A Lush Betrayal (4 page)

“I am,” Walsh replies as he releases me. “I’m at peace, and it feels fine.”

Tammy is wrestling my carry-on bag from me as she grabs Walsh’s hand and starts leading us down the concourse. I follow, dodging old ladies with wheeled luggage and small children going apeshit over the moving walkway.

“Are we in a hurry?” I ask Tammy as I jog to keep up.

“I want to get out of here before someone recognizes Walsh. You have no idea what a nightmare that can become.”

“Seriously? Things that intense now, Walsh?”

“Yeah,” he answers blushing. “They can be.”

“Well, let’s get this show on the road then. Can’t have a mob scene here at the airport.”

N
INETY MINUTES
later, we pull up to the front doors of Portland Rose Recording Studios, home of the now famous Studio B. Tammy hustles me out of the car and into the building, where we walk through a small entry area with a receptionist who waves to us and gives an extra big smile to Walsh as we pass.

We head down a narrow hallway until we reach a door with the big letter ‘B’ sticking out from the wall above it. The ‘B’ is lit up, but Tammy doesn’t even hesitate as she opens the door and steps in.

The space inside is larger than I would have thought, with a sound technician’s setup to the left and a small lounge area to the right. There’s a sofa and several armchairs, a small fridge, a bar sink, and a counter top, and all along the wall opposite the door we’ve come in is glass—thick, soundproof glass—that divides our space from the recording space. But today, the speakers between the rooms are on, and inside the recording studio, Joss Jamison, Mike Owens, and Colin Douglas are currently listening to what must be a playback of something they recorded earlier.

The sound technician is fiddling with some buttons and watching his laptop screen while they listen, but Tammy walks over and pulls his microphone toward her. He glances at her and keeps on making whatever adjustments he’s working on. It’s pretty obvious my sister is a regular here.

“Hey, guys,” she sings into the mic. “Can you take a minute to come see my little sister?”

The guys give her a thumbs up and I hear Mike say, “Awww, Little D is here.”

Little D was my nickname all the way through high school—for
Little DiLorenzo.
When I stop and think about it, until I went to college in Seattle, being Tammy’s little sister was a huge part of my identity. I’d never experienced life as anything other than
she who came after Tammy
. Deep down inside, I feel a resistance bubble up. I love my older sister dearly, owe her many things in my life, but somehow the thought of being reduced to Little D again makes me want to turn and walk out the door I just entered.

I hardly have time to complete that thought, however, before the guys are standing there in the lounge, all three staring at me as if I’ve grown two heads. I glance at Tammy, who is pursing her lips, and then at Walsh, who is scowling. Finally I give a little wave and say, “Hi, guys. Remember me?”

Joss

H
OLY SHIT.

Melanie fucking DiLorenzo.

Holy Shit.

Little D, we used to call her. And she was. Little. Tammy’s
much
younger sister. She had red hair, she was kind of cute, and she was a child for fuck’s sake.

This person standing here looking at me like I’m a mental patient is not a child. No, this is one of the hottest women I’ve ever laid eyes on, and for the first time in my life, I am struck speechless.

She’s wearing cut-off shorts and a plain black t-shirt with silver bracelets up one arm. Those cut-offs show me about a mile of perfectly formed legs that end with suede boots not many girls could pull off, but seem to suit this one perfectly. Her hair is a dark, auburn red and cut in this swingy, thick curtain that reaches her shoulders. One side sweeps down over her eyes, which are a deep, midnight blue. Her skin is lighter than Tammy’s, but darker than most redheads, and clear and smooth like polished marble.

As if this picture weren’t enough, she also appears to be endowed with a set of breasts to rival her sister’s and an ass that is absolute perfection. I swallow and try to regain the power of speech as Mike steps forward and reels her in for a much longer than necessary hug.

“Little D,” he says, sounding like a sleazy car salesman. “How the hell are you?”

I try to stifle the growl I feel rising in my throat as I watch him put his hands on her. She smiles at him. Fuck. What did he do to warrant that?

