Wild Child (Rock Royalty #6) (23 page)

“About twenty minutes,” her mother answered. Her facial muscles barely moved, which made it always difficult to gauge her mood. “Long enough to see you dancing on a billiards table. Miss Adele, your teacher at your old ballet studio, would be so proud.”

Ouch. A headache began pounding at the base of Ash’s skull. An early hangover, she supposed.

Or a harbinger of more pain to come.

Chapter 12

The next day, Brody drove toward Topanga, Mad Dog Maddox on his mind. The man could be called a lot of things. Philanderer and lousy father for sure, but he’d always had plenty of balls to spare—or perhaps he was merely a sociopath… It was hard to know. Still, no matter what shit the man had been caught with, whether it be with someone else’s wife or something illegal in his suitcase, he never apologized and he never backed down.

Brody had taken a lesson from his dad when faced with Ash’s mother and her husband the night before. Though they’d apparently witnessed the PDL—public display of lust—on the dance floor, Brody had kept his expression cool and his arm around Ash.

He’d come to the conclusion that a hands-on approach was his best course of action with the woman he loved. At turns she was both skittish and reckless and while he didn’t want to rein in her spirit he worried that she was running away from all she didn’t want to face.

Which just might include his feelings for her.

I never really thought you were a decent bet. You being Mad Dog’s son and all.

Hell. He shoved Rachel’s judgement out of his head, parked near Ash’s house, and took the fanciful footbridge over the creek. The cheerful burble had turned to a louder grumble, he realized, noting how much the water had risen in the past few days. Good thing the sun shone from a blue sky this afternoon. They needed a break from the rain.

He knocked on the front door and wasn’t surprised she didn’t answer instantly. He was early. With some deft maneuvering he’d managed to invite himself along to the lunch she’d scheduled with her mother and stepfather. Phillip Lexington didn’t seem so bad—if a little starched—but his wife could chill an August afternoon.

Brody decided he’d be Ash’s back-up.

A tiny “mew” had him looking around. Catching sight of the little cat, he hunkered down, once again allowing it to come to him. On delicate feet, it approached, its body tense.

But then the creature was all up in his business, rubbing against his knees and his clasped hands. He dared to stroke the animal’s spine and it arched into his touch, purring in appreciation. After a few moments, he slid a hand beneath the cat’s belly and stood, holding it close to his chest.

Not even a protest. Not a hint of claw.

The door to the house swung open and Ashlynn stood in its frame, staring at the sight of the cat in his arms. Her jaw dropped.

He felt his do the same. Because the Ash of Satan’s Roadhouse had transformed. Instead of her usual tight jeans or short skirts, she wore a loose pair of wool slacks in an oyster color. No low-cut top, but instead a loose-fitting sweater of the same off-white color that only hugged her hips. Her fingers were free of rings and her wrists went without bracelets. There were no spangles anywhere, nothing shiny at all, except a small pair of gold hoop rings at her ears.

“Christ,” he said. “Tell me you didn’t cut your hair.”

“No,” she said, touching the back of her head where she’d presumably bundled the mass into a sleek, smooth knot. “You’re holding the cat.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, then took a quick assessment. “I’m holding her.”

Ash reached out a tentative hand, then let it fall. “I don’t want to scare her.”

“Try,” he said, stepping forward.

As she pet the cat, he stole a quick kiss. “You need to come up with a name for her.”

Ash’s eyes widened. “You think?”

“You got a cat, she’s got to have a name.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ash said, then stepped out, tucking a small purse beneath her arm.

“You’ll think about a name or about actual pet ownership?”

“Both,” she said and started down the steps. “We should take my car.”

He glanced at it, sitting beside his, and noted the sedan was newly washed and gleaming like a pearl. There was mud caked in his wheel rims and more of it splattered on the license plate.

“Yours is going to get as dirty as mine taking the road out of here,” he warned.

“I want them to see I can take care of my car just as well as I can take care of myself.”

With a shrug, he set the cat on the porch and followed Ash to the Mercedes. He had no problem riding shotgun.

