Who Do You Love (Rock Royalty Book 7) (2 page)

She held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve got an audience waiting and another set to perform, and that man doesn’t deserve another second—millisecond, even—of my time.”

Apparently she pulled off the declaration with sincerity because both her brothers’ fiancées appeared relieved. Still, Cilla spoke again. “Are you sure—”

But Cami was saved from having to make further assurances because the backstage guy knocked and called it was time to return to her stool and perform the second half of her gig. As she made her way from the room, sweeping Cilla and Rose in front of her, she pulled a piece of paper from her back pocket and glanced over her set list. There was always room to improvise, but it looked solid. When she’d first gone out on the circuit she’d merely covered other artists’ work, giving country, blues, and rock songs a Cami Colson spin. Now, however, she mixed in her own compositions as well.

It was why she’d hit the music scene, really. Though she didn’t mind singing for a crowd, what she enjoyed most was seeing people’s reaction to her originals, as well as garnering some commercial interest. And it was working for her—other artists had begun using her songs in their own performances. Two were in the recording process.

Again she ducked onto the stage when the club’s lights were already dimmed. Then the spotlight washed over her, and she went straight into “Heartbeat,” made wonderful by Carrie Underwood. From there she segued into a soft rocker straight from the 1970s, followed by another contemporary country tune. The crowd was with her.

Usually that certainty exhilarated her. But tonight the idea of Eamon’s attendance continued to interfere with her well-being. As time wore on, it became impossible to completely ignore the sense that he was in the room with her, and it intruded on her vibe, threatening the success of her show.

Battering her heart, damn it.

Rat.

Jerk.

Temper kindled in her belly. She considered sending him a message in the form of another Carrie Underwood standard. Let him worry that she intended to key his car and take a bat to his headlights. But she couldn’t give him the satisfaction that she cared so much, could she? And if the impulse proved unstoppable, why give him the early warning?

She leaned toward the mic, still undecided.

“Last song of the evening,” she said, not sure what should be her finale.

And then her fingers made the decision for her. They moved over the strings, playing something she’d been working on the last week or so. Starting a little slow, a little sad, the words took flight from her mouth.

You did it, you broke through

I should have been smarter when it came to you

Your goodbye struck hard, sliced deep

So cold, you made me weep.

But she refused to stay down, and he’d know it. Her voice turned stronger.

Stand up sisters, we’ll start a trend

No time for tears, even less for revenge

We’ll move on and that ice blade

Will freeze the heart that he unmade.

And now the kicker. The notes rang through the room, and she closed her eyes to savor them, belting out what she wanted Eamon to know about Cami Colson.

Stronger, colder, better

We’ll be free from him, girls, and finally free from silly dreams.

Women cheered. As the lights came up, Cami opened her eyes, her gaze going to the corner where she felt sure the jerky rat had planted his fine ass.

But no dark-haired mystery man occupied the wooden chair. It sat as empty as the hole he’d left in her life.

*

Eamon Rooney ached. A tension headache pounded at his temples. His fingers were cramped into tight fists. Worst of all was the nagging pulse in his cock, hard from the instant her voice wound through the darkness of the music club. It continued to throb with frustrated lust. The cool night air in the parking lot wasn’t doing a thing to help, damn it all.

A black truck turned in from the busy street, and he strode to meet it. The driver’s window rolled down and through the opening he saw grizzled Bart and beyond him young Si, who was barely twenty-one. Though both were Eamon’s dad’s men, they didn’t mind earning some extra cash by seeing to it that Cami Colson got safely home after her late-night performances.

He’d hired them to do the job that he couldn’t carry out himself.

“Thought you wanted to steer clear,” Bart muttered.

“Yeah.” Eamon
had
wanted that. He’d promised himself to keep his distance, as a matter of fact.

But foreboding was sitting on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, fucking with his plans for a solitary evening.

Or maybe it was just his horny dick talking to him.

“We can do it, A-Man,” Si said, using the bastardization of Eamon—properly pronounced A-mon—that had been bestowed on him years and years before. Nicknames were a given in the life.

