European Tour (Rocking the Pop Star Book 1) (4 page)

I remove my hands, and Brody is there invading my personal space, his face just inches from mine. I suck in a deep breath as my heart beats like a woodpecker just took residence in my ribcage. He braces both hands on the back of my chair, and his soft, warm lips brush my cheek.

“You
are
adorable.” He straightens and moves away.

I pout. “That isn’t the adjective I was initially going for.”

He rummages in a drawer on the sideboard and comes up with a corkscrew. “I’m going to open this wine for you,” he says. “And after just one glass, I expect you’ll find an adjective to modify the specific mood you were going for.”

The cork comes out with a resounding pop, and he pours me a glass of the dark red liquid. “For the record, I’m always up for copious debauchery served up with a little bit of shame.” I press my thighs together, licking my lips to ensure I’m not drooling. Brody Kent’s got serious game. “I’ll pass on the imbibing, though.” He smiles in that devastating way he does, and my panties are soaked.

Brody helps me load the dishwasher so Della won’t come back to a dirty kitchen in the morning. I have no earthly idea how to progress from dinner to a more adult
dessert
, so I’m hoping against hope he will initiate something. Why do I have to be such a damn traditional woman?

We have adjourned to the living room on the non-office side of the house and are sharing random information about ourselves. Brody’s had so many excruciatingly painful life experiences. Is it any wonder he turned his back on a career he loved for one that leaves so much to be desired? I wonder if I should Google him? He’s been so loath to discuss anything remotely related to when he was in the rock band and performing that I’ve steered clear of those questions, but he seems happy to answer others.

“So you left home at fifteen?” I ask when the conversation lulls.

“If you could call it that. My parents died in a car accident when I was eight. My grandparents hated rock and roll for religious reasons, but it was my passion. I couldn’t fathom a life without it at the time.”

“Have you reconciled with them, now that you’ve given it up?”

“No. My grandmother died shortly after I left. My grandfather remained angry with me until the day Alzheimer’s checked him out. He died last summer. I visited him at the nursing home, but he was so ravaged by the disease he didn’t know who I was.” A shadow mars his perfect features.

Another heavy subject. Way to go, Sky.

At this rate, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to segue into sex, but I’m not sure I’m bitter about it. Yes, he scores about a fifteen on the attractiveness scale. There’s a raw masculinity about him that shines through despite the rough-edged, former rock star image he projects. But…more important than that, Brody is
fascinating
. I want to know everything about him.

“Well, at least you attempted reconciliation. Your heart was in the right place. I would disown my mother in a heartbeat if she tried to separate me from my music.”

“You write most of your own songs?”

“I do, because honestly, I feel like I’m the only one who knows what I can perform and make my fans believe it.”

“How did you manage to get such creative control from your behemoth of a record company?”

“I threatened to walk. Well, actually, my mother threatened to pull us out. I was so young, I didn’t understand how gargantuan my brand had become. My mother is a barracuda of a businesswoman, and consistently great at identifying new trends. There’s no one whose opinions I respect more in the industry. She learned everything from my father.”

“Where is he, by the way?”

“He lives in Japan. They divorced when I was ten. My father wanted my mother and me to return to his home when my television show ended, but then my singing career took off. He gave her an ultimatum, which my mother laughed at. I was making all the money she’d ever need. We took her maiden name after he left.”

Brody's eyes widen in surprise. “How did that make you feel?”

“Someone’s paid attention in therapy,” I say with a laugh. “You trying to psychoanalyze me, Mr. Kent?”

“Not if I can help it.” That panty-wetting grin sprouts on his face again and I’m seconds away from hopping astride his narrow hips, devouring his delicious lips, and dry-humping him like a shameless rock star groupie.

The doorbell rings.

I frown, annoyed at the interruption. “Wonder who that could be? I’m not expecting anyone, and the gate guard would contact Malik before sending anyone through.”

Brody stands along with me. “I’ll go with you to the door, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure, come along.” I like that he does such unexpectedly chivalrous things. “Hope you won’t have to use any of your MMA skills to protect my honor and/or my property.”

He scrunches his face up playfully as he walks with me to the door. “You always default to the worst-case scenario.”

“You know, you’re right.” I’ve been in this business a long time, and have heard of so many stars being stalked, maimed, or killed. I like to err on the side of caution. Malik doesn’t make it any better. He believes every other fan could be a possible psycho nutjob.

Laughing, I swing the door open to find a grim-faced Malik standing there.

