Wild Child (Rock Royalty #6) (15 page)

The words brought to mind Cami Colson’s signature song. He heard her singing in his head, melancholy and slow.
Motherless children have a hard time when the mother is gone.

But really, was he so motherless after all? Didn’t Cheryl O’Shea come pretty damn close to a maternal influence in his life? The idea of it filled him with a gratitude that lifted his mood. He smiled at her.

“Maybe you’re always too easy on me.”

“Somebody has to be,” she said. “You have so many wonderful qualities, Brody, including that optimistic streak that caused you to hope for the best with that latest lady.”

“Another person might call it my stupid streak.”

Cheryl narrowed her eyes. “Now—”

“Okay, okay.” He lifted his hands. “Optimistic.”

But he was without hope that there’d be a good outcome when it came to this new direction he was heading in. Every instinct he had said there was disaster looming. Yet still he couldn’t turn off or turn back on the road that would lead him again to Ash. Though he sensed he’d ultimately crash and burn, that his twin would one day again find him flat on his belly, coughed up by the beast that was his bent toward self-destruction, there was no stopping this.

But he could attempt to lessen the damage by proceeding at a slower pace. Coasting into a wall hurt a hell of a lot less than accelerating headfirst into it.

His next glance at the clock showed that it neared Cheryl’s preferred time to eat dinner. “I should get going.”

“You could stay,” she offered. “I can get out another pork chop.”

“I won’t put you to the trouble.” He rose from his chair. “But I promise not to stay away so long next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Cheryl said.

He paused. “Bing wants to come by, too.”

She looked pleased. “Does he?”

“It’s the influence of a good woman. Lex is… She’s knocked off his sharpest edges.”

Cheryl stood and followed him toward the front door. “I’d like you to find one like that for yourself, Brody.”

He made a non-committal noise.
I’m afraid that’s not happening any time soon.

At the door, he turned to the older woman. She wore a small smile on her face, and he saw it in her expression, that maternal kind of regard for him. Love.

The last time Brody’s mother had looked at him she’d had one foot in another life from which she never returned. He’d clutched her hand, trying to make her stay, and she’d looked down on him with patent impatience.

I have to go with him, sweetheart. Someday you’ll understand that when I look at him I don’t see anyone else in the world.

He’d been six, devastated. And in that moment, invisible to the person who should have put him, and his brother and his sister, first.

God.

But it struck him now that Cheryl had been left behind, too. Her daughter had died young. Her husband had wandered away after that loss. And Brody supposed she blamed herself for all of it. No matter the specifics of Lynn’s death, Cheryl would find fault when she looked in the mirror. Any decent parent would.

“You’re not responsible either, you know,” he said. They’d never spoken of the situation directly, but that didn’t stop him now. “I’m sure you were a good mom. You’re…you’re very good to me.”

Cheryl went still. Then her expression softened, and she reached up to cup his cheek in her thin, cool hand. “Brody.”

He covered her fingers with his, gave a squeeze. “I’ll be back soon.” Passing through the open door, he glanced back.

“Brody,” she said again.

“Yes?” He paused.

“My sister might be here next time you visit. She’s coming to stay for a bit.”

“Oh. Any special reason?”

Then Cheryl told him the “special reason,” and it was no longer a question of taking the road he was on slow or fast. Instead, Brody ran straight off it into a ditch.

Chapter 8

As Ashlynn drove the short distance from the roadhouse to home Friday night after closing, she realized for the first time in months that her feet didn’t hurt. The silver lining, she decided, to the cloud that was the small bar fight that had broken out at the end of her long shift.

Grimacing, she realized she’d forgotten to leave any lights on. In the clearing, the house loomed like a dark ghost. She braked her car in the gravel parking area beside it, climbed out. After the rowdy atmosphere of Satan’s, the relative quiet hit her like a slap. The chilled air tasted sweet and green, but it didn’t calm her suddenly jangling nerves. The creek burbled, a joyful sound, but then some night creature rustled in the greenery nearby. Her heart jolted.

Placing her hand over her jumpy stomach, she glanced around.

Nervous pervous
, she admonished herself, remembering something her dad used to say.