Si leaned from his place on the passenger side toward the open window. “I don’t mind watching out for her. Pretty thing, with those big eyes and sweet little ass.”

Bart turned his head toward his much more junior partner. “Really?” he asked in disbelief.

“Really,” Si, confirmed, nodding. “Pretty girl, sweet ass. I haven’t seen much of her tits, but I like ’em any size.”

They were the perfect size, the nipples a peachy pink that flushed to rose when Eamon sucked on them. She whimpered when he did that. Moaned and squirmed in his hold when he did that hard.

“So it’s no hardship, A-Man. Maybe even—”

“Shut up, Si,” Bart said, “or A-Man’s going to deck you.”

“Oh.” Si’s mouth clamped shut, and he jerked back as if Eamon’s fist was right then coming for his face.

Instead he uncurled his fingers and shook out his hands. “You’re safe, Si.”

He couldn’t blame the kid. First, the guy was known for running at the mouth, which was why the Unruly Assassins, his father’s motorcycle club, had nicknamed him “Silent Joe” because there was already another Joe, Joe Hardy, whom they called “Mystery” since that was the main character in an old series of kids’ detective books.

But mostly Eamon couldn’t blame him because Cami’s special appeal had knocked him flat the first time they’d met. He’d needed a part for the vintage bike he was restoring and had been given the phone number of a particular motorcycle salvage yard.

A brief chat with some chick had confirmed the business had what he was seeking. It hadn’t occurred to him to imagine what that “some chick” might look like before he arrived as arranged—after hours at the trailer-office. He’d been focused on obtaining the elusive part and instead found himself staring at a fairy.

A tiny, but perfectly proportioned fairy, with hair of a thousand shades—gold, russet, brown, and blonde—and a face to cause the stars to collide. Green eyes the shade of pale jade with long lashes above a mouth made for slow kisses and hard cocks.

His fall had been immediate, and he hadn’t even bothered to brace himself before the sudden face-plant. From his metaphorical sprawl at her feet, he’d only calculated how long it would take him to get her into bed.

As it turned out, not long.

“I’m just saying she’s a looker,” Si muttered now. “Classy.”

Eamon’s gaze turned sharp at that. “You’ve kept your mouths shut? This is between us, right? Off the books?”

Bart grunted an affirmation. “A favor.”

“I’m paying,” Eamon said, reaching for his wallet in order to pass over bills. “Even for tonight when I’m taking over. And you’re not telling dear old dad.”

“He wouldn’t mind.”

But he might get the wrong idea. Because Si was right, Cami Colson was class all the way, and a real SoCal music princess to boot. A woman the president of the Unrulies might like to see wearing the ring of his only son.

But Eamon couldn’t commit to Cami…or any female for that matter.

Tonight, though, tonight he’d follow her home himself, while keeping far enough away that she’d never guess who owned the distant headlights in her rearview mirror.

“You two are back on the job Thursday night,” he said. By then he would have talked some fucking sense into himself, or at least gotten his dick under a modicum of control.

Retreating into the shadows, he watched the truck glide off, wishing it was taking his unsettling premonition with it.

With it still weighing heavily on him, he moved deeper into the parking lot. He’d had years to hone his covert skills. Tonight, he’d driven a nondescript sedan he used for undercover work which Cami had never seen. Upon arrival at the music club, he’d found an open spot one away from the far corner where she’d parked her snazzy and well-maintained Cabriolet—its top up tonight. Now, as people began exiting the door, he slouched in the back seat, a rear window unrolled a couple of inches. If she operated as usual, she’d be one of the very last to leave the place, and a bartender or the bouncer would accompany her to her vehicle.

Once she pulled out, he’d vault into the front seat and pull in behind her, letting a few cars get between them as she navigated the ever-present traffic in this part of town. She’d never see him.

And he’d get another glimpse of her.

It would have to be enough.

However, it didn’t go as planned. Instead of male accompaniment, when Cami left the club, she had a female on either side of her—her brothers’ girlfriends. Not that Eamon had ever met the two, or any of the other grownup children of the Velvet Lemons or their love interests. But he’d made it his business to know their faces, just as he’d done his damnedest not to ever let them see his.

