Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (6 page)

There was no explanation for the phenomenon happening next. I blamed it on the video clip of him still swirling in my head along with the sexy flick just minutes ago. I stood, helplessly frozen, admiring his shadowy body. Even worse, despite him being a narcissistic rock star and my almost brother, I felt a tug of attraction.

He stirred for a split second and woke with a start. “Scarlette! What the hell?” In a reflexive motion, he grasped the edge of the cover sheet, pulling it up to his waist.

I couldn’t see his face, but his aggravated tone had my feet moving back a step. “Yeah, sorry. I just needed to ask you some stuff.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost two.”

A cross sound between a growl and a groan hissed through his lips, and he sat up, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Um, do you have anything for a headache?” Unconsciously, I pulled at my ponytail, loosening it.

“Like what? Like Tylenol?” He seemed to wait for a cue, and I wondered what else he had for a headache. Thanks to the media, it was no secret my stepbrother battled chemical addiction and had recently been in rehab after being so strung out he almost nodded off during a talk show.

Hoping I’d misread that curious gleam in his eyes, I nodded. “Or aspirin. I can get it if you just say where.”

“Bathroom.” He tipped his head toward a closed doorway to the left of his bed. “The top drawer on the end. And could you grab my phone? It’s in the dock right there by the shower.”

Natural light spilled through the bathroom windows. Dodging a towel on the floor, I found a bottle of over-the-counter pain-relief easily enough and shook two out. I turned for his phone and paused, enthralled by the view inside the yawning glass door of the shower stall.

The large rectangular tiles were shiny and white—and scrawled on. Automatically, my brain registered the words directly in my gaze.

Once upon a time when you were
mine.

We murdered happily ever after, fairy tales, and rhymes
.

Lyrics? Obviously. He’d always been a musician, through and through.

Every wall of the cavernous shower was spotted in places with red and black lyric graffiti verses. An Expo marker rested on a tiled ledge.

Distorted flickers of reality,

Contorted givers of immortality,

Aborted triggers of fatality
.

I had even overlooked a few verses on the glass shower door.

She fed me and bled me, a woman so deadly
.

Some of the lettering was slightly faded. Definitely not something done in the course of one shower.

“You find it?”

“Yeah.” I shook from the surprised spell and grabbed the phone. “I was just looking at your shower décor.” I babbled, hoping he didn’t think I was nosing around the couple of prescription bottles also rolling around in the drawer where I’d found the medicine. “The lyrics.” I prompted with a grin when I saw he was clueless.

“Oh. Those.” His gaze followed my progress across the room, and he returned my smile. “Inspiration strikes in the shower.”

On your knees,

so eager to please
…

Shaking away the lyrics implanted like snapshots in my mind, I tossed his phone to land beside him on the bed, and tried not to wonder why I was fetching it instead of him getting up already. But it was impossible not to speculate. Was he sporting morning wood? At the threshold to the hallway, I called over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. To you too. I’ll be down in a minute.”

I waited in the kitchen, on a stool, cradling a fresh mug of coffee and eating another of the delicious muffins.

Gage showed up and crossed directly to the waiting breakfast plate. He plucked a muffin and slid a coffee cup beneath the maker. His actions seemed routine.

He wore jeans and a faded vintage Beatles tee and sported a spicy, soapy fresh-from-the-graffiti-shower aroma.

Tilting my head toward the housekeeper, who held a bottle of spray and wiped down the outside furniture with vigorous hand movements, I asked, “What happens when she gets to your shower?”

“All concerned about clean sheets and showers, aren’t you?” He raised an inquiring brow, but squinted in what looked to be remorse when I felt my face flame. “Sorry about being a shit last night.” A spoon clinked against the side of his mug as he stirred in sugar while answering my question. “I take a picture of my notes and make a big ‘X’ on the door when it’s safe to clean.

“The life of a rock star.” Possibly, there was a tone in my sassy answer, because his eyes narrowed again, this time in contemplation, and I added my apology. “I’m sorry too. I can be a bitch. And last night I was.”

He nodded in acknowledgment and reached for another muffin.

“Those are really good.” Eager to dispel the awkward aura, I nodded to the remaining half a dozen on the plate.

“Poppy seed. I think.” He picked up the plate revealing an index sized card. “Yep. Lemon Poppy Seed.” Obviously, he felt the same because he engulfed the second helping as quickly as the first.

“The recipe?” I wondered, when after reading the card, he carelessly let it fall onto the countertop. With a shake of his head, he explained that the name of the dish, the ingredients, and any serving instructions were always left along with the food.

The ingredients but not the measurements. It seemed weird. But when I voiced it aloud, he thought my question just as weird.

“In case of food allergies. Why? You wanna bake muffins, Scar?”

The teasing glow in his eyes took me back to our teenaged days, and I enjoyed the fuzzy feelings. “Maybe.” He eyed me again, and I turned to the window to escape this familiar and yet unfamiliar gaze.

I waited until he’d had a few sips of his coffee and then asked if he had a car I could borrow.

“Where are you planning to go?”

“I’m not sure. I thought you could help me figure that out.”

I told him the story of Ivy. “It was her dream to meet those guys. She’s talked about them and downloaded or bought every Rageon song for years. When she told me they were playing at Key Arena, I emailed your dad, and he was great enough to send VIP passes and tickets to ‘Will Call.’” Here I paused, remembering Gage and I had gone to a couple of concerts in that venue.

