Carte (Ryan Family #4)

Chapter One

Harley

Rockstar.

That was what they called me.

The word became my second name.

What’s your first thought when you hear that word?

I bet it’s something along the lines of a crowded corridor, full of barely clothed girls, swaying to the rhythm of a loud music. Roadies weaving in and out, going from one end of the space to the other, doing their work, dismantling the stage.

I guess the second thought that comes to mind is the river of alcohol that flows, and drugs that exchange hands freely.

Then there’s also the image of a man who sits on a beat-up couch, a king on his throne, with girls fawning around on every available surface.

What I bet you never thought about was that rockstar being a woman. A woman just turning thirty.

Wasn’t that interesting?

Or that corridor being almost empty, besides those hard-working roadies. That’s because I was smart enough, and grabbed control, of how my gigs are going to look, right off the bat.

Instead of alcohol, there’s tea, sometimes coffee. The only drug that would touch my hands is in the form of a cheeseburger and a piece of delicious cake.

Yeah, I bet you never thought of that.

Still, I was a rockstar.

I never thought I would go down that road in life. All I ever wanted was to tear the bonds that linked me to the people that called themselves my parents, but, in fact, never were.

Not in a practical sense anyway.

And, in some weird twist of fate, I ended up here. Right at this space that makes you think there’s a wild party waiting for me backstage, and all that shebang.

That’s because I wanted you to think that.

That is the version of myself I give to you. The persona.

The real me, came to say ‘hey’ only in my lyrics, and that’s it. The only people that got to see the real me were my friends, and I didn’t have many of those. That was by design, too.

As the last chord and beat of the drum flowed through my veins, and pulsed in my bones, I lifted my arms and let the roar of the crowd slam into me. Heat clung to me, plastering my outfit to my soaked skin, making it feel like torture, and not what it started as.

A tribute to the real-life icon and goddess of rock and roll. A woman who blazed the trail for the rest of us to follow. A diva that left us too early.

I had on a black top with three shiny buttons at the front, tight, glossy leather pants, and a light blue denim jacket that was slightly cropped. It fit snugly.

My chocolate brown hair was teased out within an inch of its life. It was my homage to the rock and roll queen, Tina Turner. A woman. A queen. A true rockstar.

“HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY!” The crowd chanted. They knew it was time to finish this.

I had a rule.

I had many rules, in fact, but only one when it came to my gigs.

I only played my songs. I didn’t feel worthy enough to be singing the words of the giants that defined this genre. I was just a little ol’ me. Noone special.

So, yeah, I only played my songs.

Except the last song of the concert. The last one was always a cover picked from a select few. The one I sang most often to wind the crowd down was Story by Brandi Carly, and I just finished that.

“HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY! HAR-LEY!”

I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. I was exhausted and ready to go soak in a tub before going to bed. I stepped up to the edge of the stage, my scuffed boots scraping the floor, and looked into the dark.

“You want one more?” I smiled into the mic.

The answering roar hit me like a massive tide wave. “Well, all right, then,” I muttered, and turned around, taking the mic stand with me.

I briefly looked at my band; the surprise was right there on their faces. I had never done this before. As I said, I only had one rule.

My songs, one cover as a finish, and that was it. The gig was done.

My band was at a loss. They didn’t know what to play.

I didn’t tell them, I didn’t signal anything. I put the mic down, tilted my chin to my chest, and put the pick to the strings.

At the first note the band knew what was coming, and I could hear them screaming in approval, right along with the crowd.

Tina’s Private Dancer. A song that spoke volumes.

During the whole number, I didn’t move from my spot. I barely even glanced out at the crowd. I was with them, but at the same time, I was all alone.

The moment the last note was played, I turned and walked off the stage without a single glance.

That was it.

I gave it my all.

Some might think it rude, some might resent me for it, but I couldn’t care less.

With everything I did, I poured every part of myself into it.

I was finally free to do as I wanted, not to be controlled.

I clawed my way from under the thumb of two people who thought of me as their property, not their child, not even a human being.

Afterwards, there were contracts, forced compromises, and men in suits and big offices demanding stuff from me in exchange for a big career. And I walked away from it all.

I wasn’t interested in being an international star. I was completely content with working the bar at Elite, my friend Alina’s club, and playing the stage at some dive bar. I didn’t need anything else.

