Riffs That Ruin (Survival Records #2)

7. Raina

S ometimes I wish for a more satisfying way to hang up the phone. Back in the day, they had corded handsets that you could slam into the cradle, then there were flip phones that you could snap closed… but now we have a wimpy little button on a screen. There’s no satisfaction in ending a call when you’re mad anymore.

Tossing my phone to the couch next to me, I lean my head back and pinch the bridge of my nose. With a sharp breath out, I do my best to release the anger. I don’t even jump when I hear Nash yell fuck . The outbursts have become so routine they aren’t even a surprise anymore.

Tristan’s been missing for three days, and we have no leads to where he is. Zip, zilch, nada . It’s like he disappeared into thin air.

“I waited because I didn’t want to worry them, but I think it’s time for me to call his parents,” I say, releasing my nose but keeping my eyes closed. The longer I wait to open them, the longer I get to pretend like I haven’t given up hope.

“Ohh,” Nash breathes out. There’s a hint of pity in his tone, which makes me blink my vision clear so I can look at him. He sits next to me and rests his hand on my thigh. Keaton stares at me from behind the laptop he’s been working on, and Blake frowns with his phone held to his ear.

“What?” I ask, glancing between them all over again. They watch me like they expect me to know something that I clearly don’t. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Roomie,” Nash starts, drawing my attention as his thumb soothes back and forth on my leg. “They died.”

I shoot up in my seat, my back ramrod straight. “What? No, they didn’t.” Denial rocks through me, my gut twisting when I thought it couldn’t get any more twisted. There’s no way. I’d know. Tristan would’ve told me. They acted more like my parents than my own. Even after Tristan stopped talking to me, I’d still hear from them at Christmas and my birthday or anytime I had a show close by.

The texts stopped a couple years ago, but I thought it was because Tristan wanted nothing to do with me anymore. But now… now I’m wondering if it’s really because…

My hand flies to my mouth, trying to hide the whine clawing its way up the back of my throat. I shake my head, not wanting to believe them as Nash wraps his arms around me. I try my best to hold back the tears that are beginning to well up in my eyes, but it’s a losing battle.

Blake hangs up the phone and joins me on my other side, his hand rubbing circles into my back. “Shh,” someone soothes, but I couldn’t tell you who.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t anyone tell me? How could Tristan not tell me?” My throat feels like a fist is squeezing it closed, and all of a sudden I can’t keep my emotions choked down any longer. A deep sob rips out of me, and I hide my face in the crook of Nash’s neck.

I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted this way no matter when I found out about Mr. and Mrs. Evans. They were a huge part of my childhood, and I’ve missed them almost as much as Tristan. The thought never even crossed my mind that they wouldn’t be a phone call away.

“It’s my understanding that he tried when the accident happened,” Nash says into my hair. “I’m not sure what happened, that’s something you’ll have to ask him once he’s found.”

The reminder that we don’t even know where he is has me sobbing even harder.

Before I’m able to get myself under control, a knock sounds at The Storm’s door. It’s too early for soundcheck. Lifting my head, I wipe at my cheeks as Nash brushes my hair away from my face. His worried eyes trace over me, but my attention is on Keaton, where he moves the curtain covering the window on the door with his drumstick.

He glances over his shoulder and spins the stick, letting the curtain fall back in place. “It’s your uncle.”

I wince at the reminder of him being a family member. Thinking of him that way makes my skin itch, like I need a searing hot shower. Not to mention, I thought I was done seeing him back in Chicago.

“Can we not call him that?” I ask, rubbing my hands down my arms.

The guys exchange a look, a clear question in their gazes wondering why. “What should I call him?” Keaton asks. Acceptance. Simple as that.

“Dickless,” I answer. Before I can say anything else, another knock comes. Somehow this one sounds sharper, more impatient. I wipe at my cheeks again and wave my hands back and forth, trying to dry the tears. It won’t do anything for the swelling or blotchy redness I’m sure is there.

