Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

“You didn’t even try it.”

“Oh, but I did. No wine could taste as good as you do, Magic.”

I shivered again. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders until there was no air between us. I wasn’t cold anymore, but he didn’t need to know that. I had a little slice of perfect right here, right now. “Thanks for making me come.”

He buried his face in my neck. “I always like making you come.”

“Such a cheeky bastard.”

He tucked his chin in the space between my shoulder and neck. “Your cheeky bastard, love.”

“Yeah, you are.”

And I couldn’t even fight it any longer.

Twenty-Three

The lights of LA glittered outside the window. This was the Promised Land, the place where all Jerry’s dreams would come true. Assuming Ian started offering up the goddamn details he was supposed to.

How many days had he tried to reach Ian? How many voicemails had he left? Yesterday, he’d left one instructing Ian to meet his associate, Robert, in LA earlier tonight. No response. Jerry had arrived to observe said meeting and found one brassed-off Robert and no Ian.

Of course Ian hadn’t made the meeting, because he’d had another rinky-dink show farther up the coast.

That was not going to stand.

Jerry reclined in his chair as a thin cry echoed down the hall. Time for her medication. She was becoming more and more restless at night, and the prescribed doses weren’t doing their job as well as they once had. But she was like a baby. He couldn’t run to her every time she whined or else she’d take advantage.

Like someone else he knew. Time for that to stop.

Past time.

He brought up the latest coordinates for Ian’s location. Surprise, surprise. Venice Beach once again. Not to the dodgy motel where Ian rented a room, but to the lovely little artists’ commune where Zoe Manning lived. He’d just bet this wasn’t a drive-by visit, either. Ian was in for the night—and that wasn’t a euphemism.

It would be so easy, he mused, to just send in Robert to take care of the loose ends. Ian wasn’t doing what he was supposed to in any case, so why bother trying to goad him into doing his job?

Jerry still had a wild card he could use with Simon. Not the best one, but Ian wasn’t exactly proving to be an ace in the hole, either.

And the bottom line was if he didn’t take out the trash himself, soon enough, someone else would. The people he worked with weren’t as forgiving as he was.

Ian clearly had no intention of following through on the plan. He’d been easily controlled once upon a time. A few threats—not to him, as the boy had a death wish, but to the one he held dear—and a couple well-placed words, and Ian had trotted merrily along to his tune. Ian was a loyal sort under the muck and the grime, and he believed a debt owed should be repaid.

Or at least he used to. Now he seemed more interested in gaining some of Simon’s mirror shine for himself.

Tossing what amounted to mere pennies Jerry’s way, as if that could repay the vast sum he owed. How utterly laughable. Almost as amusing as that career he kept trying to sputter to life.

Oh, he’d signed a paltry record contract. Big deal. Naturally, he’d signed one with a man with more ties to shady business dealings than you could shake a stick at. Donovan Lewis was as ruthless as they came. If he’d signed Ian, he knew he could make money off him, and then he’d toss Ian aside in a heartbeat. Amazing that Simon still seemed to have a lucrative career on Donovan’s label…but Ian wasn’t Simon.

That had been borne out so far by the ridiculous amounts Ian had tried to placate him with. Then again, the boy hadn’t had much schooling. Maybe he really was that daft.

But if he was, his beautiful Zoe wasn’t. Ian might not care about himself, but Zoe was a different story.

Jerry picked up one of the photos from Ian’s most recent show. There she was, in front of the stage, singing along and taking pictures. He picked up the heavy black marker and crossed out her face. Obliterated it until there was nothing left but black marker. Then he picked up his scissors and cut the picture into slices.

The next photo in the pile was of her and Ian. He repeated the same process, except he left Ian intact. He so enjoyed slicing Zoe off the photo and chopping her virtual image into tiny, unrecognizable bits.

He dumped both pictures into an envelope, neatly block printed with her address. He’d alternated the method of delivery of the other photos. Didn’t want a pattern to emerge.

Perhaps he’d been too careful. He’d tried to send her a message, but obviously, it was not a strong enough one. That was okay. He had other avenues to pursue. Other ways of recouping his losses, even if Ian no longer wanted to fulfill his duty.