Nowhere Left to Run (The Nowhere Trilogy Book 2) Page 2

  “I think so. The band that’s coming is paying half-price while we work through any kinks, but I’m feeling good about it.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “It’ll be good to have you out and about. You’ve been hiding out here at the hotel far too much.”

  “I’m starting school in a few weeks too, so I’ll be out and about plenty.”

  “You hear from Erik today?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “I miss him so much, Dad. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

  “You’ll take as much as you have to. Gotta think about my granddaughter.”

  “Grandson.”

  He arched his brows. “Wait, when did this happen?”

  I laughed. “Oh, just a gut feeling.”

  “Well, whatever it is, you have to make sure you’re both safe.”

  “I know. I’m following all the rules. I’m never alone. Joe Westfield goes with me everywhere. I don’t talk to the press. Nick and I make sure we have public displays of affection whenever we’re out. I got this. I’m not happy about it, but I got it.”

  “It’ll be okay.” He squeezed my arm. “You’ll see.”

  Between the opening of the recording studio and starting classes at UNLV, I was busier than I’d thought I’d be. Nick and I hadn’t made a public announcement about the baby even though I’d finally started to show, but it was winter so I could get away with a lot by wearing sweaters and sweatshirts. The downer in January was not hearing from Erik. With each passing week I got more and more worried. I was keeping busy, but he was always in the back of my mind. I missed him so much it was hard to think about anything else, though I tried my best.

  In early February, Dad finally flew in a band he’d been talking about for ages. They had a dumb name—Folklore Funk—and Dad and I had talked extensively about forcing them to change it. We obviously couldn’t make them, but that wasn’t the right name for a rock band and if they wanted a deal, which they did, they needed something a little edgier. I didn’t know what to expect when I got to the studio, but it felt good to be there. The moment I stepped inside, I was immediately assaulted by the sound of someone strumming a guitar, male laughter, and music. Those were some of my favorite things and I gave Joe a quick smile before heading down the hall to the studio, following the sound of my dad’s voice.

  “There she is.” Dad looked up with a grin. “Gentlemen, the one and only—”

  “Casey Hart.” A tall man with catlike golden eyes and hair that was pretty much the same color, stood up and held out his hand. “Jayson Keller.”

  “Hello.” I shook his hand, a little mesmerized by his presence. It wasn’t that he was so good-looking. In fact, he was almost the opposite. He had hair that was a little too long and hung just above his shoulders with no real style. He had a short-cropped goatee, a slightly too big nose, and a quirky smile. But his eyes were stunning and they glowed with intensity as he looked at me. There was something striking about him and I was immediately intrigued.

  “Hey, I’m Roy.” A short, bald guy in his late twenties with broad shoulders and a bright white smile was next, shaking my hand.

  “Hi, Roy.”

  “Tim Falcone.” A skinny guy covered in tattoos grinned at me as I shook his hand.

  The final member of the band, an exceptionally good-looking guy with dark hair and dark eyes, hadn’t yet moved, merely watching me, as if expecting me to approach him.

  “The asshole sitting down is Remi Lacroix,” Jayson said when I didn’t budge.

  “Hey, Remi.” It was a half-hearted greeting—I didn’t have time for an attitude like his—and I turned to my father. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “You’re never an interruption, darlin’.” Dad came over and kissed my forehead.

  “She kind of is,” Remi said dryly.

  Oh, this guy definitely had a stick up his ass, so I was going to assume he was the guitar player and didn’t like my presence due to some perceived threat. If he only knew how uninterested I was in a band called Folklore Funk. The name had probably been his idea.

  “I’m just going to sit over here and listen,” I said, waving a hand. “Pretend like I’m not here.”

  “Boys, how about we play her the first single?” Dad suggested.

  “Let’s do it.” Jayson led the rest of the band into the recording area of the studio while Dad and I stayed on the other side of the glass. As I’d suspected, Remi picked up the electric guitar, and I nearly snorted when he tossed his long hair.

