Final Serenade (The Encore Book 1) Page 3

  “I could help out at an event.”

  “No. You can’t.” My palm slapped against the tabletop. I heard my fork rattling, but all of it—the clanking of the silverware, the frustrated gasps of my mother, my brother talking under his breath—was just background noise. “I busted my ass to get where I’m am. For years. I filled out more applications than you can imagine.” I stood up from my chair because anger was boiling in my blood. “Not once has anyone granted me anything because I was someone’s friend or a relative. I earned it. You need to earn it too. Levi and I aren’t going to give you any gigs until you understand what a work ethic is and how to do what we do. And for that, you need experience, and experience doesn’t come to those who sit in their room all day.”

  Blind rage washed over me. I knew what my mother was going to say next. This was the part where she always took Ashton’s side because, in her head, he’d suffered the most when our father bailed. He was the youngest and the sensitive one. I was the old, mean sister who blasted rock music all day in her room and worshiped Satan. Even when Ashton picked up a guitar and hit the black emo hair and crappy attitude phase, I was still the bad kid.

  “I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to let him go with you a couple of times.” Mom’s voice squeaked to my right.

  “Because he has no manners and because he doesn’t understand how to behave around the kind of people I work with.”

  An embarrassing memory blazed through my brain like a torch. Ashton was fourteen. He’d begged me to take him to The Deviant event Levi and I worked. After the show, we all ended up in the VIP area. A treat from Linda. Justice Cross was doing rounds and talking to guests when Ashton asked me to introduce him. We stood, facing each other, shook hands, and briefly exchanged a few words. The entire night was surreal. At that time, Justice Cross was the biggest name on the list of musicians I’d chatted with.

  My heart dropped to my stomach when I heard Ashton telling the internationally acclaimed singer I’d interviewed four hours ago that I had his poster up on my wall. And not just any poster. The kinky one. That’s what my brother called it. I felt humiliation of the worst kind. All the hard work I’d put into making sure rich, famous, arrogant men like Justice Cross took a music journalist my age seriously had been ruined in a matter of seconds.

  It stung, even after all this time, and I wasn’t going to risk seven years of labor that earned me my respect in the industry to humor my brother.

  There were some lines that didn’t blur. A very distinct one between them and us. And Ashton crossed that line the moment he tossed me into the fangirl zone.

  My appetite disappeared. “I’m not hungry.” I was on my way out, fed up, drained, and angry. What started as a promising day had ended in total disaster.

  Mind racing, I sat in my car with the music on. Heat burned in my chest as my finger skimmed over the contacts list on my phone. The realization that, despite knowing so many people, I had no real friends I could talk to hit me hard. Like a mallet. Of course, there was always Levi. And that was the number I called, but deep down, I was lonely. Lonelier than I’d ever been.

  Once I called him and unloaded my frustration, we fell into a short stretch of silence.

  “You want to know what I think?” Levi grunted.

  “Sure.” I fiddled with the volume control button to hear the music a little better. The song playing was from Hall Affinity’s last album, Chasing Memories.

  “Is that Frankie’s voice I’m hearing?” A chuckle.

  “I need a refresher on the back catalogue,” I deadpanned. “I’m going to rock that interview.” I didn’t feel like adding “if we get it,” because at that moment, I needed the universe to know what I really wanted. I needed the universe to hear me.

  “You will, Cass,” Levi assured. “You’re the fucking best. No one else knows how to take all these people apart without them even noticing it.”

  “Thanks. At least someone has faith in me.”

  “I have to. You’re my locomotive.”

  “So what was it that you were thinking?”

  “You need to get laid.”

  “Like my list of potential booty calls is very long.” There was no list, and that made me sad. I was a pretty, young woman who talked to and occasionally appeared on camera next to celebs, and I had no one to turn to for a round of mindless sex.

  “You’ve got a lot of anger, babe.” I heard a stifled laugh on the line.

  “Any other suggestions on how to let steam off?”