“Let him in,” I rasp. Nash moves over on the couch so we aren’t touching, and a moment later, Blake hands me a bottle of water. I smile at him gratefully; I hadn’t even realized he stood up. My first sip hits the back of my throat as the door swings open, revealing Dickless and my useless manager Alyssa. Of course it would be double the annoyance coming in when I’m in an emotional state.

The man behind Lexington Productions saunters in like he owns the damn world. His head held high and his gaze judgmental, like he’s above everything they land on. His nose pinches like he’s disgusted to even be here, which doesn’t track with The Storm—she’s a fucking beauty and smells like eucalyptus and lemon. I’d believe it if he looked like that going into Thunderstruck. That heap no longer resembles the bus I used to ride.

“Uncle,” I address him, my nails biting into the seat cushion next to me at having to use the honorific. “Please, take a seat.” I gesture to the other side of the L-shaped couch, ignoring Alyssa’s presence completely.

They both take a seat, my manager so close to the asshole that she might as well sit on his lap. She’s been chasing him for years, trying to get a ring on her finger no matter the cost, even going so far as to ignore the time he spends behind closed doors with minors. She’s as disgusting as him for allowing it to happen.

“Angel,” he starts, making my insides feel like they’re getting raked over by shards of glass. “Have you found your lead guitarist?”

Emotions threaten to bubble to the surface once more, the topic raw against my nerves. As I breathe in to answer him, I’m hit with the sweet smell of coffee. I barely glance to the side, searching for the source, when a mug appears before me. Keaton. That amazing, perfect man.

I reach out for the steaming cup of liquid happiness and take a deep sniff. I’m convinced a good cuppa can cure almost anything. “Oh, I’ll take a cup as well,” I hear Dickless say.

“All out,” Keaton grunts.

As if I’d ever run out of coffee , I scoff in my head.

Knowing him, he doesn’t even want to spare the two words for the man. Hearing that, I take a loud slurp of my coffee and quickly lick the rim like I’m saving a stray drip. The rule is if you lick it, you don’t have to share, right? And I get the added benefit of rubbing it in that I have coffee and he can’t. Total win-win.

Dickless scowls, giving me an extra boost of pleasure. I take another sip to hide the smile behind my mug, my heart warming at the care Keaton wasn’t afraid to show for me in front of others. Even if it is completely platonic in nature.

Knowing I can’t postpone answering him forever, I finally give him the information he came for. “No, I haven’t.”

He sucks in a deep breath, making his frown even more exaggerated with disappointment. It’s a look I’ve received more times than I can count. One that’s faker than Alyssa’s tits. I only wish I realized before I let him manipulate me with it when I first started out. Now it does nothing to me. I know he’ll do whatever he wants, I’m the only one who can let him fuck with my head anymore.

Sometimes that’s easier said than done, though.

“I thought after your last stint in rehab you would’ve come back with more ambition to take things seriously. Driving away one of your band members isn’t how you prove to me that you’re worthy of the label’s name backing you.”

His words cut into my tender heart, a burning pain ripping through me. Of course he’d assume it had something to do with me. Sometimes I think he actually believes the rumors he’s created about me.

Nash stiffens next to me, and I hand him my coffee to stop him from doing or saying something that he can’t take back. I need him, and if he mouths off to the asshole, then there’s nothing I can do to save him from the slap back coming his way. Not with my name in tatters the way it is.

“I can’t control the actions of others,” I tell him, unsure of what else I can say. My stomach turns with the sudden memory of what he said to me a few days ago—that I need to have a replacement for Tristan if we didn’t find him. My focus has been devoted to finding him, I couldn’t imagine failing, so why would I waste precious time finding someone to take his place?

As expected, the next thing Dickless asks is, “So, who is the replacement you found?”

My palms are sweating, and it takes everything in me not to wipe them on my jeans. “I–” my voice cracks. No matter how much I mentally prep myself, I can’t keep my fear of him from sneaking in when I’m not looking. “I haven’t found one.”

