Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  "Isn't he the best?" Bronwyn grinned and then followed suit, helping her honey hold back the over-eager fans. Despite her petite stature, Bronwyn was a force to be reckoned with. Several grown men even backed away from the table when she turned and gnashed her teeth at them.

  I slid out of the booth and pushed my way past a couple of twenty-something women who were craning their necks to get a look at Jack. "Dillon, wait!" I called, sprinting toward the patio gate and hopping over the lowest bar. It was a good thing I'd gone with jeans and boots over the halter dress and heels. While Dillon had a good fifteen-second head start on me, he seemed to be running rather slow. I could hear him wheezing as he went. He'd smoked a pack of cigarettes a day in college, and I was willing to bet he hadn't yet kicked the habit.

  Though I had the advantage of healthy, smoke-free lungs, there was still that pesky scar tissue from the stab wound in my calf that hadn't fully healed. I'd just closed the gap between Dillon and me down to about 10 yards when a horrible cramp tore through my leg. With a cry, I staggered forward and pitched over onto the ground. Bright pain seared my palms where they scraped the pavement.

  "Ame!" Mickey cried from several feet behind me. I'd been so focused on catching up to Dill that I hadn't noticed anyone following. Mickey skittered to a halt next to me and dropped down on one knee, concern etched in his brown eyes.

  "I'm fine," I said through clenched teeth. I jerked my head in the direction Dillon was headed. "Don't let him get away."

  Mickey nodded and darted after him, with Jack streaking past me a few seconds later. The two of them easily caught up with the fleeing bass player. Dillon yelped in pain as they tackled him to the ground. I hauled myself up and gingerly dusted off my jeans, cringing at the bright red streaks that my bleeding palms left on the denim. I hobbled over to join Mickey and Jack, who still had Dillon pinned to the pavement.

  "What the hell?" Dill cried. "Get off me!"

  "They wouldn't have tackled you if you hadn't run away in the first place," I said, unable to keep the exasperation out of my tone. "Why did you bolt?"

  "Because I didn't want to get my ass kicked," Dillon said through clenched teeth. His gaze flicked back and forth from Jack to Mickey. "You guys have always been way stronger than me, and you brought that gorilla from Castle Rock with you. He could crush me with one fist."

  "If we promise to let you go, will you just talk to us?" Mickey asked. "Come on, man. For old times' sake."

  "Fine." Dillon groaned when the two men released him. He rolled over onto his back and sat up slowly. "Ow," he muttered. Dillon looked up at Jack. "I'm sorry about what happened at that meet and greet the other night, really. I didn't think you'd show up to one of my gigs and kick the crap out of me as payback."

  "We didn't know you were playing here tonight," Jack replied. "Not all of us, anyway." He shot me a knowing look, and my cheeks colored. Busted.

  Jack turned back to Dillon. "But since you brought it up, that was a pretty rotten thing to do, picking a fight with Sid like that. You didn't just mess up our night—you ruined it for the fans. Not cool, man." He shook his head disdainfully. "Not cool."

  Dillon's face flushed. "Look, it wasn't even my idea. I couldn't have cared less that you guys were back in town, to be honest. I've got a pretty good thing going right now with my own band. He stood up from the pavement and wiped a mixture of sweat and dirt off his dark brow. "I only did it because that DJ guy convinced me to. He promised to get my band's new single in rotation on the local rock station. Plus he threw in this gig." Dillon's lips quirked. "And the crowd loved us."

  "You guys were really good," Mickey agreed. "Your bass solo on that funky third number? Dude, it was epic."

  "Thanks." Dillon's smile widened. "I never stopped playing, even when things didn't work out with you guys." His expression pinched and his gaze slid to Jack. "Look," he said, quietly. "About what happened back in college, with Chrissy. I—I tried to kiss her once, man. I was drunk, and I felt terrible about it the next day. I'm sorry it tore our friendship apart."

  Jack stared at him for a few long moments, his expression hard. Slowly, the lines in his face smoothed, and he reached out a hand to Dillon. "I forgive you. Water under the bridge." He shook Dill's hand and then clapped him on the back in a half-hug. "We've missed you, dude."