  “What the fuck is up with him?” I whispered to my dad.

  “No fucking clue,” he responded. “But forget the band, just listen to Jayson’s voice.”

  Sure enough, my dad had hit it on the head. Jayson fucking Keller was badass. His voice was rich and velvety smooth, but also grungy and deep, with an incredible range. Listening to him gave me goose bumps and I knew instantly he was star material. Now this was a guy I would ask to join a band with me. Not now, of course, but at some point in the future, I wanted to work with him. Sometimes you just knew when you clicked with someone musically, and I definitely clicked with Jayson Keller, even if he didn’t know it yet.

  “He’s awesome,” I said quietly, meeting Dad’s eyes as they finished their first song. “Have them do another.”

  “Let’s play the ballad,” Dad said, pressing the button to talk to them in the other room.

  The band obligingly went into a slow song and I closed my eyes, trying to feel whatever the writer had attempted to portray. The lyrics were good and Jayson’s voice was on point, but something was off. I frowned slightly, chewing my lip thoughtfully. The rhythm section—bass and drums—was steady, but the guitar parts and melody were weak. I automatically started rewriting it in my head but didn’t say anything. This was Dad’s baby and I wasn’t going to rain on his parade. I’d tell him what I really thought in private, but not here in front of the guys.

  “You’re not feeling this one, eh?” Dad knew me well.

  “Not really.”

  “Let’s play her the last one,” he called to them.

  The last song was my favorite, a hard rock track with a catchy melody and fun, sexy lyrics. Jayson was moving as he sang, even with headphones on and standing in front of a microphone; his body seemed to have a mind of its own. Girls in the audience probably lost their minds when he moved like that. The greatest lead singers throughout history had signature moves, from Elvis Presley to Steven Tyler, but this guy, he was in a league of his own. Damn, he was great to watch. For a few minutes, the duration of the song, I forgot about Erik, Nick and everything else, completely focused on Jayson. He wowed me. His movements, his voice, the melody, it was all perfect. My gut told me he wrote most of the music and I was willing to bet Remi had written the ballad, because it wasn’t the same.

  “This is the single,” I told Dad. “This is the one you want the record company execs to hear.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t record the ballad as is.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Our eyes met. “You have any ideas?” he asked me.

  “I do, but…this isn’t my project and I’m pretty sure your boy Remi isn’t going to listen to a thing I say.”

  “I want you to work on this with me. That’s why I wanted you to meet them. I think this is the kind of project you could sink your teeth into and pop your producer cherry.”

  I laughed. “I produced Viktim’s second album.”

  “Yeah, but that was your band. Producing someone else’s band is a little different.”

  “I’m happy to help, but I’m pregnant, going to school, and I don’t think Remi is going to work well with me. We met for all of five seconds and he was already a dick.”

  “I’m going to be busy getting this place up and running, so you helping out with this project would be good for both of us.”

  “Let’s see what happens.”

  Dad made a face but didn’t say anything since the song had c
ome to an end and they were headed back into the room with us.

  “What’d you think?” Jayson asked me.

  “I love the last one,” I told him honestly. “The ballad needs work.”

  “What’s wrong with the ballad?” Remi demanded.

  I shrugged. “It isn’t catchy, and the guitar parts fall flat.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says a musician who’s written a dozen platinum-selling songs and won two Grammys.” I wasn’t afraid of this asshole and I’d been walking on eggshells around everyone since my disaster of a wedding day, so if he wanted a fight, I was spoiling for one too.

  “It’s not your project,” he shot back.

  “Actually, it is.” My father was no pushover and he met Remi’s eyes without blinking.

  “That’s not what we agreed to.” Remi didn’t back down either. “The deal was we worked with Lucas Hart, period. No one said shit about her.”

  “Hart Studios is fifty percent hers,” Dad responded. “If you’re not interested in working with us—both of us—you can be on the next plane back to New York.”

