Rock the Dream (Redfall Dream #1) Read online

  “It doesn’t sound cheesy? Robin would always . . .” I stop that thought before it goes any further, my heart stabbing me in the chest just to make sure I don’t say her name again. I take the folder, and set it on top of the piano. I can’t go there right now, back to memories of my sister. Not with the headache from hell, and certainly not with a perfect stranger who probably thinks I’m certifiable at this point. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Yes, here.” She fiddles around in her purse, holding one out for me. I give her a grin of thanks, and lean over the keys to start writing.

  “Thanks for this. How are you in here, just out of curiosity?” A long few minutes pass before she answers, and I feel her watching me, probably trying to decide if I’m a nutjob or not.

  “Brodie told me to wait in here. He’s giving one of my colleagues the tour.”

  “You didn’t want the tour?”

  “No. He said you were sleeping and to wait in here.”

  “Well, I was trying to sleep.” I glance over at her.

  Her brows knit together. “You heard all of that conversation with my mother, didn’t you?”

  “Mmm . . . Want to talk about it?”

  “No. I’m going to probably need therapy with the knowledge that you heard any of that,” she says with a groan.

  Finishing the lyrics on the folder, I hand the pen back to her. “So, I’m Kennedy Lane.” I wish there was more to write, but this happens all the time. You have something, and then it’s just gone. It might never come back, or it might hit me at four thirty in the morning.

  She takes the pen from me, but says nothing. I lean into her slightly, holding her gaze, not wanting her to look away. “This would be the part where you tell me your name.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s Abby. I mean, Abigail Walker. I’m the director of—”

  “What’s Your Dream. Yes. I know. Brodie said you were, let me get his words right, ‘Like a dog with a bone,’ I think he said.”

  She lets out a nervous laugh. “I know how to get what I want.”

  “Is that right? And what is it exactly that you want, Miss Abigail Walker?” Fuck, she’s fun to tease.

  “Well, right now . . . You.”

  An unexpected shiver runs through me at her words that I’m quick to tamp down. “Abby, I know you’ve probably heard a lot about the rock ‘n roll lifestyle, but we just met.”

  She rolls her eyes at my smirk. “Please. Like you’re rock’s biggest angel.”

  “I have my moments, so I’ve been told.” I open the folder and my eyes fall to a picture of a blond boy. He doesn’t look very old. “Tell me about him.”

  “His name is Parker Jensen,” she says, all sarcasm and playfulness gone from her voice. “He’s eleven, and he has leukemia.” He’s so young. Life is fucking not fair sometimes. “He idolizes you. He’s even learning to play the guitar.”

  I meet her eyes once more, and I can feel her assessing, judging. It doesn’t sit well with me. “Really?”

  “Yes. He has all your records, posters . . . the whole nine yards.”

  “What would something like this entail, exactly?”

  “If we go ahead with this, we’d decide that together. He’d like a day as a rock star. I was thinking maybe a studio tour, a little concert at the hospital.”

  “If we go ahead?”

  Her smile fades, and she shifts away from me on the bench. Out of reach. Unattainable. “Yes. If.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure if your type of lifestyle is . . .” She pauses, her scrutinizing gaze running over me. “ . . . healthy for him. He’s in a very vulnerable place right now, physically and emotionally.”

  “What exactly about my lifestyle exactly are you worried about?” I ask, my jaw set as the anger rises.

  “Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

  “Well, to be honest, Abby. I think you do.”

  “Your partying for starters.” She gives me a pointed look. “That sort of thing wouldn’t be tolerated when you’re with him.”

  I can’t help my scowl. “Of course not. Jesus Christ. Do you really think I would let a kid into a party?”

  “I don’t know. But pictures don’t lie, and I don’t have to tell you that the press has painted you in a rather unfavorable light of late—”

  “You honestly believe photos in a fucking gossip rag?” I stare at her in disbelief, but she just purses those enticing lips and continues without missing a beat.

  “And if you do have a problem, I can’t and won’t subject Parker to that.”

  “I do not have a problem.” My voice sounds raw, gritty.

