The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance) (2 page)

He walked behind me and placed his shirt on my shoulders. He
pulled it around me, drawing me in close.

"You know, touch yourself. You gonna think of me finger
fucking you? Will that make you come?" he whispered into my ear while he
pressed his erection into my ass.

"You gonna think of me when your fucking one of those
groupies up in the pool?" I spat out, pulling away from him.

He looked at me with a wolfish expression. "How do you
know I don't already do that?"

I turned about fifty shades of crimson.

"Thanks for the shoulder, sis," he said with a
laugh. Then Dion and his still-rock-hard cock, sauntered out of the room.

CHAPTER TWO

I laid on the horn. The security guard took forever to open
the gates to the driveway. It was ludicrous that my stepfather insisted on
having a guard at the gates rather than an electronic keyed entry. He claimed
having a human doing the job kept everyone safer.

But I never put much stock in other people.

I leaned on the horn again and wondered how much speed I'd
need for my Hummer to break through the gates. There was heavy traffic on the
405 so I was already late for band practice, and I wasn't in the mood for
Presley's wrath. She was on edge about going on tour with Fleetwood Mac. Not
because she was nervous —my sister had so much self confidence that she wasn't
plagued by butterflies. Presley was on edge because she was backing vocals.
Presley didn't like to be backing anything. It irked her to stand behind Stevie
Nicks. Never mind that Nicks was an icon. Presley didn't quite see it like
that.

After one more long horn blow, the black iron gates inched
their way open. I gunned the engine and tossed off an annoyed wave as I roared
past the guard house. The security guard rubbed at his eyes, like I woke him up
from a nap. So much for safety.

I pulled up the long drive, coming to a sudden stop when I
saw the mess of black SUVs parked in front of my stepfather's mansion. The license
plate "RAWK 1" stood out in the fleet of cookie-cutter cars, so
whatever was going on was big.

That plate belonged to Gary Grimm, the president of Grimm
Records, the label that catapulted my stepfather's glam-band Anthem to
superstardom some twenty plus years ago. And the one that, in an act of
egregious nepotism, signed my stepbrothers' vanity project, Rogue Nation. The
Nation was about to go out on a major tour in support of their debut album, but
then my stepbrother Kyle over dosed under a makeshift junkie tent on LA's
infamous Skid Row.

I bet Grimm was here to cancel the tour.

Grimm was a germaphobe. As a rule, he went from his home to
his office and, occasionally, to the Chateau Marmont, to bed any young buxom
blond that was not his wife. As he aged, that quirk magnified, and now a
sighting of him anywhere outside of his Malibu mansion was rare.

So for Grimm to show up here meant that something major was
going down.

I maneuvered my Hummer around the SUVs, spinning my wheels
in the gravel as I went. Kicking up a little road dust on them felt good. I
contemplated denting RAWK1, but didn't want the grounds crew to get blamed for
it as a gardening mishap. Knowing Vince, he'd make them pay for the damages,
and I saw their paychecks once. Those guys couldn't afford a Bel Air auto body
bill.

I parked away from the fleet and headed up the walk to the
imposing front doors. The gong that went off when I pressed the doorbell made
me jump. Even seven years later, the damn thing still set my teeth on edge.

A maid in a uniform that looked like it was tailored by
Hustler magazine opened the door.

"Yes?" she said. She could barely open her eyes;
they were weighed down with so much mascara.

"I'm Dion's stepdaughter," I said. "Well, one
of them. The one that doesn't live here."

"Nikki?" she asked, and I nodded. "Mr. Davis
said you would be arriving soon."

She stepped aside and I entered the ridiculous foyer. A
sweeping staircase greeted me, but my mom took all the class right out of it,
replacing its sedate wooden spindles with a garish etched class. There were
neon lights under the bannister. Mercifully they were not on.

"Nikki," my mom called from the top of the stairs,
sweeping her arms out for dramatic effect. Wearing a caftan, her long, bottle
blonde hair was wild and unbrushed, like she had just rolled out of bed. Amber
liquid spilled out of the rocks glass in her hand. It was barely Noon.

