The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance) (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vince waved at me from behind the glass of the recording
studio. I took in the ridiculous image of Vince Davis, American Rock God. His
gray-tipped hair poked out in wild tufts, which he pulled at with one hand
while making wild gestures with the other. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't
hear a thing.

I blew out a breath and popped the plugs out of my ears.
"What'd you say?"

"I said," he started, letting his annoyance bleed
through his voice. "This is supposed to be a ballad. You are beating the
shit out of those drums. Ease up."

Rafe leaned against the sound-proofing that lined the walls.
"Honestly, Nik, this was your beat. What the hell are you doing?"

I shrugged. "I'm tired, that's all."

"Dad," Rafe yelled towards the glass. "Can we
get Nikki a Red Bull or something?"

"Nobody gets shit until this track is laid," Vince
barked back.

Dion sat beside him in the booth, leaning back in a desk
chair, hands behind his head. His vocals were already laid. "Come
on," he groaned. "Grimm wanted this yesterday."

"Just this last track and we're golden," Vince
said, changing his tactic. "You guys are getting a hotel room for the
night."

I blinked. "Hotel?"

"Bus needs some work, can't sleep there," he said
with a smile. "I've booked you rooms at a Motel 6."

"And you're staying where?" I muttered under my
breath.

"What did you say?"

"I said, are you staying there?" I shouted to the
glass.

Vince guffawed. "Come on, Nikki, you know I can't stay
there."

"Of course not," I muttered, shoving the earplugs
back in. "Let's just get this done."

It took another hour, but we got the track down. Vince and
Dion stayed behind to work out the mix, and I headed to the club for sound
check. Between a sleepless night waiting for the tow truck and then a rushed
afternoon recording session, I exhaustion creeped through my bones.

Presley and Jett were perched on the barstools when I
arrived. Presley was sipping a Shirley Temple.

"What's with you?" Presley asked, her lips pursed
around the straw.

"I need a nap," I said. "They got any Red
Bulls?"

Presley shrugged. "The bartender finished her set up
and split."

"Crap," I muttered. Just my luck.

"How'd the recording session go?" Presley asked.

I yawned. "Okay, I guess. Vince seemed happy."

"Did you hear about tonight?" Jett asked,
practically giddy. "Where we're staying?"

I was too tired to share the enthusiasm. "The motel?
Yeah, Vince mentioned it."

"It'll be nice to be out of those bus bunks," Jett
said. "After those, a Motel 6 bed will feel like we're sleeping on
Hypnos."

Presley sighed at the name of Britain's most exclusive (and
expensive) mattresses. "They have those at the Four Seasons. I love the
Four Seasons."

"It'll be nice to have some privacy for a change,"
I added, feeling a blush creep up my neck as my thoughts went straight to Dion.

Presley smirked. "Are you saying Fanboy followed us to
Spokane?"

"Maybe he's the one that sent those flowers?" Jett
suggested, nodding to a vase of blood red roses at the end of the bar.

"Someone sent you flowers?" Presley said, her
voice a smattering of jealousy mixed with incredulity.

My heart just about burst from my chest, waking me up real
fast. I raced to the end of the bar to investigate them. No one ever sent me
flowers before.

I extracted the card from the long stems and ripped open the
envelope. My racing heart stopped dead when I read the note.

Rose are red, you're fucking dead.

I folded the note over and dropped into a bar stool between
my sisters.

"So, who's it from?" Presley asked.

I shook my head. "No one."

"No one doesn't send a dozen long stem roses,"
Presley teased. "Not unless he's serious."

 I held out the note to her. "I think no one is."

She snatched it out of my hands. Her eyes went wider with
each word she read. "Holy shit!"

Jett closed the book she was reading. "Holy shit
what?"

"It's another threat," Presley said, holding the
paper out to her. "I mean, not exactly a poet whoever it is. Nik, we've
got to call the cops. Call Vince. Call someone."

"We know who's doing this," I said, my voice low.

"Dion," Presley said, her eyes narrowing.

Betrayal is like a knife to the heart. It slices in,
exposing the most vulnerable part of you.

Jett reached around me and took the note out of Presley's
hand. "Don't be so quick to point fingers at Dion."

"Who else could it be?" I argued.

She shook her head. "Who the hell knows? The world is
filled with crazies. But Dion? I think he's accepted you as part of Rogue
Nation." She read the words on the note. "And his songwriting ability
is way better than this shitty 'roses are red' poem lets on."

"That bad poem could be a ruse," Presley snorted.
"Dion accept one of us? I doubt it."

"According to Rafe he has," Jett insisted.
"And I think my source of information is better than your
assumption."

"He said something to Rafe? About me?" I asked.
Hope knotted in my stomach.

"Rafe said he said that you were the best thing that
happened to the band, and that without you, the band would have been done.
Kaput. That's some compliment coming from a guy like Dion."

Presley shook out her hair. "I don't buy it."

"You are such a conspiracy theorist," Jett
scoffed. "Quick, who was on the grassy knoll?"

"What the hell do garden gnomes have to do with
this?" Presley asked.

Jett burst out laughing. "Grassy knoll, you halfwit.
You know, the President Kennedy assassination?"

Presley blinked at her. "I thought he died in a plane
crash."

Jett rolled her eyes. "That was his son," Jett
said, exasperated. "And you still want to fly?"

"He wasn't a musician," she stated.

I waved my hands. "Hey, guys, on me, okay? Threat to my
life here, remember?"

"Sorry," Jett said, pulling her red curls back
into a lose ponytail. "OK, gnomes notwithstanding, I just don't think it's
him. I mean, Dion exploded when he found out you were joining Rogue. Like, epic
tantrum. For days. I don't see him hiding behind anonymous notes."

