With Vengeance (4 page)

The capital letters had returned. Klement
felt a pleasant flush to hear them pertaining to him. “I’ll cross
my fingers for you to make the cut.” And she had, for recording.
Now he just needed to see if she could handle the stage.

“Thanks for the support,” Kat said. “Well, I
better go now. Bye, IT Guy.”

“Bye, Kat.” Klement hung up the phone and
laughed over the nickname. To all of his other clients, he went by
K.B. Did she even remember that? If she did, he wondered what she’d
do if she ever found out what those initials stood for.

***

Richard Dumascian’s knuckles tightened on the
steering wheel of the rented Kia as it nearly bottomed out again on
the rutted road. His pickup would have been better suited to this
mountain terrain, but he couldn’t risk being recognized.

Pressing down a little more on the
accelerator, he urged the car forward before he lost sight of
Katana’s Subaru. Where the hell was she going now? After following
her on a fifteen hour drive all the way to Denver from Spokane, and
then, after only a six-hour rest, tailing her to the recording
studio, chasing her through the Rocky Mountains backwoods was a
headache and a half.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Kat was always a
difficult bitch.

He’d show her what happened when she fucked
around with him like this. But first he’d figure out what she was
doing here.

Kat suddenly made a sharp turn up a narrow
driveway. Richard had to slam on the brakes and jerk the wheel as
his Kia skidded on gravel. He counted to ten before following
further. Up ahead, Kat’s car was halted at a huge gate with a
control panel for her to announce her presence for the owner to
open the gate.

The thing probably had cameras.

Richard threw his car in reverse and turned
around before he was seen. First she’d gone to a fancy recording
studio, then she’d gotten invited to a mansion. One thing was
clear. Whatever gig she’d landed was big.

The bitch didn’t deserve it.

Chapter Three

Kat stared at the giant log cabin–style
mansion behind the daunting wrought-iron gate that looked so much
like the gorgeous lake houses back home. Klement Burke lived
here
? She’d pictured rock stars like him in sprawling
McMansions or posh condos in L.A., not this rustic paradise tucked
in the middle of nowhere. With a shaky hand she pushed the button
at the gate, hoping she hadn’t gone to the wrong house.

Instead of a voice from the speaker demanding
her identity or ordering her to leave, the gate swung open on
smooth hinges. Shifting the car into gear, Kat guided her Subaru up
the paved driveway. She hit the brakes momentarily to gawk at the
five-car garage that was as wide as the house, and then parked to
the side next to a Hummer and a Lexus SUV that she presumed were
Cliff’s and Roderick’s vehicles.

Her little green Subaru was ridiculously out
of place. The anxiety crept back, squeezing her lungs and
overloading her adrenal gland, triggering her fight-or-flight
response. Kat reached into her purse and took another half Xanax
before getting out of the car.

As she made her way up the flagstone walkway,
she resisted the urge to mess with her hair and adjust her outfit.
She wasn’t here to look pretty—never mind the fact that she’d gone
on a shopping trip to pick up new jeans and a cute top and spent
nearly an hour on her makeup. She was here to find out if she’d got
the job…and maybe even to jam with her favorite band.

She froze in her tracks.

“Fuck!” she hissed under her breath. She’d
left her guitar in the back of her car. Dashing back to it, she
prayed the band wasn’t watching her on the security cameras and
laughing.

Quickly, she grabbed her Gibson and made her
way to the front door. She took a moment to admire the ornately
carved mahogany before ringing the bell. The beginning of some
classical tune chimed.

Klement answered, still wearing the same
t-shirt and jeans from earlier. Now she felt silly for
changing.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Come on in. We’re
in the kitchen.”

She followed him across a vast expanse of
hardwood floors to a luxurious but messy kitchen. Pizza boxes,
dirty plates, and miscellaneous clutter covered virtually every
inch of granite counter surface. She even spotted a screwdriver
lying next to a bottle of ketchup. Obviously he didn’t have a
maid.

Cliff and Roderick stood over the island
counter, eating like veteran bachelors.

Cliff’s eyes swept over her. “Hey,
beautiful.”

“Hey,” Kat answered a little
breathlessly.

Roderick rolled his eyes and elbowed the
singer aside. “So, how’d you get the name Katana?”

