Rock Chick Bonus Tracks

Track 6

Rock Chick Reckoning

Just in Case

* * *

Mace

* * *

Mace returned from his run, wandering through the lush foliage that led to the bungalow he shared with Stella at the Chateau Marmont.

The band had a day off from the studio.

This was because they were on fire. Dixon Jones and the swinging dicks at Black Fat Records were beside themselves. The tracks were great, and Stella and the boys were laying them down like pros.

Mace had to admit to feeling shock about this. He thought there’d be antics. Tantrums. Fights. Groupies hanging out in the booth, distracting the process.

But there had been none of that shit.

He looked right, where the path opened up to head down to the pool, and he stopped dead.

Pong, his body glistening with oil, a tiny neon-green Speedo covering his narrow ass, a thin gold chain winking in the sun around his waist, was lying flat out on his stomach on a lounger, arms dangling down the sides to rest on the pool deck.

He looked passed out.

This could have something to do with the two women on the loungers on either side of him, one laying on her back in a barely-there bikini, the other on her stomach, no top to speak of and a thong hiked up her ass, both also looking passed out.

The Gypsies were a no-name band here in LA, and they’d only been in town for three weeks. Most of that time, they’d been working. They hadn’t even played a gig.

Still, Pong scored himself some groupies.

Mace felt his lips twitch as he continued moving toward the bungalow.

He let himself in and saw Stella and a mug of coffee at the table by the back window.

Her shining, thick, long, wild hair was sexy messy, her beautiful face still held a residue of sleep.

Her gaze came direct to him. It took in his body slicked with sweat, and a hungry look pushed out the sleep on her face.

He took that hungry as an invitation.

And he accepted.

“Get in our bed,”

he growled.

Her eyes shot from the tee plastered to his chest, up to his face, then she got off her sweet ass and hightailed it to bed.

Sprawled across the white sheets, Mace watched Stella come out of the bathroom after cleaning up.

She stopped long enough to pull on some baby-blue panties and a tight white tank that didn’t quite meet the waistband of the underwear before she put a knee to the bed and crawled into it to collapse half down his side, half on the bed.

Mace shoved a hand under her, curled it up and rested it on her ass.

She stacked her hands on his chest and took one of what had become many surveys of his face during their time in Los Angeles.

“I’m fine,”

he murmured, giving her ass a squeeze.

He could answer her unspoken question because he knew what was on her mind.

Tiny had lived in LA, and Mace had spent a lot of time in LA when she did.

She also died in LA.

Stella knew all this, and his woman was worried it was going to get to him.

She was right to worry.

It was getting to him.

Then again, he’d never get over losing Tiny. He just needed to fight his way to understanding that it was natural, an honor to her memory, what she deserved, and maybe that would help him live with it.

Having his mom and Chloe back was a balm he didn’t know he needed.

But Stella did.

On that thought, he gave her ass another squeeze.

“You should go surfing while we’re here,”

she suggested.

“Babe,”

he warned.

“I’m assuming you got so good at it because you liked to do it. Don’t you miss it?”

He did.

But that held memories of Caitlin too.

He still snowboarded, and Caitlin loved her big brother, she’d been with him when he was on a mountain.

“I board,”

he said, not meaning to do it, not used to sharing.

It just came out.

“What?”

she asked softly, her throaty voice wrapping around the word, making it feel like a soothing touch.

And another invitation.

An invitation to share more in the safe space it seemed only Stella could give him.

“I snowboard. I don’t surf.”

He shifted on the bed, discomfort gathering in his muscles. “She came to a lot of my surfing competitions. She also came to my boarding competitions. So why do I board and not surf?”

“Do you board by yourself?”

He shook his head. “No. Sometimes Eddie comes with me, or Lee, Hank or Monty.”

“So, you made it part of your new life, without her.”

He had. And he did it with men he respected, living a life doing work he was proud of after all he’d done when they lost Tiny.

He couldn’t say he was proud of what he’d done for Tiny.

He could only say it was a job that needed to be done, so he did it.

But what he did now with Lee and the men, he felt pride in that. In their brotherhood. In the family they gave him.

He ran the knuckles of his free hand along her cheekbone, murmuring, “You’re gorgeous and smart.”

“There’s a lot to me. I’m not just a wannabe Rock God,”

she joked.

