Let it Burn: Sons of Sinners Part 2 (A Rock Star Romance) Page 2

  “I will be amazing, when I get Connor’s damn eyes right,” she grumbled good-naturedly.

  “I think I know what’s up,” I said quietly.

  “Really? What is it? It’s been driving me crazy.”

  “He didn’t used to play with his eyes open, he usually had them shut when he was in the Drum Zone, remember?”

  She stared back and forth between me and the image of Connor on the wall. “Damn, you’re right!” Her voice fell, sadness seeping through, “Of course he did. I can’t believe I forgot that.”

  I reached over and squeezed her hand; I knew how she felt. It had been the three year anniversary of Connor’s death only a couple of weeks before, and the more time that passed, the harder it became to remember the little things. “Well, that’s what this painting is for, right? So no one forgets.”

  She squeezed my hand in return. “I better get started then.”

  “Want some music on while you work?”

  “Sure,” she said, gathering her painting gear and heading across to the ladder that was propped next to the twelve-foot-tall portrait of Sons of Sinners.

  I put on Oasis – an old favorite of Connor’s. Then, deciding to work at the bar to keep Hayley company, I went and grabbed my laptop from my office.

  We spent a couple of hours that way, until Hayley finally climbed down from the ladder and stood back, arms crossed over her chest, examining her work.

  I walked across to stand next to her. “Wow,” I whispered, in awe. The image of Connor on the wall married with the one in my mind and, as I looked at it, the years just fell away. “It looks just like him; I can almost hear the beat.”

  “I think it’s finally finished,” she murmured.

  My eyes left the picture of Connor hammering on his drums and wandered over the rest of the guys.

  Kane was standing, with his feet planted shoulder width apart, an easy smile on his face as he plucked at his bass. Derren was leaning back, long hair streaming behind him, a frown of concentration knitting his brows together as his fingers danced over the strings of his Gibson Les Paul. Blake was clutching the microphone with both hands, screaming into it, with one foot raised up on a monitor, the personification of power and ferocity.

  They were frozen in time.

  It was a snapshot of the way they used to be, before the heartbreak, the loss, and the fame.

  As I looked at it, I felt like I was seeing an old memory brought to life…but something that was done with. Over. A piece of my past.

  Then Harvey barreled through the front doors of the venue, sweating and panting like he’d run a marathon –

  – and my past became my present.

  3

  “Amy!” Harvey wheezed. “Thank God you’re here!” His words came out in a rush and held a note of desperation. I could see the sweat gathering at the throat of his green Marvel t-shit, and is face was an alarming shade of red behind his curtain of long brown hair and full beard. Imagine a younger version Chris Stapleton, minus the cowboy hat, and you’ve got Harvey.

  “Of course I’m here,” I said, bewildered at the state he was in. “Where else would I be?”

  “I’ve been…calling you non-stop…for over an hour!” he panted.

  I frowned and pulled my cell from the pocket of my cut off jean shorts. There were zero missed calls there. “Um, no –”

  “Your office phone!” he snap-gasped. “Why the hell…didn’t you answer?!”

  I winced. “Oh, damn. Sorry, I’ve been in here with Hayley the whole time.”

  He wasn’t impressed. “Well, goddamnit! What’s the point…in having an office…if you don’t use it?!” He bent over and braced his hands against his knees, fighting to catch his breath.

  “I do use it, usually,” I said a little defensively as I walked over to him, scrutinizing him in concern; he seemed like he was a few seconds away from a coronary. “Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

  He pulled in a breath. “You’re not going to believe it…” He trailed off and rubbed one hand over his chest, underneath the gunmetal-grey vest he wore, open, over his t-shirt. Harvey always wore a vest; it was sort of like his own personal uniform.

  “You’re worrying me, Harvey.” I’d never seen him this worked up over anything before. I was starting to think something awful had happened. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  He straightened up with an effort, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, starting to grin manically. “I just got a call from Sons of Sinners’ management! Blake Maxwell wants to put on a show here! Can you fucking believe it?!”

