Turbulent Sea (2 page)

JOLEY Drake stared in a kind of sick dread at the mob of people crowding the gates and fence. She had forgotten what after parties were like, or maybe she'd just blocked them out. Women pushed against the car windows, lifting their tops and mashing their bare breasts against the tinted panes. Some waved thong underwear in various colors. They shoved at the car, pulling on door handles and screaming. She doubted any of those women knew who was in the vehicle, but they were clearly willing to sell themselves to get an invite inside.

"My God, Steve," Joley muttered to her driver, "sex, drugs and rock and roll are such a cliché, but it's so true." Even to herself she sounded jaded.

Steve Brinkley's gaze met hers in the rearview mirror. "You stopped coming to these things years ago; what made you change your mind tonight? I was shocked when I got your call."

That was a question she didn't want to answer, not even to herself—especially to herself. She pushed her forehead into her palm. "I haven't been to one of these in so long, I let everything but the music just fade away. I didn't want to think about what goes on, but now that I'm here, I might just throw up." She meant to sound light, joking, but the pounding on the hood and the hands trying to yank open doors were impossible to ignore.

She felt like an animal trapped in a cage. It was surprising how often she felt that way. And if the mob knew who was inside, they would have begun dismantling the car to get at her.

She hadn't wanted to remember this part of her life. Those first heady months as a megastar, when everything she wanted, or needed, or even thought of was handed to her and the band—that had been so long ago, a dream come true that had quickly turned to a nightmare she tried to forget.

She had been born with a legacy of gifts, but even she had been overtaken by the magnitude of what was offered to her in that first flush of success, being treated like a star, godlike, given anything, wanted everywhere. Like so many stars before her, she'd fallen into the trap of selfish egotism, believing she deserved to be treated differently.

Being a Drake with special gifts prevented her from using anything poisonous to her body, but her band hadn't been so lucky. She'd seen the results, and more than once had walked into a hotel room to find naked bodies writhing everywhere and drugs and alcohol flowing freely. Her boys, as she called them, were more than just friends—almost family—and the excesses of alcohol, drugs and women crawling over one another for a chance to be with a member of a band, to do anything for him, had nearly destroyed their minds and their lives.

Most of the band members lost families to that lifestyle. It hadn't taken Joley long to become disgusted with the way they were all living. She'd walked out, turning her back on music—on the band—on fame. They knew it was her voice that had taken them to the top and without her the band would topple quickly. In the end, her manager and the band members had convinced her they would set rules and abide by them.

Joley knew she couldn't dictate to the band, but she could establish guidelines she could live with. She didn't ever pretend not to have a wild streak, but that didn't include illegal substances or sexual orgies. And it certainly didn't include underage boys or girls performing sexual favors and getting totally wasted with her band. The terms had been agreed to, and Joley rarely went to parties other than with the band immediately afterward. And she never went where someone might be providing all the things she'd most objected to—until now—until tonight.

"Why do you suppose these women feel the need to service bands? What do they really get out of it, Steve?" she asked her driver. "Because I don't understand. They line up to give the band and even the roadies blowjobs. Actually stand in line in the halls, hoping to get the chance. They don't really care if anyone knows their name."

"I don't know, Joley. I don't really understand half of what people do or why they do it."

The guards pushed the crowds back to make room so the car could approach the high, wrought iron gates. All of the guards were carrying guns—and not just polite police-issue handguns beneath smooth jackets either. Those were semiautomatic weapons cradled in their beefy arms, right out in the open like in some gangster film. Joley's stomach lurched as she observed the guards through the tinted glass. These weren't rented security—these men were the real deal—professionals every last one of them. They didn't wear boredom on their faces; they wore masks, and their eyes were flat and cold. She knew if she were to reach out and touch one of them, even lightly, she'd feel the chill of death.

