Page 93 of Fame And Secrets

“Make me feel it.”

No one twisted my soul like Phoebe. Nobody ever had and I knew nobody ever would. I cradled her face in my hands and kissed each cheek. “Tell me what you need.”

“Just love me.”

We’d spent the last few days arguing and fighting hard.

But that night we made love slow.

***

My life spun into reverse. Just like the months I spent in a push and pull with Phoebe—finding her, having her, losing her, winning her, pushing her away—the cycle rewound itself and pressed play.

Two days after our night together, Kristina booked us a two-week gig in mid-fuck America. The shit hit the fan with us, and I spent the rest of my time in LA making it up to her.

We’d only spoken once since I’d left. The last place I wanted to be was on a goddamn tour bus with my brother and friends. They weren’t the family I needed.

Although Phoebe and I made up over the phone, things were strained. Now that all our cards were on the table, our only release seemed to be taking our anxiety out on each other’s bodies. After that initial time, the remaining days with Phoebe resumed as usual—exhilarating and exhausting.

My wife.

The words lingered on my tongue like they didn’t belong there. Since the local paparazzi broke the news of our marriage, word spread like a disease. Every tabloid worth its gossip ran a story. If Jaxon Hough didn’t get his ass to Los Angeles soon, I didn’t know how long I could protect her on my own. I had the money to provide the best security technology allowed, but for a man like Daniel Dalton, security seemed to be an annoyance he barged through as he pleased.

I’d waited a lifetime to be a rock star. I held it in my hands for the taking. We were becoming the biggest hard rock band in the world. But I had a family now. And I’d be damned if I’d lose them to that motherfucker.

The thought dominated my head as I belted out lyrics and drew in a deep breath for the howl Ryker thought sounded cool at the end of our newest song. I had to hand it to him—as green as he was—the kid had an ear for what would drive the crowd wild. I hit the note, held it, and they lost their goddamn minds. As usual, panties, keys, and notes started flying on stage. I side-stepped quickly, dodging thongs and bras like I was at a strip club.

I welcomed the distraction. I wanted it. Anything for just a moment of normalcy. For a split second, I was Julian Bale, rock star of Lords of Lyre…cheered by thousands. I allowed myself a reprieve and closed my eyes to soak it all in.

Then it hit the top of my toe.

Soft. Purposeful.

I didn’t want to open my eyes, but I had to. I knew what I’d find before the light chased away the darkness behind my lids. The turning of my stomach told me all I needed to know.

I gripped the mic stand with force and glanced down. Resting on the top of my black boot was a brown teddy bear the size of half of my arm. All the fur had been worn off to a threadbare finish. One eye was missing, and a tongue that once stuck out was gone, only to be left with a crooked, crude wire.

But that wasn’t what almost made me puke on stage. The bear had been dressed in a white newborn onesie. Pink cursive lettering across the front spelled out the message clearly.

Little Princess.

I shielded my eyes and frantically scanned the crowd. “Where are you, motherfucker?” The words echoed into the microphone, and the crowd cheered as if I’d called out to them.

Nothing.

I’d seen pictures. He looked nothing like Phoebe, except for his eyes. I had no idea what he looked like now, but in the picture Hough showed me, he looked like he’d spent a few nights under an overpass in need of a coat and a shave.

But his eyes couldn’t lie. Unlike Phoebe’s, they were cold. Evil. Dead.

“Yo, Jag.” Zane nudged my shoulder with the headstock of his guitar. Jolted out of my thoughts, I realized I’d stood silent on stage. The crowd had grown quiet, staring at me in a mix of confusion and wonder. Without missing a beat, Zane kicked the bear behind us. I watched it glide across the stage and wedge beneath Ty’s snare drum stand.

With all eyes on me, Zane launched into the next song, and I pushed everything downward, determined to finish the set.

Just finish the set.

Afterward, I could lose it.

Strumming chords released some of the anger resting underneath the surface of my skin. I punished the strings of the guitar, abusing them without giving a shit. Each rehearsed song met the same stone cold expression. I coiled my hand around the microphone stand and drew the last note of the song to a quiet hum. Zane’s eyes shifted toward me, and I kept my eyes on him, praying for the end of the set. I’d begged him before we’d gone on stage to end after Hell to You. I could only take so much.