Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)

Inside the room, Rooster stops to give the guys some instructions. Trinity nudges me. “I have a sign up. If people give me their email, I’ll send a picture to them.” She holds up her camera.

“You don’t have to do that. That’s a lot of extra work.”

She shrugs. “That or I can set up a page where they can download their picture. Newsletter. Something.”

“Thank you.”

“You were amazing!” Greg slides by Trinity and wraps his arms around me. “I’m so proud of you,” he says in a low voice. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Better than I expected. I was a little freaked out at first.”

“But you blew them away.” His expression shifts, something more concerned replacing the pride. “Now, are you ready for this interview tomorrow? It’s early. They have a table reserved at the hotel restaurant.”

“I’m going to be way too nervous to eat.”

“Well, the meal’s on them, so order big and take it with you.” He grins. “Logan has the info but I sent it to your email too.” He casts a suspicious look at Wrath and Murphy and sighs. “I assume Logan will be attending the interview with you but do all the bodyguards need to be there? It’s really not the message I want to send—”

“They’ll be nearby but it’ll just be me at the interview, Greg,” Rooster says.

“Well, I’ll be there too,” Greg huffs and tugs at the collar of his shirt. “They want to interview Trent and the guys as well. I’ve already spoken with them. They’re supposed to stick to the tour and how much they love touring with you. Nothing more.”

I can’t imagine the guys saying anything bad about me. But who knows? Maybe they’re pissed that we lost a bunch of tour dates and got grounded in Virginia for so long. While I was recovering at the clubhouse, they were stranded at the hotel. Then again, they were stranded with Dawson and his crew, so they should’ve had plenty of time to do some networking or line up other gigs.

I’m probably lucky I still have a band at all.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Shelby

The trees. I have to make it to the trees.

I’m running, running, running. Rough, uneven ground grabs and twists at my boots, tugging and pulling. I’m going to fall. He’ll catch me the moment I hit the ground.

Breathing hard, panting, working my arms and legs so fast they burn. No matter how fast I run, I can’t seem to get away. Did he already drug me? Why won’t my legs move? The trees are just out of reach.

Something catches my hair. Tugs. My body flails, falling backwards into a wild abyss of nothing but fear.

He caught me.

I scream and scream but no sound comes out of my mouth.

“Shelby! It’s okay. Shelby. Wake up, baby.”

I blink and slowly the inside of the RV comes into focus. Rooster’s strong arms anchor me. I rub my fingers over the soft sheets, faintly picking up the cheerful flamingo print in the murky darkness.

“You okay?” Rooster rasps, reaching for the light switch.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I think so.”

“Who are we killing?” another voice asks.

A short scream tears out of my throat. My body jumps, poised to run into the night.

Warm, golden light fills the area around Rooster’s side, illuminating Jigsaw standing next to the bed with a baseball bat in his hands.

“The fuck, man?” Rooster grumbles.

“I heard Shelby screaming.” Jigsaw’s gaze lands on me. “You all right?”

Heat stings my cheeks. It’s bad enough being weak in front of Rooster, but now Jigsaw’s witnessed me having a panic attack and heard me screaming in my sleep like a little girl.

My tongue’s too twisted with embarrassment to answer. But my gaze lands on his shirtless torso. Before I can stop myself, I’m staring at his overstuffed boxer briefs and muscular thighs.

Jigsaw clears his throat.

I lift my gaze and Jigsaw pins me with mischievous eyes. “See anything you like?” He props the bat against the floor and lifts his arm, showing off the rest of his physique.

“Could you put on some damn pants?” Rooster growls, slapping Jiggy with a pillow. “No one needs to see that in the middle of the night.”

“Wrong.” Jigsaw wags his finger in Rooster’s face. “Many females would kill for—”

“Sorry I woke you,” I whisper, thoroughly embarrassed.

Jiggy drops the playful attitude. “It’s okay, songbird. I was just worried.”

“Thank you.”

He turns away and my gaze lands on the crisscross pattern of scars lining his back. Even covered in ink, they’re noticeable. I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle my gasp of surprise. I turn my questioning eyes on Rooster but he shakes his head at me. His eyes seem to plead with me to not ask any questions.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s all right.” Rooster holds out his arms. “Come here.”

I snuggle closer and he reaches out to snap the light off. “You want to talk about your nightmare?” he asks.