NicenEasy (12 page)

“Mum, Dad, what a surprise!” Like a good English gentleman,
Donovan embraced his mother and shook hands with his father. “When did you get
in?”

“An hour ago,” his mother said. Clipped, precise and even to
Allie’s ears she sounded too British, like an actor who hadn’t quite managed to
master the language.

“Good journey?”

Mrs. Harvey shrugged. “The stewardesses, or whatever they
call them these days, weren’t too concerned with your father’s angina.”

Mr. Harvey visibly winced. “I didn’t have a problem. And it
was nice to travel club class. I even got some sleep.”

Allie liked him. Donovan’s father stood tall, though not as
tall as his son. He had salt-and-pepper hair, neatly cut short, and a pair of
silver eyes that told her which side of the family Donovan got his looks from.

Not his mother, with her dull eyes and fuller figure,
although the fussy dress she wore did her no favors, nor did beige suit her
pale skin. Allie wondered if Mrs. Harvey had traveled in the dress for what
must have been an eleven-hour-plus flight with at least one change of planes.
To do it in a beige dress and pearls would show more stoicism than the average
woman would even consider these days. Even coach class.

“Why not first class?” Donovan demanded. Shit, she wished he
wouldn’t do that, voice what she was thinking. As if discerning her spark of
irritation, he turned, smiling, and held out his hand to her.

Without hesitation, she took it and he drew her closer.
“This is Allie.” He sat on a sofa set at right angles to the one his parents
occupied and she sat with him. Clever move, because it avoided sitting on the
one opposite, right in the glare of the sun.

Immediately Riku came to sprawl on the sofa opposite them
and Zazz took the other side—the two most spectacular members of the group.
Today, Zazz sported bright-blue hair and an unrelieved black outfit, apart from
one earful of silver. He grinned at Allie and then turned his attention to his
bandmate’s parents. Riku, in contrast, wore a pink-and-orange tie-dye jacket,
indigo jeans and no T-shirt, so his chest was on mouthwatering display. He’d
dyed his hair to match his jacket, but it lay flat and smooth, not the spiky
style he used onstage. He watched the whole scene as if he were an observer,
through half-closed eyes, a disconcerting smile playing over his beautiful
mouth.

Hunter folded his arms and leaned back against the wet bar,
the perfect image of a pissed-off Viking.

The room throbbed with testosterone and confidence, a heady
combination that would have had Allie either fainting in a puddle of desire or
leaving in a hurry, not wanting the confrontation such a gathering threatened.

Through it all, Chick wandered, seemingly oblivious to the
undercurrent simmering through the room. Chick stopped behind the wet bar.
“Drink? I know how much you Brits like your tea.”

Mrs. Harvey shuddered. “No tea, thank you. Water would be
nice.”

Her son’s chest moved in a barely visible sigh. “You’ll want
to sleep off the jetlag,” he suggested.

“In a while.” Mrs. Harvey gave Chick a pleasant but
condescending smile when he handed her water. “Thank you. Do you work for my
son?”

Chick gave her an amused grin. “I work for myself. I’m the
band’s manager.”

She sniffed. “So you’re responsible for what goes out to the
papers and online?”

“Some of it, though they do their own thing a lot of the
time.”

“They say he’s back on drugs. That’s the reason for that
scene at the convention.”

“
He
is sitting right here, Mum,” Donovan said. He
gripped Allie’s hand hard, although she wasn’t sure he knew he was doing it.
She was learning to interpret his moods despite his mostly deadpan expression.
Except when they were alone. Then he hid nothing. “You could never tell when I
was high, could you?”

“I never cared to,” Mrs. Harvey said.

Mr. Harvey had remained quiet so far, but now he joined the
conversation. “We’ve come to see the performance,” he said. “I’m looking
forward to seeing my son onstage.” Conciliatory, deliberately ignoring his
wife’s pointed remarks.

“I won’t have much time to spend with you after Wednesday,”
Donovan told them. “We have to go for sound checks and rehearsals, and Zazz
wants to work on the new song.”

Zazz glanced at Donovan and grinned. “That’s right. I
thought I might call it
Clicktrack.
”

Allie wondered if the song existed.

“Yes, it does,” Donovan murmured.