“My mom was a huge fan of the videogame,
Mortal Kombat.” And damn, how she’d gotten teased about it.

“God, that makes me feel old.” Cliff’s eyes
narrowed. “You’re not a minor, are you?”

“No, I’m twenty-three. Mom was only sixteen
when she had me.” Heaviness weighed down her heart with an
unreasonable guilt at being born. Her mom had just earned a full
scholarship to Juilliard before she got pregnant. Instead of
becoming a concert violinist, she ended up trapped with an abusive
pig. Because the guy was a cop, it took years—and three broken ribs
on Kat and a slipped disc on her mother from a chokehold—to escape
him. His buddies in blue finally couldn’t cover for him. He’d been
half the man Kat recognized as her true dad, her mom’s second
husband, who had introduced her to kindness, laughter, and music
before he died saving them from a house fire.

Klement broke the awkward silence. “Rod
brought tacos, and there’s beer in the fridge.”

Kat took a shaky breath and lifted her chin.
“I’m not going to be able to eat a damn thing until I know if I got
the job or not.”

“If you didn’t, won’t that kill your
appetite?” Roderick inquired with a raised brow.

Kat’s stomach plummeted.

“Shut up,” Klement said and shook his head.
“Yes, you’re hired…for recording at least.”

“We decided to keep you.” Cliff gave her
another flirtatious wink, looking devastatingly handsome, and Kat
would have been more affected by his hotness if she wasn’t
overwhelmed with mixed emotions: joy at the band’s accepting her to
join them in the studio, and worry that they still hadn’t
determined she was capable of performing with them onstage.

“So, can you eat now?” Klement teased.

She met his gaze, feeling more at ease. He
had such a kind smile. “Now I’m too happy to eat.” But she reached
for a taco anyway.

Klement laughed, a kinda dorky giggle, though
it was pleasant with its unabashed merriment, and Kat couldn’t help
but laugh with him.

After eating, Kat grabbed a beer from a
fridge full of mostly condiments. It was some fancy-schmancy
microbrew. Klement passed her a bottle opener, and she noticed that
he was drinking coffee. She blinked. If she had caffeine at this
hour, she’d be bouncing off the walls until three A.M.

Roderick raised his beer in a toast. “Welcome
aboard, love.”

Kat clinked her bottle to his and then
Cliff’s bottles, as well as Klement’s coffee mug.

The bassist looked around at them all then
asked, “Well, should we jam a bit?”

Without waiting for a response, he left the
kitchen, gesturing for them to follow. Down the hall and up the
stairs, the music room was even more impressive than Kinley had
described it the night she and Viciӧus stayed here. Countless
guitars, basses, even a banjo and a mandolin hung from the walls.
Huge amplifiers stood in every corner, except for one taken up by a
drum kit. One side of the room was dedicated to recording
equipment, complete with a mixing board and a small computer.

Cliff waved her over, a B.C. Rich guitar
hanging low on his hip from the shoulder strap. Kat’s awe returned.
After years of listening to his voice on her stereo and admiring
him from the audience at concerts, she’d never imagined she would
be this close to him.

Reverently, she took out her guitar and
settled the strap over her shoulder.
Holy Shit, I'm about to jam
with Bleeding Vengeance!

“You can plug in here.” Cliff pointed at a
huge Marshall amp. “And the pedals are over there.”

Kat hooked up her guitar and did some last
minute adjustments on the strings before palming her pick. Roderick
settled back behind his drums, and Klement lifted his Rickenbacker
bass from a stand in the corner. As he bent over to plug it in, Kat
couldn’t help watching. She hadn’t expected him to have such a cute
butt. Cliff had plugged in his guitar when she turned back to him,
and she felt a twinge of regret at missing the view.

Klement turned to Kat and the band. “What do
you say we start with ‘Bring Out Your Dead,’ to see how she grooves
with us before we move on to the new stuff?”

Cliff and Roderick nodded in agreement, and
Kat felt a wave of relief and gratitude. “Bring Out Your Dead” was
one of their biggest hits and she knew it by heart. It also had one
of the most awesome—but difficult—guitar solos she’d ever learned.
They were going easy on her, but not too easy.

