Rock Revenge (Rock Revenge Trilogy 1)

“And if I don’t hate it, Li? Then what?”

Li. My eyes narrowed. I couldn’t stop listening even as the clearly impatient brunette receptionist waited for me to get a move on.

Li aka Lila Crandall? The wife of Simon’s bandmate, Nick. Oblivion’s manager.

The best friend of Simon’s own wife.

I smiled and fell into step with the receptionist. Yes, I was a researcher myself, and my husky-voiced artist was in the realm of one of the Ripper power players. Close to her no less, since Lila didn’t dally with those who didn’t matter.

That might just come in handy.

Just might.

Twelve

DONOVAN

The jewels of Los Angeles spread out in front of him like his very own kingdom. This high up, it might as well have been.

Fanciful thinking, of course. He didn’t own all of what lay before him, glittering in the afternoon sun. Shiny like diamonds, reflective like mirrors that showed what the viewer hoped to see. An illusion of grandeur and prosperity.

Possibilities and hope. With enough money, one could have both.

Could have almost everything. Almost.

Donovan Lewis heard the door crack open behind him. He spared Ian Kagan a quick glance before facing the world once again. “Have a seat.”

The kid didn’t move.

He reminded Donovan of himself. Minus the silvery threads in his shirt, probably the best of the kid’s wardrobe.

Donovan had never worn anything so fanciful back when he’d been on stage. All black had been his wardrobe then as it was so often now.

He recognized the giant chip on Ian’s shoulder quite well. It carried enough weight to make his shoulders tight. Or else the kid wasn’t nearly as confident as he seemed.

Donovan was a betting man, and he would lay odds on the latter.

Under Donovan’s scrutiny, Ian shook back his long, wavy, dark hair. The kind a woman would love to mess up. It spilled over his shoulders, unrestrained and free. Hung in his greenish-gray eyes as if he hadn’t seen a barber in some time. Probably as much due to the cost as style.

If not more.

He was every bit as arresting as his older brother. Some genes in that family. Donovan had no qualms about exploiting them for their mutual benefit.

Assuming Ian had come to play ball.

“Sit down,” he said as Ian lingered in the doorway. “This will be brief.”

Donovan didn’t sit himself, just studied Ian’s movements in the glass. Ian didn’t grip the doorframe, but his hand kept going to his opposite arm. Rubbing absently before he tucked the thumb of that hand against the corner of his mouth. Almost too lush for a man, Donovan mused, analyzing him as if he were a piece of artwork up for sale.

Alas, he was. Everyone had their price, and this one’s wasn’t nearly as high as he believed.

“I thought this was a meeting.”

That hint of a cockney accent also reminded Donovan of himself. He’d worked to rid himself of all but the slightest intonation of such when his temper was up, and he suspected Ian was attempting the same. But that accent was as much a trait of theirs as their hair or eye color. As much a part of them as the cockiness Ian wielded like a weapon.

Oh, yes, once upon a time, he’d been very much like this young man. That didn’t mean he’d give him so much as a millimeter.

“Did you now?” Donovan shifted on his heels, regarded the boy with a quirk of his eyebrow. He had a few inches on him and quite a bit of muscle.