Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

Not over here. I wasn’t putting any of that on my face. Bad enough I’d had to buy a new tube of this black eye gunk tonight, but new beginnings and all that.

And for my efforts, I’d had boos and hisses along with a mixed bag of cheers until the little photographer had shimmied onto my stage.

She hadn’t been trying to get my attention. Far from it. I think my speaking to her had knocked her composure down a peg or two, but she’d quickly regained it and gone toe-to-toe with me. I liked that. Simpering females weren’t my bag.

Oh, I was male enough to enjoy the praise of a good woman—or even better, a bad one. But fawning was a much different thing altogether. I might crave the life of a rockstar for a number of reasons, but false idolatry wasn’t one of them. My face got me enough pussy that I didn’t need the added props of a microphone and a guitar to get me laid.

I needed them to get me fame and money. Fast.

Forget the American saying I’d seen just today on a poster outside—all it takes is a dollar and a dream. Sure, mate. Instead, I was putting my tokens on a spin of the wheel where I was the ace in the hole. But judging from tonight, audiences on this side of the pond weren’t exactly buying what I was selling just yet.

Until I’d heckled the she-devil with the camera.

Then it was as if I’d unlocked some secret code and tickled the crowd’s funny bone. Of course, if it took taunting some sexy thing with a camera to get them on my side, I didn’t know if I wanted to be a party to that.

Hell, who was I kidding? Like I had a lot of choices in the matter. If it took me insulting the damn Queen, I’d do it just to get those pretty little flashbulbs popping in my direction.

And if the lovely lady with the golden eyes was the one behind them…well, more’s the better.

I turned over the ancient instant camera in my hand and wondered how to get the film out. I didn’t know how these contraptions worked. There was the big button for taking pictures—

Click.

I chuckled as the photo popped out on the table. Well, then. My first selfie with a vintage instant camera.

Picking it up, I waved it in the air to get the image to appear faster. I cocked my head. It wasn’t a half-bad picture, if I said so myself. My hair was wild, my skin still clammy from my sprint offstage and the halfhearted air conditioning. I still wasn’t used to this blasted heat, and that was when I wasn’t running with purloined goods. My eyes were red-rimmed and oddly naked and somehow vulnerable.

I didn’t like seeing them that way, even if it was a little like looking at a stranger fashioned in Simon Kagan’s stead.

Swallowing hard, I tucked the photo into my knapsack on the floor. I didn’t know why I was keeping it. Probably belonged in the bin. I’d probably toss it out when I got back to my temporary living quarters. In the meantime, I had stolen this bird’s camera and I didn’t have a clue where to return it…eventually. I wasn’t in any hurry.

I turned it over, not expecting to find any identifying marks. It was battle scarred, with a few interesting nicks and scratches. But the little label with an Instagram handle caught my eye right away.

SnapZ.

Hmm, Z initial, perhaps? What might her name be? Zina, Zara, Zena, warrior princess? Ah, no, that was an X not a Z. Fitting image though. I could see the blond hoisting a sword over her head, no problem. She’d wield it like a pro too. Bring it down with no hesitation.

I shifted on my seat. Shit, I was getting a hard-on from that little mental detour.

Semi aside, I now had a direction. I pulled out my mobile and opened Instagram to search for her name. Her page came up.

Zoe Manning. No warrior princess here, but the name grabbed me around the throat just the same.

I was about to click follow when I held back. She didn’t have many followers, just a couple hundred. She followed precisely two people—a woman artist I’d never heard of and Neil Armstrong.

Okay then.

I scrolled down her feed. There were dozens of photos. Close-ups of people. Old ones, young ones, every age in between. Some black and white, some color, some sepia-toned, but all showcasing her remarkable eye even to an untrained sort like myself. Some landscape pictures as well, particularly the beach. She seemed to enjoy snapping the sunrise as it came up over the ocean on Venice Beach—at least according to the tags at the top of her pictures.

That was intriguing. I’d had plans to venture toward that area on my next free day. Not the beach itself, but damn close. I could always make an unscheduled trip.

Not that I knew when she’d be there for certain. Around sunrise, sure, maybe…or maybe not. But where on the beach? It wasn’t exactly small and I was new to the area. I didn’t know shit about LA. I definitely didn’t know anything about her.

But already I wanted to.

A sharp knock came at the door. Fuckin’ A. Had one of the Zeps forgotten his fedora or something? I’d had to wait until they cleared out of the dressing room before I got ready in the first place, even though I’d been scheduled to go on before them. There were too many of them, and they were too loud and jovial in a way I didn’t appreciate unless I had a pint in my hand.

I strode over to the door and hauled it open. “Look, mate, I need a—”