  "I hate to break up the bromance," I said, stepping forward. "But if you didn't really mean to cause trouble, then why did you follow Sid Malone to the strip club after your fight?"

  Dylan's brows lifted. "How'd you know about that?" he asked. Mickey and Jack exchanged surprised looks and then turned to stare at me.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and was relieved to see the screen hadn't cracked when I landed on it. I located the saved image of Sid at the Saucy Minx and held it up for the three men to see. "What happened after this picture was taken?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at Dillon.

  He blinked. "Look, Amelia," he said, his tone uncertain. "I don't know what you're getting at, but I didn't do anything wrong—aside from, you know, the whole incident at Castle Rock before I went to the strip club." He rubbed his hand over his face and pushed out a long, slow breath. "After I got booted from the venue, I needed to blow off some steam, so I took a cab to Saucy Minx. I didn't know Sid was gonna show up there. I'm glad he did, though. It gave me a chance to buy him a beer and a lap dance and apologize for stirring up trouble. I explained the deal I'd made with Mr. Scott and told him no hard feelings, ya know? I even wished him good luck with the rest of Royal Flush's tour." Dill shrugged. "We left at the same time and went our separate ways. The last time I saw Sid, he was trying to take that blonde chick home with him. I'm sorry he got killed, but if you're thinking I had something to do with it, you're wrong."

  I licked my lips. Dillon didn't seem to be lying, and the evidence I'd found pointed towards a woman. "I'm sorry, Dill," I said guiltily. "Just trying to find out what happened. And when you ran, well—"

  "Yeah, I know," he said. "Only guilty men run. That was my bad." He winced. "I just didn't want that Reese guy getting his paws on me."

  "Aww, Reese is a total teddy bear," I said with a laugh.

  Dillon scoffed. "Easy for you to say—he's never dragged you down two flights of stairs by your shirt collar." That won a chuckle from Mickey and Jack.

  I turned back toward the restaurant patio, and my own smile evaporated. Tim Scott stood about fifteen feet away, a wolfish grin on his face. He gripped a short metal rod in his hands, and attached to the top was a digital camera. The little red video recording light was blinking.

  "Bravo!" Tim pulled the camera down and turned it off. He tucked the camera and support stick between his arm and his side so he could clap with his now free hands. "That was great, you guys! I can't wait to see how many views this gets when I post it on the Tune Talks blog."

  "What?" Mickey stared at him, mouth slightly open.

  Tim walked over to us, his smile stretching from ear to ear. There might as well have been dollar signs in his eyes. "A chase scene, questioning a suspect, and the end of a long-standing rock 'n' roll feud. All in a five-minute video. You guys could have your own reality show."

  "You're not posting that." Jack's jaw clenched, his blue eyes blazing with anger. He stepped forward and loomed threateningly over Tim. "Give me that camera, or I'm going to jam that selfie-stick down your throat."

  Tim took one step back, but his smile remained. "The camera is my property. Same goes for anything I film with it. Sorry, Mr. Pearson. It's nothing personal, just good journalism." He gripped the camera tightly so that Jack couldn't snatch it away from him. "Ya know," he added, his expression smug. "A mention of the threat you just made against me will go nicely in the report that I post with this footage." He held a hand up in the air and swiped it from left to write, as if placing the headline. "The Video Jack Pearson Doesn't Want You To See—that's sure to go viral."

  Anger burned in my gut. I'd love nothing more than to rip the jerk's stupid gray ponytail out.
I was mad enough that I just might do it. Stalking forward, I brushed past Jack and stood with my face inches from Tim's. "You are nothing but a greedy, self-centered sack of crap, you know that?" I poked my finger hard against his chest. "First, you sensationalized a tragedy where I lost two friends last year, and then you bribed a normally decent guy—" I hiked a thumb back at Dillon— "to stir up trouble because your audience is bored with the lame stories about your glory days with a bunch of washed up rockers who probably don't even remember your name. You posted a video online of me getting punched in the face—that alone makes me want to knee you in the balls. And now, you've got the nerve to stalk my friends with a video camera in hopes of creating even more drama?" I spit in his face. "You're the Jerry Springer of rock radio, Tim. You're a joke, and everyone knows it."