  Freight train. To the face.

  My heart almost broke out of my ribs.

  “WHAT?!” I shrieked.

  “What?” Hayley demanded a millisecond later.

  “I know!” Harvey crowed, clearly in ecstasy. “Sons of Sinners! The biggest band ever to come out of Las Vegas! One of the only rock bands ever to have three original songs in the Billboard chart at the same time! The band that can sell out a stadium tour in less than five minutes!” He rattled off their stats as though Hayley and I had never heard of them – a moment later he seemed to remember who he was talking to and looked a little sheepish. “Of course, you knew that already,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “But…but…what?!” I spluttered, trying – and failing – to wrap my head around what he was saying. “This can’t be happening. Who called you?!”

  “He said his name was Aiden Parkinson.”

  Well, SHIT!

  That actually checked out. Aiden had started managing Sons of Sinners back before they made it big. He got them onto their first arena tour, organized the recording of their first real album, and gave them the opportunities they needed to chase their dreams.

  “Look, Amy,” Harvey started, “I know you have history with Blake Maxwell, and I’d like to remind you that I’ve never asked for details –” Actually, he had. Multiple times. “– but this is business. They’re THE biggest band in the country right now! We can’t turn this down.”

  “I know, Harvey. I’m sorry, it’s just –”

  “No, hold up, this is bullshit.” Hayley waved her arms in front of her in a kind of air-clearing motion. “Harvey,” she said, looking at him almost sympathetically. “If this was genuine, I’d know about it.”

  I grasped on to that logic as if I was drowning in ice water and someone just threw me a life preserver. “Yes! That’s right!” I yelled; I’d lost all control of the volume of my voice. “Kane’s on Vacation in Thailand, right?!” I knew my eyes were wild as I implored Hayley to confirm what I already knew. Kane had sent me a selfie the week before from a boat that was floating in crystal clear waters, with a caption that read, “Island hopping like a pro.”

  Hayley nodded. “Right. And Danny’s in the U.K. visiting with family right now.”

  Danny Jackson was a session drummer whom Sons of Sinners hired – just after Connor died – to record the drum parts on their first album. They all hit it off so well that they asked him to join the band permanently and he agreed. I’d never met him, but Hayley had mentioned him a lot, and of course I’d seen pictures of him.

  Hayley continued, “They’re not supposed to be working again until they get together in LA to start recording the new album in a couple weeks.”

  “See?!” I challenged Harvey to disagree with us.

  He couldn’t, of course. Hayley had the inside scoop.

  The only member of Sons of Sinners that she never discussed with me, unless it was strictly wedding related, was Blake. She had tried to talk to me about him a few times in the early days right after he left town, but I’d shut her down every time. Back then, I just couldn’t stand to hear about him. It soon became an unspoken agreement – the topic of Blake was off the table. I didn’t ask about him. Hayley didn’t volunteer anything. Whenever I saw Kane and Derren, the same rules applied.

  But regardless of what he was doing during their time off, the
re was no way he could put on a show without the rest of the band, so I knew this had to be some kind of joke. Lance, one of the bartenders that worked at The Academy, was always coming up with new and unique ways to mess with Harvey. I figured this must be his latest prank.

  “But…it really sounded legitimate,” Harvey practically whined.

  “They can’t play Vegas anyway,” Hayley said begrudgingly. “You know Blake won’t set foot here.”

  Harvey definitely couldn’t dispute that. Blake’s refusal to go anywhere near his hometown was well documented by the media, who had concocted a million possible theories about it over the years.

  “Come on, think about it,” I added as my heart rate started to return to normal. “Even if they played Vegas, there’s no way Sons would play here anyway.”

