Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (75 page)

“I can't do it.”
Scarlette held and beheld her phone if it were a snake. “I can't…” She arched her neck, resting the back of her head on his shoulder to send him a pleading look.

He wanted more than anything to agree with her. To tell her it was fine to do anything she wanted or didn't. But he had a feeling she wanted this and didn't know it yet. “You
can
. You can't
not
do it.”’

Initially, Gage had forgotten Scarlette’s phone had likely received an identical text. He’d thought the message Rattler’s tour manager had passed on from Beau Jax at Jewelweed was all his.

Call ASAP. B. Jax wants to add you into the Rottaifest setlist
.

The speedball hit. A quick high and a crash down. Because once it was all sorted out, the truth was more logical. Scarlette’s single was hot on the charts worldwide. Jax had negotiated a slot within Rattler’s slot for Scarlette to debut the song live. Instead of her playing the song herself, Gage would play.

Letting the phone drop to the cushion of folded towels near the tub, she fretted on. “He can’t make me, right? Whatever I signed was just for Jewelweed to record and release the song.”

The bath bubbles scooted along the water surface when she nervously jostled her legs. The group phone call had taken less than ten minutes, and still in shock, they’d carried on with the evening, jumping into the waiting bath. Now, instead of riding him and shuddering, spent, against him, she was trembling in his arms out of fear.

“I don’t know what you signed. You might not have a choice.”

“Oh, damn. Really?” Her voice sounded choked on the one-word, desperate question.

“Jesus, Scar.” His arms had her wrapped from back to front, and his hands had been absently playing with those two weighty curves and their enticing peaks that he couldn’t get enough of. But now, he let his grip drop and wiped his face down with the warmth of the water. “This is an opportunity every musician dreams of. Why the fuck are you acting like this?”

His words just rolled out, as too often happened in her presence. His mouth had no filter when they were close like this. Somehow, his guard naturally dropped. The moment the ugly words echoed in the tiled room, he hated himself. First, because he knew he’d hurt her. Second, because he’d just shown his jealousy.

He was jealous
.
He’d known it since the night on the bus when he’d discovered her single and had learned Jewelstone had signed her. But he loved her, and ecstatic and proud feelings far outweighed any envious.

Jealous
. She called him on it as ruthlessly as he’d just revealed himself. “You’re fuckin’ jealous. Dammit, Gage. I’m trying to figure myself the fuck out, and everything you’re saying, everything you’re advising comes out of envy!”

The water sloshed as she sat up, and the loss of her weight against his chest left a hole in his heart. Automatically, his arms locked around her, preventing her from leaving the tub if that was her intention.

His admission squeezed through a hoarse throat. “Okay, yes. I’m fuckin’ jealous. You were born with more talent than I could ever learn in more than a decade. It’s all coming to fruition with you, and you’re acting like it’s the
worst
thing to happen to you instead of the
best!
”

She balked again in his arms, but he held tight and brought his voice down, almost whispering the next words. “Yes. I’m jealous. But it’s not coming from a bad place. I swear to you that. I’m happy for you. More than happy. And I really hate not seeing you jump up and down with the same happiness.”

“I’m happy.” She slumped and then sagged against him. “I’m just scared. I’m fucking terrified. Don’t be mad. But I mean it. I can’t do this.”

Gently, he settled her back to his front once more, and stroked a hand down her hair, down a shoulder, down her arm. “You can, Scar. And you have to. Like it or not, you’re at one of those forks of destiny. Two roads. You have to do it once to know for yourself which one to take.” He closed her hands in his and whispered against her ear, “Sing some of it for me now. Sing the chorus…”

He didn’t think she was going to do it. It was at least a silent minute later when her chest heaved and the acoustics of the bath caressed and carried her voice in a sweet serenade he’d never forget.

Liberated, she took it from the top a few minutes later. They freshened up the cooling bath with warm water and she went over the hook and chorus again.

The tiles rang with her clear tones when she turned, straddled him, and soon sang a different song--the intimate words belonging to them alone.

W
ho was the chick in the mirror?

Scarlette sat, backbone straight, combat boots crossed at the ankles, hands in her lap, long hair hanging straight with violet and blue metallic streaks. The ragged hat on her head was black with the wide rims pinned up; a faded red leather rose was stitched on the front.

Really? A cowboy hat? A rocker cowboy hat, albeit a cowboy hat
.

A black long-sleeved tee with horizontal rips down the outside of the sleeves and the sides of the shirt from arm to hem hung, barely touching the waistband of extremely stressed and faded straight legged jeans. Unlike the hat, and her hair, at least she’d had a few different choices when it came to her stage outfit. It was comfy and sexy.

Itchy.

She blinked and winked, trying to adapt herself to the stiff feeling of her eyelids. The thick feathery lashes glued over her real lashes felt so odd, she wanted to peel them off. She was, however, digging the dramatic pattern of the press-on eye shadow.

“Oh. I almost forgot.” The stylist pulled out a drawer in the tall case where she’d just finished storing all of her goodies. A pump mister was in her hand when she turned. “Hold out your arms.” Scarlette squinted, attempting to read the label as the woman lightly sprayed her down, including a couple of pumps on her hair. “Rub it on your neck.”

“What is it?”

“Insect repellant.”

Like she wasn’t nervous enough. The image of lights being a draw for swarms of six-legged, flying night creatures caused her to shudder.

“Thank you, Ms. Rose.” The woman zipped up the drop-cover on the rack of clothing, popped the handle on the makeup kit, and rolled everything out of the dressing room.  

Rattler didn’t have stylists, so it had surprised her when one had arrived, armed with spray on shampoo, hair styling products, and a straightening iron in addition to clothing and makeup.

