Reckless Reunion (The Reckless Rockstar Series) Page 3

  “Fantastic,” Crew says.

  “Are we in agreement then?” Liam asks.

  I nod.

  “I’ll have Joe negotiate a contract with Iggy. I’m sure we can come to terms.” She turns to me. “Speaking of Joe, he’s waiting outside to talk with you.”

  Liam laughs. “How many girls have you knocked up this week?”

  I clip him on the back of the knee with a drumstick.

  “The rest of you go give Iggy the news,” Ronni says. “Tell him Joe will contact him tomorrow, then come right back here. This involves all of you.”

  They leave, and Joe joins us. I angrily take a seat. “I’m telling you, Joe, I’m not anyone’s goddamn baby daddy.”

  “That’s not what this is about. In fact, this doesn’t only involve you. I need to meet with the whole band, but I wanted to have a minute alone with you first.”

  “Here I am. What’s up?”

  “Does the name Reece Mancini mean anything to you?”

  My heart stops momentarily, and I can feel the blood drain from my face.

  Joe and Ronni share a look. “From your reaction, I’d say that’s a yes. What’s your relationship with her?”

  “We don’t have one. Not for six years.”

  “So you were involved once. You dated?”

  A sick feeling washes over me as I nod.

  “IRL has been issued a cease and desist order from Mike Harvey’s office.”

  “Who’s Mike Harvey?”

  “He’s a well-established entertainment attorney who works for a New York City production company.”

  “Music production?”

  “Movies.”

  “What does a movie producer’s lawyer have to do with me?”

  “I’m not sure, but he issued the order regarding one of your new songs.”

  I close my eyes and blow out a deep sigh.

  “You’re not even going to ask which one?” Ronni says.

  “I know which one, but I wrote it.”

  “Not according to Ms. Mancini.”

  “Well, she was there.”

  “She was there?” Ronni spits. “And it’s clearly written for a woman. It’s why Brianna sings it.”

  “She may have helped, but I wrote it. I’ll go home and get my notes. That’s proof, right?”

  “Anything you have will certainly help. We’ve set up a meeting at my office tomorrow.”

  There is a knock on the door, and the other band members return. “What’s up?” Crew asks.

  “Garrett, Reckless Alibi and Indica Record Label are being sued over the copyright to ‘Swerve’,” Ronni says.

  “Fuck. Really?” Liam says.

  They take seats, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “I wrote the song,” I tell them.

  “A woman named Reece Mancini claims to have written it. The lyrics anyway.”

  “What did you do?” Crew asks.

  I throw up my hands. “Nothing! I wrote the song. I have handwritten proof.”

  “What happens now?” Bria asks. “Until Garrett can prove it?”

  “Essentially, nothing. The burden of proof lies with Ms. Mancini. But if her claim holds water, she can halt all sales of the song, which includes stopping sales of the album it’s on.”

  There are disappointed sighs around the table.

  “That’s not all,” Joe says. “She can sue for royalties.”

  “There can’t be many yet,” Liam says. “It’s only been out a week.”

  “And damages,” Joe says.

  “Damages?” Bria asks.

  “That’s where they really get you. If she can prove the lyrics are hers, you could take a huge financial hit.”

  “You meaning all of us?” Liam asks.

  “You’re all part of Reckless Alibi and IRL, so yes. And with your recent success, I would expect the amount to be large.”

  Crew rubs his jaw. “You don’t know what it is?”

  “Not yet. We have a meeting with Ms. Mancini and her lawyer tomorrow. I’d like you all to attend.”

  Ronni and Joe leave. I lean back in my chair. “I would have preferred a fucking paternity suit.”

  “Who is she?” Bria asks.

  “A girl I dated a long time ago.”

  “Is she a musician?”

  I shrug. “Not professionally. She played guitar, but I’ve never heard of it going anywhere.”

  “That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have written the song,” Crew says.

  “I told you I wrote it. I mean, yeah, she was there, and she might have offered suggestions, but it’s mine.”