  She slowly pulls my sunglasses from my face, her eyes hard as they blaze into mine. It’s like she can see right into my soul. I blink back from the harshness of the light.

  “Right. No problem at all,” she scoffs and sets my sunglasses on the piano. She shakes her head, standing from the bench. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Maybe you could just sign a few posters or CDs for him. He’d be over the moon.”

  “But that’s not his dream.”

  “As it turns out, his dream is a bit of a nightmare.”

  And that’s it. She’s dismissed me within a couple of minutes. I reach out for her arm, feeling her tense at my touch. “This isn’t what it looks like. Half of San Francisco is probably hung over.”

  She doesn’t seem to appreciate my attempt at humor. “Not at one in the afternoon on a Monday.”

  “Listen, I want to do this the right way. I just need some time, and I’ll be okay.”

  Her eyes narrow, and then she lays into me. “Time is a luxury Parker doesn’t have. I don’t really think you understand what it’s like for him. He’s tired and exhausted from spending most of his childhood in a hospital when all of his friends were outside playing and just being kids.” She yanks her arm from my grasp. “He’s in pain most of time, but when he can find the energy to do something, it’s always the guitar he picks up. And when he can’t? When he’s lying in bed or getting treatments? He listens to your songs, and he smiles when he does, because somehow you make it better for him. The only time he’s really and truly happy is when he listens to you. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t want to ruin this idea he’s built up of who you are with the sad reality.”

  “Sad reality?” I push up off the bench, towering over her. She doesn’t flinch or back down.

  “Yes, Kennedy. Sad.”

  Abigail

  Looking up into his outraged, but overly dilated and bloodshot eyes, a vast disappointment washes over me, making my heart ache. I had been counting on this working for Parker’s sake. But I’ve seen this same look too often before.

  I had deluded myself with my ex, Lucas, rationalized and ignored what was right in front of my nose; I won’t make the same mistake now.

  As devastatingly handsome as the man before me is, he looks like he’s been dragged down a mile of rough road. Everything he’s wearing, from his black jeans to his T-shirt under his misbuttoned shirt, is rumpled. Now that he’s not sitting at the piano bench and hiding behind his sunglasses, he’s swaying unsteadily on his feet and looks like he’s having difficulty focusing on me. And he thinks this is just a regular hangover?

  “My reality is far from sad, baby.” He gestures to our opulent surroundings with a smirk.

  I turn and take a few wandering steps, glancing around at the luxurious furnishings. I’ve never been in the Fairmont’s penthouse before, and if the circumstances were different, I would be impressed. Now, however, the extravagance feels hollow. “How long have you been staying here? A week? Longer?” Facing him again, I shrug. “You know, a single night in this suite probably costs more than three of Parker’s chemo treatments.”

  His mouth drops open at my matter-of-fact statement, and he winces as if I’d slapped him. Maybe I did.

  But, damn it; I just can’t shut up. After hearing him at the piano, the once-in-a-lifetime glimpse of Kenne
dy Lane creating something, I know how incredible the experience would’ve been for Parker. It pisses me off that this guy just doesn’t get it.

  “You say the photos online lie. You say you don’t have a problem,” I continue, somehow managing to keep my voice even. “And yet you just woke up in the middle of the day after a night—nights, probably—of partying. Your pupils are the size of dinner plates, your nostrils are red, and you’re sweating buckets in an air-conditioned room. I bet you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes. And you’re apparently thinking all of this is somehow acceptable because you’re you. Did I get any of that wrong?”

  Shock and even a little embarrassment flickers across his face; I definitely hit my mark. Then, his eyes narrow, and he stalks toward me, making me take a few steps back as he advances. “What gives you the right to judge me?” Those icy blue eyes harden. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  I have to breathe deeply to keep my own anger at bay. “I’m not judging you; I only call it as I see it. I don’t care if you throw your life away; your family and friends probably care, but I don’t. You can drink, or snort, or inject whatever you want. You’ll do it anyway, regardless of what I think. I will mourn the loss of your music, though, because frankly, I think your talent is amazing. You are incredibly gifted, Mr. Lane.” It’s the truth, and the thought of him so negligently throwing that gift away only makes me angrier. “My concern, my only concern, is with the children who come to me in the hope of having their dreams fulfilled, not dashed into a million pieces.”

