Rock Me Faster (Licks of Leather #4) - Jenna Jacob Page 0,3
my jeans. “I never meant for you to feel like a hooker or an enabler.”
“I know. I also know now isn’t the time to start this conversation, but…” She sighed. “Do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Put the past to rest once and for all.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Try harder. Focus on the kind of life you want, not the one you’re living now.”
“The one I want doesn’t exist.”
“It does if you change here.” She tapped a finger to my head.
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Grab a shower. Your limo will be here in thirty minutes.”
I arched my brows. “You’re not in charge anymore.”
She rolled her eyes and sent me a vague smile. Then she was gone.
It was nearly four in the afternoon when the private jet landed in New York. As the Cessna taxied to a limo waiting on the tarmac, I tried to leave the promise I’d made to Angie—that had rolled through my brain the entire flight—on the plane. But it followed me, haunted me all the way to Midtown.
Forcing my prickly unease aside, I peered out the tinted window. I would have liked to say it was good to be home, but I honestly didn’t miss this city. No, that was a lie. I loved the hustle, bustle, and the bright lights. What I hated was the myriad of memories that crawled through me each time I returned. If I could bypass New York altogether, I would.
But I couldn’t.
In a little over forty-eight hours, we’d be kicking off another US tour, with back-to-back sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden. Usually, I was stoked to be around my band brothers again. It beat hanging out at home or at the dive bar down the street. But I had serious reservations about this tour. It was going to be way different than any of the others because Quinn, in all his infinite wisdom—or infinite greed—had persuaded Mia “Phoenix” Harris—up-and-coming rock queen and drummer Ozzy Page’s (second-time around) significant other—to debut as our opening act. I didn’t have an issue with her musical ability. Mia owed her rising fame to her killer stage presence, unique sultry sound, and phenomenal vocal range. I simply didn’t want to watch her and Ozzy eye- fucking each other or listen to them actually doing the deed for the next six months. The tour bus wasn’t exactly a sanctum of privacy.
I tucked my apprehension away as the limo stopped in front of the ornately carved stone and beveled arched entrance of the neo-gothic hotel. I grabbed my bags, slid the driver a hundred bucks, and entered the lobby. Paying little attention to the industrial décor, I strode to the front desk. After dismissing the gushing young woman who handed me my keycard and her phone number, I took the elevator to my suite.
I tossed her number in the trash and started to unpack when my cell phone rang. A glance at the caller ID had me shaking my head.
“Did you plant a homing device in me while we were at the ranch?”
“Don’t give me any ideas, fucker,” lead singer Burk Jennings said with a chuckle. “You make it to the hotel yet?”
“Just got here. Unpacking. What’s up?”
“Quinn’s here.” For our usual send-off. “We’re getting ready to grab some dinner. Meet us in the lobby in ten.”
“What’s the magic word?” I couldn’t resist pushing his Dominant button.
“Fuck you.”
I bit back a smirk. “Be there in three.”
Chapter Two
Harmony
Butterflies dipped and swooped as the airplane touched down on the runway. I’d been staring out the window for twenty minutes as the pilot circled the city, taking in all the lights. Even from the air, New York was larger than life. Hands down, it was the biggest city I’d ever seen. The fear of being swallowed up by the sea of humanity below me only added to my amplified angst.
What am I doing? I asked for the thousandth time.
Saving the family. Yes, but something more lay on the fringes of my psyche that I couldn’t capture or dissect. And the frustration of trying to figure it out was weighing heavier and heavier by the minute.
Last year when I first began posting my video blogs, sharing peace and serenity found through enlightenment—the beautiful building blocks I’d been raised with—I never imagined my teachings would capture the attention of anyone powerful, rich, or famous.
But three days ago, a man named Quinn MacKinnon—claiming to be a successful agent and promotor for several well-known musicians—emailed me a unique and intriguing request. I