  “Suggestions?” Bria says. “How many suggestions? If you co-wrote the song, she’s entitled to something.”

  My forehead meets the table. “Fuck.”

  Liam pulls a chair up next to mine. “Be straight with us, G. Does she have a leg to stand on?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I was drunk—we were drunk. She was talking about how different we were and somehow it turned into lyrics.”

  Bria puts a hand on my shoulder. “I sing it, Garrett. It does sound like it might have been written by a woman.”

  “It only sounds like that because you sing it. If Crew sang it, maybe you’d think otherwise.”

  “It’s about a man who rides a motorcycle. A man who’s not the singer.”

  “That doesn’t mean I didn’t write it. I told you, she was the one talking about how different we were. It makes sense we’d write it from her point of view.”

  “We?” Liam asks. “You just said we.”

  “I meant me.”

  “But you can’t be absolutely sure.”

  I shake my head. Bile rises in my throat. What the hell have I done? “Damn it. It’s only some measly lyrics. Something we scribbled down ages ago. Obviously she never did anything with her music. I looked her up once several years ago and found nothing.”

  “None of that matters if she wrote it. Or even co-wrote it,” Crew says. “Fuck, G, why didn’t you say anything? You’ve put us in one hell of a position.”

  “Because I really thought I wrote it.” I run a hand through my hair, pissed at myself. “I’m sorry.”

  Brad sits. “Right now it’s your word against hers, and you say you have handwritten lyrics. I wonder if there’s any way for them to tell how long ago you wrote them.”

  “You mean like forensics and shit?” Liam asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who knows?” Crew says. “Maybe she’s lying. Who’s to say she’s not just a woman scorned?”

  “Did you have a bad breakup?” Bria asks.

  I snort. “You could say that.”

  “There you go,” Crew says. “I’ll bet you tossing her to the curb will work in our favor.”

  I gaze out the window, not wanting to think about that time in my life. “Except I wasn’t the one who left.”

  Chapter Four

  Reece

  Six years ago …

  I gaze at a stranger in my bed. Well, not my bed. A bed. In my hotel room.

  Quietly and carefully, I scoot up against the headboard, hoping to find clues. I peek under the covers. Naked. My dress is on the floor next to a crumpled blue suit. There’s a condom on top of the jacket—and it leaked. Gross. I close my eyes and sigh.

  At eighteen, I’m no lily-white virgin. I’ve had my share of one-nighters. But waking up with someone I have no recollection of sleeping with—I might have hit an all-time low.

  A noise coming from his side of the bed has my eyes flying open. He’s still sleeping, he only turned over. My eyebrows shoot up at his tight derriere, and I shamefully applaud my choice of partners. His arm appears from under the sheet. Oh, yeah—that guy. Five tattoos grace his right arm. I study them and try to remember his name. I think we danced. Gage maybe? Jerry?

  My mouth is bone dry. It tastes like something died in it. I need a toothbrush, and Tylenol. Lots of Tylenol.

  I’m trying to sneak out of bed when he speaks. “Uh … hello.” His
hesitancy makes me think he’s as confused by this as I am.

  I hastily pull the covers around me as if he hasn’t already seen me naked. In doing so, I pull the sheet off him, exposing him entirely. He doesn’t seem to care. And he’s got serious morning wood. I try to avert my eyes but fail miserably.

  He chuckles as my cheeks burn.

  “Morning,” I say, taking the sheet with me when I stand.

  He rises on an elbow, still not covering himself. “Some wedding, huh?”

  I turn away. “Would you mind putting a pillow or something over that thing?”

  The bed creaks. “Sorry, I know how distracting it can be for the ladies. Better?”

  A snide laugh bubbles out of me when I turn around to see he’s put on boxer briefs. “Cocky much?”

  He grabs his crotch. “Well, when you’ve got this much cock …”

  I roll my eyes. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

  “No more than you thought of me last night.” He pounds the mattress. “Twice.”