Worried, I stop laughing quickly. “Is everything okay?”

“Can I speak to you a minute?”

I step back to let him in. Brody follows suit.

“
Alone
,” Malik says with a hard edge. I’ve only seen him look like this once, when a fan cornered me in the ladies room after a nightclub appearance.

Brody nods and backs away. “I’ll just go back into the office. I’ll get my iPad and go over some details for soundcheck tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say.

He turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway.

Malik and I re-enter the living room, and I offer him a drink.

“No thanks, Sky.” He closes the double doors.

“What’s all this cloak and dagger stuff?”

“Your mother is on her way over here.”

“Why?” My voice usually only raises an octave that quickly when I’m singing. I’ve got a bad feeling.

“She had me do an additional background check on your boy here.”

“Brody?”

“Yeah. And something isn’t ringing very clear about this guy.”

I sit absentmindedly on the sofa. My heart is somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. I didn’t want to believe Brody might have a hidden agenda, because he is so secretive about his rocker past. If Malik’s unsolicited background check has found some dirt to confirm my nagging suspicions, I might’ve dodged an enormous bullet. “What is it that you think you’ve uncovered, Malik?”

“The timeline is off. Birth records reveal he was born in Downers Grove, Illinois. There are elementary and middle school records, then his high school records end around tenth grade. Other than a GED and a few odd jobs at restaurants in his late teens, there are no adult employment records until he went to work for I.Y.M., Inc. in April last year. He has a pretty hefty bank account for someone with that history.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Malik’s information actually mirrors what Brody has told me. Since when did regular background checks include looking into personal finances? Curious, I fold my arms. “Why would you need to know how much he has in his bank account?”

Malik shrugs. “Funny money could indicate someone’s willingness to resort to blackmail. My guys are thorough.”

I buy that. They’d have to be if they were any good in this business. I stand and pace. “It all makes perfect sense, given what he’s told me. Sort of.”

“How’s that?”

“He ran away from home when he was fifteen because he started a rock band, which his grandparents didn’t approve of. They were religious fanatics. His band apparently had some level of success, so it would stand to reason that he would have financial means.”

“But I can’t find a band that anyone by the name of Brody Kent was a part of.”

I shrug, but I’m inwardly annoyed with myself for not having asked Brody more questions. “He had to have used a stage name.”

“Mm-hmm.” I hear the skepticism in Malik’s tone. “You want him to be clean because you like him.”

I raise my chin. “How do you know that?”

“Girl, please. We’ve all seen you making puppy dog eyes at him all week.”

I groan. “Was I that obvious?”

“Do birds fly?”

“Not even a teensy bit subtle?”

“Depends on your definition of subtle. Listen, Sky. I’d suggest you hold off on messing around with this guy until we know more about him.”

“I just fixed all your holes. What more is there to know?” Tons, but I don’t want to alienate Brody without just cause.

The doorbell rings.

“There may not be any more to know,” he says, “but your mother is gonna want some answers right the fuck now.”

“Is that her at the door?”

He nods.

“Damn. Did you call her?”

“Well, yeah.” It sounds as if he’s saying, ‘well duh.’

“Why?”

“She has a standing directive for me to call her anytime anything goes amiss concerning you.”

“So, she’s just pretending to give me space.” I’m a bit hurt that my mother hasn’t really given me the reins to my career like she promised, and that Malik still feels the need to run everything by my mother first. “Who do you work for, again?”

“Well, you, but remember—Mrs. Samuelson actually hired me,” he says with an apologetic frown.

I sigh. Not only am I being denied the space I asked for in business, I can’t even attempt to get a little bit without my meddlesome mother and overprotective bodyguard butting in.

BRODY

DAY FIVE

“Yo Kent,” Malik calls.

I suppose I should be flattered he’s calling me by my last name as if we’re on a goddamn football team together or something.

He’s not grinning when I look up, though, like he was the other day when we were discussing the finer points of Mixed Martial Arts. He looks pissed.

I analyze him as I would an MMA opponent. He’s got me by an inch or so, and by more pounds than I care to assess. I think I’m fast enough to elude his punches and kicks with some moves of my own if it comes down to it.

“Yeah?” I ignore his hard glare, and answer as if he isn’t attempting to kill me with his eyes.

“Mrs. Samuelson and Sky want to see you in the living room.”

I put my iPad to sleep. “Any idea what this is about?”

“Come with me and you just might find out.” He sneers.

I purse my lips with annoyance. “Okay.”

