Incendiary (27 page)

The nude photo I sent to Sloane is unimportant compared to Maitland’s concerned call. But Sloane is coming to me. He isn’t going to other women and he isn’t going for a hit.

Wanting to look my best, I indulge in a quick bath while Abby runs to her room for a DVD of the band’s concert footage. My hair is piled up and Bryn lays in the bassinet Abby ordered. It now stays in the bathroom. Once I get out of the tub, water drips from me, while I grab a towel from the shelf and wrap it around me.

I check on Bryn. She’s awake, staring at the animals on her silent mobile and cooing.

At the sink, I brush my teeth, then stare at myself in the mirror.

After the fiasco of our outing, Abby and I returned to the house. She listened to me while I cried over my confrontation with my mother. Maybe I’m weak, but I’m coming to rely on Abby, just as I did with Lindsey. The older woman has called to check on me, but she sounds strange, distant even.

A sound catches my attention. The door leading from the bathroom to the bedroom gapes open. The lamp sitting on the nightstand flickers on and off.

“Hello?” I call, tipping to Bryn and lifting her in my arms. The lights flicker again, then goes out completely. Fear curls into me, then I chide myself for being silly. “Abby?”

Uneven footfalls resound in the room, and I hurriedly slam the bathroom door shut and lock it. My phone sits on the counter, so I race to it and dial Abby’s number.

“Someone’s in my room,” I hiss the moment she answers, holding Bryn against me with one arm. “Call 911.”

“There’s no need for that, babe,” she responds with nonchalance. “Amika, one of the maid’s responsible for that area, is in there to freshen up the sitting room and set the table.”

“I don’t think so.” I explain what happened.

“Okay, I’m coming up. But honey, this place is secure. You’re safe, I swear.”

I don’t believe her, so I hang up without responding. A few minutes later, a knock comes on the bathroom door.

“Georgie?” Abby calls.

“Yeah. Abby?”

“Of course, silly. It’s me. By the way, the table is set beautifully and your bed is changed.”

Biting my lip, I open the door, half expecting the boogie man to jump out at me. “Why would someone change my bed tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Abby says and sips her wine. “But they turned the lamps off.” She pats my arm, before taking Bryn. “You’re still freaked over what happened at the shop. Rand’s mansion is safe. That’s why you’re here. Now, come on. Forget about this. I’ll pour you half a glass of wine, so you can drink and relax until Sloane arrives.”

Two servants are just departing Georgie’s room when I brush past Abby before she has a chance to close the door. Relief brightens her face and she smiles at me. Wordlessly, I follow her through the sitting room and into the bedroom, where Georgie is leaning over one of the trays and sniffing.

I grin at the sight of her ass, outlined in purple yoga pants.

“I hope he hurries up,” she chirps. “I’m so fucking hungry. Being Bryn’s personal moo cow makes me want to eat everything in sight.”

“Speaking of my errant nephew, look who’s here,” Abby announces cheerfully, heading to her seat. At her spot, a bottle of wine sits, along with a glass.

Though I lift my brow in question, I’m swept away in the happiness on Georgie’s face when she whirls around and sees me.

“Oh, hey.”

Smirking, I sweep my gaze from her head to her toes before staring into her eyes. “Hey, Moo.”

“Oh my God, you’re so juvenile.”

“And this is a new discovery?” Abby asks, lifting her eyebrow.

Flipping my aunt off, I stroll forward. “I kind of like the name
Moo
. Cute nickname.”

Georgie’s affronted scowl makes me laugh. “Fuck off.”

At her language, my mood immediately dips. “You don’t learn, do you?”

Folding her arms, she plops into her seat and scowls.

“Controlling much?” Abby fires, pouring herself a glass of wine and nodding to Georgie’s glass.

I move without thinking and snatch the bottle from her. “No fucking way. She’s nursing. No alcohol for her.”

“Sloane—” Georgie begins.

“A little wine will not hurt Georgie
or
Bryn,” Abby insists.