“Raina.” He says my name in that disappointed daddy voice that makes my skin crawl. “Did you even try?”

“She never tries,” Alyssa can’t help but cut in. “She makes me do every little thing for her.”

That motherfucking liar. She does jack shit, and she knows it. So does he, but that’s besides the point. Not to mention helping find a replacement would fall under something she should help me with. The woman deserves to be smacked in the face with a wet fish.

You know what, on that topic, she should’ve been helping with the search for Tristan. He’s part of the band they stuck me with, and it’s bad press for the label if it got out that he’s missing.

Ugh, I just hate her so much.

“Did you find someone for me, then?” I throw back at her. “You know, since I make you do everything?”

Her mouth drops open in shock, not expecting me to show any fight. Nothing comes out as she blinks slowly, trying to come up with some kind of response. “You have to learn responsibility at some point, Raina.”

Dickless rolls his eyes and holds up his hand to silence her. It only sends a small amount of pleasure zipping through me to see her shut up so dismissively. “I take it you didn’t do the one thing I asked for after I gave you grace the other day?” He sighs, but his disappointment seems fake and over-the-top. “Why would you do something to purposely let me down?”

His question is meant to be a missile, attacking me right in the heart and exploding for maximum damage. Too bad for him, I built a wall around it and moved it somewhere he can’t reach. I hang my head, giving him the reaction he wants while holding my tongue. He’s all about listening to himself, anyway.

“I have someone who I was planning on placing with another band… It goes against my better judgment, but I’ll loan him to you. It’ll cost you, though.” He stares at me for a moment. “First, I’d like you to meet him. Make sure it’s the right fit.”

Nash shifts beside me, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of replacing Tristan, but we’ve talked about it in moments of weakness. They know we’re in a hard place here, backed against a wall with contracts we all signed. Until we find out what happened to Tristan, the show must go on.

That doesn’t mean we’ll give up though.

Alyssa stands, crossing the small space to the door and opening it before I even have a chance to reply. She waves her hand to guide someone into my home turned office space. I’m distracted from watching whoever it is when Nash leans into me, his breath feathering against my ear.

“Well, isn’t that a walking snack.” I barely stop myself from lashing out, fisting my coffee cup in my hand and contemplating the need to sacrifice the holy drink to pour it in his lap. My roasted bean juice is too sacred. I angrily take a sip, squinting my eyes at him as his attention remains trained on whoever walked in.

Where’s a fork when a girl needs one?

In lieu of stabbing him with an eating utensil, I search for whatever girl has stolen the attention of my bass player. My gaze sweeps over the room, but the only bitch who deserves to die is Alyssa. There is no other woman.

Realization comes to me all too slowly. I almost feel like I’m in a daze as I watch Dickless stand and hold his hand out. My eyes trail the movement as I watch a man with gorgeous mahogany skin reaching for it. I bite my lip as his tendons flex with the movement. Can I find a forearm sexy? Is that actually a thing?

I’m certifiable if an arm turns me on.

Shaking my thoughts off, I take in the rest of him. He’s wearing a teal band T-shirt for Whispered Words, the logo worn out like it’s well loved, not something he’s recently picked up. I nearly let out a sigh with the way his chest fills out the fabric, and as my perusal travels south, I suck in a slight gasp with the way his skinny jeans hug his legs before ending with sneakers that match the color of his shirt.

“Darius, I’d like to introduce you to one of the label’s biggest stars, my niece Raina.” I wince at him calling me his niece, it feels like a subtle undercut, like I didn’t earn my fame. Dickless’ gaze flicks down, and I catch how the corner of his lips want to curl into a snarl. He hates any band that isn’t signed with him, even if he rejected them. It kinda makes me like this Dare guy, just a smidge.

He turns to me, holding out a hand which I obviously take, I’m not an asshole. His hand wraps around mine, solid and warm. Of course I can’t avoid looking at his face. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to it.” His voice washes over me, making my heart skip a beat.

He’s British… The man has that sweet sweet foreign accent that makes my knees weak. As if he needed anything else to make him more attractive. Our eyes meet, and I swear I forget the English language for a moment.

