Page 84 of The Broken Note

Thinking quickly, I put my cell phone on record and set it under my thigh.

“Your name is Lucien?” I strike up a casual conversation.

Beady black eyes flash in the rearview mirror.

I force a smile. “How long have you been working for Mr. Cross?”

There’s a long period of silence.

I think he’s not going to answer, but he eventually says, “About five years.”

“Really? The way you two interact, I thought you’d been working with him since the beginning of his career.”

Lucien’s mouth falls into a thin line.

I clear my throat. “Where are you taking me?”

Still nothing.

“What does Mr. Cross want me to do?”

Still nothing.

My heart slams against my ribs. I dig my fingernails into the phone, wondering what I should do next.

Something doesn’t feel right.

This man. This ride. The rockstar’s request.

“You don’t need to record this,” Lucien says, his voice crisp and dry. “Mr. Cross wouldn’t hurt you.” His eyes flash on me again. “Not as long as you cooperate.”

My nostrils flare. Does he realize how he sounds? Maybe in Lucien’s head, that was meant to comfort me, but all I heard was ‘Mr. Cross will hurt you if you DON’T cooperate’.

I lick my lips and turn off the recording. He’s made his point. There is no way to escape these circumstances. All I can do is trust that I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.

Lucien returns his cold eyes to the street.

The rest of the drive happens in stifling silence.

Finally, he pulls the car into a giant arena. There are paparazzi out front, but none of them are back here.

The car engine dies.

Lucien opens my door for me like I’m someone important.

I glance up at his face.

He stares at me, a cruel glint in his eyes. It reminds me of that kid in kindergarten who used to put ants into puddles just to watch them drown.

“That way.” He points, flashing a cuff link with a tiger symbol on it. “He’s waiting up there.”

I stumble past him, glad to be away from his strangely unsettling presence.

The stairs leading to the stage are big and wooden. My sneakers thump on them loudly, but the sound is swallowed up by the massive cacophony above. Giant cranes are swooping across the stage. Men in T-shirts with the label ‘CREW’ on the back, hustle in desperation.

In the circle of the chaos, calm and sinisterly beautiful, is Jarod Cross. He’s got a guitar strung over his long, lean body. Tattoos grace his chest and most of his arms, which are on display thanks to his black wife beater. The lights all point to him, bathing his face in white and mystery.

He turns his head to the side and I can see Dutch. The way they hold their guitars with careless grace, the way they both stand in the middle of the spotlight without fear, it’s alluring in a strange and sinful way.

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