Rock Redemption (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3)

And now? Now I was surrounded by trees and mountains and fresh air and I’d never felt more claustrophobic in my life.

I shifted my bags and guitar case from one side to the other. “I’m not sure about this, mate.”

Flynn Sheppard, country-rock star and my sort of new friend, clapped me on the back and laughed. “You seemed so enthused when you called.”

I hadn’t had a lot of options when it came to crashing with a buddy. I had very few of them, as it turned out. Even Flynn was a new one I’d met while discussing the drummer he’d stolen from me.

All right, not really. I’d practically driven Deuce away, since I didn’t know how to have a true band. At least I was working on

it.

Assuming my new band would want anything to do with me after my flight from civilization was said and done.

Somehow out of that conversation with Flynn a tentative friendship had been born. And here I was on Flynn’s doorstep—one of them anyway, because he apparently had a couple—and pressing my advantage. But I’d needed a getaway. Fresh perspective.

Life advice from a dude who had a decade of years on me and a wealth of experience. Oh, and who also took absolutely no shit.

“I didn’t exactly know what a rustic cabin meant. This is…really rustic.” I frowned at the cabin situated on a plot of land that had only had trees for neighbors. And hulking mountains. In the distance, a river burbled. Or a lake. Some body of water.

I wanted to run for the not-so-metaphorical hills.

“I bet you didn’t, London boy. But you’re here now. Come on inside.”

“Is there enough room for us both?”

Flynn cocked a brow at me, something he did often. We hadn’t spent much time together, but we’d developed a fast friendship. Something of a miracle for me. We were opposites in many ways, and friends were scarce in my world.

Especially now.

Rather than reply, he led me inside. And grinned smugly when my jaw dropped.

Nothing metaphorical there.

From the outside, the place looked just this side of ramshackle. I’d seen a lot of shitty places, so it took a lot for me to say that. The inside was vastly different.

The great room seemed to run most of the length of the house—and it was far bigger than I’d realized upon first glance. It had probably been dwarfed by all the damn trees.

Heavy wooden furniture dominated the space. Wide planked wood floors and the walls themselves looked as if they’d been carved out of the forest. A large fireplace was filled with candles of every shape and size. Understandable, since it had to be over eighty outside. I’d left one steam bath and flown straight into another.

I didn’t miss much about London, but I missed the English summer. I wasn’t cut out for roasting.

The couch was overstuffed, perfect for catching a snooze—which I could’ve used badly after my flights. But I didn’t see anything for entertainment purposes.

“Where’s the telly?”

“That’s all you have to say?” Flynn shook his head and went to the side table beside the couch. He lifted a book as fat as a textbook. “Try reading. Your mind is starving.”

“Not all of me that is.” I rubbed my grumbly stomach. “I don’t suppose you have anything to eat?”

“I stocked up for you. I know how you are.” He jerked a thumb across the room to a narrow doorway. “Kitchen’s that way. Make yourself at home. Once you’ve cleaned out the fridge, I’ll show you to your room.” Book in hand, he sat down on the couch and kicked out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle on the edge of the large wooden coffee table. “Or you know, go up the stairs and find it yourself. Second door on the right. Beside the studio.”

“Excuse me?”

He was already engrossed in his book. “You don’t like the service? Leave a complaint at the front desk.”

I had to laugh as I dropped my bags beside the door. I didn’t have much. I was more careful as I set down my guitar case.

“That’s not what I meant. Studio? Here?”