Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (37 page)

“I missed you. Thought we could talk. When I texted Logan to see when you were getting in, well, it just turned into this. Me instead of him.” There was a hint of apology in her voice. “So, where to? To your house?”

Scarlette piped up from the back. “My exit is fifty-two. If you don’t mind.”

He wanted to overrule her, but he stayed quiet, wondering if Logan had picked them up, where they would have ended up. Her house. Or his?

When the car slowed to a stop in front of Scarlette’s duplex, he jumped out with the intention of assisting with her luggage and walking her to the door. Hell, the asshole part of him wanted to wave to Allison and say ‘thanks for the ride’ and then follow Scarlette in and bang her until they were both comatose.

“Thanks for the ride.” Scarlette broke into this fantasy when she yanked the handle of her bag from his hand and waved to Allison.

“Wait up, Scar. I’ll walk you up.”

“No! Stop. Please.”

“Scar…” He felt the desperation beneath the dangerous growl of her name in his throat when she turned away. “I’m going to see you safely inside.”

That caught her attention and she paused.

In spite of proving herself time and time again as one of the strongest persons, he knew, through scandal, the craziness of Tyler Conterra’s second decade death anniversary, the experiences she’d lived with because of her crazy mother, the out-of-her-element places she’d visited when tracking Ivy down, her first ever stage appearance being before thousands, when it came to Ketchum, she was extremely uneasy.

Right in keeping with his shitty luck, her live-in bodyguard chose that moment to make himself known. Bursting from the house, he descended from the porch. With a quick introduction to Scarlette, he explained he was the new assignee to her and offered his hand for her luggage.

“Nice to meet you, and thank you but I’ve got it.” In a rare breach of etiquette, Scarlette ignored the large man’s outstretched hand and held on to her bag.

Swinging back around, she eyed Gage while walking backward. “I know this,” her gaze narrowed when it landed on Allison several yards away in the car, “isn’t how we saw the tour ending. But we both know it’s how it should.”

“That’s really what you feel?” He could barely speak around his guts being ripped out by her—again. When she nodded, he returned the nod. “Then me too. Bye,
Sis
.”

F
uck your Sis shit
. I screamed it in my head, but steeled the words from tumbling out. I couldn’t believe Allison had been presumptuous enough to show up to collect Gage at the airport. It brought to mind too many suppositions. Like possibly, he had continued to phone and text the other woman while on tour. Look at how Colt had strung along both Caroline and Ivy.
Damned fucking rock stars!
Turning away and climbing my porch steps was among a few of the hardest things I’d ever done. In fact, all of the hardest things I’d ever done had pertained to Gage.

The bodyguard held open the door for me and then after locking it, disappeared into his apartment. Mike had assured Gage my live-in bodyguard had been brought up to date on the newest developments in the Ketchum situation, but that didn’t stop the twinge of unease I felt.

My luggage bumped up the stairs and my carry-on scraped against the wall. Doubts pelted, lightly at first, like the tiny flying insects drawn to the lights and hitting my skin while onstage the previous night. By the time I stood before my door, I had my keys in my hand, but I lingered a moment with a stupefied realization.

I’d just done to Gage what he’d done to me that day in the barn. Guilty by reason of suspicion, fears, and jealousy.

With a jab, I shoved the key into the lock and twisted. When it stuck, I cursed. Some things couldn’t wait on an old house that creaked, groaned, and swanked antique locks that stuck from non-use. Leaving the key hanging, I fished my phone from the pocket of my cardigan.

…The second message was never sent.

The door swung open. At first, I thought I’d tripped and had fallen against it, pushing it open. The loss of control feeling was similar, but the pressure on my neck, mashing at my windpipe, and cutting the airflow in half was not in any way relatable. On the ceiling, the old chandelier blurred in and out of focus and I’d never noticed that water spot near the corner. My neck felt on the verge of snapping with the pressure, and my feet scrambled for leverage. Behind, my shoulders dug into the solid body of my unseen assailant, and I heard the slam of the door.

My lips parted to scream and anticipating this, another hand closed over both my nose and mouth, completely cutting my breath off. Instinctively, I thrashed and my captor’s grip tightened. Black specks swam in my vision just below the crown molding and I jabbed with my elbows, hitting at the flesh behind me.

Don’t panic.

Self-defense classes.

Remember?

I wasn’t helpless.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, I put myself on the practice mat of the class instead of the Oriental rug behind my couch.

Use your weight to your advantage
.

Ceasing the struggle, I counted almost to three and went limp. It worked just as it had in class. The grip on me slipped. When I hit the floor, I rolled and kicked at the faded blue-jean shins in my vision. A howl of pain sounded and his—yes I knew it was a ‘he’ now from his voice—hairy arms came into view as he hunched and caught himself from a fall. Using my heels, I dug into the carpet, scrambling back until my back hit the fireplace screen. Yanking from the brass tools, I found myself brandishing the miniature broom and dustpan. Worn and scuffed leather shoes advanced toward me, and I hurled the broom and grabbed again, breathing easier when the poker was in my grip.

My handgun was in the bedroom. I debated if I could make a run and lock myself in, fetch it from the lock box, and load it—all before this person broke down the door. He’d stopped just beyond my fireplace tool’s extended reach, and I finally traveled my eyes up his shirtfront, beyond the tattooed flames on his neck, to his face.

Ketchum.

“Get the fuck outta my house!” Until now, my throat had throbbed, or maybe it had been afraid to scream. But with those words, I yelled loud enough to be heard through the walls and into the apartment below, I hoped. “Get out, asshole!” Carefully, I straightened to my full height, keeping the shovel extended and the poker ready to swing.

“You may as well put that down. I’m not here to hurt you. I just want my money.”