But then, Alina asked me to play at her club, and the rest was history.

The second I climbed the last step and stopped in the total darkness right in the corner off the stage, that’s when it came.

A feeling of complete triumph.

“I’ve done it,” I muttered to myself. I could feel a small, victorious smile tilting the corners of my lips up.

They said I would never amount to anything. That day, as I was walking away from them, my parents screamed behind my back that I would end up in a ditch somewhere, or working a corner.

But damn it, I did it.

No matter how much time had passed since, I still needed a moment to process the feeling of proving them wrong. Still, I took a second after every gig to remind myself that I was worthy.

After I breathed a big, cleansing breath, waiting for a brief second for that memory to enter my brain, I walked out into the light.

Crew members moved this way and that. The urgency was evident, but it wasn’t overpowering. Just the men and women doing their job of dismantling the show and getting everything ready to hit the road, and be on our way to our next stop on this tour.

I passed the crew as they moved this way and that, giving them small smiles of gratuities. My guitarist, Milo, was already in his post-gig element. Laughing about a missed cue that no one in the crowd noticed, he had a half-finished beer in his hand and his arm around a girl.

While I was a quiet hermit, that didn’t mean my band was, and I wasn’t such a bitch to cramp their style. I knew they lived and breathed music, but they also lived and breathed life.

There was only one rule I stressed about. Absolutely no drugs backstage or on a bus. And definitely no minors.

Everything else was a fair game as long as both parties agreed to it and were willing. I wasn’t their mother. Technically, I wasn’t their boss either.

“Harley!” Tim, my tour manager called, his voice cutting through the burr around us. “Get your ass in the green room in five. Press want a—”

“No can do, Tim,” I shot back, not even bothering to look or stop on my way to my dressing room.

Stacey, my assistant, and our newest member of the team, rushed my way, her hand extended, handing me a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” I muttered with a grateful smile and took the bottle.

“It's non-negotiable. What am I supposed to say to them?” Tim asked as he came my way and stopped before me, blocking my way to the door of my dressing room that was just out of reach.

I looked longingly at the door, then glared up at Tim. “Tell them I’m spiritually unavailable. What do I care? Make some shit up.” I opened the bottle and chugged half of it.

Tim threw his hand wide, rolled his eyes and drawled, “I can’t say that. No rock and roll musician would ever utter those words. Besides, it’s part of your job.”

“Well, this musician will.” I pointed a thumb at myself. “And when’s the job done? When I’m dead?” I asked sweetly, showing him all my teeth. I was sure I looked like a deranged lunatic, but I was in serious need of some peace and quiet. And tea. And a scented candle. And my notebook.

Yeah, I needed to get the fuck in my dressing room. Now.

Tim didn’t laugh, which was weird. He usually chuckeled off all my sarcastic, dumb responses. He just stood in front of me, his brows creased, hands on his hips. Waiting.

“Tim, you okay?” I asked, tilting my head.

He put his arms down as he heard my question and blinked. Then, almost immediately, he crossed them on his chest, then again, a half a second later, he put them on his hips again. Only to move them again as he shifted from side to side.

Okay, something was definitely up. I'd never seen Tim so uncomfortable, no matter if he was always in a suit and tie. Let alone being this twitchy.

I grabbed his forearm as he gripped his opposite shoulder.

“Did something happen with the crowd? Did someone get hurt?” I mentally shifted through the gig, but still, I couldn't recall a single incident or suspicious shift in the crowd.

There was no pushing or excessive jumping.

All I could remember was seeing the sea of faces moving to the beat, and enjoying the fuck out of my music.

“Harely,” he said again, and shifted closer, lowering his voice. “Come with me.”

Oh, no.

Fuck no.

“Tell me,” I demanded, my voice rough as I stood my ground.

There was no way I was moving somewhere private just to soften the blow. I wanted to know whatever it was he was hiding from me. And I wanted to know right then. I didn’t want or need sugarcoating.

He was still silent, just watching me with his brown, kind eyes.

I started talking. “Tell me, Tim. What did the guys break? When did they have the time? We just finished with the gig. Damnit! How much do we owe?”

I watched him as he tried to smile, but all he managed was some tight-lipped grimace that made him look more like he was constipated than the soothing expression I was sure he was going for.