Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

Her molasses-colored eyes narrowed. “Do you want to succeed or fade away before you’ve even had a chance to be a one-hit wonder?”

My biggest fear. This woman was good. Or perhaps us musical types weren’t nearly as unique as we believed.

“I won’t be a one-hit anything.”

“Then what does it hurt

to try it my way?” Her voice turned cajoling. “Look, Ian, I like you.”

“You do?” The incredulous question left me before I could clamp down on my tongue. “Sure doesn’t seem that way. And as for you telling me I need smaller pants to ‘showcase’ things, I didn’t realize I’d signed up for a male revue.”

“Oh, Ian.” She smiled sadly. “You’re like a leaf. So fresh and young and new. Untainted by this business. It’s going to change you.”

“Do you see so little to think any part of me is untainted?” I shook my head and gripped Zoe’s camera that much tighter.

“Your life has been hard. I can see that.”

“More file tidbits?” There was no tempering the bitterness in my tone.

“I wouldn’t need the file to see the scars on you.” Snake-fast, she whipped out a hand and snatched my wrist, turning it over to reveal the healing cigarette burn I’d intentionally left bare.

So I wouldn’t forget.

“And these.” She traced the small hatch marks beneath the burn and I yanked my arm away, suddenly so ashamed I could hardly remain standing. She’d ripped me to my roots in a flash. “You’ve been hurt, and you’ve lived through a lot. Things I’m sure many people wouldn’t survive. And you have. You have,” she repeated as my eyes smarted and I looked away.

“This isn’t a therapy appointment.”

“You’d be surprised. The making of an icon requires a full strip to the bone. Then we decide what stays and what goes as we remake you.”

“An i-icon?” I hated that I stuttered. But to hear her offer me my dreams on a platter…

Suddenly, I didn’t care that she knew of my weakness. My weaknesses. I didn’t care that she thought I needed tighter pants to show my dick. I didn’t even care she had a file that wrote of my broken childhood as if it was fodder for a news story. Snippets that could be used and spun later for a human interest piece to raise my status in the public eye.

Poor London boy makes good.

I’d take it. I’d take whatever she offered me. Sell my soul to the devil.

I already had before, hadn’t I? And was still with every heartbeat. I’d been bought and paid for before without such a hefty reward at the end.

“An icon. You have all the potential in the world to be not another Simon, but the one and only Ian.”

My eyes burned. “Leave your card,” I choked out. “I’ll be in touch.”

I expected her to press. To push. That was what types like her did. But she nodded and withdrew a fancy card with foil type, setting it on the dressing room table. She laid a hand on my arm—the one clutching Zoe’s camera like a life raft—and my gaze lifted to meet her surprisingly compassionate expression. Not pity. Pity would have shut me down in an instant.

But empathy. Understanding. Even a kindred soul perhaps.

If any souls like mine existed. I didn’t know.

I didn’t have that kind of hope left inside me.

Then she turned and walked out, heels clicking smartly before she pulled the door closed behind her.

I sank onto the chair in front of the table and dropped my forehead to Zoe’s camera. And pretended I couldn’t feel the hot tears squeezing out to soak the plastic.

Three

I flipped up the hood of my coverup against the breeze coming off the water. A thorough coating of sand stuck to my legs and belly. Probably because I’d been camped out on the beach for hours.