Kiss the Stars (Falling Stars #1)(20)

Whimsical and quaint and ripe with history.

Unease shivered through my senses.

Could almost hear the ghosts howling, haunting the streets, flitting through the highest branches of the trees as they searched for what had been lost.

Somethin’ eerie all mixed up with a vibe that billowed peace.

I itched, knee bouncing out of control, my fingers drumming my thigh even faster. Trying to calm myself the fuck down, but unable to stop the anxiety that was crawling over me like a bad dream.

A bad omen.

Got the premonition that I was driving toward destruction, and I didn’t have a clue why. All except for the fact I’d always known Los Angeles would one day catch up to me. I could almost sense it now, right there, hunting, so close I was only a single misstep from it taking me down.

Wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to let that happen.

Not until retribution had been paid.

Revenge had been served.

I had to keep it together, bide my time until time had come to fruition.

“I’m serious about this shit, Banger,” Rhys said through a rough chuckle. I could almost see him flexing his ridiculous biceps from across the line, like the brawny motherfucker actually thought he could kick my ass. “Would give my left nut for us to get that contract signed. Em’s thrown enough wrenches in the deal. Last thing we need is you givin’ it a good twist.”

“You have so little faith in me?” I asked.

He huffed, and I could hear the heels of his cowboy boots thudding onto the top of a table as he undoubtedly rocked back in a chair. Boy was about as southern as they came. A bull in a china shop. Always ready to jump into the saddle.

“Opposite, man. Opposite. If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t even have let you get on that plane to Los Angeles in the first place. I mean, shit, them wining and dining you with a goddamn private jet? That is some fancy-pants shit, bro. Now you’re going to be chilling at the Lyrik West’s Savannah pad—which I’d bet my left nut is probs as ritzy as his place in the Hills—for two months? For free? Plus all that dough? All for the sake of you laying down a few drum tracks on their next album? Sounds fishy. Smells fishy, too.”

A dark chuckle filtered free. “You think I’m so good they would want to poach me? And you can’t bet your left nut. You already promised it to get the band signed.”

Rhys cracked up. “Balls are big enough to bet on ’em a few times. Plenty enough reserve to go around.”

“You wish, asshole,” I told him, chuckling under my breath.

The guy was cocky to the core.

Arrogance inbred.

But he didn’t do it without reason.

He was a fucking superstar on the bass. Talented beyond measure. Didn’t hurt matters in the least that women lost their goddamn minds every time he took to the stage.

Dude also liked to imagine Carolina George was the actual best band on earth.

Okay.

We were good.

Really fucking good. Guilt clawed. Hated using them as a cover. As a reprieve. First time I heard them, I should have known they were going places. That this unknown band was going to become something great.

Now I just had to pray that I could stick around long enough to help get them there.

Not fuck them over right in the middle of this chance that was being given.

“Do I think you’re good enough for them to want to snatch you up?” Rhys scoffed, and I could feel the force of his smug grin.

Guy’s personality was so big you didn’t even have to be in the same state for him to be playing out in vivid Technicolor.

“Only reason we even put up with your brooding ass is the fact you are so good,” he ribbed.

Fighting the quirk of a smile, I rested my head back on the headrest. Flickers of sunlight slanted through the windows, the area growing more upscale by the second as the driver drew us closer to our destination.

My home for the next two months.

Like Lyrik had said—it really shouldn’t be a big deal. I was simply standing in. Making life easier for a friend and earning a whole shit-ton of money while doing it. But I couldn’t silence the warning blaring inside me that I should have just said no.

That mixing L.A. and business was about the worst thing I could do.

I had a plan. It’d do me well to stick to it.

Veering to the left wasn’t going to help things.

“You never know, Rhys,” I drew out, playing like none of this mattered. Like I wasn’t close to coming apart. “I just might get cozy here and decide playing with Sunder is really where I belong. Can’t imagine it would be all that hard to get used to.”

The car made a right into a neighborhood that screamed old-world luxury. We rolled to a stop in front of what had to be the most over-the-top, palatial house I’d ever seen.

Lyrik’s house in the Hills had nothing on this.

Yeah.

Getting used to hanging out around here shouldn’t be all that hard to do.

I must have been gawking for too long because Rhys suddenly demanded below his breath, “Dude . . . it’s that good, isn’t it? Shit. I knew it. We’re screwed.”

“Nah, man, it’s a hovel.”

“Liar,” he shouted in feigned affront.

The estate was secured between two tree-lined streets, taking up the entire end of an upscale neighborhood block. A black wrought-iron and red-bricked fence encased the entire property. Marble stairs led up to the walkway from off the street, that was if you had an invitation to make it through the security gate.