But that wasn’t to be when her car wouldn’t start. She tried a second time, then a third before Brody put his hand over hers. “It’s dead, sweetheart.”

She slammed her palms on the steering wheel. “How can it be dead?”

He blinked at her vehemence. “A number of ways. It’s no big deal. Pop the hood and I’ll—”

“There’s no time to diagnose it now,” she said, reaching for her handle. “We’ll have to go in your SUV.”

“It might only take a second.”

“We can’t be late.” She climbed out of the car, then bent to look at him still inside. “Come on.”

“You could call them, explain—”

“
We can’t be late
.”

Brody’s brows shot up but he didn’t argue further. Soon enough they were on their way, with Ash muttering to herself and checking the time on the dash about every thirty seconds. “It’s going to be fine,” he assured her, but that didn’t stop her fingers entwining tight enough to go white-knuckled.

They made it to the restaurant in Beverly Hills with time to spare. Though Ash stood outwardly composed as they waited to meet her parents, her inner turmoil was apparent in the tense expression on her face.

“Are you okay?” he asked, touching her arm.

But before she could answer, the other couple joined them. There was an exchange of polite pleasantries as they entered the restaurant. It had wide windows, was brightly lit and decorated in shades of white, all the better to showcase the celebrity patrons who had made the place famous. In true L.A. fashion, as they were shown to their place he made sure not to glance at the other guests—not that he would have shown any sign of recognition if he happened to see a familiar person.

Unless it was a relative or a client, it was considered gauche by SoCal standards to have any reaction whatsoever to a famous face in a fancy establishment like this one.

They took seats at a table covered in a starched cloth. Brody caught Carol Lexington eyeing him like she worried he might put his napkin on his head and eat with his fingers.

Ash must have caught the look too, because her voice took on an edge. “Brody is a successful builder, by the way.”

“He owns his own business?”

“Yes.” Ash now spoke to her opened menu.

“Well,” Carol said. “That’s nice to know. We didn’t get to learn much about your…friend last night.”

Except for the fact that Ash wanted him to “fu” her, he thought, biting back a smile. Unfortunately for him though, the Lexingtons’ surprise visit had dampened Ash’s mood and he’d gone home alone, at her request.

Now he thought that might have been a mistake, because he sensed he’d lost some ground with Ash. Or maybe it was just the influence of her parents that made her seem so distant.

It was as if she’d taken herself a million miles away from him…and everyone else in the restaurant, with her straight-backed posture, her pristine clothes, her face carved from marble.

He missed his Ash, who was always a little tattered…and infinitely more touchable.

They ordered, the food arrived.

But a more relaxed atmosphere around the table did not appear with the glasses of iced tea or the plates of food. Ash and her mother had chosen the same, grilled swordfish and steamed vegetables, hold the garlic mashed potatoes. Philip Lexington had selected steak and all the trimmings. Brody thought he struck a nice medium with sea bass and zucchini coins sautéed in olive oil. And yes to the mashed potatoes, thank you very much.

Maybe a carb coma would make this uncomfortable meal easier to bear.

“So did it bring back memories, Mother?” Ash ventured, two bites in. “Visiting Satan’s last night?”

“I haven’t forgotten an inch of that place,” she replied, her expression unchanging.

It was eerie, that.

“You could come by the house too, if you’d like.”

Her mother looked over her plate at her daughter. “I thought you said you were staying in some…trailer closer to the roadhouse.”

“That’s been moved off.” Ash didn’t say a word about the vandalism. And it was he who had arranged with Payne—who operated salvage yards—to haul away the ruined mobile home for scrap. Ash had been grateful, even though the Sheriff’s Department hadn’t a lead on the perpetrators.

“I’m staying now at the old homestead,” Ash said, her voice cheerful, though her face expressed anything but. “Maybe you’d like to see the changes there. Brae took out some walls and added a pellet stove. It’s very cozy.”

“I’m sure,” Carol Lexington said in a vague, noncommittal tone. “Your sister was very creative.”

Ash rubbed her left wrist with her right hand as if she missed the bracelets she usually wore there, beaded and feathered and leather wrappings that Brody realized now must have been her twin’s.
Oh, Ash.

