Finding His Redemption Page 2

  I stop in front of him and raise an eyebrow. “Mr. Westberg. What an unexpected surprise.”

  His eyes flick up to mine and his trademark too-cool-for-school grin slides onto his stupidly handsome face. And despite myself, more than a decade of being infatuated with this man can’t be wiped away by a few years of disgust, as something deep in my chest twinges at his gaze. Christ.

  “You’re Max Marshall?” he asks with an incredulous note to his rough voice.

  Both eyebrows rise to my hairline. “Expecting a man?” I taunt.

  I take note of Alexsis slinking into the receptionist’s chair and resting her chin on her hands to watch the show.

  “Nope,” he replies. “I met your brother on a flight last weekend.” He holds up something I immediately recognize as my business card. “He said I should talk to you. But he didn’t say you were…” He trails off, his eyes roaming intently over my body. “So young.”

  I fight back a scoff, knowing that is almost certainly not what he was thinking. And at thirty-one, I wouldn’t exactly call myself young. Well, not compared to him at least.

  “Yes, well, he also didn’t bother mentioning to me that you were coming, so I apologize for the less-than-stellar welcome.” I have to fight to keep the sarcasm and annoyance out of my voice both at my brother for sending this douche canoe my way knowing how I feel about him, and at West himself for living up to the creep he is in my head. “Is there something you wanted to discuss with me in particular, or is there something Rock Scene can do for the band? If the latter, I can have one of my colleagues —”

  West shakes his head, his dark eyes glittering in a way that makes me more than a little uncomfortable. Like he knows a joke I’m not in on.

  “No, I’m here for you. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  That stupid traitor feeling in my chest twists again. Oh, how younger me would’ve once loved to hear those words come out of that mouth. I grind my teeth together in frustration as I mentally weigh how I want to deal with him.

  “Yes, fine,” I eventually say with exasperation. “Follow me.”

  I turn and catch Alexsis’s expression of curiosity and shoot her a “don’t even think about eavesdropping” look as I lead West through the office.

  For good measure, I pass by my cubicle in favor of the conference room in the back corner. It almost never gets used, especially not at the end of a Friday afternoon.

  He saunters by me into the small room, and when I turn back from closing the door, he’s sprawled in the chair at the head of the six-person table. I take a seat pointedly on the other end.

  With a grin, he leans forward on his elbows, his toned biceps flexing under the hem of his shirtsleeves. I look away, at the wall. Anywhere but at those arms.

  “Morgan said you didn’t like me. Clearly he wasn’t exaggerating.”

  I drag my eyes back to him and lean forward on my elbows, giving him a challenging look. “My brother said that, did he?”

  West’s grin fades into a smirk. “Well, sort of. He said you ‘used to be my biggest fan,’” he replies, using air quotes.

  I can’t help it; a wry laugh escapes me.

  “Well, tell me how you really feel,” he jokes with a smirk.

  “Oh, you really don’t want me to do that,” I assure him.

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Maybe that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  I lift an eyebrow in return. “Maybe you should tell me what you wanted.”

  “This is what I wanted.”

  “You wanted to know why I’m not your biggest fan anymore?” I ask with undisguised incredulity.

  West’s chin dips in agreement, and I have to admit that I’m more than a little shocked.

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable having this discussion here.” Read: Are you trying to get me fired, asshole? How can I sit in the office of the rock and roll magazine I’ve dedicated my career to and bad-mouth one of the biggest rock stars of my generation? As low as my brain-to-mouth filter usually is, even I know nothing good can come of it.

  West’s eyes capture mine and my palms start to sweat under the scrutiny, nerves seizing my whole body.

  “Come on. Tell me why you don’t like me anymore,” he pleads with an affected pout.

  I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Why does it matter?”

  “It just does,” he replies in a deceptively nonchalant tone.

  But he wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t matter. A lot.

  This is surreal.

  I rub my lips together, deciding what answer won’t jeopardize my job. But then I realize I don’t owe Kristoffer Westberg a goddamn thing, including the truth. So I just stare at him for a minute, hoping he’ll let it go.

  After a few beats, he looks down, shaking his head, and says seemingly to himself, “She’s lost that lovin’ feelin’.”

  My eyes go wide as he stands and heads purposely toward me. And as he drops to one knee beside me, I realize exactly what he’s about to do. He’s about to go full Top Gun on my ass. Right here. Right now. Fuuuuuuckkkkk.

  Just as he starts belting out You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ by the Righteous Brothers, I lunge forward and slam my hand over his mouth before the whole office hears and comes running.

  “Are you insane?!”

  He grabs my hand and rises, pulling me with him all in one swift motion, and I abruptly notice the electric zap that crawls up my arm from where he’s touching me and how close he is. How good he smells. Like cologne and cool night air and guitar strings. So much better than the last time we were this close, when he smelled like booze and weed and heartbreak. But smelling of it or not, West is a whole lot of heartbreak waiting to happen.

  At the thought, I pull my hand back abruptly.

  “Worked for Maverick,” he says with a shrug, his eyes searching my face. “You really don’t want to tell me what your deal is, do you?”

