Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (3 page)

“Love you, Scar.”
My darlin’.

The days rolled
by too fast. All too soon, they were buckled into first class and the Baja peninsula more resembled Google Earth than their vacation paradise.

The phone call came when he was working in the studio, putting the finishing touches on the new version of the demo, so Colt could add his part.

Annoyed, he habitually glanced at caller ID with his thumb ready to mute the interruption. Ben’s name flashed, and he wavered before tapping the green icon, accepting the call from the band’s manager.

“Gage?” Ben’s tone was different. Everyone was treating him with kid gloves these days.

“Who else?” He barked, and swiveled his chair away from the pro-tools screen.

“The label made the decision this morning. It’s not good.”

Heart plunge.

“Give it to me.”

“They dropped you.” There wasn’t finality to that period, and instinctively Gage remained quiet and let the man who’d been Fire Flight’s manager for years continue. “They didn’t drop Powers.”

“Where are they going with this? I own half of Fire Flight.” The band name. The brand. The package. He and Colt had been the only members of Fire Flight signed on that fateful day.

“There’s not a problem with that. Happens all the time. There’s a contingency clause in your contract. They can still record the other members under Fire Flight. If they decide to keep that name.”

“Right.” Statistically, changing the vocalist didn’t bode well for a band. It was more probable they were hanging on to Colt until they could decide if they could make a buck from his talent and name as a solo artist. “Thanks, man. Later.”

The moment the call ended tone sounded, he threw the phone. It hit the wall and incredulously bounced to the floor in one piece.

In truth, he had known doing the right thing—giving Colt the publishing rights he deserved—was likely to bite him in the ass. But he’d needed it off his conscience. He’d never felt right about letting the label manipulate him and in doing so causing him to steal. Now that Colt had equal ownership in at least a third of Fire Flight’s songs, all they had to do was make another album. They could easily tour with that much of the old stuff plus new.

“Argh!” The bellow rose and spewed like bile from his throat. He kicked at the laptop stand. When it didn’t topple, he swept the computer from the surface and watched with a strange combination of grief and satisfaction as he lost the last half hour of work on the new song.

Standing at the edge of the room, where it opened onto the patio, he tried to calm himself with the sight of Scar floating in the pool. The Bluetooth headphones in her ears had kept her from hearing his tantrum.

Retrieving his phone, he scrolled through his contacts and typed out a text to his assistant.

Remembering he had trashed his black bag in a gesture of goodwill, he quickly sent another message.

Scarlette was still in her swimsuit, but out of the pool. The sight of her centered him some. Wandering out, he took the chair beside her, and they discussed dinner. With her phone in hand, she was soon intent on ordering their supper while engaging in a game of footsie with him. When the doorbell rang, he sprinted from the patio and through the house.

With his assistant trailing behind him, he headed to the studio. Putting everything in a safe place for later, he spoke over his shoulder.

“I’m going to be away for a while.”

“Rehab.”

Gage nodded, knowing it was fairly common knowledge by now among his staff and friends. He turned to find the other man staring beyond the room perimeter at Scar with as much interest as every time he’d seen her—despite the cleanup chore of puke on a car mat tainting the last time.

Remembering he’d never properly introduced Scar to Logan that day, he briefed him. “That’s my stepsister, Scarlette. I’m going to give her your number. Anything she needs. Understand?”

“Yeah. Sure.” The other man seemed too eager to oblige and pulled his phone from his pocket. “What’s her info? I’ll put it in right now.”

Logan’s nonchalant inquiry while drooling over Scar had Gage gnashing his teeth. “I’m not giving out her number.” Not that he even knew by memory the number she was giving out to anyone other than her inner circle. The second number and extra privacy protections were part of having her cell provider classify her account as ‘celebrity,’ which she had done around the time of the documentary release. “It will come up as restricted.” Like his. Even if someone added the number to his or her contacts, when a ‘celebrity’ call came through, it always showed restricted access instead of a name. “That’s why I told you her name. So you’ll know who she is if she calls. But she may never call. I just want to know there’s someone she can turn to if she needs help with anything.”
Besides fuckin’ Colt, dammit
.

“Whatever.” His assistant shrugged and smartly decided to play it cool. “You going to introduce us at least?”

“Fine. Yeah.” Once again cursing the gods of fate taking him away from her for any length of time, he walked his assistant outside and commenced with the introduction.

Scar and Logan shook hands and immediately after the pleasantries, launched into a conversation about USC. He returned to the studio, watching them while he cleaned up his tantrum mess before Scar saw.

Tick damn tock…

T
he plane touched down and coasted to a stop. While it maneuvered to the correct gate, I watched Gage scrub a hand over his weary features. We’d flown to Utah on a private jet owned by one of the corporations his father was affiliated with. Unfortunately, I’d been too upset to enjoy the lavish experience.

Looming ahead was one last night together before I would return to L.A. without him. Shady Oasis was located about an hour north of Salt Lake City. In less than twenty-four hours, the rehab facility would become his temporary home.

Deciding to nap after checking into the hotel, we fell across the bed. When despite our exhaustion, neither of us fell asleep, we ended up banging a quickie out and then talking between dozing on and off.