  “Dad, I—” I began.

  He held up a hand. “No, this is your studio too, and all projects are yours and mine. Anyone who doesn’t want to work with you doesn’t have to work with me either.”

  “Remi, why don’t you sit down and shut the fuck up?” Jayson kicked the back of Remi’s chair and Remi turned to glare at him.

  “But she’s not—”

  “She’s not what?” Jayson demanded. “A superstar? Talented? A Grammy winner? A fantastic songwriter? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Remi folded his arms across his chest but didn’t say a word and Dad started talking about the recording schedule for the next two days. They were on the redeye home Sunday night, and this was Friday, so they didn’t have much time to do three songs.

  “If you’re done bellyaching, we can get to work,” Dad said. “Or we can change your flights back now.”

  “We’re ready to work,” Jayson said firmly.

  “Yup.” Roy nodded.

  “Me too.” Tim didn’t hesitate.

  “Whatever.”

  Remi Lacroix was a douche.

  3

  Erik

  I’d been melancholy since leaving Las Vegas. I was a man who’d lost everything and felt it deep in my soul. I’d lost or been forced to give up my family, my woman, my heritage, my home, even my country. I literally had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Protecting Casey and Daniil had been all I could think about and now that I knew both were safe, I was restless. We’d come to Monte Carlo because we had nowhere else to go but I wondered if it had been a waste of time. I’d had a thousand ideas of what to do next, but Liz and Sandor shot most of them down, and now I was on a mission to do something. Anything. Confronting Anwar would do no good, but if I could get into the country and bounce from safe house to safe house—I knew of at least three—I might be able to work behind the scenes to shore up support. For me, for Sandor, for a new government. Whatever it took to get rid of Anwar.

  Anwar’s coronation had been this morning and it had been horrifying to watch. He’d been so smug as the head of Parliament crowned him king amid a huge military parade and press coverage. I wanted to smack the smile off his face and the way to do it was to work behind the scenes to take the one thing he wanted. I hadn’t given up everyone and everything I loved on a whim and now I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and take action.

  “Wake up,” I told Sandor, who was dozing in a chair.

  “What?” His eyes opened and he stared at me.

  “We have to go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Limaj.”

  “You’re not much fun these days.” Sandor yawned but sat up straight. “Now what do you have brewing in that enterprising mind of yours?”

  “We can’t fight Anwar outright, but we can work behind the scenes. We can find senators, generals, ambassadors that are on our side and start a rebellion to the rebellion.”

  “The anti-rebellion?” His face was serious, but his eyes twinkled with humor.

  “Call it what you want, but we have to do something.”

  “You keep saying that, but we’ve discussed a thousand possibilities and they all pretty much lead to death. Ours. Why can’t you take Casey and go live on an island somewhere? I’ll find myself a nice girl, we’ll all make a lot of love, lie on the beach all day… It doesn’t sound half bad, you know?”

  “So we’ll lie on a beach somewhere in eternal bliss while our people suffer? This is bigger than us, Sandor. Come on.”

  “I know, but we’ve lost almost everyone… How much more do we give up? My parents, our cousins, aunts, uncles—our fucking king was murdered and we couldn’t stop it. I’m watching you self-destruct over here because you want what Anwar has and you can’t have it.”

  “That’s not what this is about!” I spat out the words angrily. It was, but it wasn’t. “We’ve led an easy, cushy life. We’re rich, attractive enough to enjoy women and all that high society has to offer, and well-educated. We’ve traveled, partied, loved, laughed…all while the people of our country are about to fall into the deepest, scariest ruin of our lifetime. We are the royal family, the heirs—and we can’t let that happen. You want to be king? Go for it. You’re next up after Anwar. I don’t give a fuck about the title, but I really care about the people and our heritage. We know what’s coming and if we can’t stop it, we’ll die trying. At least I will.”

