Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (78 page)

“Because tonight was about you.” Gage’s arms tightened in one of those snake-like squeezes that robbed her breath.

A
s he said it, he knew with a certainty that it was true. Scar was inexperienced in the industry. But he’d learned the little nuances. And without a doubt, Jax had flown halfway around the world to view Scarlette Rose’s stage charisma—not to deliver a congratulatory bottle of Champagne Rose. And Scarlette had melted not only her audience’s face off, but also that of her label exec.

He predicted Jax would give her a month to wind down, and then he’d hit Scarlette up with plans for a ‘Scarlette Rose’ album.

He was losing her
.

She’d spend long hours in sessions. Then would come photo shoots and videos. All the while, plans for the first tour leg would be orchestrating behind the scenes. And then she’d be thousands of miles away for months at a time.

He was losing her
.

And maybe it was a good thing it was happening before they even found their way back to that sweet love that had barely bloomed before he’d burned it with his jealousy and suspicions.

Scar was meant for greatness. And he wouldn’t hold her back from her calling, intentionally or unintentionally.

Still, in the meantime, he wanted to soak up what time he could get.

“We leaving at nine?” He maneuvered enough to slip his phone from his jeans pocket, noting the blinking battery. One percent as he hadn’t let it charge more than a few minutes earlier.

“The flight is at nine. We leave at seven.” She moved with reluctance, sliding from his lap.

“Just over an hour from now.” Gage groaned. “I don’t even have my room key. I’ve gotta go downstairs.” He had to shower and change into clean clothing, and make sure his luggage was loaded up.

It was midflight
when he noticed Scarlette texting on her phone. So he sent her one.

He watched as she read and typed out a text.

She hesitated, her head remaining bent, perhaps studying the screen while she made up her mind.

Bleep
. His phone vibrated.

LAX rapidly became a nightmare. The resident paparazzi who routinely staked out the arrival terminal descended on Scar. This drew the attention of everyone around, many who recognized her, and several who moved in with phone cameras, hoping to steal a piece of her soul for themselves.

Drawing on his past experience, he watched for openings and tried to herd her through. Their tour manager, bless him, rose to the occasion, doing his best to deflect. A perverse part of him hoped that in their wake, Rattler was having a much easier time—and hating it.

Airport security was fast, emerging from all corners. Gage maneuvered enough to step in front of her, guarding her as best he could from any clear photos, as they burst through the doors to the pick-up area. A scan of the waiting vehicles sent a jolt of panic through him when he didn’t see one of his. The day quickly got worse when Allison moved into his peripheral vision and pulled at his arm. “This way.”

A look at Scar found her mortified as she realized it was Allison, and he knew his face reflected that very emotion. Feeling the camera clicks, he stopped himself from reaching for Scar’s hand in the same way he’d seen Allison stay herself from body slamming him with an enthusiastic hug. Instead, he cocked his head to Scar. “This way.”

“No. I…” Her trembling hand emerged from the pocket of her slinky, body-molding cardigan with her cell phone. “I can call the car back.”

“No. You can’t. Look around you. You need to get the hell outta here.” He kept his voice low, ever aware of mics that could detect the slightest sound. “
Now
. Seriously. C’mon.”

The part of Allison he’d actually in some small way fallen for, rose to the severity of the circumstance. “Girlfriend! How was the trip?” Stretching her arm out, she grabbed at Scarlette’s rolling bag. “Let me get this for you.”

Scarlette was possibly too surprised by the ‘girlfriend’ act to hold on to her bag, and was forced to hustle along behind it or make a scene in front of the many camera eyes in trying to get it back.

Allison circled to the driver’s side of her Lexus and the locks released with a click. He opened the back door, and Scarlett, resigned to her fate, actually bolted in. Resolutely, he closed her away from any more pictures and tossed his carry-on onto the front floorboard. Since Scarlette was directly behind his seat, he didn’t ease it back and awkwardly straddled the bag between his feet. Allison stowed Scarlette’s luggage in the backseat with Scarlette from the other side, and less than a minute later, they were pulling away from the circus.

“Where’s Logan?” He voiced the question, but was already pulling out his phone and considering firing his longtime assistant over this lapse.

“What? No ‘thank you, Allison?’” Her retort was automatic, but she glanced from the road to him, and he saw understanding in her eyes. Seeing Scarlette had her realizing she’d overstepped the boundaries of their previous relationship.

“Thank you, Allison.” He wasn’t a total dick. “Now where’s the guy I pay to do the crappy stuff like come to LAX?”

“I missed you. Thought we could talk. When I texted Logan to see when you were getting in, well, it just turned into this. Me instead of him.” There was a hint of apology in her voice. “So, where to? To your house?”

Scarlette piped up from the back. “My exit is fifty-two. If you don’t mind.”

