Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

Sweaty palms made the smooth case hard to hold, but after a couple false starts, she managed to unlock the device and key in the number. Still tentative, she pressed the phone to her ear and waited through one ring…two…thre—

“PlayHard Music. Mr. Turner’s office,” a female voice answered. “Maggie speaking. How can I help you?”

She could barely hear the woman over the pounding of her pulse in her ears. “Um…hi, Maggie, I’m returning his call. And shoot, I guess it would help if I told you my name. I’m Roxy.”

“Goodhart,” the much more level-pulsed Maggie supplied. “‘Wet and Reckless.’ Love your song, Roxy. J.T.’s in a meeting right now, but if you’ve got a sec, let me see if he can break away and take your call.”

“I—” Now her heart started to pound double time, and the back beat was pure excitement. She looked up to find three sets of eyes staring at her. “I have a second.”

“Great. Please hold.”

Chapter Twenty

West walked through his front door and barely had time to draw it closed before a black blur shot out of the kitchen and charged toward him, barking like a maniac. It skidded to a halt at West’s feet and jumped repeatedly, bounding nearly waist high, bug eyes extra wide and full of doggie panic.

“Down. Jesus. You crazy furball. Sit. Shush.”

The dog continued to jump and issue urgent warnings about God knew what. Before West could come up with a more effective command, shrieks of what sounded like absolute agony came from downstairs—loud, long, extremely high-pitched shrieks. Lucky plunked his butt on the hardwood, raised his short snout to the sky, and howled with enough mournful volume to put a Foxhound to shame.

Now West’s own sense of panic asserted itself. Roxy. Still in full uniform, hand on the butt of his gun, he tore through the kitchen and downstairs to the laundry room. The dog stuck to his heels but skidded to a stop when West approached the door to Roxy’s apartment. The shrieks were louder now and supported by the sound of guitars being tortured. What the hell?

Relying on the element of surprise, and Roxy’s habit of leaving the door unlocked, he charged in, prepared to face down what sounded like a gang of crazed intruders.

The door banged against the wall, silencing the chaos with that single noisy blast. Four faces turned his way, each decorated with enough makeup to make a drag queen wince. He stood there, staring at them while his pulse throttled down.

Along with Egyptian amounts of eyeliner and neon rainbows of shadow that extended from eyelid to temple, every cheekbone boasted a slash of shimmery pink and every lip shined candy-apple red. The tallest of them, who he identified as Roxy, wore a T-shirt held together with safety pins, ripped jeans, and her red boots. Her crimped hair attained a height and volume usually seen only on a freshly electrocuted cartoon character. Gibson hung low across her hips.

Flanking her were two shorter, shock-haired replicas holding child-size acoustic guitars. A third pint-size punk rocker straddled the arm of the sofa and had on more makeup than wardrobe, given the latter appeared to consist of Roxy’s biker boots and a diaper featuring pink ponies. She held a toy microphone in her hand.

“Wes!” she cried, dropped the mic, and held out her arms. “Wes, I wok.”

“Um, yeah.” He strode toward the youngest of Josh and Melody’s nieces, scooped her up and onto his hip. The boots slid off her tiny feet and hit the floor with rapid-fire thuds. “You rock hard.” His gaze shifted to Roxy, who was in the process of sliding the guitar strap over her head. “I didn’t know you’d joined a band.”

“It’s our first rehearsal.” She winked at him and propped Gibson against the wall by the sofa. “It’s a bit raw yet, but the energy’s strong.”

Raw was not the word for the tone-deaf caterwaul responsible for his all-but-bleeding eardrums, but nobody liked a critic, and he wasn’t about to be the Simon Cowell in the room. He turned to the oldest girl, Hope, and squinted. “Of course it is, what with Taylor Swift here, and…” He looked at the middle one, Faith, who had just turned five, and ransacked his brain for a suitable counterpart. “Wow. Katy Perry. You’ve gone blond again.”

Both the girls giggled. Hope, at six going on sixteen, tried an eye roll, but it didn’t offset her pleased smile. “West, it’s us, Hope and Faith. We’re taking guitar and voice lessons from Roxy. Gracie’s along because Mama had a doctor’s appointment.”

“Did your mom know there’d be a makeup lesson, too?” He couldn’t even guess how much scrubbing it would take to get those faces clean.

“Mom packed our makeup kit for us,” Hope informed him. “Roxy said it’s important to develop a stage presence.”

Faith nodded in somber agreement.

“I pwetty!” Gracie insisted and planted a sticky, bubblegum-scented kiss on his cheek. Then she squealed directly into his ear, and while the echo of it rattled his brain, she stretched forward so suddenly she nearly toppled out of his hold. “Doggie!”

He caught her, tightened his grip on her squirming body, and turned to see Lucky freeze, mid-stride, and do a convincing impression of a deer in headlights. Gracie strained toward the animal, chubby hands opening and closing quickly. “Doggie,” she said again.

Faith and Hope followed their sister’s gaze and let loose a collective, “Awwww!” Small guitars were quickly abandoned.

“I think the music lesson just came to an end,” West told Roxy and tried to keep the relief out of his voice. She walked over and collected the puppy. When she had him securely in her arms, West set Gracie on her feet. All three girls immediately gathered around Roxy.

“He’s so cute. Can I pet him?”

“What’s his name? Where did you get him?”

“I can has?”