  “Get some ink?” Levi offered.

  I let the thought settle in my brain. Tats were my weakness. I’d wanted them as far back as I could remember but waited patiently until I turned eighteen and had enough money to see a good artist. My first one was a small rose on my left calf. My second one was on my wrist. The third one was slightly bigger and took up a good portion of my right shoulder. I never planned on having too many or getting full sleeves. I liked them sparse and delicate with plenty of skin in between, but the idea of a new tattoo was alluring.

  “You know what I think?” I said, glancing at the street. “I’m going to take your advice and go see my buddy Hank.”

  “Have fun. Use a condom.” Levi laughed.

  “Thank you for reminding me.” I laughed too, then ended the call.

  I stood at the counter and absently flipped through the portfolio of a new tattoo artist while the shop attendant scanned my ID and checked my paperwork.

  “When did Hank leave?” I was conflicted about letting someone I’d never met touch my skin.

  “Hmmm.” The attendant handed me my driver’s license back. “Let me see.” A line on his forehead deepened from concentration. “Six months ago at least.”

  “That’s a bummer. I wish I’d known.”

  “Jax is great.” The attendant leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “He was on a TV show last year. Guy’s got a huge following. You’re going to love his work.”

  Well, dip me in glue and sprinkle me with glitter.

  Frazzled, I nodded slowly. The TV show tidbit didn’t impress me as much as the attendant had been aiming for. I sat down with people who entertained stadiums and arenas for a living.

  I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror wall on the opposite side of the shop. That young woman looked nothing like the skinny girl with a pixie cut who’d come here seven years ago wearing platform boots and a band tee. I’d learned how to take care of myself. Physically, financially, spiritually. I’d figured out what clothes worked for my body type, what hair length and color complemented my features, what shadow made my eyes pop, and what gloss made my lips fuller. I tried to go to the gym at least three times a week because keeping in shape was crucial with the workload Levi and I handled. I liked what I saw. Cassy Evans, successful music journalist extraordinaire who had her shit together.

  Or did she?

  Because I couldn’t understand why I felt like a miserable blob of shit every single time after I saw my family.

  I also couldn’t care less if the new guy had tattooed the president himself. It was my skin and I was going to have his artwork along with his energy on me for the rest of my life, and I didn’t want any energy that wasn’t real or positive. I’d grown up with enough negativity to last me a lifetime.

  Hank was a sweetheart. He’d come highly recommended and had done all my work ever since the needle bit my calf for the first time. Letting some other artist touch me seemed like cheating, and I seriously considered leaving, but my common sense told me Hank wasn’t going to fly to L.A. from Miami for a session with me unless I could afford to hire a jet.

  “There’s a bit of a wait, so just make yourself comfortable,” the attendant explained, ushering me toward the lounge area.

  The soft leather couch dipped as I descended.

  “You already know what you want?” he asked.

  “Sort of.” I had no clue. “But I’d love to look at some more designs.” I smiled as he handed me
a few booklets.

  The soft hum of the background music and the distant buzzing of a machine started to lull me to sleep. I was beat and sleepy, but my mind still raced wildly after my confrontation with Ashton, and my ego hurt. Fighting a yawn, I peeked at my cell to note the time. It was nearly ten and I was the last client in the shop.

  “Hey there,” a warm male voice said as I yanked at the poly plastic page of the portfolio.

  My gaze skated toward the sound and I saw a full-sleeved arm extended to me.

  “You know”—a chuckle rumbled in his chest—“I can make you a copy.”

  I realized my fingers were pulling the plastic so hard, the page was about to fall off. “Sorry.” Blood rose to my cheeks. Depositing the booklets on the table next to the couch, I pushed myself to my feet and shook the artist’s hand. His grip was strong but welcoming.

  “Jax. How are you?” He flashed me a lighthearted smile that hardly matched his edgy appearance.