I guzzle from the bottle. “And how many babies have you nursed?”

“None, thank God,” she replies dramatically, picking up her glass and downing the contents.

Abby can drink some men under a fucking table. Georgie’s eyes round at my aunt’s display. She looks impressed.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

Giving me the evil eye, Georgie puts a little of everything on her plate. Brussels sprouts with mushrooms, onions, ham, and shrimp, roasted chicken breast, and rice pilaf.

“I intended to decline the wine,” she growls, after Abby and I prepare our plates. “But if I wanted a drink, there’s nothing you could do to stop me.”

I stab my chicken breast with my fork and slice off a piece. “You think not?”

“I know not, dickhead.”

Abby grabs the almost empty bottle and pours the last few drops into her glass while I search for an answer to hit Georgie with. She’s right, though. There’s absolutely nothing I could say to convince her not to do whatever the fuck she wants. Without engaging in sex, I can’t use it against her as either punishment or reward. Unless I threaten to take Bryn from her, and I just can’t put her through that type of emotional torture anymore.

She’s still in need of me.

I mourn the fact that even if I weren't convinced most of that fucking interview wasn’t Georgie, I’d still feel just as I do now. Drowning in thoughts of her and no longer able to fuck another woman.
What the fuck happened to rock’s baddest boy?

A girl.
This girl
.

The purple eyed beauty whose eyes remind me of violets in a storm, awash with emotion and aflame with need.

I scowl at my plate.

“What, Sloane?” she says with a sigh.

“There was a lot of pussy available to me tonight and I didn’t bother with checking any of it out. I stayed in the fucking limo. I could’ve gotten high,” I continue in pathetic self-pity, “and I fucking passed up the opportunity.”

Georgie sets her fork aside and washes down the food with a sip of water. “You’ve grown up,” she says softly. “Age doesn’t determine maturity. What you needed before isn’t what you need now. You’re a different person, at a different place in your life.”

Her insight continues to amaze me. “Are you?”

“I want to be,” she admits. “Whatever else I do in life, I want motherhood as my best accomplishment. What greater legacy is there to leave behind but well-adjusted children?”

“Well then, our parents are epic fucking failures,” Abby says, uncomfortable with any type of emotional depth, which is what Georgie craves the most.

Bowing her head, Georgie smiles at my aunt. I’d like to choke the fuck out of her for her smart-ass comment, even understanding where it comes from.

We finish the meal and Georgie’s face falls. “Bryn will be waking up soon,” she says, “and I really need another nap. It’s as if I’m a newborn.” She’s telling me to go, without actually saying the words.

I’m not ready to part with her company, so I get to my feet and drag Georgie toward the door.

“Listen for Bryn,” I tell Abby, who’s staring at me in shock while Georgie tries to jerk away from me. I sweep her into my arms and ignore her frantic wiggles.

“Put me down,” she yells, and that same desperate, frantic look enters her eyes that comes in every time she’s threatened with separation from Bryn. “You can’t do this.”

“Stop it, Georgie. I’m not doing anything, but taking you to the place I wrote my first song.”

Bypassing the main staircase, I take the back one. It’s narrower and steeper, mainly for servants, but it is also closer to the room Mom insisted I have, so me, Maitland, Adam, and Quint could do our thing.

Once I set her on her feet, I flip on the lights and lean against the door. I’ve added another verse to Georgie’s song, though I see no point recording it if I don’t have her.

“This is a part of me, Georgie.” Her pulse thumps at the base of her neck. “Do you remember the verse I sang to you at the cottage?”

She nods, relaxing by a small fraction.

“I’ve added to it. I want you to hear it.” So I’m a low motherfucker. I hadn’t thought to bring her in here until she began to dismiss me after dinner. “It’s about you.”

Her eyes widen, but I don’t dwell on her genuine shock.

“Let me sing it to you.” If I move away from the door, she’ll bolt. Holding her gaze, I will her to stay of her own free choice. “It won’t take long.”