  The Academy’s capacity was five hundred. Sons of Sinners normally played to audiences of over twenty thousand. Even if Blake agreed to break with tradition and put on a show in Vegas, any place on the Strip would bump their residencies at a moment’s notice to put them on. They would be salivating at even the remotest possibility of getting Sons of Sinners on their stage…

  Yeah, there’s no way this is happening.

  I could see by the expression of extreme disappointment on Harvey’s face that he was drawing the same conclusion. He clamped his lips together and shook his head. “I’m gonna kill Lance,” he muttered a moment later as he wandered around to the other side of the bar and pulled a beer from one of the fridges.

  “I’ll help,” I offered, flopping down onto one of the bar stools. Now that I was getting over the shock and realizing how stupid it was to have thought for even a second that the whole thing was possible, my legs felt like noodles.

  “So, I’m confused,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from the direction of the door. “You want me to play here or not?”

  My breath caught as I spun around on my stool – only to find the piercing blue eyes of Blake Maxwell boring in to me.

  4

  It was like coming face to face with a ghost from your past at the same instant that you run into an old friend you see every day.

  Because, although I hadn’t seen Blake in person in the years since he cut out on me, I had still seen him plenty.

  All the Sons of Sinners guys were ‘famous’, but Blake got the brunt of the media attention. He was hounded by the paparazzi, especially after a few controversial stories broke about him and various actresses and supermodels. They couldn’t get enough of him; controversy seemed to follow him; everything he did was put under a microscope and analyzed.

  Which meant that there was no escaping him.

  I saw him almost constantly: on the cover of magazines; in newspapers; on the internet; on TV. It seemed like the media needed photographic evidence that he was still alive at least three times a week.

  I saw pictures of him with hordes of beautiful women hanging off him.

  I saw footage on CNN of him being cuffed outside a nightclub in LA, before being ushered into a police cruiser.

  I saw publicity shots of him on stage, sweaty and invigorated.

  I saw him on TV collecting awards with the rest of the band.

  I saw him in music videos, on chat shows, and on TMZ segments.

  I saw him shirtless on the cover of Rolling Stone.

  I saw a video, recorded on a cell phone and uploaded onto the internet, of him grabbing a camera off a photographer and smashing it on the ground.

  I saw shots of him walking through airports with his sunglasses on and his hood up.

  I saw grainy pictures – clearly taken through a telescopic lens – of him on a beach in Maui with a gorgeous blond, doing naughty things under a beach towel…

  I’m not going to lie, it was hard to deal with.

  But three years is a long time and, eventually, it became almost normal. I’m not saying I ever got immune to it exactly, but I learnt to close it off – see it and move on.

  And then, suddenly, there he was in front of me again.

  Blake Maxwell: Super Star Rock God.

  The only man I’d ever loved…

  …and the only man I’d ever really hated.

  5

  I stopped breathing. I felt my skin tingle. It felt like all my blood whooshed straight to my heart, which was beating so strongly it was echoing in my ears.

  It was like I had tunnel vision.

  Everything else in the room just blurred to insignificance at the sight of him.

  He was leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb at the entrance to the venue, completely nonchalant.

  But his deep blue eyes were locked on mine with such intensity that they sent a tremble through me.

  His hair was covered by a hood, but I knew the color of it perfectly: a deep chocolate brown that bordered on black. His face was so gorgeous it almost hurt to look at him; his jaw was strong and chiseled, covered with dark stubble that gave him a rugged edge.

  I’d told myself so many times that my memory of him was over inflated, that I’d built him up in my mind, but having him right in front of me again made me see all of that for what it was – denial.

  His sleeveless, dark maroon hoodie hung open and underneath it he wore a grey t-shirt, just fitted enough to hint at the powerful body beneath. His bare arms were thick with muscle and covered to the wrists in tattoos. As long as I’d known him, he’d had two full sleeves of incredible artwork, an intricate mix of crisp lines and subtle shading, but now tattoos emerged from the neck of his shirt too; a sparse flock of birds swooped up from just underneath his Adam’s apple, around the side of his neck to disappear behind his left ear.