Oh fuck, had she said that aloud? The way the Harveys were
glaring at her, she realized she had. “Sorry.”

A frozen silence ensued as Mrs. Harvey delicately sipped at
the glass of water Chick had given her.

Riku broke it. “So
Clicktrack.
What are we saying
here?”

“Someone is trying to play an old vinyl record, but it’s
clicking,” Zazz said. “Like the way their life threatens to break. In the end,
the clicking gets too much and the record shatters.” Allie thrilled to know she
was hearing about a song very few people had even heard of yet.

“All violent and screaming at the end,” Zazz added.
“Exploding.”

“So where does Don come in?” Mrs. Harvey asked.

Her son spoke to cover the silence when she used the
forbidden name. “It has a heavy backbeat and then we’re putting something
irregular into the song.”

“It’ll screw with the listeners’ heartbeats,” Hunter said
with a grin. “They’ll love it.”

His deep voice resonated around the room and they all had
time to hear it, but that was the last pause as the band members began to
discuss the song.

Allie listened, enthralled, but kept an eye on Donovan’s
parents, wondering what they’d do. They did nothing, just sat and watched, his
mother with a sense of vague bewilderment, his father with a look of something
like satisfaction. Satisfaction, happiness? Something like that. Contentment,
that was it.

Chick moved behind the sofa. “Let me show you to your suite.
I’ve got you a suite to yourself on the floor below this one. You don’t want to
be here at 2:00 a.m.” He laughed. “You really don’t. And since that noise
includes rock music, you’d never get any sleep. When you want to come up, give
me a call and I’ll come get you.”

Thus preventing them from wandering around when the band was
working or playing. This floor didn’t belong to the Harveys and presumably
creativity couldn’t be allowed to stop.

Mrs. Harvey pouted, lipstick bleeding into the creases
around her mouth. “We did want to spend some time with you.”

“When you’ve slept off the jetlag, we’ll go for dinner,”
Donovan said. “But Chick is right, I have to work. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine, son. You’re just doing your job.” Mr. Harvey
smiled, totally without guile but with an understanding missing in his wife’s
demeanor.

“You could have come to the London concerts, or even the
Manchester ones,” Donovan said. He sounded more relaxed talking to his father.
Not surprising.

“I am. I have tickets for the O2. But I wanted to see San
Francisco too.” He grinned. “Don’t worry about entertaining us. I want to see
Alcatraz. Always have.”

“Oh yes,” Donovan murmured. “The film and that book. You
were always interested in the stories.”

“I was, and I intend to go.”

Chick clapped his hands together. “That’s great. I’ll get
you tickets and arrange for transport. How about you, Allie?”

“I’ll just hang here,” she said. She’d always wanted to go
to Alcatraz, but not with these two. His mother avoided looking at her, even
acknowledging her existence. Allie had no plans for any more awkward
situations. “I’m tired after the convention.”

“Are you sure?” Donovan said. “You should go. Fuck, I’d go
if I had the time.”

And she’d go with him. At the curse word, his mother
flinched but everyone else pretended not to notice or accepted the word as
normal, which, after all, it was. “I’m sure.”

Without warning, Donovan bent toward her, tugging her hand,
and gave her one of the swift kisses that melted her. “We’ll go to dinner and
see something of the city. You didn’t plan to stay this long so I’m guessing
you need some clothes too.”

“Yes.” Rapidly, she thought about her bank account. Healthy
enough at present, but she couldn’t rely on keeping her job, even if she wanted
it. Where she went from here she wasn’t sure, but expensive clothing was so out
of her reach right now. And she didn’t want to take anything from Donovan.

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

“You like vintage?” Riku put in.

She could have kissed him. Vintage rarely cost like new
clothes. “Love it,” she assured him.

“Last time I was here, I found a great store. Racks and
racks of stuff, and some great finds.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” she said, although it
wasn’t. It sounded like a glorified Goodwill to her.

“I’ll write down the address,” Riku said. “You’ll have to go
downtown.” He grinned. “And in this town, downtown means just that.”

“We’re on Nob Hill, aren’t we?”

“Quaint,” Mrs. Harvey murmured.

Everyone ignored her. “Yes,” Chick said. “Swanky hotel on
top of the hill. So you get a cab to come back. Union Square isn’t far, but you
can’t walk back up without a grappling hook and crampons.”

