Getting Lucky (Jail Bait #4) Read online

  GETTING LUCKY

  Getting

  LUCKY

  A Jail Bait Novel

  MIA STORM

  Getting Lucky

  Copyright © 2015 by Mia Storm.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Cover Design: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Dedication

  To everyone who has ever been in love

  with the “wrong person.”

  Chapter 1

  Tro

  I squint against the glare of the megawatt stage lights reflecting off the shiny cover of the Rolling Stone issue Jimmy Fallon is holding up for The Tonight Show cameras. There’s a ripple of excited chatter from the live audience and a girl near the back shouts, “Marry me, Tro!”

  On the screen at stage right, I watch as the TV monitor pans in on the cover, a full frontal of me totally nude except for the black and red Schector C-1 Hellraiser hanging from the strap around my neck and covering the part of me that would have made the cover X-rated otherwise. She’s my baby—my first electric guitar and the only thing I own that I truly give a shit about.

  Jimmy flips his hand at the image. “It’s pretty safe to say you’re comfortable in the limelight, but some people say you’re over the top.”

  I almost never agree to interviews. First, you sort of have to be sober for them, and second, they’re bullshit. But Jimmy’s pretty cool, and my manager was pissed that I’d turned down every other promotional opportunity leading up to this tour, so here I am.

  I loop my arm over the back of the chair next to his desk and slouch into it, crossing one black-booted ankle over the other knee. “Balls out, man. That’s how I live my life. I know some people find that offensive, but…” I give the audience my best I-don’t-give-a-shit smirk. “Who the fuck cares?”

  There’s a mix of chuckles and gasps from the studio audience, and the girl in the back yells out, “I love you!”

  Jimmy cringes. “And…that’s why we do these segments on tape,” he says, scratching the top of his head. He leans on his elbows toward me. “So balls out.”

  I nod. “I live life on my own terms. Otherwise, what’s the point? I march to someone else’s orders, then I’m living someone else’s life. I’m not gonna waste my time worrying about what other people think. I do my thing, they do theirs, and everyone’s happy. That’s all it’s gotta be.”

  A wry smile curves Jimmy’s mouth as his fingers drum the desk. “That’s pretty philosophical for a guy whose first big hit was about getting lucky in the middle of a barroom brawl.”

  I pull myself up straighter. “Let it be, let it be, let it be, oh let it be,” I sing, doing my best John Lennon. Girls in the audience scream. “That was a from guy whose first hit was all about begging some chick to love him.” I plant my elbow into the arm of the chair and lean toward Jimmy. “And as for nailing someone in the middle of a brawl, the deeper symbolism there is that life is all about finding the positive in adverse situations—looking for the silver lining, and all that shit. So that song might have been a little more philosophical than you’re giving it credit for.”

  He cuts an amused glance backstage. “Got your finger ready on that bleeper, Pete?”

  That’s part of living balls out. I live in the moment and never apologize for any of it. Ever

  Or regret it.

  I spent way too much time doing that before I learned that the only thing that really matters is right now. My real life started six years ago, when I walked away from what I thought was life. I never look back at all the shit that came before. None of it matters.

  “So, I’ve got to ask,” Jimmy says, setting the Rolling Stone issue face down on his desk. “How sick do you get of the paparazzi and the tabloids? You must feel like you’re living in a fishbowl most of the time.”

  He’s right but, “I don’t really give a shit.”

  My manager, Ray, called me last night while I was kicking back at the hotel with the guys to ask me what the fuck I was thinking. Apparently, last night’s episode of Access Hollywood had someone’s iPhone footage of me banging some actress I don’t even remember meeting on a table at the Sunset Lounge. I was pretty fucked up at that after-party, but just because I don’t remember it doesn’t mean I doubt it happened.

  “The way I see it, they’re just doing their job, trying to make a buck. Why anyone would want to read or watch that shit is beyond me, but as long as there’s a market, I can’t really get too pissed about it.”

  “You don’t feel like you’re entitled to a private life?” he asks.

  I give him half a shrug. “Nothing they do is going to change anything I do. I’m just living my life. If they feel compelled to capture that on film, so be it.”

  “That attitude will probably save your sanity.” He scoops a copy of Roadkill’s latest studio CD off his desk and holds it up for the camera. On the cover, I’ve got this sort of deranged psycho-killer look in my eye and the guys are in the shadows behind me. Totally fucking sinister.

  “Speaking of which, the lead single off your new CD, ‘Insane,’ debuted at number one on the rock charts last month.”

  “Yeah.” I send an appreciative wave toward the audience. “Thanks, guys.”

  A handful of girls scream my name and the rest of the audience applauds.

  “Fuck me, Tro!” the girl in the back shouts.

  I shield my eyes with my forearm and squint through the lights to a seat near the back where two security guards are converging. “Be right there, doll.” I flick a hand at Jimmy. “Just give me a sec to finish up what I’m doing here.”

  Jimmy rolls his eyes and tosses his note cards. “We’re going to be able to air like three words from this entire interview.”

  “It’s all good, man,” I say with a wave as they haul the girl off.