Colin comes over and gives her a high-five with a goofy look on his face as he starts in on some story about her when she was fifteen. They’re all laughing and then Tammy’s whispering to Walsh, who lifts his chin at me as he says, “Hey Joss, man, come say ‘hi’ to Mel before you give her a complex. Mel, don’t mind Joss. He’s the unfriendliest guy in rock and roll.”

I narrow my eyes at him for a moment before I take the couple of steps forward to put out my hand. “Hey, Mel. It’s nice to see you. I guess we’re going to be working together.”

She smiles at me, but it isn’t nearly the smile she gave Mike, and my chest hurts when I notice. What the fuck is the matter with me? I can’t take any more shit with DiLorenzo women. They’re goddamned deadly.

“It looks that way,” she replies cheerfully as she shakes my hand. “How are you, Joss?”

“Unfriendly as ever,” I mumble at her as I release her hand a moment later than I technically should have. It was soft and warm, and I’m an asshole who needs to pull it together.

I glance over at Tammy, who’s looking at me sort of strangely, and I grit my teeth and turn away, the familiar nausea rolling around in my stomach.

“So.” Tammy’s all business now, as usual. “We need to go over the itinerary for the next week.” She gestures to the lounge area, and everyone takes seats. I grab the sofa, hoping it’ll force Tammy and Walsh to sit separately so I won’t have to watch them paw each other for the next half hour. Amazingly, Walsh manages to thread his arm around Tammy and drag her down onto the chair
with
him. I have to hand it to her. How the hell she can run a business meeting while sitting on her fiancé’s lap is beyond me.

Colin takes the other armchair and Mike flops down on the far end of the sofa. That leaves Mel with the middle seat, me on one side of her, Mike on the other. She sits down gingerly and crosses her legs. The world’s longest, smoothest legs from what I can see. Damn.

“So you all know we leave on Sunday at nine a.m., right?” Tammy asks, giving each of us her “bossy bitch” eye one by one. When she gets to me, the look falters for a moment, and I see Mel glance between us quickly.

“On the main bus will be the six of us, Dave when he’s around, and a security guy. The crew bus will have everyone else, including the rest of security, and the semi-trucks will haul the equipment.

“We’ve each got a sleeping space in the bus, and there’s a bathroom with a shower. We’ve got hotels booked as often as possible, but there are a few nights when the performances and travel are so tight we’ll have to crash on the way from one appearance to the next.”

“So, like, do you and Walsh have separate beds or do we have to listen to the two of you bangin’ the boards all night?” Colin slurs out.

“Shut up, you Irish eedjit,” Walsh shoots back.

“Hey, man. Do not diss my grammy’s homeland,” Colin says, his face turning red.

I hear Mel chuckle next to me and look over at her. The line of her neck is long and smooth, and I have an urge to run my finger along it up to the delicate little curve under her jaw. I breathe deeply, trying to calm my jumpy pulse, only to inhale a sweet lemony scent that makes me want to close my eyes and taste it on my tongue. Fuck. She smells like a lemon meringue pie. It’s my favorite. Who the hell smells like that?

“Guys!” Tammy claps her hands, and I snap my eyes back to the room, trying really hard not to breathe too deeply, visions of Mel naked, covered in meringue dancing through my head.

“Let’s not argue.” Tammy shoots severe looks at Walsh then Colin. “You need to hear about the tour stops and appearances for the first week.”

The bickering stops and everyone settles in. I tune out after the first few minutes, knowing that Tammy will send it all to my inbox and calendar anyway. I’ve got iPads, iPhones, laptops, and people to keep track of all this stuff. It doesn’t really matter if I know the shit or not.

Apparently Mel doesn’t think she needs to listen either because after a few minutes she quietly says, “Excuse me,” and slips out of her seat, shimmying past me. I intentionally don’t look to see where she heads. I’ve got enough trouble with her sister. I don’t need to know any more about Mel—or how she smells or what her legs look like in those shorts.

Fifteen minutes later, Tammy’s finally done and everyone starts to stand, bickering already and stretching as they transition into the next activity. I finally look up from the lyrics I’ve been doodling on my iPad to find Mel crouching quietly in a corner of the room, camera lens pointing right at me. I look sharply at her, and she lowers the big lens.

