Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

“Look, I wasn’t a natural at having a band, either. Solo artists and band guys are different breeds. You play guitar yourself?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, see, we’re used to operating on our own. Problem is, unless you’re going for a coffeehouse sound, that’s not a full-enough experience for a paying crowd. And you always have to think about the audience or you’ll find you don’t have one. Maybe you don’t care so much about building a band of brothers onstage, but your fans? They’ll eat it up. And eventually, if you pick the right people and give it a chance, you’ll find that those connections you build will make your sound—and your life—richer.”

“You sure about that? Because right now, I find working with people to be a right pain in the arse.”

He laughed as the waitress brought over our platter of appetizers. “They can be that too, but give it a chance. Thanks, darlin’.”

She beamed at him and walked past with a light buzz of her fingertips over his shoulders.

I stabbed out my cigarette and washed the taste out of my mouth with the last of my water. “You know how to work them, don’t you?” It was a sight to behold.

“I’m not working anybody. Kindness is free. As is offering someone a smile or a friendly word. Truth is, a lot of women don’t appreciate me calling them anything, and I can see that. I’m trying to stop.” He picked up an onion ring and pulled it apart. “Old habits, you know?”

All I knew at that moment was that I was about to embarrass myself over a plate of fried food. I tried to keep talking while saliva pooled in my mouth. “Southern gentleman?” Casually, oh so casually, I reached for a mozzarella stick.

Or three.

“You’re not the only one with an accent, though it’s been a long time for me. I’m from Paducah, but sometimes I can’t help— Guess you were hungry, huh?”

I was too busy eating to talk.

He must’ve realized he’d lost me to the vat of calories because he kept speaking without my input. He’d been raised in Kentucky, lived there until he was a teenager, then moved to Nashville to get his career started. Spent time putting out music in country, some in country rock, always straddling that line, but especially once he moved to LA. He mentioned jobs as a cashier and a busboy and a floor sweeper. Working his way up. How he’d hung in there in the drought periods. That he was even having one now.

I got most of it, I was pretty sure. I just had other priorities at the moment.

I didn’t look up again until I’d made my way through the mozzarella sticks and the fried pickles. I was about to set upon the chicken fingers when he cleared his throat.

“Wanna get another of these? And maybe something off the menu, like real food?”

Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I tried to fight back the hot wave of shame burning my ears. Shouldn’t I be used to it by now?

Someday it wouldn’t be like this. I wouldn’t always be like a starving wolf let off the chain to finally feed.

“On me,” he added quickly, as if he could sense I was fumbling for a reply.

More embarrassment. Lovely.

I nodded, ducking my head, wishing I had vodka left in my flask. But nope, I’d have to suffer this indignity without anything to do with my hands.

Once the waitress returned—with both the coffee pitcher and the water one—she refilled our beverages and took the rest of our order. Somehow we ordered not only another appetizer platter, but I also ordered a panini and tiramisu for dessert. I didn’t even wait to see if I’d still be hungry. As soon as I saw the picture on the menu, boom.

Flynn ordered something else, but I wasn’t sure what. My head was buzzing with white noise. The kind that was a mixture of relief and humiliation and delayed lightheadedness from too many cigarettes and booze and too little food or sleep. The appetizers I’d eaten had barely put a dent in the gap inside me.

We moved through the meal faster than I’d expected. Both eating-wise and conversation-wise. Once Flynn actually got some food in front of him that I couldn’t rip out of his mouth, he kept fairly good pace with me. We’d segued into talking about my brief past on the circuit in London and how I’d found my way to LA. The chance Donovan had given me, as much out of a desire to see me fall as to see me fly. Or so I’d always assumed.

“Van’s like that.” With our second appetizer platter and our sandwiches out of the way, we both dug into dessert. A lot of guys didn’t seem to find sweets very manly, or didn’t have the taste for them that I did. But Flynn tore into his banana cake with gusto. “He can be the most supportive guy in the world, but he’s also one to challenge and test you. There’s no gimmes with him. If you’re on his roster, you deserve your place there.”

I swallowed hard. For all my bravado, I still needed reassurances like that, and they were short in coming. Sabrina wasn’t one to praise. That was fine with me. I wasn’t a child. Still, a nice word now and then went a long way.

“Since you and Van,” that nickname so did not sit right in reference to Donovan, “are so close and go so far back, why are you on Delta Sky Records and not Ripper?”

Flynn set down his fork and sat back, a slight smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did your research on me, I see.”

“Bare minimum. Out of curiosity more than anything else. So?” It was a miracle I could still speak when I had this glorious confection of ladyfingers, espresso, mascarpone, and cocoa bursting across my tongue.

And yes, I knew every ingredient, because I’d nearly salivated at the listing and accompanying picture in the menu. It was living up to every glossy pixel.