  He swivels his chair. “So, Roadkill kicks off your world tour tomorrow night with two sold out shows at Madison Square Garden.”

  I nod. “We’ve got nine weeks touring the U.S. and Canada, then we head to Europe and Asia for another eight.”

  He whistles through his teeth. “That’s long time on the road.”

  “Got nowhere better to be,” I say with a shrug.

  And it’s true.

  I’ve got apartments in L.A, Austin, and London, but there’s really no one who would miss me if I never set foot in any of those places again. Besides, I like being on the road—the rush of waking up somewhere and having no fucking clue where I am. I show up, play my gig, then do whatever or whoever the fuck I feel like doing. The next day, I get up and move on. No strings, no accountability.

  Jimmy sets the CD down. “It’s got to feel good that your shows are selling out worldwide within minutes of tickets going on sale.”

  “Pumped that people are digging what we’re doing,” I say, bobbing a nod.

  “Well, they’re going to hear some of that now, right, guys?” Jimmy says, looking toward his house band, The Roots, with raised eyebrows.

  “On it, man,” their drummer says into the mic.

  Jimmy looks into the camera and holds the CD up again. “We’ll be right back with Tro Gunnison and The Roots’ schoolroom instruments rendition of ‘Insane’.”

  Chapter 2

  Shiloh

  They say be careful what you wish for, but when your wildest dream comes true, never in a million years do you expect to regret it. And I don’t.

  Mostly.

  It’s just that I don’t belong to me anymore. Everywhere I go, every second of every da
y, somebody wants a piece of me. I’m starting to feel more like a thing than a person.

  I got a break from the talk show circuit for a few months when we were in the studios recording, but since the new singles started releasing, it’s been non-stop radio and TV shows. Today is the big one: we’re kicking off the start of our North American tour with an appearance on The Tonight Show.

  I sit still, despite the compulsion to squirm out from under the makeup artist who’s touching up my face, and watch the screen in the corner of the Green Room. Tro Gunnison, the frontman for Roadkill, the tour headliner, is setting up with Jimmy Fallon and The Roots to tape a schoolroom instruments version of the Roadkill single that’s been sitting atop every rock chart for the last three weeks. Jimmy starts the beat box. It sets the breakneck rhythm Roadkill is known for. He starts pounding out the melody on the xylophone then nods at Tro, who shakes his maracas and blends into the mix. A devil’s smile flashes over Tro’s face, making his deep dimples pop, as he opens his mouth and starts singing the lyrics.

  His voice is like smoke over gravel, the type of sound that seeps through every cell in your body and becomes part of you. A shiver runs down my spine at the first note. There are certain voices that will do that to me every time. Tro Gunnison’s is one of them.

  The Roots accompany Tro and Jimmy with the pound of tambourines, the hum of kazoos, and the clang of cow bells, and it almost sounds better than the original. With just the acoustic schoolroom instruments, Tro’s vocals carry the show. I close my eyes with the rush as my skin pebbles into goose bumps.

  “I need them open to touch up your mascara, sweetie,” Tammy, or Tony, or whatever the makeup lady’s name is, says.

  I open them and fight to keep them that way as she nearly blinds me raking the brush over my lashes. I’d never worn makeup before The Voice, and even after a year, I’m still not used to it.

  “All done,” she says, pulling off the paper bib she put on me to keep from dusting my clothes with the heavy powder.

  I chance a glance in the mirror. They never match my coffee-with-too-much-cream skin tone very well, but this one did better than most. No one knows my ethnicity because no one knows who my parents are, but on every state form I’ve ever seen it says Hispanic. I’m thinking one of my parents must have been black, though, because my hair is a copper afro if I let it go. I slick a few strands back into my tight ponytail and slip off the chair. “Thanks.”

  “Ten minutes,” Billie, my manager, warns when she catches me preparing to duck out of the room.

  After they finish taping the song, I’m supposed to do an interview with Jimmy to promote the tour. When I glance over my shoulder, Billie’s face is fixed in the maternal scowl she always wears.

  She’s forty and has no kids of her own, so she’s sort of adopted me. I shouldn’t complain, but it’s been years since I was in anything but a group home, and let’s just say the foster families I lived with before that weren’t in it for the love of children. I’m not used to having to answer to anyone, and Billie is like an overprotective mama bear. But I’m living in her world now. She gets how it works and handles everything so I don’t have to. For that alone, she’s worth her weight in gold.

  My head nods automatically as I slip out the door into a short hallway that leads backstage. In an alcove around the corner from the sound and light boards, I spotted a stack of crates on my way in. On each side the square crates are stacked three high, but in the middle there are only two, forming a recess. I test them and decide they’re sturdy enough to hold my hundred and ten pounds. I find hand and foot holds, climb the middle stack, and tuck into the shadows, sliding back against the wall and pulling my knees up to my chest. My arms wrap around them and I melt into the massive twist of cords, speakers, and other various sound equipment spilling from the crates.