  Tim gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes at me. "Sticks and stones, bitch," he said. "Call me whatever you want, but I'm still the king of music news. I'll post whatever I please."

  To be honest, I'm not entirely sure he said that last part. I stopped listening after he called me a bitch. My blood boiled, and I swear I began to see red. Before I realized what I was doing, my fist connected with Tim Scott's jaw in a hard, painful blow.

  "Ow!" we both cried, practically in unison. Tim staggered backward, dropping his camera and support rod to the pavement. I cradled my still-clenched fist in my good hand, cursing under my breath. That had hurt like a mother. Glancing down, I found that my knuckles were already swelling a little. Worth it.

  "You hit me!" Tim cried, his voice a mixture of pain and disbelief. A few tears leaked from his left eye. "I can't believe you freakin' hit me."

  "You had it coming," Mickey said. He stepped beside me and leaned down to inspect my hand. "Let's go get you some ice, Slugger."

  "Wait." I gently pushed him away with my good hand and advanced on Tim again. "You're not going to post that video."

  "Oh, I totally am," he replied, his face flushed with anger. I noted with some satisfaction that there was a bump forming along his jawline where I'd clocked him. "Right after I have you arrested for assault and battery."

  "You won't do that," Dillon said coolly. All heads turned to face the bass guitarist, who was holding up his cell phone with the camera facing us. "Not if you don't want your precious audience to see a video of you getting the crap beat out of you by a woman half your size."

  Tim blanched. "You wouldn't," he said, sounding more anxious than angry now. "Share that video with anyone, and you can forget ever hearing one of the Dillon Green Band's songs on 95Rox—or any other radio station in the Southeast. Your career will be over."

  "Actually." Jack stooped to pick up Tim's fallen camera, his mouth stretching wide. "It's just beginning. Here's some breaking news for you, Scott: A Royal Flush reunion. Dillon's back in the band."

  I'm pretty sure Dill, Mickey, and I all gaped at Jack with matching shocked expressions. "Wait—really?" Dillon asked softly. Uncertainty flickered behind his eyes.

  Jack shrugged. "We need a bass guitarist. I was hoping maybe you'd wanna take the job. Of course, if you don't want to leave your band behind—"

  "Done." Dillon's mouth quirked up. "Rick just plays drums to pick up chicks, and Oscar's been talking about quitting anyway. He'd rather act—next week, he's auditioning for that zombie show they're shooting just outside the city."

  "Great." Jack fiddled with the panel on the back of Tim's camera and removed the small memory card. "Here," he said, handing the camera and selfie stick back to Tim. "Feel free to share the reunion news on your show if you're hard up for something to report. But as for your little movie from earlier," Jack snapped the memory card in half and shoved it in the pocket of his jeans. "That's off the record."

  "And if you so much as threaten to bring charges against Amelia," Dillon added, holding up his phone, "I'll send this clip of her decking you to every one of your biggest competitors. The whole world will see you crying over being hit by a girl."

  I'd normally be a little miffed at the sexist implications of that statement, but as it seemed to be working, I decided to let it slide. Tim looked from Dillon to me, his mouth opening and closing. Resignation spread slowly across his blotchy face. "Fine," he muttered. He held up his index finger. "But I get exclusive rights to break the story of Dillon's return to Royal Flush," he said.

  "Deal." Jack offered Tim his hand. They shook on it, and Tim excused himself before slinking away to whatever dark place he crawled out of.

  "Dill!" I exclaimed when the sleazy DJ was out of earshot. I high-fived him. "That was incredible. I can't believe you were quick enough to get that punch on film."

  Dillon tucked his chin and dropped his gaze to the ground. When he looked up a moment later, he was grinning. "I didn't," he admitted. "I bluffed. Tim's so concerned with preserving his precious reputation that he bought it without question. Good thing, too." He swiveled his phone around so we could see the cracked screen. "I think it bit the dust when you guys tackled me."

  "Aww, I'm sorry, man," Mickey said, clapping him on the back.

  "I'll buy you a new one," Jack offered.

  The four of us made our way back to Taco Heaven's patio. "I wonder how everyone else is faring with the fan stampede," I said.