Brae had lived by herself here for years without incident…and certainly without the uneasiness that was currently dancing down Ashlyn’s spine. Pulse still unsteady, though, she crossed the footbridge and headed for the front door.

“Don’t be afraid,” a voice whispered in the darkness.

She jumped, a shriek lodging in her throat.

Then something moved in the shadows on the front porch. A male figure materialized at the top of the stairs. “Don’t be afraid.”

Her heart beat pulse hiccupped.

“B-Brody?” She still stood poised to flee. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

There was a tenseness in his voice and in his posture that kept her wary. She glanced around. “Where’s your car?”

“Parked at Satan’s.”

She hadn’t noticed it in the lot, but she’d been a bit preoccupied after the night’s shenanigans. “You didn’t come in.”

“It was past closing time when I arrived…and I was trying to talk myself out of seeing you.”

That didn’t sting, Ashlynn told herself. Even though, the truth was she’d been looking for him all night. Where their interlude in the storeroom had left them, she didn’t know, but the attraction hadn’t been extinguished, that was sure. It was a quivering thread connecting them, even now. Even when he was in this disquieting mood.

She cleared her throat. “Were you…were you out with Rachel?”

“There’s no more Rachel.”

Her heart clenched. He didn’t mean…he couldn’t mean… She shook her head, knowing the dark night and his strange intensity were spooking her. Still…

“Um. No more Rachel, you said?”

“Yeah.”

Ashlynn swallowed. “But she’s…um…alive, right?”

After a moment, he barked out a harsh laugh. “That’s the first time someone’s called me a murderer to my face.”

“I’m sorry.” She walked toward the stairs and placed her hand on the newel post at the bottom. “I’m weirded out. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Don’t apologize.” He released another dry sound that might have been termed more laughter, but it skittered down her spine like dead leaves along the ground. “It’s fucking fitting.”

Ashlynn frowned. “Now are you
trying
to scare me?”

“No.” His voice softened. “I told you. Don’t be afraid.”

It was reassurance enough to get her mounting the steps. But at the top, she kept her distance from him. It was too murky to make out his expression.

Murky and cold. She wore jeans, Brae’s boots, and a black boho top that was long-sleeved yet vee-necked. The floral embroidery over the shoulders, at the wrists, and around the hem didn’t add any warmth. Hugging herself didn’t help much.

“Let’s go inside,” he suggested.

Get behind a closed door with Brody Maddox? But last night it had been the very thing she’d wanted most. Keeping him in the periphery of her vision, she took out her keys and unlocked the door. She stepped inside.

He followed. “Where are the lights?”

“Don’t turn them on,” she said quickly, pulling off her boots and leaving them by the door. Her instincts were all over the place at the moment, but she felt certain about this.

As he removed his own shoes, she left the small entryway. “I’ll light the stove.”

It sat in the corner of the living room, an addition that she supposed was another of her sister’s ideas. Covered in a gleaming, cobalt-blue enamel, it was fueled by recycled wood pellets and gave off a good heat but not much illumination.

She wanted to keep her face hidden from him.

In a moment, a cheery flame blazed behind the tempered glass in the stove’s belly. Ashlynn kept it at her back, ensuring her face stayed shadowed. Brody stood in the middle of the room, his legs braced, that spooky vibe still waving off him.

Her pulse went erratic again as memories of the night before weaved through her mind. The heat of him in her hand. The taste of his tongue. The sound of her panties tearing.

She moistened her lips, then said the first thing that came to her. “Why didn’t you want to see me?” Okay, it
had
hurt.

“I…” His fingers combed through his hair. “More than one reason.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

She shouldn’t be thrilled to hear that. But excitement tickled through her bloodstream like champagne bubbles, and she took a step toward him. “Brody—”

“I couldn’t stay away because it’s my turn to want it mindless.”

Ashlynn froze. Was that the truth?

Nothing about him telegraphed mindless. That had been her last night, eager and idiotic and in a rash rush to have him touch her, take her. She’d played and flirted with the motorcycle guys, aware the whole time of Brody watching her. Every move she’d made had been designed to goad him into action. She’d been high and heedless, and only afterward had she wondered about the wisdom of what she’d done.