"True," Presley said, drumming her manicured nails
on the bar. "You don't live in the house anymore, so you missed the
drama."  

"Lots of slamming doors," Jett agreed. "He
and Vince nearly came to blows."

"Vince was totally defending you the whole time,"
Presley added.

"Well, he was really defending Grimm's bank
account," Jett clarified.

Presley rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Nik, you need to
tell Vince. He'll fix this. He fixes everything."

"Thanks, anyway, Presley, but I am not joining the
Vince Davis fan club."

Jett fingered the note. "She has a point."

"Not you too?" I pleaded.

"This shit's getting serious. We need to do something
before—" Rafe walked into the club, and Jett clamped her mouth shut.

"Before what?" he asked. The three of us zipped
our lips closed. He shrugged. "I know all about it."

Jett held up the note. "You do? And what do you
think?"

"Just let them have their bidding war. Sit back and
enjoy."

Presley cocked an eyebrow. "Bidding war? What bidding
war?"

"Wait? Are you talking about the same thing?" he
asked.

"We're talking about this," I said, snatching the
note from Jett. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, damn," he muttered. A pained look spread over
his face. "Okay, but you didn't hear it from me. According to what I just
overheard, there's a bidding war between Grimm and SubPop for Satan's
Sisters."

That sound? That was my jaw hitting the floor.

Presley blinked at him. "What?"

"When I was leaving the recording studio, Dad was on
conference call with Grimm and Eric, the A&R guy discussing it. And from
the decibel level of Grimm's voice, I'd say SubPop is winning."

Warning bells went off in my head. "Wait. Who the hell
is negotiating this deal? Vince?"

"Who else?" Rafe said, cracking his knuckles.
"And if you tell him I told you, I will deny the whole thing. No joke,
don't screw me."

"Screw you?" I snorted. "Sounds like we're
the ones getting screwed. Vince is not supposed to—"

"If not Vince, who?" Presley jumped in.
"We're pissing in the wind, here, Nik. We have no one going to bat for us
except him."

"We have us," I reminded her. "We do this
shit all the time."

Presley tossed up her hands. "We negotiate door splits
with shitty clubs, Nik. A record deal? That's kind of big league."

I turned to Jett. "Vince is not signing us with Grimm
Records."

"Sorry, Nik," Jett apologized. "I'm with
Presley on this one. I just want the best deal, and one that includes holding
onto my publishing rights. You sound paranoid."

"Vince is negotiating for us, and we're taking his advice,"
Presley said. "Case closed."

"There is no case closed," I protested. "What
happened to making decisions together?"

"Why do you hate him so much?" Presley questioned.
"He's done right by us the past several years."

"Way to revise history," I scoffed. "He's
never treated us like Rafe and Dion. You know, like his kids."

"We're not his kids," she yelled.

"He's our stepfather," I argued.

"That's what the legal system calls it, sure," she
said. "But come on Nik! I was 16 when he married Pamela. I was hardly
looking for a new daddy. Even you, at 12? After what mom and dad put us
through, the last thing we needed was another parent to screw us up."

"After what they put us through, I sure could have used
another parent," I grumbled.

Jett touched my arm. "I think you need to be a little
more circumspect, Nik. He gave us a good life. Better than what we had with
mom. Alone on the road? Tour bus after tour bus? Sometimes sleeping in on the
floor of the van with the gear? Groupies ain't no fun with kids on the bus.
Remember that?"

"A roof over our heads? A stable home? A closet full of
clean clothes? Food in the fridge? We can thank Vince for that," Presley
huffed.

"We can thank the maids for that."

"A good education," Jett added. "Private
school was all him. So's UCLA."

I yanked my arm away from Jett. "You'd have gotten a
scholarship."

Presley rubbed her temples. "Stop being so stubborn,
Nik. Vince has our best interest at heart."

"Does he really?" I hissed. "How much money
does he stand to make from this deal? Grimm offering a little kickback,
maybe?"

"Hey, maybe SubPop's not the best label for you,"
Rafe interjected. "Indie cred don't pay the rent."

"Statistically speaking, Grimm is the hit-making machine,"
Jett agreed.

I slid off the bar stool looked back and forth between my
sisters. "I cannot believe that this does not bother either of you."

"What doesn't?" asked Dion, walking into the club.
My anger faded at the sight of him. Even in baggy cargo shorts and a long
sleeve t-shirt, he looked hot and it was ruining my resolve.

"Nothing," I muttered, shoving the note in my
pocked. I paced towards the stage. "Let's get on with this sound check.
Where the hell is the sound guy anyway?"

"Easy now," he said, following me. He dropped his
voice. "What's going on?"

"Like you don't know," I hissed, settling in
behind my drum kit.

"No, I don't," he said. "How about telling me
why you're pissed instead of assuming I'm the asshole."

"Because you usually are," I snapped, picking up
my sticks.

He stalked over and snatched the sticks from my hands.
"No, you don't get to do this. You tell me what you think I did."

"Nik, are you okay?" Jett called over from the
bar. She and Presley were on their feet, staring at us intently. Even Rafe
stood like he was ready to pounce.

"She's fine," Dion called.

"This whole thing doesn't look fine to me,"
Presley countered.

"Especially after sending her those roses," Jett
chimed in.

"You sent Nikki flowers? What's it, her birthday or
something?" Rafe asked.

Presley sighed. "They came with anonymous threat to her
life."

"Oh yeah, that sounds like a dick move, bro," Rafe
agreed.

Dion turned looked between Jett and Rafe. "What the
hell are you talking about? Roses? Dick move?"

Presley lifted the vase of flowers and held them in front of
her like they were cursed. "This dick move."

Dion raked his hand through his sun-kissed curls.
"Since when did sending flowers become a dick move?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jett said. "When the note
sent with them threatens to kill the person they are addressed to?"