He’d been careful not to send Cami—or anyone who happened to be watching—the wrong message. They’d only met at night, and they’d only fucked at night, every encounter under the cover of darkness. That instinctive precaution—the one he’d taken to spare her from getting too attached—seemed beyond fortunate now, even though it had only half-worked.

Cami had been hurt after all, but it had been on him. The thugs who wanted Eamon to pressure his cousin into silence didn’t suspect she might be his weak point—meaning they had no reason to do her harm.

He’d never allow that to change.

The women’s footsteps drew closer, three pairs of heels on the blacktop. They were chattering, the words becoming more distinct as they drew closer, passing his sedan on the way to Cami’s.

“Did you give him your number?” one of the women asked.

Silence. Then, Cami’s quiet voice. “Yeah.”

Eamon’s muscles tensed.

“Good for you!” The bright tone in the other female’s voice set his teeth on edge.

“Don’t go marrying us off, Cilla,” Cami warned. “I didn’t give him my ring size, only my cell number. He’ll probably lose it.”

“Not by the way he was looking at you,” Cilla said. “Am I right, Rose?”

“Right,” Rose said, so cheerful that Eamon’s hackles leaped high again. “What did he say was his name?”

Eamon focused.
Yeah, give me a name.
He had the tools and the experience to do a background check to end all background checks. If there was even the smallest, single smudge on the guy he’d find it. Then find a way to warn off the SOB. His fingers curled into another pair of tight fists, the instant heat in his belly reminding him that he was at the core a rough man who came from a very rough world. And he was ruthless, too, despite the smooth edges his father had promised Eamon’s mother she could give their boy in payment for the blood she’d spilled.

“His name?” Cami said now. “I don’t remember.”

Guilt pinched him, hard enough that he winced. She’d never asked for his name. Not the entirety of it—knowing him only as Eamon. Not that he’d offered it, of course. When she didn’t pry he’d used the withholding of his surname as another safety measure. Another unspoken message.

Short term, baby. That’s all I do.

“I’m just glad you’re moving on. It’s been weeks since that night at Satan’s and—”

“I told you,” Cami interrupted, her voice sharp, “I’m over him.”

That shouldn’t feel like shit. It’s what Eamon wanted, after all. But he did feel like shit, as he had from the night he’d chanced to run into her at the roadhouse in Topanga Canyon. Now he knew it was owned by the woman who was with Cilla Maddox’s brother Brody. Then, it had been just a place to drink and not think about the fairy he’d recently dumped for reasons that had nothing to do with her.

Short term, baby. That’s all I do.

She’d stood there, those green eyes trained on him as she asked him to reconsider their break-up. Every emotion was in that gaze. Every. Single. One. Silly girl had just laid out her heart like a hand of cards.

And he’d turned away from her like what she offered was a fistful of garbage. Gave her his back instead of even a conciliatory word.

Yeah. Rough and ruthless, that was Eamon Rooney.

The women said their farewells and then car doors opened, closed. Cilla and Rose must have come together because the first car that pulled out carried two figures in the front seats. He dared to scoot up in his and saw that Cami sat behind the wheel of her car, cell phone in hand.

Had the other man called already?

Ignoring his clenching gut, he watched her thumbs move on the screen. That didn’t mean she was responding to a text. In the short months they’d been together, he knew she took notes on her device, snatches of lyrics or notes of a melody.

It had intrigued the hell out of him—
impressed
the hell out of him—what she could do. They’d be sitting side-by-side, and he could see her mind skate away from the present, skate away from him, which had been a little kick to his ego on more than one occasion, as her imagination tugged her down its own path.

He’d ignored his stinging pride because, hell, what a rush it was just to be next to her when that happened…that thing she did.

She fucking made magic, just as he knew a fairy would.

Music that was as fluid yet as solid as a glass sculpture. Words that could pierce a heart and twist a gut.

Her head would tilt to the left, and he’d know she was hearing something for the first time that would later come out through her fingers or on the lilting river of her voice.