Outsider (41 page)

“We
were considering sending up a search party to find you,” Butch said.

“Until
Toni told us she thought you were having . . .” Steve covered
his mouth with a bashful hand and whispered in a very good impression of Toni,
“. . . 
sex
.”

“They
were obviously having . . .” Logan copied Steve’s teasing motion
and whispered, “. . . 
sex
.” Which earned him a slap on
the arm from the subject of their teasing. Toni was so flushed, Reagan wondered
if she might get heatstroke from embarrassment.

“I
found Trey naked in my bed,” Reagan said with a shrug. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“So
you’re riding with us today?” Dare asked his brother.

“If
I’m allowed,” Trey said, glancing at Butch, guardian of the clipboard, for
approval.

“I
guess it’s okay, as long as you don’t have . . .” He covered his
mouth with one hand and whispered, “. . . 
sex
.”

“Not
you too,” Toni squeaked in outrage, taking a swing at Butch, but slapping his
clipboard instead of his laughing, mustached face.

Logan
wrapped her in his arms and kissed her hair. “We’re just teasing, baby.”

“I
know you’re teasing,” she said, “but why do you always have to tease
me
?”

“Because
it’s fun,” Steve said. He followed Max toward the exit. Teasing was beneath Max.
At least Reagan assumed that was why he was always so serious. Trey tugged at
her hand and propelled her toward their ride, another limo.

“We
aren’t taking the bus?” Reagan asked.

“It’s
parked outside the city,” Butch said. “Doesn’t do well in New York City
traffic. The car will drop us off at our rendezvous point after the radio
segment.”

“You
mean I could have slept in?” Trey asked.

She
squeezed his hand, sorry—but not really—that she’d all but forced him to come
with her.

Reagan’s
guitar and bag were shoved into an already full truck, and they headed toward
the radio studio.

“I
figured the goth hookers would be riding with us,” Steve said.

Reagan
kicked him. “Don’t be horrible to them, Steve. None of this is their fault.”

“They
look cool,” Toni said. “I want to interview them for the book.”

“They
are absolutely not going to be part of our biography,” Steve said.

“Then
maybe I’ll write a book about them and leave you out of it.” Toni stuck her
tongue out at him.

Steve
shrugged. “Not much of a threat there.”

“Did
you bring the tabloid, Toni?” Reagan asked. “I want to read it.”

“Butch
made me put it in the trunk,” Toni said.

“You
have no business getting all upset before you’re on air,” Butch said.

Reagan
scowled at him. She was sick of people thinking they knew what was best for
her. Even if they were right.

The
radio station had put out quite a spread of breakfast items for them to eat
while they waited to go on the air. All the station’s DJs, including those with
the day off, made an appearance. Even though they’d all met hundreds of famous
musicians throughout their careers, they still gushed all over the members of
Exodus End. They were nice to Reagan and Trey as well, but it was obvious who
was idolized. Steve was having a grand time flirting with a thirty-something radio
host when Baroquen arrived. Sam was with them, so Reagan couldn’t tell if the
sudden iciness coming from Steve’s direction was directed at their manager or
the sexy group of women who headed for the buffet table. Max turned away from
the women as well, but Logan launched himself directly into their midst,
recounting the fun they’d had the night before.

“He
partied with
them
last night?” Toni asked Reagan, clutching the waist of
her newly tailored red top. Fitted at the waist, it hinted at just enough
cleavage to make her look sexy but not tawdry. Aggie had done a great job
helping Toni create a more suitable wardrobe.

“Yep,”
Reagan said. And she’d been so busy dancing the night away with Trey that she
couldn’t guarantee that Logan had behaved himself the entire time. Women
naturally flocked to him because he was gorgeous and friendly and a hell of a
lot of fun. But he loved Toni. Reagan didn’t doubt that. “Go over there and
claim your man.”

Toni
shifted her gaze to the floor. “I don’t want to get in his way. He’s working.”

“If
you don’t make it clear that he’s yours, someone will try to take him from
you.”

“I
trust him.”

“And
you should, but do you trust
them
?”

“I
don’t know them.”

Reagan
gave Toni a little shove. “Go over there and kiss him or something. He’s
yours.”

Toni
tugged at the hem of her shirt, straightened her shoulders, showing her
impressive bosom to full advantage, and stalked over to the buffet table.
Reagan had been so wrapped up in Toni’s problem—if the meek were to inherit the
earth, Toni was sure to get a fair portion of it—she’d failed to notice that
two members of Baroquen were getting a bit too close to Trey for her liking.
Reagan wasn’t the least bit shy about claiming what was hers. She slid up
against Trey’s side and settled her left hand on his chest, making sure the new
diamond on her finger was in plain view.

Trey
kissed her hair while Reagan boldly met the gazes of the two predators stalking
him. Or at least that was what she’d thought they’d been doing until Azura
said, “Congratulations on your engagement. We saw it on the news this morning.
Why didn’t you mention it to us last night?”

Reagan
smiled, her defenses shattered to dust. She really did want to like these
women. It was nice to have other female musicians among them. And as long as
they kept their distance from her man—men, when Ethan returned—then they’d get
along fine. “I don’t like to talk about myself,” Reagan said. “But thank you.”

“Are
you really getting married next month?” Sage asked. “That’s so quick. I’m
terrified of marriage.”

“You
won’t be when you find the right person,” Reagan said.
Or persons.
Thinking about Ethan pulled at a place inside her heart reserved specifically
for him.

“Reagan,”
Butch called, “time to head to the studio.”

Reagan
shifted so she could see past the green-and-black-haired guitarist smiling goofily
at her. The members of Exodus End and their entourage of disc jockeys had
already left the room. She brushed a kiss across Trey’s cheek and moved away
from his side.