  Even standing so casually, he still had an air of power about him, a type of effortless gravity that just pulled your attention his way.

  As I watched, one corner of his mouth quirked up into the trademark Blake Maxwell Smirk, and I realized that I was staring at him with my mouth hanging open.

  I closed it with an audible snap as my lungs started working again.

  “Good to see you too, Princess,” he said, his deep voice holding a hint of amusement.

  Princess.

  Hearing that nickname roll off his tongue felt like someone stepped on my grave.

  I knew I should say something – anything – but every time a coherent thought half-formed in my mind, it shattered before I could grasp it properly. My mouth tried to form words and failed.

  Blake’s smirk widened as he pushed off the doorjamb and sauntered into the room.

  It was only then that I noticed that Aiden was with him. He was the picture of well-groomed professionalism, wearing a crisp white polo shirt and with his blond hair neatly styled. In one hand, he carried what looked like a slim, incredibly expensive, briefcase.

  But my eyes only lighted on Aiden for a second before they snapped back to Blake of their own accord. His smirk had faded a little and his eyes had narrowed slightly, like he could see inside my head. Like he was ransacking my mind.

  As he moved towards me, his gaze travelled from my eyes, down to my lips, where it lingered, before roving over the rest of my body to my bare legs. For about a second, I wished I’d put on something other than my old, cut off jean shorts, an oversized white t-shirt and worn down Converse. My make-up was minimal, too, just a cursory slick of mascara. And my hair? God. I almost reached up and let it loose from the messy knot on top of my head – but as soon as the thought flew through my mind I squashed it, mad at myself for even caring.

  There was no way in hell I would allow myself to give a crap what he thought of me.

  Not anymore.

  That ship sailed years ago.

  When Blake’s eyes finally moved back up to my face, there was a heat in them so intense, so animalistic, that it took my breath away. I swallowed, trying to fight the rush of arousal that coursed its way through my veins. I wanted to slap myself when I felt my nipples harden beneath my bra.

  But then he blinked.

  And when he opened his eyes agai
n, the heat was gone…and I was left wondering if it had even been there at all.

  Blake flashed a shark’s grin as he came to a stop a few feet in front of me. “Gonna say ‘hi’, Princess?”

  Before I could even begin to formulate a response, Hayley jumped in, pulling his attention away from me and onto her. “What are you doing, Blake?” she challenged, her anger obvious. “You guys are supposed to be having some time off. Derren was supposed to have some time off!”

  “Makin’ history,” he replied, all cock-sure arrogance – and zero actual information.

  Hayley let out a sound of exasperation as she threw her hands in the air. “I’m calling Derren! He’s gonna shit a brick.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and paced away across the room without waiting for a response.

  Blake looked back at me with his eyebrows raised like, What’s HER problem?!

  That was way too familiar.

  That was how friends acted.

  People who knew each other read each other’s expressions – and that wasn’t us. Not anymore.

  Find a distraction.

  That thought pushed me from my perch on the stool, and I beckoned Harvey around from behind the bar. “Harvey,” I began, my voice carefully controlled, “this is Blake Maxwell and his manager Aiden Parkinson.”

  I knew that the introductions were a little ridiculous – okay, a lot ridiculous; obviously, Harvey already knew who they were – but I didn’t really know what else to do so I fell back on manners and social graces, the backbone of awkward conversation.

  As soon as Harvey reached my side, I urged him towards them, like I was using him as a human shield. “Guys, this is Harvey Cooper, he owns this place.”

  Aiden and Blake shook hands with Harvey, who looked like he was about to convulse with excitement.

  “Nice place you got here, man, I like it,” Blake said.

  “Thanks,” Harvey said proudly. “Although, I have to be honest, Amy’s made it what it is, and of course Hayley’s responsible for the masterpiece.” He gestured to the wall behind them, then narrowed his eyes. “Hey, she finished Connor.”