“Hi,” she says with a small smile.

“You’re very quiet about that,” I answer. “I didn’t even know you were shooting me.”

“That means I’m doing my job. You have to blend into the background if you want to get the honest shots, the ones that really tell the story.”

“I never thought about it that way, but I see what you’re saying. Makes the paparazzi look like a bunch of fools, doesn’t it?”

She laughs. “Well, it certainly doesn’t make them very credible photojournalists.”

“So that’s what you studied? In college? Photojournalism?”

She stands, and I do too. We both take a few steps toward each other so we’re not talking across an empty space. She starts removing her camera lens and putting it into a bag sitting behind her on the kitchenette counter.

“Yeah, I got a Bachelor’s degree in journalism and a Master’s of Fine Arts in photography, so I’ve had all the training you can get, I guess.”

“Wow,” I say, watching her long, slim fingers as they wipe down camera parts and zip compartments. “No wonder your sister’s so proud of you. That’s impressive.”

She blushes and my heart skips a beat. No, no, no. This is so very wrong. I can’t be attracted to this girl. This sister of the woman I’ve spent the last twelve months wanting, hating, fixated on, avoiding. She’s hot, but she is not for me. My life is so fucking messed up right now. Mel DiLorenzo is like adding TNT to a raging fire. Explosions of epic proportions are guaranteed.

Just then, Tammy walks up. “So you’re not hitting on my little sister, are you, Joss?” she asks with an edge to her voice that makes me want to tell her to fuck off.

“You know, Tammy, unlike a lot of people in this business, I don’t go around looking to put notches on my bedpost. I’m actually a one-woman kind of guy.”

Tammy looks uncomfortable, but then she smiles at Mel and ignores my remark. “Get your stuff packed up and let’s go, Little D. I want to take you shopping before we leave. You need some rock and roll touring clothes.” Mel laughs and Tammy flounces off without a backwards look at me.

“So you’ve got a serious girlfriend then?” Mel asks as she hoists her camera bag on her shoulder.

“No,” I say honestly. “I just made a deal with the devil and now I have to pay the price.”

I’
M NOT
sure when I started to think I was
in
love with Tammy DiLorenzo.

Maybe it was the day we were fifteen and Lucy Madison had just dumped my ass. Tammy showed up at my house with the keys to her dad’s truck and a six-pack of PBR she’d stolen from his basement fridge. We took the truck, driving without licenses, went to the old cement factory pond, and spent the afternoon jumping off the rocks in our clothes and drinking weak-ass beer. Without even saying it in words, she told me I was a good guy, someone girls wanted to spend time with, someone worth
her
time. She soothed my stinging heart and kept me from brooding over a rejection I might have otherwise. I decided that day that no girl would ever break my heart again unless she was every bit as cool as Walsh’s girl.

Or maybe it was the day she stood next to me at my mother’s grave, the Portland air sagging with moisture that mirrored the heaviness in my heart. Tammy gently took my hand as I stared at the fresh mound of dirt and said, “If I have a son someday, I want him to be like you. I’ve never seen a guy who cared for his mother the way you did, Joss. As a woman, I thank you for that.”

Or maybe it was six months after my mom’s funeral, when Tammy and I stood in a filthy gas station bathroom as I held Walsh around the waist while he was doubled over, vomiting blood on the floor. Tammy watched, eyes huge, tears streaming down her face as she talked on the phone. First she called 911 for an ambulance and then she made the arrangements for him to be admitted to Cedar Valley rehab center.

He had been drinking for twelve straight hours, even after being told he had a bleeding ulcer. He’d passed out in an alley behind a club after a concert, and it had taken us two hours to find him. When we did, his shirt was shredded, his wallet was gone, and his face was a fucking mess. We sobered him up enough to get him back on the tour bus, and then he started drinking again. Three hundred miles later, we stood with him in that bathroom, his girlfriend and his best friend, and we knew that, if we didn’t stop him, he was going to die.