“You’re
sure you’re okay with introducing us to Master Sinclair,” Azura asked Trey as
Reagan hurried toward the door.

Reagan
smiled to herself. She remembered when she’d met Trey and how excited she’d
been at the prospect of meeting Sinners’ lead guitarist. She supposed she
wasn’t the only guitarist with a colossal crush on that man’s talented fingers.

An
acoustic guitar was placed in Reagan’s hands the moment she entered the studio.
Except for messing around, she’d never really played Exodus End’s songs on
acoustic. The technique for playing an electric guitar was entirely different.
Reagan’s stomach sank as she realized she was about to make a complete fool of
herself before an audience bigger than she’d ever played in front of before. At
least she didn’t have to look at them cringing in their cars and homes and
offices as she butchered their favorite tunes.

“Um,
what are we playing?” Reagan asked Max.

“Same
thing we always play acoustically.”

“Which
would be?” Reagan asked.

Max
stared at her, his green-and-gold-flecked hazel eyes unreadable. “You’ve never
played ‘Bite’ on acoustic, have you?”

“Bite”?
On acoustic. How in the hell did anyone play that fast riff on an acoustic
guitar? Reagan shook her head, playing the string of music through her head and
staring hopelessly down at the guitar in her hands.

Max
grabbed Butch’s arm. “She’s never rehearsed this.”

Butch’s
mustache twitched as he studied his clipboard, as if by staring at it, it would
magically say Reagan learns to play “Bite” on acoustic guitar. “Shit,” he said.
“Do you think you can wing it, sweetheart?” he asked Reagan.

Hell
no, but she nodded. “I’ll try.”

“I
can play acoustic,” Max said.

“You’re
supposed to rest your wrist,” Butch reminded him. “We don’t want another
setback.”

“I
can play acoustic,” Max insisted.

Reagan
handed the guitar to Max, who took it eagerly—Reagan had never seen Max eager
about anything before—and flipped the strap over his head. Her breath caught.
She’d been seeing him as only a vocalist for so long that she’d forgotten how
perfect and natural the man looked with a guitar settled against his pelvis.

“I’m
not needed at all,” Reagan asked. “Am I?”

Which
to some extent was a relief. She wouldn’t have to answer awkward questions the
hosts cooked up. To a greater extent, however, it was a concern. If Max could
play, she was out of a job.

“Let
me ask Sam,” Butch said, already pushing his way out of the overcrowded room to
find the boss.

Max
squeezed Reagan’s shoulder. “I’ll teach you to play it on the way to Atlanta,”
he said.

That
was great if she ever had to play an acoustic version of the song in the
future, but it didn’t help her now. She did recognize that Max was generous to
offer the help, however, so she smiled her thanks.

“Sam
says you’re to sit in on the interview,” Butch told her when he came hurrying
back.

So
she didn’t get to participate in the part she enjoyed—the music—but was forced
to endure the part she hated—the scrutinizing questions. Wasn’t that just
wonderful? She perched herself on the last stool and watched as the microphone
that had been arranged at crotch level to pick up the sound of her guitar was
moved in front of Max. She was happy for him, glad that he got to pick up his
favorite instrument and play for his fans. He deserved that. He needed that.
But it wasn’t exactly good news for her.

Still,
Reagan refused to sulk. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths,
recalling how it had felt to be onstage at Madison fucking Square Garden the
night before, playing before thousands of amped-up fans who had cheered for her
as much as anyone in the band. But was that true? Wouldn’t they have cheered
even louder if Max had played for them?

Reagan
sat up straighter as they went on the air and the disk jockey spoke into his
microphone.

“I’m
Jack Bryant and we have Exodus End in the studio with us today, with the added
treat of Maximillian Richardson playing guitar for the first time since his
botched carpel tunnel surgery earlier this year. You are suing the hell out of
that doctor, aren’t you?”

“My
lawyer is on it,” Max said with a bitter smile.

“That
hack owes restitution to every last one of your fans,” Jack said. “When do you
think you’ll get back to playing regularly?”

“Soon,”
Max said.

“He
can play acoustic,” Steve said. “I guess we could do all our shows that way.”

“Or
not,” Dare said, his nose crinkled in displeasure.

“Give
him more time to heal,” Logan said. “We’ve got Reagan until then.” He reached
over and slapped her on the back, nearly unseating her from her stool.

Reagan
smiled at him, glad he’d remembered she existed.

“Will
you have more corrective surgery?” Jack asked Max. “With a better doctor?”

Max
pressed his left hand into his chest, shielding it with his right. “I’d rather
not go under the knife again if I can avoid it.”

“Understandable.
Hey, isn’t your father a famous surgeon, Dare?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,”
Dare said with a chuckle. “He could give Max an awesome boob job.”

“I’d
pay to see that,” Steve said.

“I’d
pay
not
to see that,” Jack said. “So what are you going to play for us
today?”

“Bite,”
Max said.

The
four members of the band exchanged some sort of subliminal signal and began to
play. Steve was going at a wood block as if he had a full set of drums at his
disposal. The sounds coming from the three guitars lined up beside her brought
goose bumps to Reagan’s skin. And while they delighted her ears with a sound so
pure and perfect that she held her breath, she couldn’t take her eyes off Max. The
care he showed his instrument—the love—was apparent in every strum. It was as if
he’d just been reunited with the love of his life and they were making love for
the first time in ages. His voice was as rich and deep as ever, and it was
obvious that he was an exceptional singer, but he didn’t love singing with the
same intensity he loved to play. Anyone with eyes could see that.

Reagan
would never replace Max in Exodus End. She didn’t want to. Not after seeing—
feeling
—how
much Max had lost when he’d given up his guitar. His image blurred out of focus
as her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t belong there. Max belonged. She would
never be a true part of this greatness. It wasn’t hers to own.