  “Cassy. I’m great. Thank you for asking.” I was lying. Getting a tat on a Wednesday night usually meant the opposite. All I knew was that I’d craved the experience a needle against my skin gave me each time I’d gotten more ink. It was therapeutic.

  Jax had a military-style buzz cut to show off the intricate artwork adorning his neck and shoulders. He wore an Ink Master T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and sneakers. His deep-set brown eyes ogled my existing tats as I settled in the chair at his workstation. He definitely was droolworthy. I could see why he had the big following.

  “So what are we doing today?” he questioned, organizing his tools.

  I took a deep breath and glanced up at the ceiling. “I’ll be honest with you. This was a rash decision, so I don’t know. But I’m open to suggestions.”

  Jax scanned me from head to toe, his gaze lasering through my light green summer cargo pants and my cotton top. My bra melted around my breasts. Levi was right. I didn’t need a new tat. I needed to get laid.

  “We can definitely come up with something neat that won’t scream rash decision.” Jax nodded, a glint in his eyes complementing his smile. “Do you know where you want it?” He looked over the length of my arms, inspecting.

  “I don’t want anything too obvious—” I stammered at the rise of his brow as soon as I realized I was talking to someone whose skin hardly had any areas that hadn’t been touched by the needle. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” He tilted his head and a playful smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Your skin is great. I wouldn’t cover it all if I were you.”

  “Are you sure you want the job?” I laughed at his selling skills.

  “Are you sure you want more ink?” Jax was challenging me and I loved it.

  “Just so you know, I like what you have going on.” I motioned at the swirls of black, red, and blue ink sweeping across his taut chest muscles that his loose sleeveless tank didn’t cover.

  We chatted while skimming through more designs. The attendant had already locked up for the day, and Jax and I were the only two people left at the shop. He pitched some interesting ideas, but nothing stuck out to me and I felt bad for not being able to make up my mind.

  The new Black Rain Coming single blasting from the speakers somewhere above ended and the intro riff of “Ambivalent” filled the room.

  “Can you show me the butterflies again?” I asked meekly, music rush hitting my every nerve. Even after all these years, Frankie’s voice still got to me. I took a moment to bathe in its deep, dark sweetness as I flipped through the plastic pages, this time knowing exactly what I was looking for. I missed everything Breathe Crimson signified—my last few weeks with my father before he left us. It was a voice of nostalgia, a voice of lost innocence.

  It was the album that got me through some very tough times. It was the album.

  “I’d love something like this on my shoulder blade,” I said, showing Jax a small butterfly design.

  “Great choice. This is the part where you strip for me.” He grinned.

  “Can I leave my panties on?” I went along with the joke.

  A burst of laughter cut through the music. “You’re dangerous, Cassy.”

  “So are you.”

  I wasn’t sure where our banter was going anymore. Something told me we were dancing a careless dance, but I enjoyed it. Jax had a peculiar sense of humor that I credited to his work on whatever TV show he’d been on. He also had a nice touch and I felt relaxed and safe under the needle once we began.

  I lay on the chair, listening to the playlist while Jax hummed along with the music. He had a decent voice. Not arena material, but he could carry a tune ten times better than I could.

  I was curious. “Do you play any instruments?”

  “I play guitar a little. Do you?”

  “No. I wish I did, though.”

  “How come you never tried?”

  I didn’t know how to explain that my alcoholic father had spent all our money on booze. We’d lived from paycheck to paycheck. I’d worn one pair of shoes through the entire sixth grade, which had pushed me to be overly creative with homemade footwear accessories because I didn’t want other kids to notice. An instrument would have been a luxury. Heck, my iPod was a luxury back then.

  “Never got around to it, I guess,” I muttered.

  “You okay?” Jax switched off the machine to check on me. “We can take a break if you want.”

  “I’m fine. Not my first rodeo.” I turned my head to face him and smiled. His eyes met mine and he did the same.

  “I can put on something else. What do you want to listen to?”