  Twice? I want to give him a rude comeback, but I haven’t the slightest idea what happened in this bed. “I … uh …, need to take a shower. I have to deliver the wedding gifts to Sheila’s place.”

  “Who’s Sheila?”

  “The bride. Seriously?”

  He shrugs. “I only went for the free booze. Those Jell-O shots they started handing out around midnight really did me in though.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “You crashed the wedding?”

  “I know Kurt, the groom. Not well. Friend of the family.”

  I try hard to remember Jell-O shots. I can’t. I recall the toast, the cake, the dancing. Dancing with him. After that it gets fuzzy. I race to the bathroom before pausing apprehensively. “Did you drug me?”

  He laughs, gets out of bed, and pulls on his pants. “Believe me, I don’t need to slip a girl a pill to get her to sleep with me.” He gazes at me, then the bed. “Oh, shit—you don’t remember last night, do you?”

  “Of course I do.” I lean against the doorframe. “Some of it, anyway.” He stares me down. “Okay, it’s pretty much all a blur.”

  “Shame.” He looks at his jacket, sees the white sticky mess on it, and tosses it in the trashcan. “Being with me is definitely something you’d want to remember.”

  “Wow, you’re a real prize, aren’t you?” I step over and retrieve the jacket. “This is an Armani suit. You can’t simply throw it away.”

  “It’s got jizz all over it.”

  “So wash it.”

  “What’s the point? I’ll probably never wear it again. My dad bought it for me.”

  I pull the sheet tightly around me. “You’re a spoiled rich kid, aren’t you?”

  “I’m nineteen. That hardly qualifies me as a kid.”

  “Except you are a kid, because daddy is still buying your clothes.”

  “Whatever.” He eyes me up and down. “How old are you? Please fucking tell me you’re over eighteen.”

  “Just.”

  “Good.” He slides past me into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  I pound on it and yell, “I was going to take a shower. This is my hotel room.”

  Pee sounds come from behind the door, then the shower turns on. I check the handle. It’s unlocked, so I go in and use the toilet. Gage or Jerry or whoever peeks around the curtain, then pushes it aside. “There’s room for two.”

  “Get over yourself.” I wash my hands and quickly brush my teeth before exiting. I still need to shower, but I’m not about to do it with a stranger. A stranger you slept with.

  I check the time. I told Sheila I’d get the gifts delivered and feed her dog by ten. It’s nine, and it’s an hour drive from New York City to Stamford. I hope the pooch can hold it until I get there. I’ll be in deep shit if he pees all over her Persian rug.

  I return to the bathroom door, clothes in hand. “Can you hurry it up? I have to—”

  The door swings open, and he’s standing before me with a towel wrapped around his waist. Droplets of water are still on his chest. A bead slides down the arm with all the tattoos. He snatches his clothing off the counter and slithers by me with a smirk.

  Before I shut the door, I say, “You’ll be gone when I come out, won’t you?”

  “No chance of getting a repeat of last night then?”

  “I take quick showers. I suggest you get dressed.”

  “That’s a no then?”

  “Please just go. I have a million things to do today.”

  He drops the towel and pulls on his skivvies like he’s doing it in front of his girlfriend. And I watch, like he’s my boyfriend. He has a great body, and I tingle, badly wishing I remembered how he felt on top of me. I turn and shut the door.

  Ten minutes later, when I emerge, he’s gone. Part of me is disappointed. He was fun to look at. Arrogant but fun. I get the feeling that beneath his narcissism, he might be a nice guy. Guess I won’t ever find out.

  I check out of the hotel and fish Sheila’s keys out of my purse. She and Kurt stayed in the honeymoon suite and left on an early flight to Barbados. In exchange for taking the gifts to her house and dog-sitting all week, she paid for my hotel room and gave me a stipend for food while I stay at her house. It will be nice to get out of the craphole they call an apartment for seven whole days.