“Soon-to-be,”

he corrected.

Her brown eyes melted, and she whispered, “Soon-to-be.”

“Glad we got that straight.”

She pushed up so she was closer to his face, and he had her tits to his chest, not her hands. It was by a slim margin, he liked anything of her touching him, but he preferred the tits.

“Is it just me, or is it a little freaky how good the boys are being?”

she asked.

“It’s hella freaky,”

he concurred. “But when you’re one album contract away from everything you ever wanted, you get your shit sharp.”

She nodded.

“Though, Pong’s right now passed out, flanked by two women down by the pool.”

She started laughing, the husky sound taking a firm grip on his dick.

So he rolled her.

“What are we gonna do on your day off?”

he asked when he had her on her back and his hands were moving on her body.

“I have a feeling you have some ideas.”

Oh yeah.

He had ideas.

“Yeah,”

he confirmed.

She arched into him, her fingers playing the skin on his back with the same talent she played her guitar. “Let’s roll with those.”

He put his mouth to hers, not releasing his hold on her gaze, and said, “Perfect.”

Stella was asleep.

Mace was awake.

It was late, but LA was a lot like Vegas, with a hazier, more laidback feel. It never shut down. You could feel the vibe of the city pulsing softly over the grounds of the Chateau into their room.

Denver was a city at the same time it was a town. It got quiet at night. Shit happened and people were out doing their thing, good or bad, at all hours.

But it wasn’t like LA.

And as he lay in bed on his back, Stella cuddled beside him, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, it occurred to him that he’d forgotten how much he liked it.

He missed it.

He put his hand on hers at his chest and immediately felt Tiny’s ring on her pinkie.

He closed his eyes to concentrate on fighting the constriction that tightened his throat.

He needed a drink.

He lifted his head to kiss the top of hers, then carefully slid out from under her, making sure the covers stayed put around her body.

He pulled on some jeans, a tee, his running shoes, and headed out.

He went straight to the bar, and he was both surprised and unsurprised to see Hugo sitting on a stool, a snifter of cognac in front of him, his gaze to Mace like he was expecting him.

Mace took the stool next to him, ordered a bourbon neat and turned to Hugo.

“Feels like you’ve been waiting on me, man,” he noted.

“I have, and you took your time. Every night, been sitting here, expecting you to show,”

Hugo replied.

Mace leveled his gaze on Hugo, who, like the rest of the band (save Floyd), could do stupid shit, but even so, he was less prone to it.

If Mace had to call it, he’d say Hugo would give it five to seven years to get the wild out. Then he’d find a good woman, start making babies, and become the band’s new Floyd, working with Stella to keep their shit tight and their train—which had more than enough power, it never had to meet its final destination—on the rails.

“You know what you gotta do,”

Hugo said.

The bartender put his glass in front of Mace. He picked it up and threw back a healthy shot before setting it back to the bar, his fingers still wrapped around.

He kept his gaze on the back of the bar.

“Take her with you,”

Hugo encouraged. “First, she needs to go. She needs to be there with you when you go. But she also needs that connection. And second, it’s always gonna kill, but with her there, it’ll lessen the pain.”

He knew exactly what Hugo was talking about. What he didn’t know was how Hugo knew to talk about it.

Maybe Stella had shared with him. Maybe Floyd had a conversation with him.

But Mace reckoned this was all Hugo.

“I don’t know if I can,”

he admitted to the bottles of liquor behind the bar.

“You can. You need to. The concept of closure is bullshit. There are some wounds that never heal. This is one of them.”

Mace turned his head to Hugo.

Hugo kept talking.

“But this is the journey, Mace. You can’t avoid stops on the journey. You do, they’ll haunt you. You got enough haunting you, brother. Don’t you think?”

Mace lifted the glass and downed the rest of the bourbon.

He then jerked up his chin to the bartender for a refill.

The bartender complied.

Through this, Mace nor Hugo said anything.

Only after Mace took his next sip did Hugo speak.

“She’s there all alone, brother.”

Mace felt those words twist in his gut, and that feeling made him send a murderous look to the man at his side.

“She’s not there.”

Hugo shook his head. “She’s there, Mace. And she’s wondering why her brother hasn’t visited her.”

Mace dropped his head, clipping, “Fuck.”