She worries her bottom lip before she faces the music stands, drum kit, and piano. My guitars were long ago removed from this place, except the ones the guys brought with them from Europe.

She walks to the piano and plays a short melody. I didn’t know she played an instrument. She gives me a small smile at my surprise.

“Piano lessons were required of me when I was younger,” she answers my unasked question. “I can’t play a complex arrangement.” She taps on the keys again. “Like you.”

She would know that, something I made Jaeger remove from all bios about me, years ago.

“Guitars are sexier,” I tell her.

“Says you. Anything you play is sexy, Sloane.” She heaves in a breath. “I really am tired.”

“I know.” And I’m still me, still selfishly wanting her with me. “You think I’m a coward, don’t you?” Or, maybe, only my guilty conscience has me feeling that way about myself. “That I should say
fuck it
and do jail time, then when I’m released we’ll live together happily-ever-after.”

“I don’t think you’re a piece of shit. The rest of it? Yes.”

“I’m not meant to live any part of my life behind bars.”

“Strange for you to say that when you did so much shit to land behind bars.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There always is.”

I thrust my fingers through my hair, wishing I could make this right. I’ve used my notoriety for so many other reasons, mostly not good, but I can’t find a way to claim my daughter and don’t forsake Georgie. My only solution is turning her into what I know she isn’t.

“I want to go back upstairs to that room, where nothing can harm me.”

I grab her arm as she passes me by. The moment my fingers touch her skin, fire races through my blood and I cover her mouth with mine. She whimpers, parting her lips and meeting my tongue.

My dick rises between us, wanting inside of her, though I know that isn’t a possibility. Still ravishing her mouth, I lead her to the sofa and lean back, freeing my cock.

“Suck me off.”

She angles her body and wraps her hot little mouth around my hard dick. She bobs her head, nibbling and licking and sucking, her cheek resting on my thigh, her hands wrapped around my cock base.

I bury my hands in her hair and stroke the silky strands. She draws me closer and closer to coming, so I push into her mouth and she grunts. Her hands go slack and she draws in a deep breath, her body relaxing.

“Fuck me.” Before I lift my head, I already know what I’ll find. But, no. I don’t need to raise up. Her little snore offers a full explanation.

Leave it to Georgie to fall asleep while sucking my dick. If I had low self-esteem, I’d probably need years of therapy. Instead, I laugh. It’s loud and unrestrained, genuinely amused.

We’re in an awkward position, so as best I can, I ease myself away from her and cover my dick while she continues to snore. As I lift her into my arms, she opens her eyes, smiles sleepily and sinks further into sleep.

Georgie’s still a broken, fragile girl, and I’m not sure I can fix her. I want her safe and happy. I also want Georgie in my life more than I want anything else.

Even freedom.

A chill sweeps through me as I awaken and find my room is in complete darkness. I’m certain the lights were on when I left with Sloane.

Sloane. I groan. The time I spent with him rushes back, right up to me giving him head. Beyond that, I’m blank. Not only don’t I remember finishing him off, I can’t recall returning to this room on my own or with him.

This room that’s so dark and damp, filled with sounds of thunder, wind, and rain.

I can’t hear Bryn over the severity of the weather, so I stumble out of bed, fear of the darkness falling away. As I reach her bed, wind whistles through the curtains. The windows are opened.

Who…?

Fuck. The memory of the bathtub episode hits me and I turn to Bryn’s bed, leaning over to pick her up then get the fuck out of the room.

Usually, she’s in the middle. She doesn’t move much, but she isn’t where I know she always lays. My panic growing, I feel around for her and her bed empty. She’s gone.

“Bryn!” I scream at the top of my lungs, making my way to a lamp and turning it on.

Rain streams in the two opened windows, where, on the outside, that iron ladder runs between them.

“Bryn!” I run to the windows and lean out, searching for her or someone, but it’s nothing but inclement weather and no sign of my daughter.