  “That’s what you want for your son?”

  “If I can somehow win, then it’s all for my son. If not, if I fail, he’ll never know because he’s going to grow up a Kingsley.”

  Sandor made a face. “They’re good people, but they’re not al-Hassanis. They’re not the royal family of Limaj. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “We’re going to start an anti-rebellion in Limaj and we’re going to kick that bastard out of power.”

  “And Casey?”

  I took a deep breath. “She’s going to be okay. If we can find support, this might be over sooner than we think and I’ll be back with her by summer. If we can’t, well, she’s no worse off than she is while we’re just sitting here on our asses doing nothing.”

  “You two are planning something stupid, aren’t you?” Daniil came into the room and looked from Sandor to me and back again.

  “Not stupid, important.” I met his gaze. “But you’re not strong enough to do anything. Not yet. Stay here in Monte Carlo with Liz.”

  “We should run anything we’re planning by Liz,” Daniil said. “She has assets, contacts in country. She can help us.”

  “She can run point from here, but we have to do this. She can’t talk to generals and ambassadors like we can. And that’s our move. Our only move.”

  “If Anwar finds out you’re in country, he’ll kill you.”

  I scowled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “And you’re going anyway.”

  “I’ve made my decision.” I headed for the door. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Liz Kingsley came in the room and looked from one to the other of us, shaking her head. “You three are a motley fucking crew.”

  “Takes one to know one,” Sandor told her.

  She chuckled. “Very true. I’m not the one planning a suicide mission, though.”

  “Do you have a better plan?” I asked her.

  “Not yet, but going to Limaj and bouncing from safe house to safe house isn’t a good one either.”

  “We’ve been sitting around here since October. Four fucking months in hiding, cooling our jets. We have to do something. My son will be born in May and—”

  “And you need to stay alive long enough to see it happen,” Liz snapped. “Listen to me, I’m working on it. I have an asset in the country and he’s gathering intelligence. We don’t want to go in there unprepared. Anwar will have you dead or arrested w
ithin hours if he gets wind of anything. Trust me, Erik. I’m on your side.”

  I wanted to growl in frustration. I did trust her. I’d come to her when I hadn’t known where else to go and she’d taken in all three of us. We lived in her private quarters and she fed us, made sure Daniil had gotten the medical attention he’d needed when we arrived, and kept me sane when I was ready to kill someone. But it had been four fucking months already and I was dying inside. The thought of Casey married to Nick—hell, to anyone else—made my blood boil. I trusted both of them, this wasn’t about jealousy, but it was my job to take care of her, not his. She was having my baby soon and I was going to miss it because we were sitting here on our asses.

  “You need to slow down.” Liz faced me with her hands on her hips. She was one of those women who was deceptively frail. She was tall and slender, the kind of woman who had no meat on her bones, no breasts to speak of, and delicate little features. She was blond, with fair skin and light eyes. She was also soft-spoken and spectacularly sweet. Until she morphed from Liz Kingsley into CIA agent Liz. That was a whole other woman. She was still physically slight, of course, but she was tough as nails, and watching her work out was downright intimidating. She had a roundhouse kick that had sent Sandor flying, and that was hard to do with a guy who was six-foot-five and over two hundred and fifty pounds. So when Liz got in my face, while I wasn’t afraid of her, I definitely listened.

  “It’s been almost four months,” I repeated.

  “I know.” She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know you miss her. I know you’re angry. I know all of this, but rushing in there isn’t going to do anything but get you killed.”

  “But we’re not doing anything sitting here either,” I cried in frustration.

  “We are. You’re watching Anwar’s every public move, monitoring what’s going on in the smaller towns and villages. Sandor has been there twice already, gathering information and securing safe houses.”

  “And?”

  “As soon as we have a viable, efficient plan, we’ll make a move. Until then, why don’t you get yourself a disguise and help me around the hotel? I’m fucking killing myself trying to get the right staff hired.”