  I find her car in the parking garage and peek in the back of the large SUV. No one broke in; all the presents are still there. The key fob fails to unlock the car, despite me pressing it multiple times. I know this is her car. I’m the one who loaded it before all the drinking.

  “Problem?” someone says behind me.

  I spin around and go on high alert. “Are you following me?”

  He points to someone standing by a Porsche in the next row. “Getting a ride home with my brother.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s the issue?”

  I hold up the key fob. “It’s not working.”

  “Let me see it.” I hand it to him, he tries it, but nothing. Then he pulls the key fob apart and a key magically appears.

  “Wow, there’s a key inside it?”

  He gazes at me like I’m from another planet. “They all do. Didn’t you know?”

  “I don’t drive cars with fancy electronic keys.”

  He puts a hand on the roof of the SUV. “This isn’t yours?”

  “It’s Sheila’s. She’s my boss. I’m house-sitting for her this week.” I take the key from him and manually unlock the door. “Thanks.”

  I get in and push the button thingy to start the car. It doesn’t start. My forehead meets the steering wheel. “Come on. I do not need this today.” My head is still pounding from whatever I drank last night.

  There’s a knock on the window. “Need help?”

  “It won’t start.”

  “Try the key. Maybe the fob can’t connect.”

  I do what he says. Nothing.

  “Let me try.” I get out of the car, and he slides into the driver’s seat. It doesn’t start for him either. He steps out. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  He goes over and says something to his brother, who gets in his car and drives off, waving at me as he passes. I awkwardly wave back.

  A few minutes later, a man in a golf cart pulls up behind the SUV. Mysterious Man from last night is in the passenger seat. He asks Golf Cart Man to pop the hood, then hooks jumper cables to a portable battery pack, and thirty seconds later, the car starts. Mysterious Man points to the backseat. “Looks like a light was left on.”

  I rub my eyes. “I must have left it on when I loaded the car last night.”

  He takes out his wallet and gives Golf Cart Man a twenty, and he drives away.

  “I’d reimburse you,” I say, “but I don’t have any cash.”

  “It’s not a problem. Happy to do it.”

  “I want to. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll mail it.”

  “It’s twenty bucks. No biggie.”

&
nbsp; Realization dawns. He threw away an Armani jacket. His brother drives a Porsche. “Right. I forgot you’re Richie Rich.”

  “Don’t call me that. My dad is Richie Rich. I’m the kid who refuses to follow in his footsteps. The rebel son who taints the family blood.”

  “And your brother?”

  “The golden child.”

  I try not to frown. Why couldn’t I have woken up with his brother? I’m through hanging around bad boys—I steal a glance at his tattoos—and he’s definitely one of those.

  “Don’t worry about the twenty, but I could use a ride since mine left.”

  “You mean since you told him to leave.”

  “He was in a hurry. Couldn’t wait. You’re going back to Stamford, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s the big deal? I helped you out, and now you’re helping me.”

  I peek in the back of the SUV. It took me four trips with a rolling luggage cart to get all the gifts out here. I’m not looking forward to hauling them out. “Under one condition. You help me unload this crap at Sheila’s.”

  “Done. There’s one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I spit.

  He thinks on it. “Rachel? Cindy?”

  My jaw drops. “Oh my God, you don’t remember last night either.” I laugh.

  He gives me a sheepish grin. “Not a damn thing after my sixth Jell-O shot.”

  “But you said we did it twice.”

  “There were two condoms on the floor.”

  “And you didn’t bother to ask my name before you got drunk? We danced, after all.”

  “I asked. I just forgot it.” He cocks his head. “What’s my name?”

  “Gage.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Jerry.”

  He chuckles. “Wrong again.”

  “Greg.”

  “We could be at this all day. Why don’t we continue this conversation while driving?”

  “I’m not getting into a car with a guy I don’t know.”

  He holds out a hand. “Garrett Young.”

  I shake, wondering what that hand did to me last night. “Reece Mancini. Nice to meet you.”