Hugo downed his cognac, clapped him on the back and slid off his stool.

“I’ll leave you with that, man, ’cause I know you’ll do the right thing…”

His pause was meaningful, then he landed his last velvet blow, “For your sister.”

He felt Hugo’s hand on his shoulder. There was a firm squeeze, then the man was gone, leaving Mace with his bourbon and his memories.

When he got back to their bungalow, Stella was again at the table. No coffee this time and sitting in the dark.

“Did you talk to him?”

he asked after he shut the door behind him.

“No,”

she answered. “Which one was it?”

There it was.

She didn’t talk to Hugo. She didn’t talk to any of them.

“Floyd?”

she went on, her tone knowing, love threading through it, Floyd being the only real dad she’d ever had.

“Hugo.”

He could sense her surprise.

Mace moved to the couch and folded into it.

She came to him and climbed on to sit astride his lap.

She said no words. She just rested her chest to his, shoved her forehead in his neck and pushed her hands in at his back so she was holding him.

Mace didn’t touch her.

“Do you believe in life after death?” he asked.

He felt her body tense, knowing she worried about giving him the wrong answer, prodding that wound that would never heal, causing him pain.

Mace knew she forced herself to relax when she replied, “I haven’t landed on my decision on that, but I’d like to think yes.”

“I think it’s no,”

he shared. “I think once you quit breathing, that’s the end. And when the last person who remembers you dies, that’s when you cease to exist.”

Stella was on him, all around him, her scent, her weight.

But somehow, she made it more, wrapping him up, holding him closer, with more than just the tightening of her arms.

Mace drew in breath, drawing her in, the strength of her love was all he ever needed.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he fucked them up the first time.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for Stella to give him the strength.

But now, he reminded himself, he was ready.

She’d given him the strength.

“But just in case,”

he whispered.

“Yes,”

she whispered back. “Just in case.”

Mace held the huge bouquet of roses.

Stella held Mace.

When they arrived at the destination Mace had avoided until that moment with everything that was him, he saw Chloe had done well. The stone was perfect. Not huge and ostentatious, not small and unnoticeable.

A pair of ballet shoes was etched in the top. Words and numbers he refused to look at in the middle.

And at the bottom, it said, Loved by her mother and her brother and everyone who knew her.

Mace read those words.

Then he read them again.

And again.

Stella squeezed his hand.

He swallowed, let her go and crouched, putting the pink flowers at the base of the marble gravestone.

He wanted to say something, he just didn’t know what to say.

Or how to say everything he had to say.

It was on this thought, he heard the guitar.

Startled, he looked over his shoulder.

He thought it was just him and Stella.

But under a tree a few rows away, stood Floyd, Hugo, Leo and Pong.

And a little nearer, Buzz and his guitar.

From the chords Buzz was playing, Mace knew what was coming, but he turned back to the flowers when Buzz started singing “Good Riddance.”

Stella got to her knees behind him. He felt her hands on his lats, her forehead rest against the base of his neck.

And as Buzz sang, finally, he lifted his eyes to the words under the ballet shoes.

Caitlin Tallulah Mason

“Tiny”

Buzz stopped singing.

The guitar stopped playing.

The song was over.

It took some time.

Then Mace knew what he had to say.

“For what it’s worth, it’s worth all the while.”

He heard his woman’s soft sob.

And after hearing that, silently, Kai Mason finally said goodbye to his baby sister.

After the gig was over, Mace moved into the dressing room, and since he’d had some practice, he clocked them immediately.

He prowled right there.

“ID,”

he grunted to one of the three girls draped on Pong.

“Dude,”

Pong started. “They been carded.”

“Ohmigod, are you Kai Mason?”

the girl breathed.

He snapped his fingers. “ID.”

She tore her gaze from him, looked to Pong, then looked to the security guard at the door.

“Not gonna ask again,”

Mace warned.

Hesitantly, she grabbed the little bag that was resting on her hip from the straps that crossed her body, and she pulled out her ID.

He took it, barely glanced at it and knew it was fake.

He kept hold on it and asked, “How old are you?”

She’d practiced this, so she immediately told him the age from the ID. “Twenty-two.”

“How old are you?”

he repeated.

She stared at him. Then said, “Okay, nineteen.”