But there was nothing the least bit drunken about Brody now. He didn’t seem in a foolhardy mood. Instead there was a somber, premeditated purposefulness about him.

She retreated, taking two big steps back.

“Don’t.” He closed the distance and caught her hand. “Ash, don’t be afraid of me.”

His touch arrowed up her arm, affecting her as it always did, setting off a war between fight and flight. Her stomach muscles tightened as she took in his delicious scent, as she felt the warmth of his body.

“I want you, Ash.”

For mindless sex? Again, she wasn’t believing it. There was not an ounce of giddy, devil-may-care lust like she’d felt in herself last night. The lust that he’d responded to with his own brand of rampant sexual hunger. Now he oozed something else along with his potent alpha testosterone.

It was a bleak desperation that she recognized.

And that she couldn’t ignore.

“What’s happened?” she asked, her voice quiet. “What’s gone wrong?”

He dropped her hand. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Brody—”

“Fuck! I just want sex.” He turned his back on her, strode away. “Is that too much to ask? I’ve played stud for you more than once.”

She winced. “Listen—”

“You don’t think I can make you enjoy it?”

Another wince. “It’s not that. Something’s not right.” Going to him, she lightly touched his arm. “You’re not yourself.”

He spun, startling her so she stumbled back. “How the hell would you know that?” he demanded. “What would you know about who I really am?”

“Okay, you
are
scaring me now,” she said, lifting placating hands. “Just a little, but you’re scaring me.”

“Well, maybe you fucking should be scared.”

His tone sent her scurrying back another few feet where she retreated behind a stuffed chair. “Should I?”

“Yeah. Because suspecting me of being a murderer isn’t so far off.” He stalked to the end of the room and stopped at a diamond-shaped window, staring out into the night.

What could this possibly be about?

“Everybody has regrets,” she ventured.

“You’re right.” He released another of those harsh laughs that held no amusement. “Lynn O’Shea is dead. She’s been dead for twelve years, and I sure as hell regret that every day of my life.”

Lynn O’Shea is dead
. The conversation was becoming more confusing—not to mention alarming—by the moment. “I don’t understand—”

“You probably shouldn’t. I should probably go.”

But he hadn’t moved an inch, and if he left now she might never know what was tying him in knots. She moved from behind the chair.

“Talk to me, Brody. I’m…I’m a good listener.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “And maybe you should learn what kind of man had his dick deep inside you.”

The crude words made her wary again.

“Or I could call Bing,” she said.

“If you want.” Brody shrugged. “But tell him I’m stone-cold sober this time, will you? He’s used to scraping my soused and sorry ass off sidewalks, so this will be a pleasant change. When he gets here we can trade memories of our eighteenth birthday. He’ll tell you about our friend, a budding musician, who wanted to meet the Velvet Lemons. We kept her away because, well, because they were the Velvet Lemons.”

“Meaning…?”

“Cami explained. Debauchery, licentiousness, crazy everything. Booze, sex, drugs. But we were turning eighteen…” He shrugged again.

“So…so Bing would say you invited your friend to…celebrate?”

“And that sometime in the night during our birthday bash that became one of the infamous compound parties we lost track of her. With free and easy access to the worst the world has to offer, our friend Lynn O’Shea, who had—unbeknownst to us—been sampling the Oxy from her father’s stash in his medicine cabinet, discovered bowls of the shit all over Mad Dog Maddox’s castle of carnality.”

“Oh, Brody.” All at once Ashlynn went queasy, and placing a hand over her stomach didn’t help. “She overdosed?”

“At nineteen years old.” He spit out each word.

“But that wasn’t your fault—”

“Babe, I should have kept her in range. A
friend
, remember?”

“You don’t bear responsibility—”

“There’s more. We…” He ran both hands through his hair. “You have to understand what it was like growing up at the compound. There was puss—women everywhere. All the time. Looking for fame or fun, or who the hell knows what. From the time we were fourteen—well, you get the idea.”

Though she felt vaguely ashamed about it, Ashlynn had to wonder how she stacked up when compared to the many—dozens and dozens?—of sex partners he’d experienced over the years.