Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

I blinked, digging through my memory banks. Something about Donovan playing himself years ago in the London clubs.

Was that how he’d met Flynn? Not necessarily in London, but on the circuit.

Flynn, whom I owed a knee in the nuts. Troubled, my ass. Whether or not he’d meant to cause shit for me, he had. And I didn’t need it.

Well-meaning people caused more problems than those who were indifferent. Yet another reason I didn’t have any friends. Friends asked too many questions. Pushed for too much information. Bad enough I had Zoe, but that was a limited-time engagement.

My hair fell forward and I whipped my head back to get it out of my face. “You don’t know me,” I said, voice low, turning off the water. My inner arm was bright red and throbbing.

But the chaos in my mind hadn’t left me. If anything, it had grown stronger in tandem with the pain.

“I am quite certain of that. But I recognize you far too well.”

I lifted my head and our gazes connected in the mirror.

“You can come to me.”

The words chased me out of the bathroom. In the end, when I pressed my back to the wall in the hallway, gasping for breath as if I’d run a mile, I didn’t truly know if he’d uttered them or if I’d conjured them into existence.

I yanked my sleeve down over my dripping arm and swiped a hand over my face. Didn’t matter what Donovan had said—or not said. I had to play the cards I’d dealt myself.

Right now, that meant getting into Studio B.

I feared Jerry less.

The soundproofed large room was Beatles-themed. Glossy shots of the individual Beatles themselves were interspersed with framed album covers. There was an oddly shaped chaise on a dais, draped in some kind of throw that was probably supposed to inspire groovy thoughts thanks to the peace sign and psychedelic colors. Several of the Lennon-model Rickenbacker guitars hung on the stark white walls, and along one wall stood an upright Steinway piano. It was well worn but lovingly preserved, and I couldn’t stay away from it.

As soon as I touched the keys, my nerves fled. This was what I was meant to do. To play. To sing. To reach people even if I couldn’t always figure out how to reach myself.

I sat on the bench and let my hands wander. I started with “Chopsticks,” falling into the familiar standard with ease. I moved on to “Amazing Grace” and then, in honor of Lennon, “Imagine.” I sang along with the words I knew by heart, scarcely noticing when the door opened.

“You know the history of that piano?”

Simon.

As if he’d caught me masturbating—no, I’d be less embarrassed at that—I pulled my hands away from the keys. My inner arm started to pulse, the pain I’d somehow been unable to feel for a few stolen moments kicking back in with a vengeance.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

He moved down the steps into the sunken base of the room. The chaise was on a raised dais, the piano and some other instruments on stands on a second level. The main recessed level was filled with more cushy seating and tables, and across the space, there were a few isolation booths. Only now, when I knew Simon was in the room too, did I take it all in.

The studio suddenly seemed far too small for us both.

He sprawled on a long couch, stretching his arms along the back and kicking out his legs. Every part of him dripped money, from his fashionably ripped jeans to his scuffed designer boots and calf-length black leather jacket. His hair was shorter than mine, but it was also cut well. Real gold gleamed on his fingers and in the heavy watch that cost m

ore than the London flat I’d lived in.

I wanted to hate him, to blame him, but I couldn’t. So I hated myself.

“No one told you, hmm?”

“Told me what?” There was a bite to my tone that only seemed to emerge when I was speaking to my brother. Oh, the sarcastic words might’ve sounded the same, but he brought something out of me that no one else did.

“Where’s your rep? Isn’t she supposed to be here?” Rather than waiting for my answer, Simon pulled out his phone and tapped a button. “Li, that Sabrina chick bailed. Uh-huh. Yeah, well, I’ve got shit to do—” Then he sighed and pressed his phone into his thigh. “They’re coming. Three…two—”

He didn’t have time to get to one. The door swung open, and Sabrina and who I recognized as Lila Crandall strolled inside the studio. Behind them were a couple of guys from Simon’s band.

I jumped to my feet and backed up. “What the fuck is this?”