“But I won’t have time to stop by,” Carol continued.

“No? I thought you might be here a while.” Instead of seeming relieved at this answer, Ash appeared to go even more brittle. “Day after tomorrow is my birthday.”

Huh? Shit, so much was coming together for him now. He’d seen the flyer about the celebration of life. Several of them had been passed around the bar.
It was scheduled for Ash and Brae’s birthday.
It was either a brilliant idea or totally botched.

“And I told you I’d arranged for a party,” her mother said, apparently unperturbed. “At our home in Saratoga. The invitations are already out so we’ll have to go on without the guest of honor.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be back.” Ash stared at her mother. “I told you I’d decided to run the roadhouse permanently. But you went ahead and planned a party anyway?”

“Apparently.” Her mother shrugged.

Ash blinked, then blinked again. “It was to be a celebration of my failure,” she whispered, as if that truth was dawning. “An event to commemorate the fact that I couldn’t make a go of the family business. That…that
hurts
.”

“Pfft.” Her mother dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “Don’t be so excitable. Get control of yourself.”

Ash leaned close. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have feelings?”

“That was your sister.” Carol’s gaze was on her plate as she forked up another bite of fish. “You remember. Always too loud, always going on about her feelings.”

“And I shouldn’t be like her? Like my twin?”

“No,” Carol said, putting down her fork. “Maybe you should not. Your father and your sister cared only about themselves. That’s what—whom—they had strong feelings for. You, on the other hand, have done good, valuable work for others. Work, I might add, that doesn’t include serving beer and bad food.”

“Mother—”

“Do you really want to go to that seedy place night after night and fraternize with bikers and hikers and…” she flicked glance at Brody, “Builders?”

If there weren’t so many knives flying through the air he might have laughed. What a bitch.

“The charity you head, the life up north, it suits you, Ashlynn,” her mother continued. “That’s why I brought you with me when you were ten years old.”

Her daughter’s lower lip trembled for a moment, before she controlled the quiver. “What about Brae?”

Carol’s expression went from cold to frigid. “Your sister made her choices. And she never chose me—or you for that matter. Nor did your father. Has that crossed your mind? Did you think about that when you decided you wanted to continue with his business?”

Okay, Brody was done with this. Finished. He rose.

But Ash still had something left to impart. “You should know there’s going to be a celebration of life for them at Satan’s on Wednesday night.”

“I’ll be back at my home.”

For the first time, Phillip joined the fray. “Carol, we can change our flight—”

“We can’t change anything,” his wife said, her voice as firm as granite. “Not who we are, not where that takes us, not the consequences of our unwise decisions.”

Ash didn’t protest when Brody pulled her out of her chair. He reached for his wallet, but Phillip met his gaze and gave him a sharp shake of his head. Yeah. Fine. Instead of prolonging the disaster with a tussle over the bill, he hustled Ash out of the restaurant, handing over a lavish tip to the valet for double-timing to retrieve his car.

The trip back to Topanga was silent. He let her have her space for the drive. God knew he had plenty on his mind. Then they were back, in the gravel parking area beside her house. As he braked, clouds covered the sun, adding to the dismal mood.

He glanced over at Ash, who looked so much like a stranger in her snowy wool and bound hair.
Oh, my love
. “What are you thinking?”

Her eyes remained focused through the windshield and fixed on the quirky house.
This was the only place that ever felt like home
, she’d shared with him once.

“I’m thinking,” Ash said slowly, “that my mom might be right. It might be best if I go back to where I belong.”

Hell.
Brody scrubbed his face with his hands, then looked back at the house. The little cat had curled itself on the front mat, as if waiting for an invitation to come inside. Perhaps the creature had dropped her defenses.

But not his Ash. He’d—finally—had a chance to assess the depth and breadth of the enemy, and it only left him with a bad, bad feeling in the pit of his belly.

Ash climbed out of the car, then took the footbridge to the house, aware of Brody following. Polite, Saratoga Ashlynn would have thought to vocalize an invitation right away—after all, he’d not even had a chance to finish lunch. She glanced at him over her shoulder as she climbed the porch steps. “Hungry?”