“Ivy is meeting up with you in a few days?” He asked, combing his fingers through my hair.

For almost two weeks around my birthday, I would vacation in a house Gage’s father owned on the coast of Big Sur to stay low during my coming-of-trust-fund-age birthday. After our Cabo cover was blown, Gage had suggested Maldives and Seychelles, two great places to disappear. But I didn’t want to be more than a couple of hours from him.

I nodded. “I’m texting her as soon as I touch down. She’s going to spend the night at the house with me.” I was glad I wouldn’t have to stay in Gage’s house alone that first night without him. Gage had chartered ‘Atlas,’ his usual chopper service, to carry us to Big Sur from there.

“And your mom is back in Belize?”

Playing with the edge of the bed sheets, I affirmed this, knowing as protective as he was, he was seeking reassurance that Henni was far away. I had met my mother at her hotel right before she had flown out. Surprisingly, I’d received an almost tearful apology over parts of the past. Still, being with Gage had grounded me enough to be wary.

He left the bed and closed himself in the bathroom, and my thoughts meandered even more.

My new world was spinning fast.

I’d managed to keep a low profile around the twentieth anniversary. But now, I required an agent to field the ensuing publicity from only the premiere. I’d done a half dozen promo appearances on morning shows, night shows, and news segments. I’d done a phone interview for a major music publication and had three more lined up. All in regards to the documentary, which was releasing to select theaters this coming weekend.

I felt like my life was a simmering pot, beginning to boil, about to boil over. What I wanted was to resume my very normal life—one that even though it had been dysfunctional, had also been out of the public eye. That was one credit due my mom. Would it take hiding in a jungle to get back to that?

Hopefully not.

“You hungry?” He returned and dug through a plastic shopping bag on the table. We’d made a stop on the way to the airport because Gage had wanted an energy drink, and I had picked up some snacks.

“No. You?”

“No.” He cracked the window and lit a cigarette. I stared at the uncharacteristic action. Putting it to his lips, he spoke around it. “Although I was thinking I should have a last meal.”

“It’s not an execution.” I teased.

“I don’t know what kind of food I’ll be eating.” Crawling back into the bed with me, he blew a cloud of smoke toward the window.

When it was sucked neatly outside, I relaxed my nervous watch of the smoke alarm and teased, “I saw the information packet. Sushi. Seafood. The option to have the chef prepare a special diet. The only thing not mentioned was whether or not they’ll serve your gourmet meal out by one of those giant pools.” I traced a finger over the artwork of one of his tattoos. When he didn’t answer, I raised my head from his chest enough to look into his face. “I’m sorry. I’m not making light of it. I promise.”

“I know. I’m just really nervous.” His thumb made circles on my wrist, and I didn’t realize what he was doing until he asked softly, “What does it mean?”

Realizing he’d been caressing my tattoo, I settled securely against him and drew in a considering breath. I’d been asked before. But I’d never answered the truth. Until now. “Well, you have to stretch your imagination. But the treble and bass clef are an obvious salute to my dad.”

The pad of his thumb continued its rotations, feathering my skin.

“The semicolon. Where an author could have stopped a sentence but chose not to.”

His motion stilled. “Your dad, still?”

“Yeah.”

He curved his fingers to my wrist and squeezed.

“And then, it’s all in a timepiece, because… If I could turn back time…” I felt the comfort of another squeeze.

“That’s why the numbers are backward.” The awe in his voice reflected his interpretation.

I picked up my head to flash a surprised smile into his face. “Yes. No one ever notices the face of the clock is backward.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Good. Means no one’s really been this close.” He swiped his tongue over the inked art. “Means I’m the only one who’s watched you sleep.”

“Do I get to hear your secrets now?” I brushed a forefinger over his ink.

“Mine are easy. Anyone with any imagination. You know?”

“Did you design them?”

“All except… One on my back is from a drunken trip to a tattoo shop in Granada.”

“The sugar skull.”

“Uh huh.”

“Granada.”

“Me and Colt spent a month in Central America between tours a few years ago.” Answering the question in my eyes, he went on, “Colt was stuck on Latino women at the time. Me, I went for the monkeys. You
have
to see Monkey Island one day.”

I controlled a giggle at his kid-like enthusiasm and counted myself lucky the sugar skull wasn’t a monkey. Because it was debatable even being Gage whether I could be so hot for a man with a monkey inked on him. Tracing the art on his chest, I ventured, “So no ode to ex-lovers?”

He raised his head to peer into my face, took a puff of the cigarette, and turned his head to exhale. “The weird design on my shoulder blade. It was once an infinity line with my ex-wife’s initials.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear that. But now I had. The initial shock faded and a band-like bond tugged on my heart, tying it to his. He didn’t have to. But he’d told me the truth.

I kissed my way across the music bars entwined with thorns inked below his collarbone and rested my lips on a bicep. Continuing to trace, I studied the guitar neck running up the inside of his left arm and the broken string that twined around his upper arm. Suddenly my fingers stopped. In the dimness of the room and among all of the art decorating his skin, the punctures weren’t vivid. But my fingers felt the barest rise along smooth skin.