Rock Chick Reckoning (Rock Chick #6)(31)

I looked up at Lee. Lee looked down at me.

“I love you,” I whispered for the second time that day.

Lee’s eyes didn’t go melty nor did their sides crinkle. He looked very serious.

Yikes.

“Good,” was Lee’s response.

Chapter Six

Falling for You Wasn’t Either

Stella

I’d f**ked up.

Big time.

In my bid to save humanity from whoever this Sid guy was, I put al the Rock Chicks on the line.

I didn’t think.

I just acted.

That was happening to me a lot lately and I was going to have to find a way to stop doing it or I’d get laid again (which, I had to admit (only deep down inside), wouldn’t suck) or kil ed (which would total y suck).

The Rock Chicks didn’t mind. Al day they’d been promising me they agreed with me, more than agreed with me, even went so far as tel ing me I’d saved the day. Their men didn’t give up, it was one of the reasons they were with them (literal y, they’d al been kind of hard to win over).

I forced myself to believe them and we’d had a good day. The boys took off to take care of business and the women gossiped, drank coffee, helped Daisy clean out her closets (yes, plural) and played Guitar Hero.

But I was worried. Not that something would happen to me but that something would happen to one of them and it would be al my fault.

Now, it was late evening and Mace was taking me home in one of the Nightingale Explorers.

I wasn’t talking to him. This, for your information, was my new plan.

It started natural y.

When the Big Meeting was over, I had no chance to talk to him. He just put his hands to my neck, tilted my face up to his with thumbs at my jaw and touched his lips to mine lightly in a brief kiss.

I was too freaked out about what him “going maverick” meant, not to mention the dawning knowledge that I’d put the whole gang on the line, further not to mention a light kiss from Mace was nice, to protest.

Then, before I could find my voice, he was gone.

Fifteen minutes ago, he walked in while Al y and Indy were dueling through Guns ‘n’ Roses’s “Paradise City”, both on advanced (which meant using al five toy guitar buttons which I found utterly impossible).

He looked at me and said, “Ready to go home?” I was ready to go home. I was more than ready to go home. Not with him but I was so ready to go home I wasn’t going to quibble. Not because I didn’t like spending time with the Rock Chicks but because I did, very much, and every second with the girls made me feel a little bit guiltier and a whole lot shittier.

Mace drove in silence.

This, for your information, was his way. Mace wasn’t much of a talker. In fact, we talked a lot more in the last two days than we would in a week when we were together. It was something else I liked about him, that I didn’t need to entertain him and he felt no driving need to dazzle me with his bril iance. It felt comfortable from day one.

As he drove, I watched Denver slide by and my mind wandered to home.

I lived in a huge room in a big, old, gold-boom mansion that had been chopped up into apartment decades ago.

The current owners, Ulrika and Swen, were restoring it to its former glory. To pay for this, they first restored the mother-in-law house and rented it out. Then they restored my room and rented it to me.

To get to my room, you entered the mansion at a side door off the Italian-tiled veranda and walked up two semi-private (as in, only Swen, Ulrika, Juno, Swen and Ulrika’s three cats and I used them) flights of stairs.

My room was big, airy, painted white (but not harsh white, a soft eggshel ). It had hardwood floors with bright-colored rugs thrown everywhere. My décor came from TJ

Maxx and Target. On my budget of money from gigs and intermittent guitar lessons for the kids of fans of The Gypsies who wanted their children to live their dream (thus, these lessons didn’t progress very far because the kids were never real y into it, only their parents were, but the kids and I’d have fun anyway), I couldn’t afford the good stuff.

It wasn’t luxurious but I loved my space.

You walked in the door and to the left there were three steps up to a platform that held my big bed covered in a creamy, eyelet cover with soft yel ow sheets. It was shoved in a huge, round turret, windows al around, filmy-white curtains and views of Ulrika and Swen’s quadruple-lot garden that Ulrika kept ful of flowers and Swen kept tidy as a pin. There were also unadulterated panoramas of the Front Range.

From my front door, to the right and down two steps, was my sunken kitchen, tiny and u-shaped.

In front of the kitchen, up five steps, was a platform holding a worn, moss-green couch, my TV and another big window.

Across from that, up two more steps, was another platform. My ultimate space. Three guitars on stands, two electric, one acoustic, piles of music, two music stands, stacked amps and a big, mauve, overstuffed armchair that had seen better days but was comfortable as hel .

Behind the partition wal of the kitchen was a stacked washer dryer, a walk-in closet and the door to the bathroom which was as big as the kitchen, had a claw-footed tub, a pedestal sink and mosaic tile floors. I kept my wicker laundry hamper in there and a big, glass-front apothecary cabinet that looked like it came from an antique drug store.

I found it at a yard sale and Floyd fixed it up for me, Emily and I painted it white and it held my bits and bobs and towels and stuff.