"Don't come down, Mom," I said, noting her wobble
at the top step. "I'm late for practice."

"I know," my mother slurred. "Presley won't
shut up about it. She's ready to kill you."

Then she laughed, a high pitched cackle. Not unlike the
Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. The Wicked Witch of Bel Air, I muttered to
myself while she turned back to her bedchamber, fabric and mussed hair flowing
around her.

"Mr. Davis asked that you come to the library,"
the maid said, beckoning me to follow.

"I'm late meeting my sisters," I said, heading for
the kitchen. "Don't worry, I know the way."

"I'm sorry, miss," she said. "Mr. Davis
insisted you see him first."

I slumped. The wrath of Presley would not be swift. And she
would not be merciful. But when Vince Davis beckoned.... And I didn't want the
maid to get reamed for my petulance. 

As I followed her to the library, my eyes moved from the maid's
dark hair, which was pulled into a tight bun near the nape of her neck, down to
her ass. The skirt was so short that each stride made it ride up, exposing
enough for me to know that she wore expensive lace underwear. Vince was
probably reaming her in other ways, I snorted to myself. For my mom not to
notice Vince's plaything told me her drinking was off the charts.

I ran down the list of recent family encounters in my head.
Nothing stuck out to merit an audience with Vince. And that Gary Grimm was in
the house added to the weirdness.

I followed her perky, lace-covered behind into Vince's
library. It was the one room in the house untouched by my mother's garish
tastes. The walls housed all manner of leather-bound books, making this room a
favorite to my sister Jett. Not that Vince was much of a reader himself. The
library was carefully curated by The Strand bookstore in New York City. Based
on the number of interviews that took place in this room, I figured Vince
staged it simply for press purposes. Not that it mattered to Jett. She was
usually wrapped up in a blanket in a corner club chair, nose in a book.

But not today. Vince and three suits, including Grimm, who
was wearing a doctor's mask over his mouth, sat at a library table at the far
end of the room. The wall behind them was covered not in books but in Vince's
awards —there was a smattering of Grammys, a bunch of MTV Moon Men, and an
IHeartMusic award was shoved in there somewhere. He had left space for an
impending Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Award. It wasn't wishful thinking—Anthem
would get a nod eventually, quite possibly this year because of the tragedy of
losing his son to drugs. The requisite Rolling Stone interview was already in
the bag.

Every dude in that room had their eyes on the maid. I don't
think they even noticed I was right behind her.

"Vince, what's up?" I asked to grab their
attention. "I'm late for practice so—"

Vince stood up, his arms open as if for a hug.
"Nikki!"

I stood my ground in the middle of the room. "Hi,
Vince. Like I said, I'm late for practice and Presley's already not happy with
me." I was not interested in playing family for the sake of his record
label.

"Please, have a seat," he said, his voice dropping
from faux warm to cordial. "This won't take long."

Once I slumped into a chair at the unpopulated end of the
long table, one of the suits started droning on about the financial impact
Kyle's death had on Rogue Nation. My fingers brushed along the table's
expensive wood grain, polished to a sheen, while my ears focused on the rhythm
of the suit's speech. I drummed my fingers in time to his words. Not loud, like
a petulant teenager. But establishing a beat to go with words was habit by now.

Not like anyone noticed. Well, anyone except for Grimm, who
pulled the mask down to his chin.

"Facts and figures are not interesting," he
interrupted the bean counter. "Young lady, we'd like to offer you a
job."

My fingers stopped drumming. "A job?"

"We'd like you to drum for Rogue Nation," Vince
said. His smile showed off a row of perfectly capped teeth.

"You want me to drum for Rogue Nation?" I repeated
like a simpleton. "Like on tour?"

"I see you're a smart cookie," Grimm said and he
pulled the mask back over his face.

I shot him a dirty look. Based on the look Vince shot back
me, he saw it and wasn't happy about it.

