed. In each of these videos, she was looking at his body, but an entirely different person inhabited it. Even his mannerisms were alien to her. The fanatical way he moved, the contortion of his features. Gage on smack, smacked her head on with the memories of a number of Henni’s boyfriends.

To wipe the images from her mind, she clicked past a few pages and chose ‘Fire Flight-Silent Signals-Live San Paulo.’ One of her favorite Fire Flight songs. Relaxing into a more familiar Gage, she gladly let the ugly images fade away.

By the time the video finished, the bath was half drawn. Divesting of her swimsuit, she sank into the warmth of the water. For a few minutes, she read with the tablet propped on a towel in the window overlooking the twinkle of the San Fernando Valley, letting the program turn the pages for her. Her fingers moved over her skin, and soon her heart rate sped up, remembering Gage’s touch this morning.

Dunking her hands beneath the water, she found the washcloth she’d dropped in and tried to blank her mind as she bathed. When the soft terrycloth brushing over her felt erotic enough that Gage’s face popped into her mind again, she determinedly reached for her tablet.

Remember who he’s capable of being. He’s a damn rock star. Don’t obsess over him
.

Going to the browser, she perused her bookmarks and selected one. When the page loaded, she clicked “Newest Videos” and settled back. The mission was to get Gage’s features out of her mind and it worked as she watched.

Two of the five to ten minute clips played, and halfway through the third, she sat upright, sloshing water from the tub. Leaning forward, she peered at the screen and then rippled the water surface again as she reeled back. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she rubbed them with her wet fingers wanting to unsee the last half a minute. Blindly hitting at the pause icon, she clicked back to the name on this particular video.

Just Leaked! Bradley Walker and New Lover Ivy Messlehof

Leaping from the tub, she wrapped a towel around her torso and carefully, so she wouldn’t drop it into the water, picked up the tablet. Pushing the toilet lid down, she sat, clicked over to the browser, and typed in her friend’s name.

Every link on the first search page was headlined by the same two names. Who was this Bradley Walker? Another search heralded him as one of the hottest new actors in Hollywood. Clicking images, she stared at the pictures, but he wasn’t familiar. She hadn’t watched many American movies—or movies, period—in the last few years. The only time his name was linked to Ivy’s was in the recently released celebrity sex video.

So it would have been this easy, at least for the last couple of weeks? A damn Google search? Why wasn’t the PI calling with this info?

Entering the bedroom, she crossed to the dresser and picked up a pair of undies and shorts resting on top of a folded stack of clothing. It was still weird to have a housekeeper doing her laundry. Hastily, she dressed and ran down the stairs in bare feet. She had only left the pool and its lurking drone about an hour ago, but from all appearances, Colt and Seth had gone home. The glass was closed to the night, and she turned toward the music studio.

Padding over, she twisted the latch and found it uncharacteristically unlocked. The lights were on and the room was a wreck. Guitars were haphazardly strewn everywhere, some so randomly it looked as if they’d been tossed about. Amps, computer screens, and various gear were still powered on. Several crumpled up paper balls littered the floor.

Had Gage gone up to bed? Or was he in the theater room? Or was he gone?

She had a strong urge to hug him―if he was still in the house and had not taken one of the cars out at this time of night as he had a couple of times. Maybe this—the pressure—was the reason behind temperamental rock stars. Maybe the feeling of helplessness when a deadline approached or when almost every area of your life was no longer dictated by yourself was the reason so many in this business looked to chemicals to cope.

Gage was doing well. Since the night she’d found him in the shower, he hadn’t been a total wreck like the unrecognizable brother who had greeted her the night she’d arrived or like the madman in the videos. Although he was still using, it seemed he was making an attempt at moderation.

Retracing her steps, she went to the back staircase she’d used a moment ago. The door to the coatroom lured her. Curious, she passed through it to the garage. After tapping at the alarm, she opened the door and unconsciously breathed easier when all of the rides were in their places. Of course, if he’d gone out and hadn’t wanted to drive, he could have called a car. Normally he sent her a text if he made plans, but she’d been so excited over the Ivy news she hadn’t checked her phone.

After locking back up and making sure the light on the alarm was rearmed, she ascended the back stairs. The walls on either side were spotty with pictures of him, his family, and friends, and some artwork she assumed could be his. She paused before a picture of him around age five with his mother, which by her calculations had been taken shortly before that parent had passed away. Her eyes were slightly sunken, evidence of the disease already wreaking havoc on her body.

Was it harder to grow up without a mother and to be subjected to stepmothers like Henni Smythe, or was it harder to have Henni Smythe as an actual mother, as she had? There was literally—yes, literally―a million-dollar question. There was a picture of him and his father, possibly at an awards ceremony. By the looks of Gage, it had been only a few years ago. And the one that always caught her eye each time she used these stairs. A picture of him and her as a tween and young teen, taken at a birthday party. The camera had caught them laughing together at who knows what.

Was he still her silly, but now disturbed brother? Or was he becoming something more to her?

Her feet touched the landing and instinctively, she turned toward his room. The door to his bedroom was ajar, as if Rascal had pushed his way inside.

Sure enough, Gage was half-propped, half-lying against the headboard of his massive bed, and the canine rested in his normal spot near the footboard.

“Hey!” Her heart sped up at finding him home and awake. “Guess what! It’s a weird story, but I found Ivy!”

He stirred a bit, and his lips moved as if they were returning her smile, but they didn’t quite. “That’s great.” When he asked no further questions, showed no further interest, she turned, looking behind her to see what held his attention on the television.

But the TV screen was black.

“Are you feeling okay?” She had been moving closer as she spoke, and he answered when she stopped beside the bed. The lamp illuminated his face enough for her to see his droopy eyes. His lips were slightly parted in the slack-jawed look often accompanying sleep.