Page 15 of Protecting His Brat
“Okay, where should I meet you?”
Chapter Eight
Scott
I shouldn’t have let her go alone.
The churning in my gut confirms the thought. Damn Lacy, most stubborn woman on the planet. Stubborn, beautiful, smart, and generous in her own twisted way.
For some reason, the idea of her alone with this FBI agent puts me on the edge of punching a wall. Which I can’t do since my hands are insured for several million dollars, and my agent would shit a brick. Or at least, more than he already has considering the band and I decided to not renew our contract with the label we’d been with from the beginning.
Those conversations have been fun over the past few weeks. Especially since I had to find new ways to get out of the apartment to avoid Lacy overhearing the plans we’d been making for our next album.
Guilt gnawed in my stomach, the churning from before morphing into a nausea which quite literally steals the breath from my lungs. I’d been so close to coming clean before she received that call. But then, I’d been close a million times in the last month. Funny how fear of losing a little spitfire brat can make you freeze in your tracks. I can’t lose her. I can’t have her treating me differently.
No matter how I spin the justifications, the fact remains, I’ve long since passed the point of plausibility for why I’ve continued this charade about being a studio musician. She’s heard me play. Not the songs I’ve played with Malfeesance for the past two decades. New stuff. It’s stripped down, bare bones. Still rough and dark, but more in tone than theme. Lacy’s brought something out in me and my music I can’t explain.
Shaking myself from the thoughts, I refocus on the newest project. Lacy’s office. It’s the room next to the in-house studio I built. The walls are soundproof, so she won’t get disturbed while we’re playing. The huge desk along on the other side of the wall where I fucked her just a few days ago mocks me. So, does her favorite feature in the room: the gold wall. A whole wall sparkling gold, with the perfect lighting to do her videos and product images for her influencer posts. She tried to get me to do a photo with her to show it, and me, off on her Instagram. I had to say no. I would have been recognized.
The finishing touches will go in tomorrow, mostly furniture and some knickknacks I picked up along the way. My favorite is a metal cut out sign which says brat. I had it custom made by the guy who does our tour stage designs. It’s rustic and badass, but he used some chemical treatment on it to give it this shiny almost red gold hue. I have it hanging over her desk.
Just as I’m getting back to hanging more artwork, my cell rings from the kitchen where I left it. I spring to my feet and damn near break a land speed record trying to get the call before it drops to voicemail.
The name which flashes across the screen sends my stomach plummeting. Not Lacy. Geoff, my drummer. I punch the accept button, a little surprised the screen doesn’t crack from the force.
“What up fuck face?” Geoff’s bass voice damn near rattles the phone. Dude’s got enough testosterone coursing through his body to make the biggest, baddest, looking drummer on the planet. But really, he’s a twelve-year-old boy stuck in the body of a giant. “I know we said we were going to lay low for the time being, but there’s low, and then there’s falling off the face of the planet.”
“Well, we can’t all be frequenting strip clubs on a nightly basis, asshole.” I set down the hammer I was using to hang some pictures and pick up my guitar, making my way down the hall to the studio.
“Yes, we fucking can. And we should. It is our god given right as rock stars to look at naked tits as often is humanly possible.” Cymbals crash loudly in the background, signaling Geoff threw something at his drum set. Guy has no respect for his instruments. Half our tour budget went to replacing his kit every few weeks. “Man, you are a disgrace to metal. No tats. No more drinking and drugs. No strippers under your belt. Now, I hear you fucking cut your hair. I swear to god, if you start singing some Ed Sheeran shit, I’m going to cut your nuts off.”
It feels weird to laugh while also being on the edge of panic not knowing where Lacy is. But Geoff makes it damn near impossible to keep a straight face. I can’t look at him during shows, because I start cracking up right away.
“Actually, I’ve been working on something I’d like you to hear.” I prop my phone up on the console and switch over to Facetime. As soon as Geoff accepts the video call, I settle in with my guitar.
“Should I tell Vance you’re itching to take his spot as lead singer?” A shirtless Geoff appears, sprawled out on his couch, empty beer bottles everywhere.
“Nah, I’ll stick to being the musical genius of the group.” I can sing, but don’t have the right chords for metal. Can’t get the deep guttural thing going like Vance. Guy never speaks outside of a packed arena or bar. I think I’ve heard him say all of a dozen sentences the entire time we’ve played together. “I’m not sure where this song is going yet. So, don’t give me a hard time about it.”
The chords start out slow, less chaotic than I normally played. Then I start in on the lyrics. It’s a love song, but a dark one.
A siren calls my name.
Her skin, her smile, call me home.
Wrap me in her barbed-wire arms.
Cut me quick with a lick of her tongue.
Damn the fate, I’ll drown for just a taste.
Beauty is her weapon.
I keep singing through the half-formed verses. They all center on Lacy and how everything about her, good and bad, pull me closer. It might have been the most honest thing I’ve ever written.
When I finish, Geoff lets out a huge belch and throws his empty bottle onto a pile off screen. “Did you really write a fucking power ballad?”
“I know it isn’t our usual burn the world to the ground stuff, but it isn’t exactly Bed of Roses either.”