“How. Old. Are. You?”

he said menacingly.

She pushed away from Pong and threw up her hands. “Seventeen! Okay? But I’m almost eighteen!”

“Fuck,”

Pong mumbled.

“Out,”

Mace said to the girl.

“But—”

she started.

“Out. Now,”

Mace ordered. Then looked to the other two girls. “You go with her.”

“But I’m actually eighteen,”

one of them said.

“Take it up with her.”

He jerked his head at the one he carded. “She got you ousted. Go.”

When none of them moved, he warned, “I won’t say it again.”

The three of them studied him, wondering how far they could push it, considering they were all young, very pretty, and probably because of both, got their way a lot.

Thankfully, they were also smart because they got their asses in gear and took off.

But not before the first one requested, “Can I have my ID back?”

“Nope,”

was Mace’s answer.

When they were gone, he went to the security guard at the door.

“I think I remember telling you to card every female that came in here, no matter what age they look,”

he remarked.

“I did,”

he returned, surly and combative.

Black Fat could put on a helluva tour.

But their choice in security sucked.

He held up the ID with two fingers a couple of inches from the guy’s face. “Can you not tell real from fake?”

“It’s a rock band, man. They don’t care real or fake, just as long as the date is right.”

“This band does.”

“No, you do,”

he shot back. “Bet Pong won’t be happy you kicked out the pussy he tagged as his for the night.”

Mace looked over his shoulder seeing what he knew he’d see.

Pong was still lounged in the armchair as he was before, but now three other women were there, and they were all clearly of age.

He turned back to the guard and lifted a brow.

The guy’s lip curled. “Dude, I know you’re a shit-hot PI. And I know you’re bangin’ Stella. But bottom line, you’re just a rock star’s boyfriend.”

Mace stood very still.

“Fired,”

Stella sing-songed as she walked in.

Stella was always late to the dressing room at the end of a gig. That’s because she gave time to young women who were studying music and entered local competitions for the privilege.

Floyd gave that time with her.

The rest of the band, considering the girls were always minors, headed straight to the dressing room.

She stopped to reach up and kiss Mace’s jaw. She gave him a smile.

Then she ignored the security guy and strutted into the dressing room, right to the vat filled with bottles of Fat Tire.

“Think Stella stated the case,”

Floyd, now standing close to Mace, added. “You’re fired, bud. Get outta here.”

“Pain in the ass diva bullshit,”

the guy groused, locking eyes with Mace. “No skin off my nose.”

“Before I take the skin of your entire face, motherfucker, get the fuck out,”

Hugo called. “Jesus, where do they find these guys?”

he asked the room at large. “It’s like amateur hour.”

The security guard’s face got red.

Mace got close.

The man’s head jerked, he finally took in Mace’s vibe, and that was when he also finally got smart.

He took off.

Mace caught the door before it closed on him and looked at the two guys outside. “You let anyone in here who isn’t legal again, you won’t get another assignment. Anywhere. Except maybe at a mall. Am I heard?”

“Right,”

one grunted.

“Yup,”

the other one also grunted.

Clearly, those two were less dumb, or maybe they were just less assholes.

He went back to the room, letting the door close behind him.

Stella was there, handing him an open beer.

“You were the shit out there tonight, baby,”

he told her.

“You always say that,”

she replied before she put the bottle to her lips and took a tug.

“I never lie.”

She blasted him with a smile, it was lit with the afterglow of a great gig, which was also a promise of off-the-hook sex when they got back to the hotel room. She did this before she strutted to the couch and threw herself on it for a much-needed rest. As always, she put everything into the show. So much, Mace was wondering how she was still conscious, much less how she’d pull out even more when she did what he knew she was going to do in about an hour, that being fucking him stupid.

She was beside Leo, who had a gurgling bong to his mouth, taking a hit.

He felt Floyd at his side.

“They’d demand people sort through the M&Ms for us if we asked,”

Floyd started. “They go all out. Red carpet. Five star. Top of the line. But their security is for shit. Our rise has been stratospheric, as you know, but I think you and I both also know, it’s only just beginning. So the bigger she gets, they get, the worse that particular problem is gonna get. They don’t tighten their safety procedures and the people who enforce them, I don’t see good things.”

This was Mace’s same thought.

“You have a word?”

Mace asked.