  “Look at you; not a hair out of place, standing there in your uptight suit and wrapped in so much self-righteousness that your shoulders must bow from the weight.” His voice drips with indignation and malice; a frisson of fear runs through me as he continues to advance. “I think your mother has a point. I bet you’ve never really let your hair down, have you? Really let loose and enjoyed life?”

  “Who the . . . My private life isn’t at issue here,” I snap, my mortification he overheard my conversation burning brightly again. My back bumps against the wall and, before I know it, he takes two quick steps forward and effectively boxes me in. My eyes widen as he lowers his face to within inches of mine. He’s taller than I expected, and his height right now, I’m sad to admit, is intimidating.

  “Isn’t it? Maybe if you took a walk on the wild side once in a while you’d be more tolerant.” His voice drops to a raspy purr, and I stiffen at his proximity. Sucking in a breath, I freeze as he gently frees a tiny strand of hair, rubbing it between his fingers. Despite the stale smell of cigarettes that clings to him, I also sense something musky and earthy about him that strikes a chord deep inside me. I swallow thickly and frown, willing it away.

  “I can’t afford to be tolerant when one of our client’s wishes is at stake. Step back, please.” I push against his chest, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he carefully tucks the strand he’d been toying with behind my ear. His lips curl in a sensual pout.

  “Your mother asked a good question: Are you being satisfied? I bet you’ve never known what a man, a real man, can do to a woman. A man who can make your heart race, your toes curl, and your pussy clench . . . Have you ever felt that, Abigail?” I feel his hot breath on my neck. “Has a man ever done that from just a look?”

  I gasp as everything in me does just that, but I’d rather die than admit it. Who the fuck does he think he is? “You’ll never know. Oh, and Kennedy . . .” I brace myself and look directly into his blazing eyes. “A real man admits when he’s wrong.”

  His eyes burn and he opens his mouth to retort when the door at the far side of the room begins to open. Kennedy shoves away from me and staggers back, just as Nadia, Brodie, and the record label rep, Janet, rejoin us. Janet and Brodie are oblivious; Janet has her face buried in her smartphone, and Brodie’s staring at Nadia’s ass. But my colleague purses her lips, her eyes darting between Kennedy and me. I straighten my shoulders and smile as if I wasn’t just seconds away from either slugging or kissing him.

  “Oh, Kennedy; you’re awake.” Brodie finally tears his eyes away from Nadia to smirk at his client. “This is Nadia Baskov, giving director of What’s Your Dream. I see you’ve obviously already met Ms. Walker.”

  “Yes, we’ve already discussed Parker’s case,” I interject brightly. “Kennedy has graciously agreed to sign a few albums and, perhaps, a poster.”

  Nadia narrows her eyes in consternation. “That would be fantastic, of course, but I thought . . .”

  I glance at Kennedy, but look away quickly when I see him glowering at me. At least he’s not refuting my statement. “Unfortunately, the band’s schedule won’t allow anything more,” I continue, letting my extreme disappointment seep into my voice. Everything about this situation is disappointing. I stroll over to the piano to retrieve Parker’s file, stilling when I see the lyrics scrawled on the front in a strong hand.

  If you let me take your hand, I’ll wrap you in my arms . . .

  Beautiful.

  I open the manila folder and, bracing it against the piano lid, carefully tear it in two. With one last look at the lyrics, I place that half gently on the music rack. It also contains the label with Parker’s name; maybe that will give the wayward genius brooding by the sofa something to think about.

  “So that’s it?” Brodie brightens considerably. He claps his hands and rubs his palms together, as if pleased with himself. “That’s doable. Kennedy would be glad to—”

  Janet pops up from her phone as I shove the remaining file contents into my leather tote and slip the thin straps over my shoulder. “Wait, what?” She looks between Brodie and Kennedy. “This isn’t what we’d discussed.”