“Get out!” Why wasn’t my bodyguard up here by now guarding?

Why didn’t I have a panic button straight to his phone like on tour?

“Scarlette. Just calm―”

“Don’t ever,
ever
say my name!” The shovel flew from my hand, and he ducked to miss it.

My phone beeped with an incoming text, and I scanned the floor, but was afraid to take my eyes from Ketchum long enough to spot the device among the debris my struggle had scattered.

“Look. I’m prepared to negotiate―”

The phone began to ring, and it was then I remembered the text to Gage. Would he come back if I didn’t answer? Was calling to say he was on his way back? The rings stopped and began again.

This seemed unnerving to Ketchum, and he located the phone. It had skidded, its resting place several feet from the door. When he bent to pick it up, some force propelled me forward. I lifted, swinging, and brought the poker down. It struck him on the neck, and he yowled with pain. For good measure, I hit him again and didn’t wait to see where the blow landed.

Still carrying the rod, I wrenched open the door, managed to leap instead of fall over my suitcase, which was just outside, and flew downstairs. As I pounded on the door to the downstairs apartment, my peripheral vision picked up the movement upstairs—Ketchum. The stairs jarred as he lumbered down them, and I screamed, hitting at the door again.

Swiveling, I eyed the locks on the outside door, debating if I had time to unlatch and escape or if I should make a run for the backdoor and be faced with the same problem.

The door to the bodyguard’s apartment swung open, and I eyed the man in relief as I worked the locks on the front door. “He was in my apartment!”

Ketchum had made it to the last few stairs, and he jumped, scaling them completely.

One lock undone.

I looked back and froze. Instead of intercepting Ketchum, the new muscle from the first floor apartment focused on me. I knew from the expression on his face.

He was no bodyguard to me.

He was a threat.

A cohort of Ketchum’s.

The brass weapon in my hand was no match for the both of them, but I wielded it all the same as I fumbled with the next lock.

There’s a time when defeat is inevitable. When all hope for escape is gone. When destiny feels like certain death. A moment of unclouded clarity. Overcome, I swung the fireplace tool at the glass sidelight next to the door.

The glass shattered with a melodious tinkle, and I broke the oval glass in the door as well. My swing toward Ketchum and my fake bodyguard was intercepted. Fake bodyguard threw the fireplace poker aside and dragged me with a meaty hand clamped to my upper arm.

The downstairs apartment was smaller than my own, but what surprised me was the wall of surveillance monitors over a large desk.

Cams of the stairway, the porch, the street, the inside of the garage, views from every corner of the property.

Fake Bodyguard shoved me onto a chair, and after closing the door, Ketchum moved toward me. Blood dripped from a gash below one of his ears onto the shoulder of his shirt.

“I thought you said this was going to be easy money.” Fake bodyguard plucked at the edge of a duct tape roll.

“It is.” Ketchum assured and looked up from an electronic tablet to instruct, “Make sure her hands are in front.

“’One person,’ you said. ‘One stupid girl’ is what you said.” Fake Bodyguard looped the tape tightly around my wrists.

“Forget it, we’re almost done.” Ketchum turned to me. “As I was saying before you so rudely and abruptly ran out, I’m willing to negotiate here. A one-time payment and you’ll never see or hear from me again. Your
mother
will never see me again.”

One person, you said. One stupid girl
.

“Where’s my mother?” Where was the real bodyguard?

“She’s fine. Soon as you make this bank transfer. Two-hundred-fifty thousand. Then the two of you can have a family reunion.”

“Where is she?”

The tablet was shoved into my restrained hands. “Just make the transfer.”

“I can’t do that much.”

“You can and you will.”

“No. It’s too much. It won’t go through.” Fresh panic set in. Not over the money. Because at this moment, if it would make him go away, if it would ensure my mother was safe, I’d make the transfer without blinking an eye. But during the meeting with Gage’s father and my new financial team, I remembered some of the highpoints. The cap on transfers to non-linked personal bank accounts was much lower than he was demanding.

“Shut up and just do it.”

“Fine.” If I had to prove it, I would. It would buy time at the least. “But not on this.” I waved the tablet. “On my own laptop.”

“Goddammit, girl. Just fucking log in and do it!”

“No! You could be logging my info. I want my own computer!”

“Get her laptop.” Ketchum nodded to Fake Bodyguard. “Get her phone too, in case the bank calls to verify.”

They bitched among themselves and then questioned me as to where it was. While he was gone to get it, I scanned the room for anything to use as a weapon or any means of escape the second this turned bad. There was no predicting what they would do when the money didn’t go through—or even if it did—and I wanted to be ready.

“Where’s my mom?”

“Couldn’t find the phone.” F.B. was back with my computer.

Ketchum ignored my repeated question, instead snatching the laptop from his accomplice’s hand and slamming it into my lap. I flipped the top up and hit the power button.

“Just tell me where she is. I want to call her.”

A muffled sound from another room of the apartment caused their heads to swivel in that direction.

“Is that her?”

The screen was loading with desktop icons, but my attention was on Fake Bodyguard who was sprinting to the other room.

Tossing the laptop aside, I stood, intent on checking on my mother, but Ketchum shoved me back into the chair so hard, my teeth jarred.

“Your mother is wherever she always is. But if you don’t get that transfer done, I make one phone call and she isn’t. Comprehend?”

My gaze fell on Fake Bodyguard when he returned and insisted, “Make her hurry, will you? He’s coming to.” And I understood. At least I thought I did. Real Bodyguard was restrained somehow in the other room.

Snatching the laptop up, Ketchum barked out orders as he typed onto the keyboard and handed it back to me. “Here. Type your password and PIN, and I’ll do the rest. We’ll be gone. Poof. Out of your life.”