Floyd nodded.

“Three times,”

Floyd answered.

“Right, then I’ll have a word.”

Floyd smiled.

A knock came at the door and Mace twisted that way.

One of the guards had his head stuck in.

He looked right at Mace and said, “Guests.”

Then he jutted his chin, an indication the band would be okay with who was on the other side of the door.

Mace returned the gesture.

The door opened, and the hip-hop megastar Dee-Amond strolled in, followed by a more than impressive entourage.

“Damn, my motherfuckers,”

he said by way of greeting. “I heard you were planting new roots in rock ’n’ roll, but hell if they didn’t get that shit right.”

“Holy fuck,”

Leo breathed, pot smoke still drifting out of his mouth, bleary eyes glued to Dee-Amond.

Hugo smiled slow.

Buzz stared.

Pong was buried in women and wasn’t paying attention to anything else.

It was Stella who stood from the couch and made the approach, hand out.

“Dee-Amond, wow. Honored,”

she said as he took her hand.

“Couldn’t believe it’d be true, you being more beautiful up close and personal, but here it is. And that voice. Damn, sis, platinum-plated.”

Stella smiled at him, and the richest, most famous recording artist of the day was instantly charmed for a lifetime.

Mace grinned.

Yeah.

That was his girl.

“Eventually, you gotta get outta the game, my brother,”

Dee-Amond said through his phone into Mace’s ear. “Time to spend less of it on the road workin’ my ass off, and more of it enjoyin’ all the money I earned.”

“I hear you,”

Mace replied.

“Still gonna need you, Mace. Just because I’m slowing down doesn’t mean crazy motherfuckers don’t want a piece of my ass,”

Amond went on.

“You need my services, you got ’em. You don’t, you’re still invited over this weekend. I’m grilling. My mom is in town.”

“Lana? Is Tom with her?”

“’Course.”

“Chloe and Ben coming?”

“Absolutely.”

“Count me in. Have your girl talk to my girl about times and shit.”

His “girl”

was the woman who ran MTS Security for him so he didn’t have to be behind a desk all the fucking time.

She was also sixty-seven years old and had been the executive secretary to two studio heads. Both of whom she hated. Both of whom she’d wrung top salary out of, including “retirement”

packages (even when she left one at age forty-three) that meant she didn’t have to work again, even in LA.

He suspected it was more about the dirt she knew about them, but she’d endure torture before she’d ever tell.

Another reason why she worked for Mace.

After her second retirement, she realized she’d become used to the excitement of the business and couldn’t stay away.

Now she kept Mace’s ass in gear, and all his men…and women.

“I’ll get on that,”

he told Amond.

“Right. Later, brother.”

“Later, Amond.”

He’d barely put his phone down before the screen lit up with a picture of him with his seven-year-old daughter wrapped around his back, Stella pressed to his side, smiling up at Tallulah, who was smiling down at her mom. His wife’s hand was on his abs.

It was only Mace who was smiling at the camera.

For a second, the past came rushing back, and he didn’t know who the man in that picture was.

But he grabbed the phone, took the call from his wife, and after he said, “Hey, baby,”

and she replied, “Hey, Kai,”

he remembered.

That man was him.

Son to Lana Mason.

Stepson to Chloe Mason.

Husband to Stella Gunn.

Father to Tallulah India Jet Mason.

And…yeah. Brother to Caitlin Mason.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“First, Tex and Nancy are joining us this weekend. She mentioned she’d never been to Universal Studios, so obviously Tex made it his mission to get her here. They arrive tomorrow.”

“Not a problem. We got room.”

And they did. They had a seven-bedroom, nine-thousand square foot house on a compound located on the north side of Malibu that included a detached studio, a casita, a pool house (so also obviously a pool) and extensive gardens.

“Second, you need to call the head of security at Universal Studios and warn them Tex is coming.”

He chuckled and lied, “I’ll get right on that.”

He heard her husky laughter, felt it in his chest and parts south, then she said, “Tally been going on again about how she just can’t live without Sophia.”

Mace blew out a sigh.

He liked their house with its proximity to the beach, so he and Tally could surf.

Tally liked that, and the pool.

Stella liked the studio.

But all of them were done with LA.