"Why would I go on tour with Rogue Nation?" I
asked, leveling a pointed look at the finance drone. "Canceling the tour
will wipe out the band's finances, not the label's. Bands front the costs for
their own tours, remember? In fact, remind me why we have labels again?"

"We are music curators," suit number two chimed
in. "We know what the public wants to listen to."

That response told me he was Rogue Nation's A&R guy. The
A&R guys always believed they were more musical savvy than anyone else in
the room.

"I am sure there are one hundred drummers who would
love to be part of this tour," I said. "Why me?"

"Shouldn't you be flattered?" Vince spat out.

"Am I annoying you, daddy?" I shot back.

Grimm removed his mask again. "We fronted the band
money for this tour. With our contracts with the venues, we stand to lose a
significant amount."

My eyes went wide. "The label fronted my three
stepbrothers a significant amount of money? You've met my stepbrothers,
right?" Grimm actually chuckled at that, much to Vince's consternation. I
continued. "And isn't what happened to Kyle considered an act of god or
something?"

The bean counter cleared his throat. "Actually, the out
clauses in the contract do not specify the untimely death of a band member as
reason to cancel. I mean, it would if it was Dion, the front man is the face of
the band after all. But the drummer? They're replaceable."

I opened my mouth to tell Bean Counter off but Grimm stepped
in. "We knew while we recorded the album Kyle had problems. We knew
exactly why his drum playing wasn't up to par. And that is exactly why we
needed you to re-record the drum tracks after the band left the studio. So
Nikki, the point is, you already know Rogue Nation's music."

"So you knew Kyle was drugging hard? Then your
contracts were stupid," I said, staring the bean counter. "Contract
writers are replaceable, too. Particularly shitty ones."

"He was supposed to get clean for the tour," Vince
said, his voice quiet. He slumped back in his chair, his face drained of color.
"He promised me."

For the first time, I noticed how exhausted he looked.
Kyle's death aged him.

"With the tour scheduled to start tomorrow," Grimm
continued. "Well, you see that we need someone who already knows the
music."

"Besides, you are the best drummer out there, Nik. The
best," the A&R guy jumped in, spreading on a thick layer of charm.

"The money's solid," Bean Counter said. "We
have you at the top end of sideman per-gig fee, and that's based on union
wages. Plus, we've worked in a bonus structure based on the number of tickets
sold for each performance. Not to mention a very healthy per-diem while you are
on the road."

He pushed a stack of papers over to me. I stared at the
contract, the black and white ink blurring as I turned their offer over in my
mind. The men's expectant looks faded with each tick-tock of the antique
Grandfather clock in the corner.

I pushed the papers back to towards them. "This isn't
the deal I want."

Bean Counter's mouth dropped open. "This is the most
contract I've ever seen written for a novice drummer land."

"What do you want, then?" Grimm asked.

"Satan's Sisters goes out on tour as the opening
act," I said, adding quickly. "And Grimm Records covers our tour
costs. In addition to this side woman deal for playing for Rogue."

"You're out of your mind," Bean Counter roared.
"Labels do not cover tour costs—"

I interrupted him. "Hey, you're the shitty contract
writer who covered my stepbrothers' tour costs. And I expect Satan's Sisters to
get favored nations treatment, or there is no deal."

"You're not even on the label," A&R guy said,
his voice rising. Of course he panicked. Favored nations meant Grimm Records
had to match every single payout—and cover every single cost—just like Rogue
Nation had written in their contract.

"And we don't want to be on the label," I said.
"No offense, Mr. Grimm. Your A&R department is pretty pedestrian. Not
exactly taking any musical risks these days."

"I suspect you are probably right, young lady,"
Grimm said, getting to his feet. "Miss Benson, you have a deal. Satan's
Sisters are on tour as the opening act, we foot the bill. You get your side woman
salary. Write it up, gentleman. And good day."

He gave everyone at the table curt nod before turning his
attention back to me. "Young lady, will you do me the honor of walking me
to the door."

I got to my feet and matched Grimm's brisk pace. "I've
been at this game for a long time," he said. "And I don't think I've
ever met someone with quite as much moxie."

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Grimm?" I asked.