Brooklyn Rockstar (Kendall Family #1) (3 page)

Random shots of Coney Island and the other band members weave together as Charlie continues to croon. With the face of a teenager, thick tattooed arms, long blond hair, and an enticing smile, the drummer is also considerably attractive and must draw a fair amount of attention from fans. How can someone like that just go missing? I briefly wonder if drugs had anything to do with his disappearance since it seems the world is always losing musical legends that way.

When Charlie reappears during the chorus, his eyes warm to the camera as if seducing a lover. Then he tilts his head back, pushing his Adam’s apple against his long neck as he breaks into a guitar solo. With the warming glow rising in my belly, a low hum falls from my lips. Damn this guy is sexy as hell and brings out all kinds of feelings I haven’t felt since…who
knows
when.

Growing up in a house with four men, dating was a challenge. It was impossible to hide anything from my fierce protectors. Then my twin brothers stuck their noses where they didn’t belong and I gave up trying. It’s like they were on some kind of mission to see me die a virgin because they think it’s what our mom would’ve wanted. Little do they know, they traumatized me in the midst of my first time and I’ve been too freaked out to go all the way with another guy ever since.

Now that I’m no longer under their thumbs, I’m free to date anyone I want without having to worry about it getting back to my family. Excited with the possibilities ahead, I snag my trusty vibrator from a suitcase before slipping beneath the sheets and restarting the video from the beginning. Some people—namely Sharlo—may think it’s weird I've gone this long without having sex, but at least I know how to find pleasure when needed. It’s easy to find release when daydreaming about the rockstar with beautiful blue eyes and starting my new life in a city I’ve always loved.

“
I
fucking hate this city
,” I grumble, pulling my Nets cap down as far as it will go without completely covering my eyes. “Remind me again why I haven't moved far away?”

“Because if you lived in Iowa, you’d be playing for county fairs on dirt tracks and making change instead of the big bucks,” Lorenzo replies with an amused smirk. “Suck it up, man. Could be worse. You could be living in a duplex with your extended family like me. Besides, this city has made you a king.”

A teenager sitting across from us with huge headphones on her platinum head drags her gaze up to us, pausing on Lorenzo before she looks back down at her phone. I blow a deep breath out through my nose.

There was a time before I became well-known that I actually enjoyed taking the subway. It’s the cheapest and fastest way to get around since I don’t want to deal with the nuisance of owning a car. But it’s become a headache with the threat of being noticed. Still, despite having a cushioned bank account that allows me to hire a private driver, I like to stay grounded whenever possible and get around like everyone else—at least until the day when my presence creates a fucking mob.

“We should blow out of the city for a few days,” I tell Lorenzo. “Jay told me I could use his place in Tahoe whenever. I’ve seen pictures—it’s off the hook and totally isolated. Wouldn’t you rather spend the weekend watching chicks running around in bikinis while drinking mai tais with those little paper umbrellas you like?”

Eyebrows raised, he jabs me in the ribs. “I’m going to pretend you meant to ask if I would rather spend
next
weekend doing all that, you know, because of your gig tomorrow night and everything.”

“Fuck!” I scrub my face with both hands before pressing on my temples. At the time we booked the gig, it sounded like a solid idea. Now that I’ve begun to second-guess all my songs… “Can we put it off for a few weeks? I’m really not feeling this single act shit right now.”

Lorenzo’s features tighten as he sighs. “Every goddamn time we talk, it’s like you’re trying to find a way out of going solo. Listen, the band is big, we all know that. But it’s been ten months. What if they never find Danny? What if Corey takes Gringer up on their offer to play bass for them? What if Taz gets so many paternity lawsuits slapped on him that he’s tied down by court dates for the rest of his life? What if you get herpes and lose the use of your arms?”

Though I want to deck him one for the dig, I hear Danny’s voice telling me to stop being such a pussy. I give Lorenzo a dead-eyed stare instead.

“You need to stay
relevant
, brother,” he continues, suddenly becoming uncomfortably loud. A few curious heads turn our way, but most are accustomed to weirdness on the subway. “Strike the iron while it’s hot! You don’t want to become some has-been who was once in an awesome band of which you’re the brains and talent anyway! You write the damn music! You have the looks and charm that disintegrates panties! The time to venture out on your own is right now! You have to grab this thing by the nut sack while social media is salivating at the mouth to make you a superstar and the pussy is plentiful!”

When the middle aged woman behind him scowls our way, I raise an eyebrow and shrug. “He’s off his meds.”

Shaking her head, the woman turns away. The others listening have lost interest in our conversation by now as well. I inhale a breath of relief.