  I lift my chin stubbornly in answer.

  “Come on,” he pleads winningly. “I’m all better now. Don’t you want to jump back on the West train?”

  I pull a face. “Don’t you mean the Violent Mood Swings train?” And then I think silently to myself, You know, your band, you self-centered ass hat?

  “Sure, yeah, that too,” he agrees dismissively.

  I sigh heavily. “Not for all the guitar picks in a Dunlop factory.”

  “Ouch, Maxi. Ouch.”

  I frown. “It’s Max.”

  West grins. “Okay, Maxi. Whatever you say.”

  “You know, annoying the shit out of me isn’t going to make me tell you,” I snap at him. Even though I’m more mad that I actually find his bullshit kind of cute. His mischievous grin shows that dimple in his right cheek, and his behavior is a heady combination of endearing and playful. Dear god, help me. I take a step back, needing to distance myself in every way possible.

  “Then forget why. I’m all better now. Don’t you want to give me another chance?” he cajoles, leaning back against the wall and looking like a butt-hurt little kid.

  “Yes, well, that’s great, but just because you’re magically all better doesn’t change the way I feel. But really, good luck with the album and tour and stuff.”

  “Who said anything about a tour?” he asks slyly.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You guys aren’t going to tour?”

  “Yeah, of course we’re going to tour. But nobody’s said anything about one yet.”

  I throw my hands up. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

  “Absolutely. Music. Rosie. And why you’re so mad at me.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe you named your guitar after an AC/DC song,” I grumble.

  “How did you know that? I’ve never actually said that publicly,” he says, squinting at me like he thinks I might be a stalker.

  No need to tell him I flirted heavily with the line between groupie and just that once upon a time.

  “It wasn’t obvious?” I as
k innocently, batting my eyelashes.

  “Okay, fine. But don’t think I don’t know deflecting when I hear it. I’m the goddamn king of it, Maxi.” He steps forward back into my space. “And maybe I need you back on board. Seriously.” My brain goes numb for a minute as he stares down at me intently. And I almost forget everything he’s done. Such is the magic of Kristoffer Westberg. “What’s it going to take?”

  I blink hard. “For me to forgive and forget?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could try apologizing.” I step back and frown. “But then, you owe that to a whole lot more people than me. More important people.”

  West’s answering frown mimics my own. “Like who?”

  He asks it like he’s never even considered that he might need to apologize for the epic failure he was to his fans. Alcohol. Drugs. Arrests. More drugs. Breaking up the best goddamn band of my formative years. I’m the least of those he’s hurt. And I know I’m not the only one who has no interest in his supposed reformation. In fact, judging by the album’s weak sales, I’m in the majority.

  All things I don’t say. If he doesn’t know, it’s not my job to clue him in. And I don’t think he’d listen anyway. He seems to think all should automatically be forgiven.

  He continues to stare at me expectantly.

  I take a deep breath. “Like your fans, for starters.”

  His expression darkens. “I went to rehab. Got the band back together. Put out a new album. That’s not enough?”

  I laugh ironically. Partly because he’s just confirmed my exact thought about him. But mostly…

  “What?” he asks in an uncharacteristically snappish tone, interrupting my train of thought.

  “It’s just funny. Because your comeback album is titled Redemption.”

  “So?”

  I stare at him. He can’t be serious. But I know he is. Poor, clueless fallen rock star.

  “You don’t get redemption without forgiveness. For which you need to both express regret and make up for it.” I know I’ve lost him before he even replies.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you think you’ve made it up to the fans, but you haven’t expressed regret for the things you’ve done. Not publicly at least.” His brows scrunch together, and I sigh knowing he just doesn’t get it. “You need to apologize, West. And it needs to be big.”

  He scoffs. “And look like a pussy? I think my actions speak loudly enough. The album is doing just fine, after all. The fans are coming back.”

  I don’t bother disagreeing with him.

  “Then why are you here? You can’t possibly expect everybody to love you. Why bother tracking down one silly little reporter who isn’t a fan anymore?” I point out.

  He steps back. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t know why I bothered coming here. All the people who matter are on my side. Have a nice life, Maxi.”

  He gives me a mocking salute. And then he leaves.

  I’d laugh at his stubborn ass, but it’s too sad. Because I know I’m going to be living rent-free in Kristoffer Westberg’s self-absorbed brain as he struggles with the fact that not everybody loves him like he thinks they do. And as disappointed as I’ve been by him, I feel for the struggle he has coming. Because you can’t fix something you don’t think is broken.

  3

  Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N’ Roses

  * * *

  West

  “You’re late, West.”

  “You’re an asshole, Ward.”

  “Why don’t you guys just fuck each other already?” Nik suggests.

  I shoot her a comically lecherous look. “I think you mean, why don’t I just fuck you already?”

  I’m only half-joking. Nikka Jones, with her bright green hair, tiny mouthful titties, and tight ass, is definitely fuckable.

  She snorts. “Even if I could stomach the thought of having a dick inside me, I’m pretty sure my girlfriend couldn’t.”

