Love Song Read online

His hand shot across the table, and I thought he was going to take the phone. Instead, he wrapped his hand around mine. My heart slammed against my chest cavity when he leveled a look at me. It wasn’t anger. It was confusion. It was concern. It was stunning. I closed my eyes, etching that beautiful face into my soul.

  “What the fuck, Beanpole? What’s going on?”

  My eyes snapped open at Rafe’s words, and I came back to reality. I yanked my hand away from his.

  “Vince didn’t pay this semester’s tuition.”

  His sexy mouth angled into a frown. “What?”

  My own eyes burned, and it was only through sheer force of will that I didn’t burst into tears. “Vince. He didn’t pay this semester’s tuition. I’m out, Rafe. Kicked out.”

  Not only did I lose my home, but I lost the one thing I wanted more than anything in the world: a college education.

  “Dad skipped out on the bill? Damn,” Rafe said. He reached across the table and grabbed my hand again, this time giving it a squeeze. I ignored the electric jolt that passed between us. “Did you ask him what happened?”

  “His assistant fobbed me off on George,” I said, pulling my hand away once again. I used it to push my empty cup through some spilled sugar crystals.

  Rafe gave a low whistle. “She just passed you off to his business manager? That’s cold.” I nodded miserably. “What’d George say?”

  “What do you think?” I snapped. “He said that because of the contentious split, Pamela was tying up the money and Vince was having a cash flow problem.”

  Rafe lifted his hands in a no-big-deal gesture. “And there you have it. Ask him to throw it on the Amex. Deal with it later.”

  I stared at Rafe’s hands. They were powerful hands, with long and dexterous fingers. Those hands made him one of the top ten guitarists in rock right now. They had to be good for playing more than just strings.

  I blinked myself back to the real world. My real world, which didn’t include those dexterous hands on my body or a place to live. My head was seeking distractions anywhere it could find them. If there was ever a time I needed to focus, it was now.

  “Then George said that the lawyers thought it best that Vince remove any financial support for me and my sisters, since we weren’t his kids. Anything would look untoward, and”— my fingers curled into my palms—“Mom is gossiping.”

  Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Pamela’s gossiping? About what?”

  I slumped deeper into the booth. I didn’t want to talk about this. Definitely not this. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on, Jett, spill,” he said. “Better I hear it from you than from some reporter, don’t you think?”

  I swallowed. He was right. I could share, but maybe not everything. I leaned forward and whispered, “That Vince is nailing one of us.”

  “Nailing?” He made a circle with one hand and moved his index finger from the other hand into the hole, a crude sign language for sex. “As in?”

  I slapped his hands down before someone noticed. It was a nasty, vicious rumor, and my mother was a nasty, vicious woman. But I never imagined she would take her Vince vengeance out on us. As far as stepdads went, he wasn’t awful. Never tried to be our father but acted as a mentor to Presley and even tried to mentor Nikki (being Nik, she wasn’t having it). He’d encouraged me to go to college and was footing the bill. Until now.

  “Damn, when Pamela holds a grudge…” he said after a low whistle. “And you’re not even the one sleeping with Dad. She should have just kicked out Presley.”

  I leveled him with a killer look. “Why do you assume it was Presley?”

  His eyebrows shot up, and he directed a “you must be joking” look at me. “It’s not Nik. And it’s definitely not you.”

  My back straightened at that. Not like I wanted to have an affair with my stepfather, but the implication was that I was not attractive enough. That wasn’t wrong either, but it was rude.

  “Presley is not sleeping with Vince,” I hissed.

  I worked to force that visual out of my mind. For a guy well into middle age, Vince had retained his sex appeal, but still. Ew.

  “Then it is you?” he asked, his eyebrows shooting back up.

  “Oh my God! No!”

  Jesus.

  He spread his hands out. “Voilà! Presley.”

  “You done Sherlock Holmesing?” I snapped. He gave me his sexy Rafe grin, and I shoved the feeling that it was just for me deep, deep down, because as much as I wanted that to be true, I needed to stay grounded in reality. “My mom’s just mental. Everyone knows that.”