“I think you missed your calling as a motivational speaker,” I say in a low voice, shaking my head. There hasn't been much in the past few years Lorezno wasn’t able to talk me into doing, including snorting Adderall off a stripper’s tits alongside Danny. I normally don’t do the drugs thing other than an occasional joint, but that night we were celebrating the band’s first number one hit and a bunch of fraternity idiots offered the stuff. I was feeling on top of the world to begin with, so it didn’t take much convincing. Not that Danny ever let me say no to anything anyway.

Lorenzo claps me on the shoulder. “Listen. Quit making excuses and
do it
. Show the world what you’re made of. You can start by rocking the shit outta that little corner bar tomorrow night. It’s an exclusive thing—the place will be packed and literally crawling with woman wanting a piece of you. I made sure they stacked the guest list.”

“How exactly is a room full of chicks going to help my career?”

“Are you kidding me? Listen. They’ll be all over themselves just to get a
look
at you. It’s good press. And if you don’t want any of that pussy, you could do me a solid and send a few my way. If I don’t get laid soon, my balls are going to be as blue as that chick’s hair.” He gestures toward a woman with dark blue streaks in her dirty blond hair and a toddler in her lap.

Chuckling behind my hand, I look down at my feet. “That would be a travesty,” I concede. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The rest of the ride to the interview Lorenzo wouldn’t let me back out of, we’re both quiet as I’m lost in my thoughts of going solo and Lorenzo’s likely fantasizing how I’m going to making good on his suggestion. We arrive ten minutes late to the swanky hotel in the heart of downtown Manhattan. With my hat stuffed in my back pocket, I’m easily recognizable to the young manager waiting in the lobby. She’s a dark shade of red when she leads us to the penthouse.

“Ms. Porter wanted me to tell you she’s running just a few minutes late,” the woman tells us. “Make yourselves at home and please let us know if there's anything we can do for you.”

The long living room smells of sandalwood and is completely stark white—from the walls to the floor and the furniture—with the exception of puke-yellow pillows on a pair of matching armchairs that face a couch on the other side of a glass coffee table. I walk over to the wall of windows and take in the impressive skyline. It’s a clear day with blue skies and only a few white clouds floating around, allowing a view all the way to the harbor.

No matter how many times I go into this fucking city, I’m never quite at home and always feel like a fish out of the pond when seeing the tall buildings and never-ending swarm of people. I’m just a kid from Brooklyn Heights who grew up a few blocks from where Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys once lived. I idolized the man most my life, knowing every angle of his story and vowing I’d learn from his early mistakes of being a bad boy partier if I ever made it big. When he died a little over a year after I finally got the chance to meet him, it gutted me.

“Impressive, right?” a feminine voice asks behind me.

Lorenzo and I watch as a long-legged beauty strides into the room wearing a tight skirt and flowing blouse that reveals the inside curves of her breasts. Wearing some of the highest heels I’ve ever seen, she still manages to cross the distance between us with grace and ease. Despite having washed out blond hair with dark roots, she’s both professional and sexy as shit. The type Danny would totally be all over.

I normally loathe these goddamned interviews, but this could be one of few I actually enjoy. I can’t wait to make her lose that tough exterior and tremble at the knees.

Emerald eyes sparking to life, she smiles and offers me her hand. “Gwen Porter. I’m a
big
fan.”

“I’m sure you are,” Lorenzo says with a snicker.

Nudging him in the side, I accept her slender hand, taking a minute to drink in the generous curves of her fit body. Even though I guess her to be in her mid 30s, she obviously takes good care of herself and works hard to look good.
So
more my type than the skinny model with fake tits. Plus the older women usually like to fuck dirty.

“It’s always good to meet my fans.” I brush my thumb over the back of her hand and grin when I see her slightly tremble. “This is my manager, Lorenzo Marchetta.”

“Ah, Mr. Marchetta,” she says in a notably annoyed tone. “I believe we spoke on the phone.”

“That we did,” he says, taking her hand the moment I release it. “I should’ve guessed by that voice you’d be a vision of beauty.”

With a gracious laugh, Gwen quickly reclaims her hand as if worried she just contracted an STD. “I was hoping I could have some privacy with Mr. Walker. Do you mind waiting down in the lobby, Mr. Marchetta?”

“I’ll wait in the
hallway
if you promise to call me Lorenzo,” he answers with a playful wink. He catches my gaze and chuckles. “You good?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I seem to be in capable hands.”

He shrugs. “Okay then. Miss Porter, it was a pleasure. I hope to see more of you around. You have my number if you need…anything.” Throwing the reporter a toothy smile, he shuts the door behind him.