“I can do that.”

“We can do it,” Donovan said. “Mum, do you want to do a bit
of shopping with us tomorrow?” Although Allie didn’t like the idea, she was
glad Donovan had decided to build a few bridges. “Dad can go to Alcatraz and
you can come with us, if you like.”

His mother softened at the edges, like butter taken out of
the refrigerator. “I’d like that. If Norman doesn’t mind going on his own.”

“He won’t have to,” Chick said. “I’ll go with him. I’ve
never visited Alcatraz either.”

As easily as that, it was settled. Chick found a bellboy to
take Donovan’s parents to their suite. Allie didn’t doubt it would be a
first-class setup. She also didn’t doubt that Chick could have found them a
room on this floor if he’d wanted to. He’d accommodated Elliott easily enough.

Hunter saluted Chick when the elevator outside pinged,
heralding the Harveys’ exit.

Before the party could break up—some party, Allie reflected
gloomily—someone else entered the fray. Elliott opened the door. “Whoa.” He
hesitated. “It’s not every day you get to walk into a room with living
legends.”

“Hey, man,” Chick said. “Come in.”

“Six months ago we were rock musicians,” Zazz commented.
“Now living legends. What’s the difference?”

“About a million more record sales,” Chick replied
immediately.

“Flattering, but I’m not convinced.” Zazz shifted in his
seat, leaned forward and fished a battered black notebook from an inner pocket.
“I’ll just do what I do and hope it works.”

“Seems to be working so far.” Riku got to his feet. “If
you’re doing songwriter angst, I have a store to visit. Coming?”

Allie met his dark, amused gaze with a shock. “I thought we
were going tomorrow? Aren’t you needed for the session?”

Riku made a dismissive sound. “Pfft. They don’t need me
today.”

He glanced at Zazz, who nodded. “Just working out the
basics, man.”

“We can do the regular stores tomorrow. Today, we’re going
to the vintage place. Talking about it made me wonder if it’s still there.” He
cocked a brow at Chick. “Taxi?”

Chick hit a number on his phone. “I’ve got a company on
retainer. They’ll be here in five. He’ll give you a business card for the
return journey.”

Bewildered at the speed of events, Allie turned back to
Donovan, who’d got to his feet beside her. “Could be fun,” he said, digging one
hand into his pocket. “Here.”

Before he could get out what Allie knew with a sinking
feeling to be his credit card, Elliott said, “Actually, there’s something I
need to discuss with you. About your books,” he added, just in case he hadn’t
got the message.

“Later?”

Elliott shrugged. “If you want. Don’t you trust your lady
with Riku, or do you need another pair of tie-dyed flares?”

Donovan laughed. “Do I look like I do?”

“Nobody needs more than one pair,” Elliott said laconically.
“Stay and listen. You’ll need time to process this.”

She ached to know what he meant, but Allie knew all about
confidentiality. She hoped professional ethics, not a sense of distrusting her,
drove Elliott, but after all, what did he know about her? Fuck all, except that
she worked for notorious poachers Casterbridge. “Yes, stay. I’ll be fine.”

Before he could get the fucking card out, she turned back to
Riku. “Ready?”

Shopping with Riku proved a revelation to Allie. He treated
his newfound fame in a completely different way than Donovan. He didn’t go out
of his way to avoid people, disguise himself or keep his head down. Instead, he
accepted it, or he said, “People are always telling me I look like him. Crazy
thing.”

It worked like a charm. He told her he had another ploy, to
tell people he loved Riku Shiraishi and tried to dress like him. “The thing is
not to be scared of them. The fangirls are something else, and I’ve learned to
take a bodyguard with me for those, but we get more genuine fans, people who just
like what we do and want to talk music.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I
mean, could any fangirl take me seriously?”

“Are you kidding?” She turned away from the rack of tops she
was riffling through to study him. “A six-foot-two, ridiculously dressed, hot
American-Japanese man in his late twenties? So beautiful he should be banned?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he murmured, but with no rancor. “And
sadly, yes, they do. Because I wear makeup and weird hair, I’m easy to imitate.
So I just say I copy. Try to push the conversation to X Japan or Dir en Grey.
If you could persuade Donovan to dress up a bit more, it’d work for him too.”