  “Mental’s not even the word for her,” he muttered, his eyes moving over my shoulder.

  When Rafe’s lips thinned and his face went tight, I twisted in the booth to look behind me. I didn’t see much. Students studying with coffees in front of them. A group of tourists digging into avocado toast. My eyes flicked up, and that’s when I saw it.

  Behind the counter was a TV, and on that TV was the E! channel, and on the E! channel was Reesie Allen.

  The one who got away.

  From Rafe, I mean.

  Reesie was tall and slim, with a booty and the boobs to go with it. She was gliding down a catwalk in a clingy dress. The top was cut to her navel, with a high slit up the front, showcasing all her curves and a lot of leg. Her thick auburn hair bounced along her back (Presley swore she had extensions) as she walked.

  I scowled at the TV and willed her to trip.

  Reesie fucking Allen.

  I turned back to the table. “You okay?”

  Rafe’s eyes flicked back to me, his expression unreadable. “Never better.”

  Then he flashed his sexy gap-toothed smile at the waitress as she strolled past.

  She practically skidded to a stop, eyes sparkling. “And what can I get you, hon?” Her own smile rivaled his.

  “I think she wants a refill on her coffee,” he said, motioning toward me and my empty mug.

  Her smile went glacial as she said, “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” Rafe said.

  “You sure I can’t get you anything?” she asked, licking her lips. “Maybe a strawberry shake?” She shimmed her hips a little as she spoke. Her voice lowered. “We use fresh, juicy berries.”

  Rafe looked like the cat that ate the canary. “Maybe I’ll try that shake later,” he said. The tip of his tongue slipped out, and pressed against the gap between his front teeth. It was sexy as hell, and I felt my own panties dampen. “I’m good just hanging with my sis.”

  “Sis? Like sister?” she asked, glancing at me again. Her smile widened. “Wow, you guys don’t look alike.”

  “We’re ex-stepsiblings,” I said, watching her grin go cold. “Plus, he’s adopted.”

  She turned on her heel and stalked off to get my coffee. Rafe evaluated her ass as she walked away.

  Wait, hang on a sec. If this scenario were playing on vinyl, this is the point where you’d hear the record scratch.

  The Davis-Benson family dynamic was complicated.

  Rafe’s dad, Jimmy, was the bass player in Vince’s band, Anthem. Jimmy died of an overdose after a three-day bender. When Rafe’s mom, an addict herself, walked out on a very young Rafe a few months later, Vince adopted him. Rafe was already best friends with Dion and Kyle, Vince’s two sons from his first marriage, so he blended seamlessly into their family. Then my super-groupie mom met Vince and parlayed their one-night stand into wedding bells, moving my two sisters and me into his LA mansion. And the rock and roll version of The Brady Bunch was born. Except we hated each other.

  That is, until my little sister, Nikki, an extraordinarily gifted drummer, joined Rogue Nation. This happened because our stepbrother Kyle overdosed, in a manner not unlike Rafe’s dad. They found Kyle on Skid Row with a needle in his arm after a weekend of partying. It was eerily similar to the way they had found Jimmy.

  Just after Kyle overdosed, Reesie Allen, Rafe’s girlfriend, decided she wanted to take a shot at Broadway. Impeccable
timing, that one.

  She had been a precocious child star, groomed at the Mouse House. But she felt like it had hampered her career, and it was time for her reinvention.

  So Reesie packed up and hauled ass across the country, leaving Rafe in LA with promises about how their relationship could withstand the three thousand miles. New York was good to her. She landed a role in a Broadway musical, and there were industry rumors of a recording deal.

  With Reesie gone, Rafe went wild. Booze, babes, and even more babes. Both he and Dion embraced rock god hedonism with everything they had, leaving a path of broken hearts in their wake.

  Within six months of her move east, the paparazzi were hounding Rafe, shouting questions about Reesie shacking up with some movie producer.