  “Well, then you and Ward are both out of luck. Because if I haven’t fucked him in the last eighteen years, I’m sure as hell not about to start now.”

  Ward smirks at me from across the rehearsal space and, all joking aside, I’m happy to let him bust my chops. Because Ward Pierce is the best, and oldest, friend I’ve got. We met and formed Violent Mood Swings when we were eighteen. Half our lives ago. But as good-looking as the dude is with his height, blond hair, and sweet tats, I just don’t swing that way. Not even for one of the best lead singers of all time; seriously, dude’s got a voice that has melted panties worldwide. Probably better for the band that I don’t. We would’ve broken up even sooner and never gotten back together, given my relationship track record. And I use the term “relationship” loosely.

  “All right, ladies,” James, our only other remaining founding member, and the total dad of the group — seeing as how he’s the only actual dad — chides us from behind the keyboards. “Can we rehearse or what? Some of us have families to get home to.”

  Michael holds up a drumstick in silent agreement. I snort. Because Michael lives with his parents. I can’t give him shit for that though, even though he’s twenty-eight, since he just came off a bad divorce.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever, bitches,” I grumble, pulling Rosie out of her velvet-lined case. The vintage cherry Gibson SG Standard beauty was the first luxury I ever allowed myself once we hit it big all those years ago. And she’s been my number one girl ever since. The only steady woman in my life. I tune up and watch Ward do his mic check.

  Rehearsal goes fucking perfect, and even Ward, with his seemingly never-ending nit-picking is confident that we’re ready to tour. But then, he should be: He wrote most of the songs and has made us rehearse more for this tour than all of our past ones combined.

  He pulls me aside once James and Michael have headed out and Nik is packing up her bass.

  “You were on today.”

  I finish locking my guitar case and look up at him. And if I couldn’t tell by his tone of voice, the scrutinizing look pretty much says it all.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you really want to say?”

  I plop down on the battered leather couch against the wall and pat the cushion next to me.

  He sits down, folding a leg under him.

  “You’ve been a little distracted lately. And you were late this morning.”

  “Still not a question,” I point out with a tired smile.

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  I roll my head toward him and look him in the eye.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that stupid fucking reporter.”

  “What does the reporter have to do with you being late?”

  I grimace. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Shit, dude, jerk off like the rest of us and get some shut-eye next time.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I wasn’t thinking about her like that.” I shudder for effect. Trying to ignore the fact that she is objectively hot, with her long wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, cute button nose, pink bow lips, and tits and curves for days. But I still hate her. “It just gets me. Who the fuck is she to not forgive me? She obviously liked our music. Isn’t the music what matters?”

  “What’s the Abraham Lincoln quote? You can please all of the people some of the time, some of the people all of the time —”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. I know. We’ve just worked so fucking hard, man. What if she’s right? What if the fans don’t show up like we think they will?”

  Ward is one of the only people on the planet I’d admit my fears to. But even saying it out loud freaks me out on a level I’m not fully capable of dealing with. I went through hellfire to get here, and it can’t be for nothing.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, man.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I haven’t paid attention to sales. Like at all. I’m not here for the fans. I’m here for the music. If the fans come back, great. If they don’t, fine. We’ve come so far. You�
�ve come so far. I’m actually just really proud of our progress, and you should be too.”

  A sigh escapes me. Because I wish I were as confident as Ward. Deep down though, I’m just not. I need the validation. But like fuck I’m going to admit that out loud. Even to Ward. Just admitting it to myself just shows how much good all the damn head-shrinking I had in rehab did. But baby steps. Admitting it to myself is hard enough. Let’s not go too crazy and start talking about this shit out loud like we’re a couple of chicks or something.

  “You know I’m all about the fans,” I reply. “I’m just worried that we’re doing all of this for nothing.”

  Ward waves a hand. “Do what you do best, man. Be happy with your effort, with how far you’ve come. That’s what matters most,” he reiterates.

  “You’re very zen today.” I pull my head back and look at him. “You’re not smoking weed again, are you?”

  He laughs. “Hell no, dude. Los Angeles may be the same old jungle, but you’re not the only one who’s changed. I’m high on life. You should be too. We’re getting paid to do what we love again. The rest will come in time, I promise.”

  I stomp my feet dramatically. “But I want it nooooooow.” It’s my best Veruca Salt impression — the Willy Wonka movie one, not the alternative rock band — whining and all.

  It gets a laugh out of Ward, which is what I was going for.

  “Well, to be fair we have been playing it kind of safe. Since Nik and Michael are new and all. But I know the fans are important to you.” Ward considers me for a moment. “We could up the stakes. Get some more attention.”

  I sit up, suddenly very interested. “Like how?”

  “You could sing that song you wrote.”

  My face falls. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “And you know it would be a game changer. You’re good. Plus it’s something new. Something different.”

  I shake my head emphatically. “Not gonna happen.”

  “But West —”

  “Drop it.”

  Ward grimaces. “Fine. Guess you’ll just have to humble yourself to the fans then.”