  "Oh, Chad is handling it," Jack replied, grinning. I arched a brow in question, but he waved me off. "You'll see. You know Egan's a sucker for attention."

  Sure enough, as we returned to the patio, I spotted Chad and Zane standing on the stage, a long line of restaurant patrons winding around the tables. Bronwyn crouched at the edge of the stage. "Who's next?" she called down to the fans. "Who wants their picture with the Chad Egan and Zane Calloway of Royal Flush?" An excited middle-aged lady at the head of the line rushed forward to hand Bron her camera before slinging an arm around each of the rockers. Chad and Zane hammed it up for the photo, leaning in and puckering their lips against the lady's chubby cheeks and making kissing noises. The woman squealed with delight and planted her mouth on Chad's before he could protest. When the kiss ended, she happily jumped off stage to retrieve her camera phone from Bronwyn. Chad flicked a glance down to Kat, who was still seated at our reserved booth. He shrugged and made a face before turning to greet the next fan.

  "The ladies love him," Kat said with a giggle as I slid into the booth next to her.

  My lips quirked. "Jealous?"

  "Nah." Kat took a bite of her goat cheese quesadilla then washed it down with a sip of her margarita. "It's kind of cute."

  Mickey joined us at the table with a bag of ice he'd requested from the kitchen and gave it to me to treat my swollen knuckles and scraped palms. I gave him a grateful smile, but that nagging voice in my head reminded me that Emmett was the one who should be taking care of me right now. I hadn't heard from him since he'd left, and the little pit of worry in my stomach grew with each passing hour that he didn't check in. He's out on assignment, I reminded myself. He'll call as soon as he can. I forced Emmett out of my mind for the time being, hoping to enjoy the remainder of the evening free of stress. It was a tall order, but a girl can dream.

  The server had brought our food to the table in our absence, and we quickly chowed down while Chad, Zane, and Bronwyn wrapped up their fan photo shoot on stage. In between bites, Jack, Mickey, and I filled in the rest of the crew on the reconciliation with Dillon, who had rejoined his band to pack up their gear. Mickey also told them about Tim's encounter with my right hook.

  Kat nearly snorted margarita through her nose. "I have never been prouder of you," she said with a laugh. She clinked her glass to mine.

  When the line of Royal Flush fans had died down, Chad, Zane, and Bronwyn returned to the table and scarfed down their food. "Thanks for handling the crowd," Jack said, high fiving Chad and then reaching across the booth to bump fists with Zane.

  Chad shrugged. "Someone had to satisfy all the ladies in your absence." He winked.

  Ginger finished her meal and pushed her plate away. "Well, I've certainly
had enough excitement for one evening," she said, daintily wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "We should probably pay the check and get back to Miss Taylor's house."

  Bronwyn stood up quickly from the table. "You can't leave yet! I've got a surprise planned." All eyes turned curiously toward the pink-haired twenty-year-old. Bron pulled her keys out of her purse and waited for Reese to move so she could slide out of the booth. "I'll be right back," she called over her shoulder.

  Kat looked from Reese to me, a confused frown creasing her lovely face. "What's going on?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "I can honestly say that I have no idea what she's planned." That made me pretty nervous.

  Reese just grinned and shook his head as the server stopped by to clear our table and deliver the check. "Sorry, but I'm not going to ruin it for her," he told Kat. "She's been excited about this all afternoon."

  Bronwyn came bounding back onto the patio a few moments later, her arms wrapped around an overstuffed shopping bag from Party Land USA. I caught a glimpse of something glittery and covered in feathers sticking out of the top. Oh, please, no. My palms began to sweat, and I was overcome with the feeling that something horrible was about to happen.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Surprise!" Bronwyn cried, tearing the bag open and spilling the contents onto the table. I was right—it was horrible. Tiaras, feather boas, and various phallic-shaped paraphernalia tumbled out. Chad picked up what looked like a fairy godmother wand with a glittering, golden penis attached to the end of it. "Um," he stammered, his bushy eyebrows reaching for his hairline. "Did a gay bar just explode on our table?"

  "No, silly." Bronwyn giggled. I watched, mortified, as she rooted through the sparkly mound of novelty items and located a white veil and bright pink sash. "It's a surprise bachelorette party for Suzie."