Her cell phone went off, interrupting her train of thought. Flipping it open with a little grimace, she answered. "Gloria, I told you I'd take care of it. I'm getting Logan now. You dragged me out of bed and I said I'd do it, so give me some time and I'll have him there." She knew she sounded bitchy, but really. Gloria Brady, the mother of Lucy Brady, psycho-stalker from hell, every band's worst nightmare come true, was once again demanding to speak with her sax player, Logan Voight. He'd had a brief encounter with Gloria's daughter, making the mistake of seeing her more than once, and now Lucy and her demented ways would haunt him forever.

Joley snapped the phone closed and shoved it into her pocket. She'd been pacing her hotel room when the first frantic call from Gloria came in. Joley had latched on to the excuse, dragging her driver out in the middle of the night, lying to herself that she was coming to the party to deliver the message to Logan and see to it personally that he took care of the problem. Now that she was here, she realized how utterly stupid she'd been. Others might look at the guards and think they were cool; she looked at them and wondered how many people they'd killed.

A guard tapped her window, making her jump, motioning for her to let him see her. Her driver objected, but she rolled down the window and peered at the guard so he could visually identify her. She saw the instant flash of recognition. Joley Drake, legendary singer known simply as
Joley
. For one brief moment she thought he might ask for her autograph, but he recovered and waved her through the gates.

Sergei Nikitin had been inviting her to his parties for months, but she always made excuses not to go. Sergei was a wealthy man who ran in the in circles. He knew politicians and celebrities of every kind. He maintained the public image of a charming businessman who liked the good life and surrounded himself with household names—movie stars, race car drivers, sports figures, models, public figures and of course the most famous bands.

Very few people knew he was reputed to be a Russian mobster with a violent, bloody past and a penchant for making his enemies disappear. Most of those who had heard the rumors thought they only added to his mystique. It seemed inconceivable that the suave, charming businessman might actually order vicious, sadistic deaths to further his already abundant wealth—to everybody but those in law enforcement—and Joley—thanks to her brother-in-law, who was a sheriff.

"Just stop here," she instructed and waited until Steve had pulled to the side of the drive, still a distance from the house, before opening the door. She remained in the seat, hesitating.

The party was in full swing. Music blasted from the house, filling the air around it. Joley could almost feel the building expanding and contracting with every boom of the bass. Even the windows vibrated. She sat in the car with the door open and studied the house. Nikitin would know she'd come. His security people would have radioed the house immediately so Nikitin could be ready to greet her. It would be a victory of sorts for him. Finally. Joley Drake. He'd been pursuing her for months. Another celebrity he could be photographed with.

"Are you getting out, Joley?" Steve asked.

She met the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror and made a face. "I don't know. Maybe. Do you mind just waiting, Steve? I feel bad for dragging you out tonight."

"That's what you pay me for," he reassured her. "If you want to sit here for a while, it's fine by me. I was surprised you wanted to come," he added, a note of worry in his voice.

It had surprised her too, but she'd lain awake staring at the ceiling until she'd wanted to scream in frustration. She rarely slept, was a total insomniac, and she couldn't do anything but pace back and forth in her hotel room. The frantic call from Gloria begging her to find Logan had been all the excuse she'd needed. Gloria's daughter was in the hospital having Logan's baby and had already called the media and was making a scene, threatening to kill herself if Logan didn't show up.

Joley told herself she'd come to the party to make certain Logan knew what he was doing, to send lawyers and security as well as her manager, but she could have done it all with a phone call or two. Lucy had already agreed to turn over the baby to him, and the papers had been drawn up, but everyone knew Lucy wouldn't go away that easily. There would be one scene after another.

Joley shook her head as she turned her attention to Nikitin's grounds. There were people everywhere. They milled around the rolling grass, some making certain to be seen by the mob at the fence. A few hopeful starlets and male models even signed autographs through the gate. Cries and pleas and drunken laughter were every bit as loud as the booming music.

She spotted Denny Simmons, her drummer, walking in the distance with a blonde, not his current girlfriend. She bit her lip hard. She didn't want to know any of them cheated. "Men are dogs, Steve. That's why I don't date anymore. Hound dogs."