The guy is acting like I’ve done something wrong.

I join him at the door, but I let him go first. I’m not going to give him an opportunity for a sneak attack. Pound for pound I’m strong for my weight class, but if Malik gets me in a wrestling move, he could knock me out cold. It’s best I keep my wits about me and see what the fuck is up.

Malik turns his back and I follow him to the living room.

Surreptitiously, I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and forehead before Malik steals a disappointing look at me as he turns the doorknobs.

We enter the French doors and the women’s heated conversation stops cold. Two almost identical sets of feminine green eyes fix on me when Malik steps aside.

Mrs. Samuelson forces on that fake smile she’s so good at conjuring and addresses me first. “Please come in and talk to us, Mr. Kent.”

Sky looks as if she might hurl at any moment. “Brody, you don’t have to tell them anything you don’t feel comfortable sharing,” she says, her words sounding suspiciously like an apology.

Why do I all of a sudden feel like I’ve walked into the Spanish Fucking Inquisition or the damn Salem witch trials?

I stride over to the sofa next to Sky and sit after she takes a seat. Ironically we end up sitting in the same places we were before Malik showed up.

Her mother takes a seat on an armchair near the fireplace.

Always at the ready, Malik remains standing.

“What’s this about?” I ask. I’m not necessarily feigning ignorance, but I don’t believe in showing my hand when the deck could be stacked against me either.

“Mr. Kent, It seems your background check has raised some questions. Considering how Mr. Rickards sang your praises when we met on Monday, we’d like some clarification.”

“On?” I adopt a literal pretense of incomprehension. Not volunteering any other goddamn information.

“Mr. Rickards led us to believe you had a graduate degree in music, yet your educational background indicates you barely have a General Education Development certificate.”

“That was David’s play on words, not mine.”

I breathe a slight sigh of relief, knowing that they’re working on the limited information they could glean from my real name and not my stage moniker.

“Why would Mr. Rickards say such a thing if it weren’t true?”

“I can’t read Mr. Rickards’s mind, Mrs. Samuelson. Maybe he was thinking the eight years I have under my belt as a musician are equivalent to a graduate degree. I understand many colleges and universities award credits for certain kinds of work and life experience.”

“And that’s another thing,” Malik says. “We’ve found no band of any significance for which you might have played five years ago. Hell, we don’t even know if you can play, sing, or whatever the fuck it is you claim you can do.”

“The name I sang under and my real name are not one and the same,” I say. “But you can rest assured Brody Kent is my given name.”

Mrs. Samuelson huffs impatiently.  “So, we’re just supposed to believe you?”

“Mother!” Sky snaps. She pins me with her eyes and with such utter conviction, and says, “
I
believe you, Brody.”

I am slain by her. It’s not until this moment that I realize just how much I want Sky to believe in me. There is definitely a pull to her that I’ve been denying, so I’ve only shown her the reformed bad boy version of me. The Brody before rock music entitlement ruined him.

My attraction for Skylar, though stifled out of necessity, is all at once exhilarating and scary as hell, but a small part of me believes she could be the real deal. It humbles me that she has the faith to stand up for me even though she doesn’t know my full history. Her mother is another story.

“I’m not a liar, Mrs. Samuelson,” I say, but in my mind, I’m cursing her seven ways from hell.

“What assurances can you offer us that you’re not some two-bit huckster trying to get dirt on Skylar to sell to the highest bidder?”

“I despise paparazzi and the news media in all its forms. I know what it is to be hounded because you have a rare gift, and because of it, everyone wants a piece of you. I wouldn’t do that to Sky.”

“Those are pretty words,” Mrs. Samuelson says, “but trust has to be earned.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Mother,” Skylar says through gritted teeth, “he’s earned mine.”

Mrs. Samuelson scoffs. “My darling daughter, you’re talking with your libido. Let me sort this out before we have to hire a bunch of overpriced lawyers to fix what a young man much prettier than your precious Connor is bound to muck up.” This woman is patronizing the fuck out of her grown daughter, and if I’m not mistaken she’s offending me, too.

Sky springs up off the couch like a jack-in-the-box. Her fists are tight and her eyes are pooling with tears. She’s so angry that she’s trembling, and although we’ve only known each other a week, I’m angry on her behalf.  Her teeth chatter as she speaks. “You didn’t have to go there, Mother.”

“Why not? We’re among friends, right? One you’ve grown to trust in just one week. Did you even tell him about Connor?”