He wanted to overrule her, but he stayed quiet, wondering if Logan had picked them up, where they would have ended up. Her house. Or his?

When the car slowed to a stop in front of Scarlette’s duplex, he jumped out with the intention of assisting with her luggage and walking her to the door. Hell, the asshole part of him wanted to wave to Allison and say ‘thanks for the ride’ and then follow Scarlette in and bang her until they were both comatose.

“Thanks for the ride.” Scarlette broke into this fantasy when she yanked the handle of her bag from his hand and waved to Allison.

“Wait up, Scar. I’ll walk you up.”

“No! Stop. Please.”

“Scar…” He felt the desperation beneath the dangerous growl of her name in his throat when she turned away. “I’m going to see you safely inside.”

That caught her attention and she paused.

In spite of proving herself time and time again as one of the strongest persons, he knew, through scandal, the craziness of Tyler Conterra’s second decade death anniversary, the experiences she’d lived with because of her crazy mother, the out-of-her-element places she’d visited when tracking Ivy down, her first ever stage appearance being before thousands, when it came to Ketchum, she was extremely uneasy.

Right in keeping with his shitty luck, her live-in bodyguard chose that moment to make himself known. Bursting from the house, he descended from the porch. With a quick introduction to Scarlette, he explained he was the new assignee to her and offered his hand for her luggage.

“Nice to meet you, and thank you but I’ve got it.” In a rare breach of etiquette, Scarlette ignored the large man’s outstretched hand and held on to her bag.

Swinging back around, she eyed Gage while walking backward. “I know this,” her gaze narrowed when it landed on Allison several yards away in the car, “isn’t how we saw the tour ending. But we both know it’s how it should.”

“That’s really what you feel?” He could barely speak around his guts being ripped out by her—again. When she nodded, he returned the nod. “Then me too. Bye,
Sis
.”  

F
uck your Sis shit
. She screamed it in her head, but steeled the words from tumbling out. She couldn’t believe Allison had been presumptuous enough to show up to collect Gage at the airport. It brought to mind too many suppositions. Like possibly, he had continued to phone and text the other woman while on tour. Look at how Colt had strung along both Caroline and Ivy.
Damned fucking rock stars!
Turning away and climbing her porch steps was among a few of the hardest things she’d ever done. In fact, all of the hardest things she’d ever done had pertained to Gage.

The bodyguard held open the door for her and then after locking it, disappeared into his apartment. Mike had assured Gage her live-in bodyguard had been brought up to date on the newest developments in the Ketchum situation, but that didn’t stop the twinge of unease she felt.

Her luggage bumped up the stairs and her carry-on scraped against the wall. Doubts pelted, lightly at first, like the tiny flying insects drawn to the lights and hitting her skin while onstage the previous night. By the time she stood before her door, she had her keys in her hand, but she lingered a moment with a stupefied realization.

She’d just done to Gage what he’d done to her that day in the barn. Guilty by reason of suspicion, fears, and jealousy.

With a jab, she shoved the key into the lock and twisted. When it stuck, she cursed. Some things couldn’t wait on an old house that creaked, groaned, and swanked antique locks that stuck from non-use. Leaving the key hanging, she fished her phone from the pocket of her cardigan.

…The second message was never sent.

The door swung open. At first, she thought she’d tripped and had fallen against it, pushing it open. The loss of control feeling was similar, but the pressure on her neck, mashing at her windpipe, and cutting the airflow in half was not in any way relatable. On the ceiling, the old chandelier blurred in and out of focus and she’d never noticed that water spot near the corner. Her neck felt on the verge of snapping with the pressure, and her feet scrambled for leverage. Behind, her shoulders dug into the solid body of her unseen assailant, and she heard the slam of the door.

Her lips parted to scream and anticipating this, another hand closed over both her nose and mouth, completely cutting her breath off. Instinctively, she thrashed and her captor’s grip tightened. Black specks swam in her vision just below the crown molding and she jabbed with her elbows, hitting at the flesh behind her.

Don’t panic.

Self-defense classes.

Remember?

She wasn’t helpless.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, she put herself on the practice mat of the class instead of the Oriental rug behind her couch.

Use your weight to your advantage
.

Ceasing the struggle, she counted almost to three and went limp. It worked just as it had in class. The grip on her slipped. When she hit the floor, she rolled and kicked at the faded blue-jean shins in her vision. A howl of pain sounded and his—yes she knew it was a ‘he’ now from his voice—hairy arms came into view as he hunched and caught himself from a fall. Using her heels, she dug into the carpet, scrambling back until her back hit the fireplace screen. Yanking from the brass tools, she found herself brandishing the miniature broom and dustpan. Worn and scuffed leather shoes advanced toward her, and she hurled the broom and grabbed again, breathing easier when the poker was in her grip.