  When the dust settled, and the partying slowed down, Rogue Nation was short a drummer, and the record label needed them on tour. That’s when Nikki finagled a deal where our band, Satan’s Sisters, opened for Rogue, and we all went out on tour together. Then she and Dion fell in love. And Rafe and I began our cautious friendship.

  Presley, as usual, was the chink in the armor. She had a Presley-sized snit about who the hell knows what, so Vince talked record label head Gary Grimm into signing her for a solo album. Now, Satan’s Sisters was on hiatus while Presley was holed up in a recording studio with Vince working on the album. Our mom’s divorce filing was likely because of this. There was no way Presley and Vince were having a thing. While both Vince and Mom had had their affairs, she wasn’t a fan of playing second fiddle to her daughters. Especially Presley.

  Nikki was busy anyway with Dion and Rogue Nation. Presley was in the studio working on her first solo album. And as usual, the middle sister—that’d be me—was left floundering.

  “What did you say?” I asked Rafe, snapping myself out of my pity party. He was yammering on and on about something, and it included the words “a place for you to crash.”

  “I was saying it’s a little small for two people, but it’s a place for you to crash. Temporarily,” he added.

  “What’s the place?” I asked, looking up when a steaming cup of coffee was plunked down in front of me, the black brew spilling over the edges of the mug. I snatched my glasses up from the table before they got coated in coffee, positioning them back on my face. The waitress sped away, Rafe’s eyes following her swaying butt once again.

  He gave a low whistle and murmured, “Yeah, I’d tap that.”

  “Lovely,” I said, kicking him under the table. “What place are you talking about?”

  “My place,” he said.

  “Your place?” I mopped up the coffee spill with my napkin. “I don’t think so.”

  “Where are you going to go, Jett?” he asked. “I’m offering you the opportunity to crash in mi casa, which is in a luxury building just off Sunset Boulevard in the heart of WeHo. Stone’s throw from the Whisky.”

  “What about parking?” I asked. That part of Sunset Boulevard meant that street parking was impossible. In Los Angeles, it was all about the parking.

  “Dion was supposed to go in on this with me, remember?” he said. “I purchased two spaces when I bought the condo. Kept ’em when he moved in with Nik instead.”

  “Then where are your conquests going to park?” I asked.

  He at least had the sense to give me a sheepish look, making him only ninety-nine point nine percent cad. “I’ll drive ’em in, and Uber can drive ’em out.”

  My nose wrinkled in disgust. “Anyway, your second bedroom is now a music room, right? Is there room for me to crash in there?”

  “My couch is way more comfortable than Dion and Nikki’s,” he said. “Unless… you want my bed?”

  I crossed my arms and tested him. “You’d do that?”

  He hit me with a look that was so damn sexy I had to swallow my heart back down. “Anyone in my bed is fair game though. Even you.”

  Ugh.

  “So, I’m basically homeless, but you’ve still got jokes?” I asked. He at least at the decency to look slightly chastened. “I’m fine at Nik and Dion’s.”

  “Jett, babe, you look like shit. You’re obviously not sleeping,” he said. “And I’ve seen their couch. Your ass is narrow and all, but that thing cannot be comfortable.”

  “It’s fine,” I lied. “Besides, I’m getting my own place soon.” I hoped that wasn’t a lie. “As soon as I find a job,” I added.

  “A job?” Rafe asked, his molten eyes dancing, and then he let out a whoop of laughter.

  “Yes, Rafe, a job,” I said. “You know, like normal people? Normal people have jobs.”

  He was still grinning. “And what exactly are you qualified to do?”

  “Lots of things.”

  Okay, so that was a lie too. I had no idea what I was qualified to do. Before Vince, our groupie mother had followed bands around the country, dragging us along with her. After she met Vince, he saw to it that we didn’t have to work. But I was resourceful. That had to count for something.

  His grin was still there. “Like?”

  “Like, I’ll let you know when I get it.”

  “Right, when you get your job,” he said with a chuckle. “Offer stands. You need a place, you call me, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m fine,” I repeated, more to convince myself than him.

  “If you say so,” he said with a shrug. He turned away from me, and his eyes scanned the restaurant. “Now, where’d that hot little piece go? I’m hungry for some afternoon delight.”