The metallic black and chrome polish decorating her nails glinted as she fiddled nervously with the silver cross around her neck.

Am I truly my father’s daughter? The day of reckoning was nigh
.

Her hands continued to shake, and she kept the one clamped on the pendant that had seen its last concert more than two decades ago.

The voice warm-up taught in a Skype session set up by Jewelstone seemed croaky to her, causing fresh panic. Taking a sip of water—tiny as advised by Gage—she began the scales again.

She needed Gage. Rattler’s song was clear, the beat filtering easily through the tent panels, and her ears soaked in the screams of his guitar.

A vase of flowers occupied one side of the enormous styling vanity. The card read, ‘Kill it, Scar Dar’. Dozens of long stemmed roses, red, edged in black. She studied the floral reflection, and when sudden understanding dawned, her singing tapered off.

“
You have new ink.”… “Yeah. Like it?” A black charred red rose—or some might say scarlet
…

Her attention on the mirror and this revelation was jarred when a rap rattled the door, which only minutes before had automatically locked behind the stylist.

Oh God. Was it time
?

Reluctantly, she crossed the room. She drew the door open without hesitation, knowing her bodyguard had stationed himself just outside and had already cleared anyone who would be knocking.

“Ivy!” She threw herself onto the other woman.

“Look at you!” After an initial hug greeting, her friend stepped back for a better view.

“What… How are you here?” She noted Ivy’s bracelet, the same all-access color and pattern as everyone else roaming this side of the stage.

“I wouldn’t miss this. Your first show!”

First or last?

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m in freak-out mode.”

“You’re going to knock ’em dead.” Ivy seemed sure, and made a beeline for the vase on the dressing table. “These are beautiful!”

Following right behind her, Scarlette snatched the card.

“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Her friend’s smile was smug.

“They’re from Gage. But the world doesn’t need to know. Just being careful.”

Ivy nodded and opened her mouth, looking as if she wanted to probe for details, but she was interrupted by the knock on the door Scarlette had been dreading.

“Show time, Ms. Rose. I’m here to escort you. Five minutes and counting.”

Struggling to pull herself together, Scarlette stuffed the card into her hip pocket and closed a fist around the silver cross. She snagged a rose from the vase before turning her back on the terrified woman in the mirror. Ivy followed as Jimal, who’d relieved Joaquin, fell into step by her side. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder as she climbed the steps to the stage, miraculously without tripping. As she topped the short flight, a tech looped her guitar strap over her head.

Although Gage would be playing and her amp would be silent, she wore her axe like a security blanket. She adjusted the hang of it as she stopped with her toes at the tape that sectioned off the stage areas. Jimal nudged her, pushing something into her hand. “Mr. Remington said to be sure you had this.”

Looking down, she found a nausea bag. She clasped it, realizing how shallow her breathing had grown and how much her gut was rolling. She could almost taste the peppermint and honey tea from brunch soured in her stomach.

The activity onstage drew her panicked eyes. Landon, in his own world, beating his kit. Gage, hanging back behind Rattler’s vocalist, shredding his axe. His eyes were on her, and when she saw this, he held her gaze, silently instilling strength and grit into her. The band was on the last verse of the chorus.

After a solo tail from Gage, Rattler’s set would end. Gage would announce her. And then she’d step before that seasonal city comprising tens of thousands of music fans.

The solo tail began.

Turning away from the stage, she shook out the bag and crouched with it to her lips. She hadn’t eaten anything except a piece of dry toast earlier this morning along with the tea. Apparently, it and the water she’d sipped on all day had turned to acid. In three heaves, her stomach emptied, and she shivered when her teeth tapped together with a chalky feel. A bottle of water appeared in front of her face. Gratefully, she cleansed her mouth before securing the bag closed with the glue strip. She wasn’t sure who took the trash from her hand, as she was too embarrassed to look up.

The music had stopped at some point while she was puking up her guts. Amid the screams, shouts, and whistles of the masses, she registered one bitter hiss from just above her head.

“Bitch!”

The pairs of shoes storming around her were very familiar. She’d tripped on them day in and day out on the tour bus. Surging to her feet, she glanced around, but only the backs of Landon’s two original bandmates’ heads were quickly disappearing down the stairs. One song is what they were forced to strike from their set to make room for her. Obviously, it had been one too many.

“…I think you’ll know her… Scarlette Rose!” The introduction.

Gage’s dark eyes were on her, and she had the feeling he’d been watching since well before he shouted her name into the sea of faces. His arm was stretched toward her, his hand open in an invitational beckon. As if her body was possessed by a veteran rock star, her legs morphed from rubber to steel, confidently carrying her toward him. Three steps in, she ripped the hat from her head and tossed it back to the stage wings, uncaring where it landed. A flick of her wrist sent the rose sailing into the sea of faces below, and she waved with the now empty hand.

From the earpiece, for her ears alone, came, “testing, testing…”

“Two, three, four.” She answered as cued in rehearsal earlier.

“And... You’re on.”

And she knew from then on, she was miked up. Anything she said would carry through the sound system unless she hit the little button on one side of the earbuds.

The audience reception to her appearance was deafening. Gage’s finger went to his earpiece, pressing the privacy button as he leaned close to her ear. “You’re beautiful, Scar.” Her hand was in his, and he raised their clasp above their heads. “Let’s do this shit.” He let go of her hand and his earpiece, and his fingers began to dance on the strings of his guitar.

He had to loop the intro three times before the crowd calmed enough for her to begin.

Slam. Slam
. Her pulse in her ear was deafening. She clutched the strings of her phantom guitar, and her voice, although it initially wavered, segued in right on time. The drums kicked in, and she was momentarily thrown, as Landon hadn’t joined them in rehearsal.