Gwen motions to the fluffy couch that reminds me of my sister’s yippy mutts. “Sit down and relax, Mr. Walker. Let’s get to know each other a little better.”

Plopping down on the couch, I stretch my arms out and wonder how much the furniture alone set the hotel back. I’m sickened by the way the rich like to blow their wads on material things. When I got my first big check, I vowed never to let physical possessions take over my life. For the most part I’ve made good on my promise, instead spoiling my mom and sister since that kind of thing makes them happy.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. “Coffee? A water?”

I drum my fingers against the back of the couch, wishing I had taken something to help me relax. “Is it too early for whiskey?”

“Sorry to say I didn't think to request any,” she answers with a small shake of her head. “Would you like me to have room service deliver a bottle? From what I understood, you’re more of a
tequila
man.”

Christ, I haven’t drank tequila since my days of partying with Danny. Instead of setting her straight, I flash my sexiest smile. “I can be whatever kind of man you’d like, but I think I’m good for now.”

As I sit back with my legs spread apart, she settles one cushion away, crossing her deliciously toned legs. She alternates between playing with a curly strand of hair on her shoulder and tugging on the hem of her skirt while clearing her throat. I’ve seen something like it a million times. It’s the female equivalent to a hard-on, though I’m quite sure their experience isn’t quite as painful, but more like an itch they’re unable to scratch. That’s what a chick once told me, anyway.

Toying with women until they’re squirming for relief is one of those things that’ll never grow old. I wish I knew how many of them stuck their fingers inside themselves after our encounters. “I’m sure you know the drill, but if there’s anything you want off the record, just let me know, and it’ll stay between us.” After setting a small digital recorder on the glass table, she folds her manicured hands over her knees.

I toss her a slow wink. “Oh, I’ll let you know.”

Her lips bend with one of the whitest smiles I’ve seen. “I’ve been following your success closely, Mr. Walker.”

“Call me Charlie.”

“
Charlie
. You’ve had quite the eventful career so far. Thrashtag has collaborated with some of the biggest acts in the business and opened for Gringer on their world tour. Your first album recently went platinum, having sold over one point three
million
copies. That’s almost unheard of in today’s digital world. Then your bandmate Danny Hogril disappeared, postponing your first headlining tour indefinitely. Now you’re working on a solo album that critics and fans alike anticipate to blow away the charts. Do you feel going it alone is the best path for your career, or are you still hopeful the band will one day reunite?”

Stomach suddenly feeling uneasy, I stiffen and clench my teeth. Is she asking whether or not I hope we find Danny? Does she think I’m some kind of goddamned masochist? How am I expected to feel inspired with this kind of bullshit riding on my shoulders?

“I don’t know where you’re getting your intel,
Gwen
, but it's impossible for anyone to speculate on the album when less than a dozen people have actually
heard
it. I’m still rewriting some of the songs.” When I feel my anger rearing its ugly head, I take a deep breath. “Play your cards right and maybe there’ll be a bonus track about a sexy reporter with bright green eyes.”

She uncrosses her legs before crossing them in the other direction. Her eyes latch onto mine, filled with lust. “You’re very charming, Charlie. You wouldn’t be flirting with me, would you?”

I don’t offer anything more than a suggestive smirk.

Again, she clears her throat and shifts her hips. The ragged beats of her heart flutter on the hollow curve of her slender neck. “There’s a rumor going around that you recently added another tattoo to your collection. Anything you want to share with your fans? We could include it in today’s photo shoot.”

My hand rubs at the word “trust” inked over my heart, safely hidden beneath my shirt. Eventually the world will see it, but I won’t ever be able to share its meaning with anyone. The only person who knows why I felt a need to redefine the word is dead. Why is it so hard to find a tattoo parlor where the other customers don’t open their big fucking mouths to the press?

“Are you asking me to take my clothes off so you can inspect my body?” I tease, pushing the rolled sleeves of my button-down shirt higher to expose more of my biceps. “Who’s flirting now?”

As she studies the drawings on my forearm, her tongue appears to wet her glossy lips. It reminds me of the hashtag #lickCharlie that Lorenzo claims nearly broke the internet after my shirtless pictures appeared in
GQ
. What is it with chicks wanting to
lick
ink? Do they think it’s flavored?

When our eyes meet, I can sense just how badly she wants to straddle me. By now she must be dripping wet.
As if to confirm my thoughts, her pupils widen. “You haven’t been linked with one woman in quite some time. Have you given up on dating?”

Yet another million dollar question that I won’t answer for anyone. I scoot forward on the sofa, smirking. I’m done with this bullshit interview.

“Are you married, Gwen?”

“No,” she answers with a tight laugh.

I slide closer until our knees are only inches away. “Boyfriend?”