Tally’s best friend had moved to Phoenix. Now, Tally was in fits of despair—near-tween-girl style—that her bestest bestie since forever had left because her dad got transferred, and they weren’t going to get to see each other at school every day.

He and Stella tried not to spoil their girl.

But seriously. Droughts. Mud slides. Earthquakes. Daily run-ins with fruits, nuts and flakes (no judgement, Mace was a fan of letting it all hang out and being who you were, but Mace couldn’t deny he missed the solidity of Denver, there were fruits nuts and flakes there too, but not at every turn).

And living in a town where you could walk into any store, coffee shop or restaurant and see anyone from the A-list to the C-list (Stella being A-list) and have to deal with the fans who didn’t have a problem asking for a selfie, or who did and took pictures of you while you were eating eggs benedict at brunch, was getting really old.

Phoenix had zero natural disasters, three-hundred-sixty-five days of sunshine, and a plot of land they’d bought in Paradise Valley, which they already had the permits to build on.

“Family meet tonight?” he asked.

“Family meet,”

she agreed.

“Got some things to wrap up. Should be home in a couple of hours.”

“See you when you get here. I’m cooking.”

Of course she was. Rock star who’d repeatedly made the cover of Rolling Stone, cooked for her family every night when she was home.

“Look forward to it, whatever it is.”

“Okay. Later, babe.”

“Later, Kitten.”

He ended the call and stared at the phone.

He then swiveled in his chair and looked left to right, taking in the overabundance of framed photos on his credenza his wife and daughter added to regularly.

Mace in jeans and a white linen shirt, Stella in a white bikini that had lace applique around the hips and on the top, just under where the straps started. She was wearing a sheer duster with more lace dotted on it that fell to her thighs in the back. A single strand of flowers crowned her loose hair, and she had a long string of freshwater pearls hanging on her neck, the end of which was an oblong peridot.

They were on a beach in Hawaii. It was their wedding.

A shot of Mace and Stella and the whole crew in the back room at My Brother’s Bar. Everyone was smiling, though Tex looked like he’d just completed a murder spree.

Mace leaning over Stella who was on her back in a hospital bed, tendrils of her hair plastered to her face, her cheeks red with the effort she’d just expended, a gunked-up bundle resting on her chest with a scrunched-up face and dark hair on her head.

Chole and Ben, his mom and Tom, and Tally and Stella in front of the Christmas tree.

Tally and Mace at the foot of a run in Aspen, boards under their arms, goggles up on their helmets, smiling at the camera because Stella was behind it.

Stella and the girls in their bridesmaid dresses at Luke and Ava’s wedding, Jet’s large baby bump proudly displayed.

Stella and her guitar onstage at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame when BMG did the tribute at the induction of the Pissed-Off Hippies.

Mace and Stella on the way into the Grammy’s, Stella in a slim, white tuxedo with a shimmery pink top that dipped way low, Mace in a black tuxedo, white shirt, collar open. Pong, wearing more makeup and having more hairspray in his hair than Stella, was photobombing them.

Lee and Tally on the beach when Tally was five. She was pointing at something in the ocean, Lee was crouched by her, one hand to her back, his head turned, looking in that direction.

And in the middle, next to their wedding picture, not hidden, pride of place, was a photo of Caitlin on stage wearing a pink leotard and matching sheer skirt tied at her waist and drifting to her knees. She was up on point, caught in motion.

Her arms were above her head, her beautiful hands held with natural grace and delicacy.

Mace looked from that picture to the one of Lee and Tally on the beach, to Stella’s beaming smile in her bridesmaid dress, to the photo of them caught up in good times at Brother’s. Good times that happened for no reason, just because they’d all found their family and they were smart enough to appreciate it.

Then he went back to Tiny.

“Hope I did you proud, sweetheart,”

he whispered, drew in breath and turned back to his desk.

As he sorted shit to get ready to go home, it didn’t take long for him to finish making up his mind about a thought he’d had a while ago.

So he re-engaged his phone, went to contacts and found Lee.

“Hey, brother,”

Lee answered.

“Yo, Lee. Got a second to talk something through?”

There was a beat of silence and then, before Mace could lay out the plan, he knew Lee knew what he was about when he said, “Christ, man, I thought you’d never ask.”

Mace felt a smile spread on his face.

Then he sat back in the chair in his office and hammered out a deal with his friend.