  “So? He could sign some CDs, enough for some of the kid’s friends, too.” Brodie nods his shaggy blond head, obviously warming to his idea. “And a few posters, and—oh, I know—how about a couple concert tees?”

  “But we talked about this.” The label rep glares at him. “It would be great press. And it’s perfect timing for the album.”

  “Unfortunately, Parker’s timing is my priority,” I remind her.

  The professional smile plastered on my lips masks my whirling emotions. I’m frustrated with Kennedy and appalled at myself for losing my cool and behaving so unprofessionally. Why did I goad him like that? My gaze lands on Parker’s name taped to the ripped folder and my smile becomes wistful; most of all, I’m disheartened over not being able to fulfill Parker’s dream properly. Damn, damn, damn.

  I sigh quietly and look toward Kennedy, startling when a huge man with a black T-shirt and blacker hair steps into view from the curtains by the terrace doors. Shit, has he been here the whole time? Filing that embarrassing tidbit away, I focus on Kennedy who continues to stare at me stoically.

  When he doesn’t speak, I continue, “As I was explaining to Kennedy earlier, Parker doesn’t have the luxury of waiting, I’m afraid.” He squints at me from underneath the unruly mop of jet-black hair falling across his forehead, but I can’t tell if it’s in reaction to my words or his current “hangover”.

  “Well, Kennedy, if you’ve already agreed . . .” Brodie trails off, as both he and Janet look at their client with concern. He still hasn’t spoken a word, seemingly content to let everyone talk about him as if he wasn’t standing right here. I wonder if that happens a lot to him.

  He nods, locking eyes with me. “Yes, certainly. Whatever Abigail deems acceptable.” His voice is soft, but there’s a dark undercurrent that I can tell his manager and the muscle-bound bodyguard guy immediately pick up on. The bodyguard moves a little closer to him, while Brodie looks like he’s trying to solve an advanced math problem . . . and failing.

  Nadia watches me carefully. She knows that if I’m taking this route, I have a good reason. I can see the dissatisfaction on her face as well. I busy myself by rooting around in my tote for my phone, half-listening to their conversation. I take a peek at Kennedy. He’s moved back to the piano, standing stock-still with a hand on its smoot
h surface, his eyes closed with the same concentration etched on his face I’d seen earlier.

  I’m struck with a sudden yearning, remembering those magical few minutes as his fingers danced over the keys. I’d give anything to know what’s swirling around in his head right now.

  “Are you sure we can’t work something else out?” Janet asks again as we shake hands all around, except for Kennedy, who’s still in a trance at the piano.

  Brodie notices my look and shrugs. “Sorry. He doesn’t mean to be rude. You know, musical genius and all that,” he confides with a rough laugh. “They’re on a different level.”

  I smile faintly. Apparently, entitlement is the rule, rather than the exception with this man.

  How sad.

  Brodie shows us out to the elevator in the foyer of the suite, but just before we exit, I remember. “Oh, the recording. Where should I send it?” I ask, holding out my phone.

  “What recording?” Nadia murmurs in confusion, but Brodie’s eyes light up in understanding.

  “You can send it to me. Here’s a number you can use—”

  “Wait.” Kennedy suddenly springs to life. He stomps across the room, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for . . . I’m not sure what. But, he merely snatches my phone from my hand and starts entering digits.

  “Kennedy,” Brodie groans quietly, looking displeased. Kennedy ignores him.

  “I trust her.” He stares down at me, searching my eyes, and I take my phone from him. Securing it in my purse, the thought hits me . . . I have Kennedy Lane’s phone number. No one would believe me if I told them.

  I turn quickly, ignoring Nadia, who gapes at me like a fish. She manages to compose herself as we enter the elevator and turn to face forward just before the doors close. The last thing I see is Kennedy, standing in the foyer with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and staring at me with troubled eyes.

  Kennedy

  “HOW ABOUT INSTEAD of hitting the Jack, we hit the gym?” Tucker suggests. With the tension mounting in the suite, Tucker ushered Brodie and Janet away quickly after Abby and her team left. He always knows when I’m reaching my limit, when I need to just disappear for a while. This is one of those times.