Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

He snapped his gaze to Lila standing at the bar cart in her office and cocked an eyebrow. She knew full well how badly alcohol and his vocal cords mixed.

“Not alcohol.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Perrier, iced tea, soda?”

Shaking his head, he dropped into the chair opposite her desk. Instead of looking at the magazine again, he dumped it into her circular bin. He’d seen enough of that dude’s smug mug for a lifetime.

Christ, had he ever looked so superior?

Lila retrieved the magazine he’d thrown out and spread it open on her desk. She didn’t sit.

“I had nothing to do with his being signed. I didn’t know about it. I’m most certainly not his rep.”

Simon said nothing.

“Nicholas informed you of that already. What he didn’t tell you is that Ian isn’t only the newest member of the Ripper Records family.” She opened her top left drawer and withdrew a folded newspaper that was perfectly creased. So unlike the tattered magazine that looked as if he’d unleashed his frustration on the pages.

She pushed it toward him and tilted her head, waiting for Simon to pick it up. He read the headline of the small article at the bottom and tossed it back on the desk. “I’ve read enough about his fucking hero antics, thank you very much.”

“The woman he supposedly saved is my cousin, Zoe. Whom he met because I arranged for her to photograph the Zeps show.” She laughed faintly. “Arranging is a much more polite word than what actually happened. She had no interest. She falls squarely on the love side of the for-love-or-money equation. The last thing she wants to do is worry about a paycheck.”

“Must be nice.”

“Surely you remember being that pure in your affection for your art. I know you do. That posturing routine doesn’t work on me, Simon. Though I have to say I’ve heard someone else employs it as well.”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “I’ve already gotten to read plenty about how he’s just like me except younger. Sharper. Prettier with his flowing fucking locks and his British accent meant to divest women of their panties. Blah, blah, blah.”

“You’re jealous.” She rocked back on her heels as if he’d delivered her a physical blow. “With all you have, all you’ve achieved, you’re jealous of a man who came to his meeting with Donovan in ripped shoes. Who I’ve heard lives in a crack motel and carries half his belongings around with him to gigs so he doesn’t get ripped off.”

Simon shut his eyes against the wash of shame that climbed up his spine and burned along the back of his neck. “It’s not that simple.”

“No. It’s not. Because I’m not at all certain he’s just here for the reasons of making sweet music. Or sweet love with my cousin, who is far more naive and innocent than she realizes.” She pulled another clipping out of her top drawer and slid it toward Simon.

This time, it was from one of the tabloid sites and there were more pictures than words. He’d already seen them thanks to his inability to stop with the Google alerts on his brother. Ian causing a

stir on the beach, this time due to a happy little singalong with Zoe on his lap. Kissing Zoe. The two of them running like carefree kids as eager fans chased after him.

“Jesus, he’s already living the rockstar life.” Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I should unzip my pants onstage too? Is that the missing ingredient?”

“Unbuttoned,” Lila said lightly.

“Whatever.”

“You know full well sex sells. Are you honestly telling me every time you and Margo dance around each other onstage that there isn’t some knowledge of what inflames the fans behind it?”

“I don’t do anything solely for that reason any longer. Especially not dance with my fucking wife.”

“Because you don’t have to. You’re a millionaire many times over. Ian received a paltry signing bonus, and I’ve been told he acted as if he’d been given a Cornwall estate. He’s as poor as you, Nick, and Deacon were growing up. The only difference? He’s alone, and you had each other.”

Simon rolled his shoulders. Ever since he’d glimpsed Ian on TV, he’d lived with a low, simmering ache under his skin, as if he’d run out of enough room in his body for his organs. Every part of him felt crowded.

And now Ian was at Ripper too. Killing it. With his ripped shoes and his poetic curls and soulful voice.

Ian was him, but he was better. Hungrier. Eager to soak up every drop of the experience.

So, yeah, he was fucking jealous. He wanted to be that man again with that relentless, burning ambition, who loved the music to the point of madness. But not if it meant not having all he had in his life now.

Margo.

Their baby, which he wanted with the same fierceness as he loved his wife.