Gage fixed himself another cup of coffee, and I watched his movements, studying the black circles beneath his eyes as I resumed.

“I was going to fly into Seattle and go with her. But I didn’t end up having the money and was slammed with assignments due. At the last second, she went with a friend.”

He was listening intently as he seized yet another muffin and pushed the plate my way.

“No thanks. Anyway, Ivy texted a couple of times during the concert and throughout the after-party, sending me pics and uploading pics and videos to Instagram. She was thanking me and saying what a blast she was having…”

My eyes fell to my lap, and I could feel his gaze on the side of my face.

“The last texts I got said something about how great the guys were. She’d been invited onto their bus and was having drinks and on her way to the next venue with them. She sent me a pic of the inside of the bus. And I never heard from her again.”

“When? How long ago was this?”

“About a month ago. When she didn’t answer my texts or calls for a few days, I called her mother.” Even though Ivy didn’t live at home anymore, her mom was worried as she’d never gone a full day without talking to her. “Her mom filed a missing person report, but nothing is coming of it. The authorities don’t seem serious about it, given the circumstances.”

“The circumstances?”

“You know. Girl idolizes rock band. Most likely goes on the road with rock band if that’s where she was last seen.”

“And it was Rageon, you said?”

“Yeah. Her voicemail filled up and stayed that way. And now her number is disconnected.” I added the last bit of information to convince him this wasn’t a ‘runaway with the band’ scenario.

He rubbed a finger to his chin, thoughtful, and I noticed that although his hair was drying in damp waves from a shower, he hadn’t shaved.

“If I think on it a minute, I’m sure I can figure out some link I have to someone who knows one of them or where they hangout.”

“Thank you!”

“But I can’t go with you or anything. I’m on a deadline in the studio. You can use one of my cars—or my driving service.”

“W
ell, I'm off!” Scarlette’s voice floated ahead of her. She appeared in the doorway of his studio before Gage could respectfully cover the evidence of the line he’d just blown.

Her brows puckered in a disapproving frown. Since she’d already seen it, instead of putting it away, he stood, rounding the table his goodies were spread upon.

“To the Rainbow?” He'd told her about two women who worked at the bar and grill and who frequently partied with Rageon, among other bands.

“Yeah.” Her eyes were now scanning the gear, equipment, and furnishings in the room.

Since he kept the room locked, especially when anyone was over like his hookup the previous night, he knew this was the first look she was getting of this room. Her eyes seemed wider in appreciation of all she was seeing—except for the drug paraphernalia.

“Wow. So after the shower, this is where it all happens, huh?” She’d trailed around equipment and cords to stand before a rack of guitars. Turning to face him, she tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

He couldn’t get used to the new color of her hair. It was beautiful on her. But he’d grown up with a Scarlette whose childhood golden blonde hair had gradually turned a sunny shade of brown when she became a teen.

“Yeah. My part of it anyway.”

“You write the songs?”

“Mostly.”

“They’re great, Gage. You’ve done well.”

After her anger the night before and semi-chilly demeanor today, the sincerity of the compliment threw him for a moment. And because she was practically his sister, it embarrassed him. Strangers could sing their praises all day and all night. But it felt odd coming from someone who knew him so well.

“Know how to get there?” He changed the subject. He’d offered to call his driver service, but she’d turned that down.

“I'm sure my phone’s map app will get me there fine.”

“The cars all have maps too.”

“Cars?” The ‘S’ hissed in emphasis at the end of the one word question.

He walked her to the garage. The light flickered on the moment he opened the door. Motioning her ahead of him, he paused before entering to select from the fobs hanging in the key panel. Following her, he found her again surveying her surroundings with her lips agape.

“Do I get to pick?” She ran her fingertips over the hood of a bronze Bentley.

“Hell to the no!” He feigned horror.

“C’mon. I’m a good driver…” She’d moved on to his yellow Lotus Esprit GTA.

“And that’s why you wrecked your Subi the day after your sixteenth birthday.”

“It wasn’t the day after. And that wreck wasn’t my fault.” Stopping before his Ducati bike, she regarded it.

“Says you.” He joked, knowing full well the fender bender she’d been in as a teen and had texted him pictures of, hadn’t been her fault. He held up the key fob.

“Fine. I’m happy to drive any of these babies.” She pivoted at the black Escalade and closed the distance between them.

Their fingers brushed as the device exchanged hands, and she pressed the button. When the Lotus flashed, she grinned.

“Thanks, big bro. I’ll take good care of it.”

“Be careful, Scar. It’s got a lot of muscle. It’s only a car. But you’re irreplaceable.” Had he really spewed that parental vomit? But she didn’t mock him. The smile when she tilted her face up to his before hastening to the car was so familiar, he marveled he hadn’t recognized her at first sight the previous night.

For a nanosecond, a familiar current ran between them, and the warm tingles of cozy memories tangled in his cerebrum.

“I will. I swear.” She took her place behind the wheel, adjusted the seat, and looked up with a bright smile. And he loved being the one who had put the glow of excitement on her face.

Shaking a pill from the script bottle
, he palmed it. Finding the whiskey bottle on his dresser empty, he popped the tablet into his mouth and swallowed it dry. Heading back down to the studio, he picked up a custom Charvel and strummed as he waited for the chemical compound that had been his muse in the past to infiltrate his bloodstream.