Rock All Night(5)

I gave him a bitter look. “No, of course not. I did, however, write a piece on artisanal beers for an independent weekly. I even got paid $50 for it.”

He looked at me, startled – then began to laugh.

“What?” I asked belligerently.

“You haven’t written anything big before this?!”

“Not for lack of trying.”

He just kept laughing, like he found this inexplicably hilarious.

“We haven’t all been as successful as you, Derek,” I said angrily.

“I’m sorry… it’s just… all that crap back there in the bar about me using women… and here you are, using me.”

“I’m not using you!” I snapped.

“Yeah, right,” he said, wiping his eyes as he continued to chuckle.

“I’m not!”

“Come on, Kaitlyn,” he said in a Cut the bullshit tone of voice.

We reached the elevator – a single door all by itself, made of gold, set in the marble walls. If I was going to bail, now was my last opportunity to do it.

“Fine, if that’s the way you feel, I’ll just leave and you can get somebody else to write the damn article – ”

I started to pull away – no real plan, just wanting to get the hell away from him –

He grabbed my arm, and a thrill shot through my entire body as he swung me around to face him.

“No, I want you to stay,” he said gently.

I just stared up at him, my heart racing as he stared back down at me.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment… until he finally let go of my arm.

“I seem to remember saying that another time,” he smiled.

“I seem to remember a song about it, too,” I muttered, not wanting to go back to our earlier discussion of who hurt who worse.

He suddenly got an anxious look on his face. “Did you like it?”

You mean, did I sit on the side of the road and bawl my eyes out when I heard it?

“I like all your songs, Derek,” I said softly.

He searched my eyes, looking for a trick. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ve followed you the entire time. It’s just… some are a little more painful than others.”


He nodded like he understood completely. “…yeah…”

For the second time in five minutes, I felt like he might kiss me – and I felt like I might kiss him back.

But then the elevator opened and a British voice rang out, “Where the f*ck ‘av you been?”





4




I looked over expecting to see Killian Lee, the guitarist for the band – and was shocked instead to see a short, black, well-dressed man scowling in the elevator.

Wait – Killian Lee’s not black.

I knew that because of the story Derek had told so long ago in Ryan’s basement. Plus, I’d seen plenty of photos of the band since Killian joined. He was white, early 30’s, hair in a ponytail, always wearing John Lennon-style round sunglasses, always dressed in black.

This guy was really dark-skinned, with a long, ugly scar across his right cheek that was lighter than the rest of his face. He wasn’t shaved bald, but his hair was so closely cropped next to his head that he might as well have been. His angry eyes flitted back and forth like they were on a seek-and-destroy mission. He was dressed in a shark-skin suit, an electric blue tie, and a white shirt so crisp you could have cut yourself on the edges of the collar. He looked a little like Don Cheadle, if Don Cheadle were perpetually pissed-off and dressed like a gangster in a Guy Ritchie movie.

His accent wasn’t upper-class, that was for sure. He sounded Cockney… I guess. I’m basically only familiar with the posh accent that Ian McKellan and British royals have, and Audrey Hepburn’s Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. (I know there’s a whole spectrum in between, but, hey, I haven’t begun my world travels yet.) This guy fell a hell of a lot closer to Cockney.

I thought he was yelling at me. I didn’t know who he was, but I just assumed it was my fault. Maybe he was the publicist, I was supposed to meet him, and then I’d gotten waylaid by Derek instead.

I opened my mouth to say something –

But Derek beat me to it. “Meeting the press.”

The black guy’s eyes widened as he looked at me. The anger in his voice dialed back a notch as he asked, “Are you Kaitlyn Reynolds?”

It sounded more like Aw yew Kaitlyn Reynolds?

“Y-yes,” I said nervously.

The guy looked at Derek. “This is the one, then?”

“Yup,” Derek smiled. “In the flesh.”

I frowned and looked at Derek. “What does that mean?”

He gave me what I can only describe as an enigmatic smile. “You’ll see.”

The guy stuck out his hand to me aggressively, almost like he was going to attack me. “Miles Sumner. The band’s manager.” Miles Sum-nah. The band’s manage-uh.

“Oh… hi,” I said, and shook his hand.

Miles looked at Derek in disgust. “Christ, I tol’ you to lay off the drink.”

“You’re not my wet nurse, Miles,” Derek said in a bored voice, as though he’d heard all this a thousand times before.

“You need a f*ckin’ wet nurse, spoutin’ scotch out of ‘er tits, the way you drink,” Miles snarled.