  “Hall Affinity.” It was a reflex. I was obsessed with finding something new in the lyrics, something I’d failed to hear before. I wanted to learn everything there was to know about Frankie Blade so I could pick his brain apart.

  “You got it.” Jax set the machine aside and wiped down my shoulder blade. “Which album is your favorite?” My new tattoo artist was considerate and my disdain over Hank’s absence had subsided.

  “Breathe Crimson. Yours?”

  “I like Breathe Crimson too.” He took off his gloves and pulled up a Hall Affinity playlist on his phone. “You a fan?”

  “I am. How about you?”

  “I like them. I’m actually looking forward to hearing their new music. I hope they didn’t lose their spark. My baby sister used to spin them for days back in high school.” A corner of his mouth curved as he shook his head slightly. “You ever see them live?”

  “A few times. My girlfriend won a pair of floor tickets from iHeartRadio right before Frankie’s accident. We were in the front. I had so many bruises after. You have no idea.”

  “You really know how to throw it down, Cassy.” His gaze locked on mine for a brief moment and we exchanged invisible smiles. He was light, like a feather, and I enjoyed talking to him. “Was that soon after they got inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame? 2012?”

  “You have a great memory for someone who just likes the band.”

  Jax tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “There’s a lot of information stored here that’s absolutely useless unless you meet a fan of the band.”

  “Show off.”

  “Wanted to impress the lady.”

  I caught a flash of interest in his eyes. My stomach fluttered involuntarily. It was the weirdest thing ever because I’d never flirted with my tattoo artist before, but then again, Hank was pushing fifty and had a girlfriend. Flirting in general wasn’t my strong suit. I just had a big mouth and said stuff that men apparently found attractive. Half of those men also wanted to go out with me in exchange for concert tickets and backstage passes.

  “Are you ready to keep going?” Jax asked, retrieving a fresh pair of gloves from the box next to his tools.

  “Sure.” I shifted in the chair and made myself comfortable.

  We chatted some more, mainly about music. By the time he finished, it was well past midnight.

  “What do you think?” Jax
was cleaning his area and I stood in front of the wall mirror in my bra and cargo pants with my neck twisted and staring at my new tattoo. Even through the plastic, I could tell the butterfly was exquisitely detailed. My skin beneath the ink stung pleasantly.

  “I love it. Thank you.” I adjusted the strap of my bra to ensure it didn’t touch the tat and slipped my top on.

  We moved to the counter with the credit card machine and Jax gave me the total.

  I handed him my Visa. “I’m sorry I held you up.”

  “It’s not a big deal. We get a lot of late-night clients. Hazard of the job.”

  I signed the copy of the receipt he gave me along with my card, then returned it to him. “I can understand why.”

  “You know how to take care of it, right?” Jax grabbed a small brochure from the plastic holder and topped it off with the customer copy of the receipt and his business card, which had something written on it. “Feel free to call me if you have any questions.”

  He walked me to the door and watched me get in my car. I slid behind the wheel and glanced at the stack of papers in my hand, curious what his business card said.

  When I pulled it out and saw Cell and a phone number scribbled on it, a rush of excitement rolled through my stomach.

  Chapter Two

  The interview confirmation came the morning of the fundraiser.

  Waiting for it was like waiting for hell to freeze over. Jay Brodie PR hadn’t returned either one of our follow-up emails. Linda’s response to my text had been a very dry, haven’t heard back yet from management. She’d even refrained from using emojis, which was so unlike her and could only mean one thing. There was a lot going on behind closed doors and mere mortals weren’t privy to the info.

  Meanwhile, more photos of Frankie Blade flooded the net. He’d been spotted in Beverly Hills a few times in the company of his bodyguards and his bandmates. Rolling Stone had teased the public with a Hall Affinity exclusive in their upcoming issue. Frankie’s ex-wife had spoken to Cosmopolitan about her short-lived marriage to the golden boy of hard rock. The entire planet was holding their breath. The man had returned from the dead. The question was, had his voice returned with him?