In tandem, Roderick and Klement began with
throbbing bass and rolling drums. Kat struck the first shredding
cords right on cue as Cliff chimed in with the rhythm guitar. Kat’s
worries and awareness of her surroundings faded away as she became
lost once again in the song, in its joyful brutality. She was
merely jamming, or playing a gig at one of her local bars. It might
well have been Kinley to her right at the mike stand, Laura on bass
on her left, and Bev on drums behind them.

Cliff’s rough velvet voice shattered the
illusion, nearly making Kat’s fingers slip on the strings, but she
managed to hold the note and progress to the next. She closed her
eyes and pretended Cliff’s voice was just on the stereo and she was
rocking out at home. Unable to stop herself, she started
head-banging, fingers dancing on the fret board in ecstasy, and
when it came time for her solo, the music had overtaken Kat’s
consciousness to the point where it didn’t matter whether she was
playing with Bleeding Vengeance in their living room, at an open
mike night, or alone in her basement childhood bedroom. Her hair
flew and her hips swayed, and her hands wrought symphonic fire.

Too soon, the song ended. Kat struck the
final chord on her Gibson, power coursing through her. Then the
silence crowded in like white static and her fingers trembled to
chase it away.

Roderick broke the silence. “Brilliant,
love.”

Cliff eyed her with new respect. “Not
bad.”

Klement nodded before giving the others an
inscrutable look. “Now ‘Sorrow’s Harvest’ again.”

His fingers danced so rapidly across the bass
strings that Kat became almost too distracted staring at him. God,
he was good.

Sucking in a breath, she began her part just
in time. Her earlier joy dampened in the midst of her intense
concentration on getting the song right. Still, triumph filled her
with every chord she perfectly executed.

Just as she was about to begin the solo,
Cliff busted out with chords and notes that were supposed to be
hers. Kat nearly froze, but Klement’s earlier admonishment kept her
fingers on the strings. Not knowing what else to do, she lapsed
into the rhythm part, seething in outrage.

He stole my solo!

Her ex had pulled this shit all the time when
she’d briefly played in his band. Cliff didn’t suck like Richard
did, but it was the principle that irked her.

Fighting back a pout, she glanced over at
Klement. He watched her intently, as if to see how she’d react. Did
he think she should call Cliff out or just roll with it? For now
she decided to just let it be. She was the newbie.

When the song ended, Klement was still
watching her. She couldn’t tell if he approved of her decision or
was disappointed with her complacence.

They played a few more Bleeding Vengeance
songs before Cliff pulled his shoulder strap over his head. “My
fingers are getting sore,” he complained. “I hope I’ll make it
through tomorrow’s session with Kat.”

“Session?” Kat dropped her pick, rubbing her
shoulder where the guitar strap had dug in.

Klement nodded and hung up his bass. “You’re
going to do the rhythm and lead tracks for ‘Yesterday’s Angst,’ and
if we have time, ‘Fractured Dreamscape’ together because I think
those would sound better with more of a live sound. Rod and I will
be doing the same with the bass and drums.”

Kat’s throat tightened. She’d be in one of
the isolation chambers with Cliff.

Oddly, her anxiety wasn’t from being close to
him, as would be expected, but fear that he’d steal her solos
again. Damn it, she’d worked hard on perfecting them and Klement
had praised her efforts.

Also, Cliff had really bad breath.

A self-deprecating smile curved her lips.
After years of mooning over the guy, meeting the unvarnished
article ebbed away the infatuation. Maybe staying professional
around him wouldn’t be so difficult after all.

“What time do I need to be at the studio?”
she asked, packing her guitar.

Klement handed over her pick. “Ten. And be
sure to bring snacks and coffee. We’ll probably be there for at
least eight hours.”

“Cool. I better head back and get some rest
then.” She rubbed her shoulder again. If she was sore after only
playing for a few hours, she needed to toughen up.

Cliff stepped close, and their bodies almost
touched. “Taking off so soon? At least hang out and have another
drink.”

She shook her head and stepped back. “There’s
no way in hell I’m driving down that windy-ass road drunk.”

“Where are you staying?” Klement asked
sharply. “I forgot to give you hotel recommendations.”

Lost in his inquisitive gaze, it took a
moment for her to reply. “The Shady Tree Motel.”