Grabbing my phone, I dial Sloane. Abby. Sloane. Kiln. Sloane. Grandma. Sloane. No one answers, and sobs tear out of me. I run to the bathroom, the closet, snatching open anything big enough for her to be hidden in.

God, I’m not finding her. I drop to my knees and wail, dialing everyone again. I even add in Maitland but get the same results. Falling apart won’t get my daughter back. Someone took her. Have I misplaced my trust in Sloane? Did he lull me into offering him a modicum of belief, only to take her from me? He swore he wouldn’t.

Staggering to my feet, I reach for the key that Sloane gave me days ago. It’s gone, though it was there earlier.

Or was it? Did I see it after the episode while I was in the bathroom? Frightened out of my head, I run to the sitting room, prepared to bang on the wood until someone hears me. There’s no need. The door already gapes open, leading to a pitch black hallway.

I’ve always hated the dark, but even more so after Mom held me captive. I remind myself that there’s a big hallway beyond my area and barrel through. At the midway point, dim light bathes me as if I’ve stepped from an alternate universe, where one side is light and the other is dark.

There’s a door at the other end of the hallway. I don’t know where Abby’s, Kiln’s or Sloane’s rooms are, but it doesn’t stop me from screaming their names. Once I reach the door, I pound on it, sobbing hysterically. No one is here. I’m all alone and Bryn needs me. I shouldn’t have come this way. I should’ve climbed out of the window and down the ladder.

Whirling around, I hurry back to the room I’ve been staying in, darting toward the window. My phone is still in my hand, so I try Sloane again.

No answer. Hitting the end button in frustration, I hike up my nightgown, preparing to climb over the wet sill. A faint whimper halts me, and I pause, listening intently. It comes again.

Bryn.

In the bathroom, judging from the direction of the sound.

My God, I checked in there. Was someone in here with her? Is this some type of sick joke?

The bathroom door is halfway opened. My heart pounds as I push through it and scream again.

Words are painted in red on the mirror, the shower door, the toilet, the walls, and the side of the Jacuzzi bathtub where Bryn lays, wiggling and naked, face down on the marble. Water rains onto her from the opened bathroom window that’s above the tub.

I waste no time in rescuing her. Not considering what I choose, I snatch a blanket, a diaper, and an outfit. I’m not staying in this room. I wrap her up and hold her against me, determined to get out of here.

Only, I can’t. When I reach the door, I’m locked in all over again and still without the key Sloane gave me.

Dad’s out somewhere, and the guys are probably balls deep in hot pussy. Georgie and Bryn are asleep, and I have no fucking clue of Abby’s whereabouts.

When I toured, I performed for a couple of hours, partied even longer, slept four or five hours and then practiced. It’s hard adjusting to a normal regime. Out of conditioning, I crave little rest.

I’m using my inability to sleep to my advantage.

After my father’s visit, I’ve lacked the opportunity to search his office for anything to exonerate me regarding Steffie’s murder. Until tonight. I’ve broken into his locked filing cabinets and I don’t give a fuck. I’ve
got
to reclaim my life, with or without music in it. For so many years, losing my sister defined who I was. All else was an escape to the realities that I wasn’t free to live as my own man.

I didn’t have hope, but I had music. Now, I don’t have music, but I have hope.

I need leverage against my father, similar to what I have with Helen because of Cassandra. The ball’s in the old witch’s court now. I’m awaiting her serve and counter accordingly.

Georgie’s eighteenth birthday is about ninety-five days away. If the charges are dropped, I’m flying to Denver, and Georgie’s going back to Helen.
Not
Cassandra. I’ll see to that. No one knows what I decided tonight, once I returned Georgie to the room and watched her sleep for a good hour. I’m marrying Georgie the day she turns eighteen. End of story.

Of course,
until
her birthday, she’s going to fucking hate me. Because I’m leaving again and I’m not telling anyone that I’m returning for her. I’m not going to play fucking games and blab the information to Georgie to see if she leaks it.