Striking greenish-blue eyes threaten to take my soul. They gaze deeply into me, making me feel exposed to him. His complexion is smooth, complementing his prominent cheekbones and well-defined jawline. His lips split into a smile, like he knows how freaking gorgeous he is. I bet he gets this reaction all the time.

Untangling my tongue before I embarrass myself further, I say, “Nice to meet you, Darius. I’m glad we could find a lead guitarist so quickly.”

Darius tilts his head, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. I’m positive he’s about to speak when the asshole claps his hands together, claiming the attention of everyone in the room.

“Now that everyone has met, Raina, do you find Darius an acceptable replacement?” It doesn’t get past me that he ignored the rest of the band, you know, the people who’ll be playing with this new guitarist…

I wish we weren’t pushed into a corner, but as it stands, I really don’t have a choice here. “As long as he can play the songs and keep up, I’d be happy to have him.”

Darius’ smile takes over his face, a confidence joining it. “You don’t have to worry about that; I have perfect pitch. I’ve been able to play your music from the first time I heard it.”

Okay, now he’s bragging. A good amount of performers have relative pitch. We can hear something and identify the way notes relate to each other. But perfect pitch is the rare ability of being able to play something you’ve never heard before after listening to it once. No sheet music needed. It’s hella useful in the music industry, especially for someone like him.

“Excellent,” Dickless says with fake enthusiasm. “Darius, are you still willing to join them?”

He scans the room, taking a moment to acknowledge the other members of the band, which adds to his character, as he wasn’t willing to completely ignore them. “I am.” He keeps his answer simple, which I appreciate after the brag.

“Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind leaving so I can speak to my niece for a moment, I’d appreciate it.” He uses a tone that makes it clear it’s not a question.

“Not a problem,” Darius says, giving the asshole a nod of respect that he doesn’t deserve as he turns to the door with Alyssa on his heels.

Nash and Blake both look at me, questioning if I want them to ignore the request and stay instead. I want to hug them, squeeze them tight for choosing me over what anyone else asks, but instead I give them a nod of my head, and they follow him out the door.

“You too, son,” Dickless practically hisses with restrained anger. It makes me glance behind me to where Keaton stands with his arms crossed. It’s clear he has no plans of moving and simply stares at the owner of the label like he’s challenging him to try and make him leave.

“I’m assuming you wanted to talk to me?” I ask, drawing the heat off Keaton. Last thing I need is for the two of them to get in a pissing match. Nothing good will come of it.

With a sigh, the man I’ve known all my life retakes his seat and crosses his legs while spreading his arms across the back of the couch. He narrows his gaze on me, studying my every movement. “I hope you realize what a gift this is. He has perfect pitch. It means he’ll be able to seamlessly join your little group.” His eyes flick to Keaton, and I get the impression he’s not only trying to insult us, but seems to believe the rumors. Maybe he believes I’m simply a whore after all the years of his conditioning.

But fuck what he thinks.

He continues on, not waiting for me to reply to anything he’s said. “As I mentioned before, this won’t be free. I’ll need you to write and duet a song with Carmen for her album.”

It feels as if he’s taken a sledgehammer to my chest. Pain radiates from my heart, twisting and clenching at the simple thought of anything I worked on coming out of her mouth.

He’s using me.

Again .

Trying to take something else to give to his latest victim and rubbing it in my face.

My breath catches, and I’m too stunned to answer. I was prepared for him to ask me to do more shows, but this blindsided me. The urge to rage and scream fills me, and I bite my cheek until the tang of copper fills my mouth in my attempt to keep it in. I have to answer him calmly, or else he’ll throw it back in my face that I’m simply a hysterical woman who doesn’t know what’s best for my career.

It’s probably only been a split second, but the silence seems to stretch between time and space. A buzzing sound picks up in my ears as I scramble for something to say. Anything.

“Excuse me,” a female voice suddenly cuts in out of nowhere.