  “Seriously?” I snapped, pretending the lurch in my belly was from too much coffee.

  He did an eyebrow waggle while he dug into his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill and tossed the money down on the table.

  “Get yourself one of those shitty bean burgers—you need to feed your skinny ass,” he said, starting to get out of the booth. “I’ll see ya at home, roomie.”

  My lip curled. “I am not your roomie.”

  His ass stopped sliding so he could wink at me and grin, the damn gap between his perfect front teeth made him nearly irresistible.

  Nearly.

  “I’m not kidding, Rafe,” I said, shoring up all the strength I had to not lean over and touch that gap with my tongue. “I’m not moving into your place.”

  “Just give me a few hours before you haul your shit over, yeah?” He gave me a wink. “I’m gonna to be tied up for a few.”

  He left before I could argue. I watched his lanky body move like liquid as he sidled up to the waitress. He dipped his head down and whispered in her ear. Her face lit up, and she turned and followed him out the door.

  Yeah, he was going to be tied up for a few. No way in hell was I going to subject myself to Rafe’s post-Reesie harem. I’d figure something out, even if it meant sleeping in my car.

  I pulled the brim of my baseball cap down lower and leaned against the car. The traffic along Santa Monica Boulevard crawled past, slow enough for people to gawk at my Prius, which was stalled out in the left lane. The tow truck mechanic was under the hood, yammering above the din of traffic, something about inverters and high voltage.

  My cell phone was in my hand. I stared at Rafe’s name on my contact list.

  Nik and Dion lived too far out of LA proper for me to make a go of it without a car. I needed to find a job, and being stuck in Venice Beach without wheels would impede that. I pressed call and brought the phone to my ear.

  “You moving in or what?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “I need to borrow some money to pay the tow truck,” I said.

  “Tow truck?” he repeated.

  “Mechanic’s saying something about an electrical system shutdown.”

  I heard a female voice whine “Rafe” in the background. I swallowed around the lump in my throat and forced back tears.

  “I’ll Venmo you five hundred,” he said. I winced at the number.

  “That’s a lot of—”

  “Shut it, Jett,” he interrupted.

  �
�I’m not sure when I can pay you back,” I said.

  “I’m covering it. Don’t worry about paying me back,” he said. I winced again when I heard the sound of sheets rustling in the background, and my cheeks went hot. I stared as the mechanic looped a hook on the ass end of my broken car, as though focusing my attention elsewhere would make the sound go away. “Text me the address of the garage when you get there.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “I’ll send an Uber around to get you.”

  Dropping five hundred dollars on my car and Ubering me to his place, where I was crashing for free? It was simply too much…

  “Rafe,” I argued.

  “Really? You gonna ‘Rafe’ me? Now?”

  I heaved a breath. He was right. He was willing to help. And fuck knows I needed it right about now. The pride I swallowed went down like a brick in my stomach.

  “Thanks,” I muttered into the phone. My stare moved from the bumper of my car to my black Converse. My big toe poked through a hole at the top of the sneaker.

  “Hey, Jett? You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s gonna be fine, okay?”

  Another whine of “Raaaaaaaaafe” came through the phone, louder this time.

  “Yeah. Okay. Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” I said. “Thanks again.”

  I disconnected our call, shoved my phone into the front pocket of my rucksack, and slung the bag over my shoulder. I watched as the mechanic hoisted my car onto his truck.

  “It’s all going to be fine,” I whispered.

  3

  “Shit,” I muttered, looking up at Rafe’s high-rise apartment building towering over Sunset Boulevard. I swung open the trunk of the Uber that had brought me from the auto mechanic’s to Rafe’s West Hollywood digs, and yanked out the enormous army duffle that held all of my possessions. I staggered back a few steps before it landed with a thud at my feet. After regaining my balance, I reached in and snagged the cases of my two guitars—one electric, one acoustic—then slammed the trunk shut in one awkward maneuver.

  Bright side? I need to find one of those, I thought, as I watched the driver pull into the busy flow of traffic.