The world will think I’m fucking every woman I come across, and so will Georgie. My only defense to her will be I’ve never promised
not
to stick my dick in other women. It’s cold-blooded, but life isn’t fucking perfect.

That’s the best case scenario. Worse case? Shouting to the world that Bryn is
my
daughter, and
I’m
the only man to have ever had Georgiana. Do jail time, in the name of love. To show Georgie that she’s
my everything
.

Except if I’m locked away—and that would happen
immediately
—Georgie will be vulnerable to Helen and Cassandra. Though I despise Cassandra, I understand Helen. Despite horns made from Hell’s ashes, Helen has a mother’s instinct, and she uses it to protect her daughter. She’d destroy me and put my downfall on Georgie on Cassandra’s behalf.

I put nothing past her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My absence would leave Georgie in a very bad position.

“One thing at a time, Sloane,” I advise myself aloud, making a full circle and staring at the mess I’ve made.

After hours of searching, I’ve found not one incriminating piece of information. Dad has photos of my mother, too many to count. There are handwritten letters she wrote to him throughout their marriage. Not even those mention what she knew about Steffie’s death. My father also has progress reports and essays from my school years. Photos of me from the time I was born to the present day. The collection includes snapshots of the biggest moments of my life and some of my lowest days. He has a copy of his most recent will, dated seven years ago, just months after Mom’s death. Neither Kiln, Jaeger, and I are anywhere in it, just as he’s always sworn—the other reason we work together, to be included in his fortune when he croaks.

He has a generous amount for Abby.

Dad has a huge file on the case. His photos of Georgie are even more in depth, ranging from the time Helen took her from Denver to a couple of days ago at
La Perla
. Reading through his file makes me feel lower than shit. He’s already had the audio analyzed and has a definitive conclusion that what the world heard was more than one recording spliced together.

The report on Detective Jackson shows he was suddenly relieved of his duty the day he interviewed Georgie. On a sticky note, Dad has written,
Helen’s doing?

On a lined sheet of paper are the words,
Who went public?
And a list of names: Crowell Daniels, Josh McCall, Kiln Mason, Dietrech Mason, Parnell McCall, and Cassandra McCall. On the next line he wrote,
Who am I missing?

Nowhere does he have Georgie’s name. Even when I was lost in my hatred of her, Dad knew she was innocent. Just as a small part of me doubted her virginity, a bigger part of me didn’t believe in her honesty.

No longer interested in discovering anything about my sister, I brace myself to discover just how deeply my injustice toward Georgie goes and flip the page.

“Sloane?”

I frown at the sound of Abby’s voice, but I’m almost relieved for the interruption.

I’m halfway to the door when she bursts in, her skin ghastly pale.

“Where the fuck is your phone?”

“Upstairs.” I grab her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“Georgie,” she says faintly. “Someone got into her room. She’s been calling all of us and…come quick.”

She turns and I move, running to the room Abby’s using, finding Georgie on the bed, holding Bryn.

I wrap her in my arms, allowing her to sob against my chest. Her skin is cold and the blanket around Bryn is wet. Between halts and sniffles, Georgie explains what happened. She must’ve already told Abby because my aunt’s door is locked. I can see that she’s scared, too. By the actions of the intruder, we don’t know his or her location. It’s possible they’re still in the house.

“Give me your phone, Abby,” I instruct, and dial Kiln’s number.

“Get the fuck back to the house now,” I order the moment he answers.

“Not.” He hoots with laughter. “Have you forgotten you’re no longer my concern? You quit the fucking band.”

“Fuck you. Get back here. Someone got into Georgie’s room and hid Bryn from her. We’re in Abby’s room now.”

“Fuck, I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he says grudgingly.

“I’ll call Pres and get them here, too.”

He grunts in response. “Don’t go upstairs, asshole. They’re safe.”

“Someone terrorized her.”

“Stay in that room, fucker! Guard your fucking daughter, Georgie, and Abby. You don’t have a firearm. If a fuckhead is still on the premises and you’re taken out, what happens to them?”