Sky loses the battle with the tears threatening to fall, and runs out of the room.

“Sky doesn’t owe me any explanations,” I say with an equanimity that belies just how pissed I am with this meddling bitty right now. “I’m
her
employee and we’ve only had one dinner tonight that could even be construed as a date. Most people don’t talk about exes on first dates.”

“You could be a raving imposter for all we know, and it will be over my dead body to allow you to come in here with your sketchy background and ruin my daughter’s career.”

I don’t hold back anymore, because no one questions my hard fought for and partly-won integrity. “Right, because your gravy train would be gone.”

“My gravy train?” she shrieks. “I’ve poured my life into my daughter’s career. I’m her manager and I have all the credentials to back that up. You say you’re a musician. Can you even play a musical instrument? Can you sing?”

“You want proof?”

“Yes.”

I stand and glare down at the pompous Mrs. Samuelson. “Meet me in Sky’s studio in five minutes.”

I prefer playing my own guitar, but Sky’s Gibson will have to do. I remove it from its stand and plug it into an amp. I flip a few switches on the soundboard and plug in the microphone on the stand in front of me.

Mrs. Samuelson sits not even six feet from me, pretending that her nails are so damned interesting she has to study them like a college course textbook.

Malik is holding up the wall by the exit. Ever the bodyguard. Not sure why he’s at the door, because he damn sure couldn’t keep me here if I didn’t want to be here unless he pulls a weapon. I’m confident in my fighting skills, but even I would think twice before going up against a gun.

I tune the guitar by ear and strum a few bars to see how it sounds. Perfect. I don’t dare play one of my own songs, because then the jig would be up.

It’s inconceivable that Mrs. Samuelson, despite having a gigantic stick up her ass, wouldn’t know a little something about rock.

While sitting in with Sky at her practice sessions this week, there was a song she sang that really spoke to me. It’s called “Masquerade” and the lyrics are perfect descriptions of the two of us. I’m going to put my own spin on it, of course, but it should convince Mama Samuelson and Malik that I know my shit. If push comes to shove, I’ll play one of my unpublished songs that no one has heard.

I take a hair elastic out of my pocket and pull my hair back. I play the first bar and Malik grins like a Cheshire cat, bobbing his head to the beat.

I finish the second bar, and he runs out of the room like his ass is on fire. Not sure where he’s going, but I continue playing for my audience of one. I finish the elaborate intro with a few chords that shake the room and bring the volume down as I begin to sing.

Mrs. Samuelson’s eyes widen, my only clue that she’s listening to the lyrics of Sky’s song.

No one knows who I am.

They think they know me

but they don’t really give a damn.

Mrs. Samuelson begins to tap her foot as I continue playing and singing Sky’s lyrics as if they’re my own.

I grin inwardly because I know I’ve proven the old bird wrong. Not many guitarists play as well as I do, even on their best days, and I’m sure she knows her own daughter’s song and lyrics like they’re her own. Any good manager would.

I continue singing Sky’s words, adding little riffs where her regular guitarist had been lazy, making the melody even richer.

I entertain them with my songs,

though distraction lives in a beat of my own making.

They say they love me

but in reality, it’s too much of an undertaking.

The music of my life

is just a Masquerade

but I won’t give up until the final chord is played.

Malik re-enters the room with Sky on his heels at the chorus.

She looks confounded. Listening more, she smiles as she recognizes the song.

Malik pushes her toward me, encouraging her to join me at the mic.

Sky seems reluctant, but I can see it in her hungry eyes that the music calls to her. After a brief hesitation, she joins me at the mic. Her harmony blends with my melody. Our voices intertwine effortlessly.

At the bridge, I can’t help myself. I get lost in an elaborate guitar solo. It feels so fucking good to have an axe in my hands again, bringing music to life in the way only Savage Saban can. My nerves thrum as my body absorbs the energy that always surrounds me when I play. Audiences ate that shit up, and I fed off their energy, creating a vicious cycle—one that literally almost swallowed me whole.

Thoughts of how the very thing I love killed Kim and almost killed me, is the cold dash of water that awakens me from the musical zone that threatens to overtake me.

As I strum the final chord, I open my eyes, and survey the faces of my audience of three. All staring at me, eyes wide, mouths slack. Sky’s face is flushed in awe. Malik has the widest smile to accompany eyes big with incredulity. Mrs. Samuelson manages to look slightly offended and surprised. 

I’ve either impressed the hell out of them or scared the ever-loving fuck out of everyone in the room. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.