  The first thing I do now when I walk onto a set or a studio is scope out spots like this where I can vanish when there’s downtime. Billie calls me Diva because she thinks I think I’m too good to mingle with the rabble in the Green Room. It has nothing to do with that. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’ve met some of the hugest stars in Hollywood in Green Rooms over the last seven months, and it’s me who clearly doesn’t belong. It really has everything to do with just being Shiloh Luck for a few minutes, instead of the sixteen-year-old phenom who won The Voice last winter.

  The concrete wall feels cool against my back and I drink it in. In about five minutes, I’ll be roasting under the blaring stage lights. I close my eyes and lean back, letting the music from the stage vibrate through the wall into my bones. This is what it’s all about, I remind myself. I wanted my life to be all about music, and now it is.

  I guess I should feel lucky that it’s been seven months and I seem to be building a fan base instead of seeing mine dwindle the way so many before me have. The Voice runs a winter and spring season and Billie says the spring winner, who was crowned the new Voice only a month ago, is already forgotten. She says I have staying power because I’m the most unique and talented winner to ever come out of The Voice.

  I don’t believe her.

  The first two singles off my CD released in March and May, ahead of the launch of the full CD this month. Both hit the top ten on Billboard’s charts and they’ve been holding. I’m the opening act for the North American leg of Roadkill’s world tour, thanks to the record label I share with them. Considering they’re the hottest thing out there right now, I should be over the fucking moon.

  But the only track on my entire CD that I feel good about is the original song I sang in the finals of The Voice. My best friend Lilah has a gift for writing music that’s amazing but not the same as everything that’s already out there. It’s the reason everyone’s so convinced I’m unique. I gave the producer five more of my favorites of Lilah’s, the ones we used to sing together in the BART stations of San Francisco. He rejected every single one. Instead, they gave me a bunch of vanilla fluff. Nothing stands out. Nothing is going to keep listeners coming back.

  It’s only a matter of time before people realize I’m nothing special and give up on me.

  On the other side of the wall, Jimmy and Tro wrap up with flurry on the xylophone, triangle, and cowbells. A lingering kazoo hits the final note and I hear the crew cut to a break. They’ll insert a commercial in this spot when they air the show tonight.

  I pull my back off the wall and lean my forehead onto my bent knees.

  One. Two. Three deep breaths, pumping myself up for what comes next. People I’m supposed to smile at. Questions I’m supposed to answer wittily. Hundreds of eyes on me that I’m not supposed to be affected by. No big deal that if I fuck up and say the wrong thing, game over.

  “That bad?”

  The deep male voice rumbles through me, smooth in the middle but rough all around the edges.

  And close.

  My eyes snap open and my gaze darts through the backstage gloom as a dark form materializes out of the shadows next to the stack of crates I’m sitting on. The red cherry of a lit cigarette glows a streak across the dim as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a long drag. As the glowing tip brightens, it illuminates a mass of dark curls that stick up at every angle and appear to only ever have been combed by the multitude of women’s fists that have been twisted into them. Thick dark brows arch over deep-set eyes so intense I’m convinced I feel them burning a hole through mine. A slightly crooked nose leads my eyes to a square jaw covered in dark scruff, and a pair of firm red lips that are currently smirking at me.

  Tro Gunnison.

  I nearly fall off my crate. He’s the guy every woman in the world wants to fuck right now. His nude Rolling Stone cover last fall made sure of that. He’s outrageous in everything he does and notorious for the long list of celebrity hearts he’s left broken in the two years since Roadkill exploded onto the music charts.

  My eyes trail down the tattoos on his neck to the black T-shirt covering what I know is an incredible body. (Yes, I’ve seen the Rolling Sto
ne cover.) But I catch my wits and pull my eyes away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me ogle. I’ve spent enough time around his type in the last few months to know that’s what they get off on.

  “If I said yes?”

  He blows out a long stream of smoke and stalks around to the front of my crate, leaning his elbows onto it and staring up at me. “Then I’d be compelled to ask why.”

  “And if I told you it was none of your fucking business?” I challenge.

  His mouth pulls into a crooked smile and a little bit of devil flashes in his dark eyes. “Then I’d think you’re not only hot, but mysterious too.”

  A sudden whoosh of butterflies in my chest sends a rush through me that tightens my groin. I mentally crush them into dust because I’m not letting Tro Gunnison turn me into some swooning groupie. I’m way the fuck smarter than that. Growing up in the system means you grow up fast. I know how the game is played, which makes me hard to play. If I fuck him, it’s going to be on my terms.

  “Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

  “You’ll be at the show tomorrow?” he asks, taking another drag off his cigarette. “I could get you backstage.”

  I feel my eyes start to widen with surprise and stop them. He doesn’t know I’m his opener. Guess he’s too fucking high and mighty to concern himself with the rabble and hangers on. But when I get past feeling a little pissed off, I realize something about him not recognizing me is liberating.

  I lean back against the wall and decide to have some fun with it. “What show?”

  He gives me a curious look—the same one I nearly gave him a minute ago. But then his eyes rake down my body and the corner of his mouth curves into that devilish smile again. “Better idea. What are you doing right now?”

  I can hear them doing sound checks on the other side of the wall, which means they’ll be ready to tape our segment in a few minutes. They’ll be calling for us any second. “Working.”