He sighed, watching Simmons. "They have too much, Joley. You know they drink too much or do a few drugs and they don't have a clue what they're doing."

"Denny's been divorced once already and he acts as if his girlfriend is his world, but look at him now." She narrowed her eyes as Denny stopped to kiss the girl, skimming his hands over her ample breasts. The woman jerked his shirt out of his pants and her hand went to his zipper. "Damn him for this. I really like his girlfriend, and she has a child. I'm never going to be able to look her in the eye again."

Men were dogs—
all
of them. Not a one could be trusted. Well, maybe her sisters's men, but not the ones Joley fell for. She liked them hard-edged and dangerous and that added up to… "No, not dogs, Steve. I like dogs and they're loyal. Snakes is a better word for what men are."

"Maybe you shouldn't be here.'"

She detested the compassion in his voice. Her rapid rise to fame had created this situation, and now their lives were little more than tabloid fodder. She tried to steer the other band members away from the life of excess, but it had been impossible when everything came so easy. And men like Sergei Nikitin knew how to use fame and popularity to get what he wanted. He'd supply the drugs and women and even the pictures for the tabloids if it furthered his own cause. And once he got his claws into a person…

"Men can be weak," Steve said.

So could women, Joley surmised. Or she wouldn't be here, chancing ruining her life. And for what? "That's just a cop-out, Steve. Everyone has choices. And everyone ought to know what the people in their life are worth. And men should have more self-respect—and honor—than to abuse the people who love them."

His gaze narrowed and Joley looked away from the mirror. She couldn't bear to see the knowledge in his eyes—or in her own—that she was really talking about herself. How hypocritical was it to condemn Denny for making wrong choices when she'd probably come here for that very thing. She couldn't even bring herself to admit the truth, hedging in her mind, pretending it was to help Logan save his child when the real reason was purely selfish.

Her body was on fire. Hot. Needy. Ultrasensitive. Her nipples brushed her lacy bra and sent streaks of white lightning zigzagging through her straight to her groin. Her body pulsed with life, with need, with want… Oh man did she want. She brushed a hand over her face to hide her expression from Steve.

A crush of what looked like teenage girls dressed in too-tight clothing, too much makeup and heels to make them look older came rushing around the walkway toward the front door. They were giggling loudly and pulling at their clothes, trying to look as if they belonged. Joley swore under her breath as memories flooded back. Young girls servicing band members and roadies. Groupies, looking to do anything with someone famous. Drugs and alcohol to deaden their inhibitions.

In the early days she had tried to stop it. Now she knew she couldn't. What others did and what they could live with was on them. The only stipulation she'd adamantly enforced was that any groupie had to be old enough. The girls didn't look it, but she was getting older and everyone seemed to look about thirteen to her these days. Maybe she was just jaded. Her manager and certainly the band would never break that one taboo, and risk losing everything.

The rush of excitement the show had produced drained away, even the fire racing through her veins, leaving her feeling tired. As if reading her thoughts, Steve cleared his throat and leaned out the window to get a better look at the girls.

"I swear, Miss Drake, looking at those girls, I'm feeling ancient. They look like they should be home playing with dolls."

"I must be ancient, too," she conceded, watching as one of them broke away and dashed around the corner to hide in some bushes. The girl pulled out a cell phone and quickly made a call.

Her eyes were bright and she couldn't stop smiling, her excitement at the opportunity of mixing with the band members and all the celebrities at the party nearly palpable. She was pretty. Young. Even with the makeup she looked no more than fourteen. Innocent looking. Definitely in need of protection. The poor girl had no idea what she was getting into. Joley pushed the door open even wider and swung her feet out of the car.

"We're not supposed to tell anyone they're letting us in," one of the other girls called out. "You'll get us kicked out. They told us not to tell anyone."

Joley glanced at Steve. "That doesn't sound good. If someone told them not to tell, they have to be underage."