Rock Chick Regret

  Rock Chick Regret

  Kristen Ashley

  Published by Kristen Ashley

  Copyright 2011 Kristen Ashley

  Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:

  Rock Chick Series:

  Rock Chick

  Rock Chick Rescue

  Rock Chick Redemption

  Rock Chick Renegade

  Rock Chick Revenge

  Rock Chick Reckoning

  The ‘Burg Series:

  For You

  At Peace

  Golden Trail

  The Colorado Mountain Series:

  The Gamble

  Sweet Dreams

  Lady Luck

  Dream Man Series:

  Mystery Man

  Wild Man

  The Fantasyland Series:

  Wildest Dreams

  The Golden Dynasty

  Fantastical

  Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:

  Fairytale Come Alive

  Lacybourne Manor

  Mathilda, SuperWitch

  Penmort Castle

  Sommersgate House

  Three Wishes

  www.kristenashley.net

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

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  *****

  Author’s Note

  A long time ago, at a scary time in my life, when I was alone, I tried to go it alone and, after having surgery to remove a benign lump from my breast, I attempted to redress my wound and shower by myself.

  I nearly passed out. Crawling to the phone, I called my friend, Cris, who was a nurse. He dropped everything and came to my house. He helped me shower and redress my wound. I was mortified and told him so.

  “I’m gay and a nurse, I wipe people’s asses for a living. Do you think this fazes me?” he’d said to me. Then he lectured me on going it alone when I had friends.

  I never did it again.

  And this, my loyal readers, is exactly what the entire series of Rock Chick is about, as Sadie learns in the story you are about to read. You are never alone, not when you have friends. Learn from my stories and, through thick and thin, remember, if you have friends you are never alone.

  Rock on.

  *****

  Prologue

  Loads of Practice

  Sadie

  The elevator pinged and I looked out into the plushly carpeted hall.

  I took a deep breath.

  As I let it out, I stepped one perfectly high, slingback, stiletto heel shod foot soundlessly on the carpet. I turned right and walked the ten steps (I counted) to the door.

  There was a brass plaque on the door, it said, “Nightingale Investigations.”

  Before I could chicken out, I turned the sleek knob and pushed the door open.

  I knew there would be no balloons falling or streamers streaming, heralding my happily anticipated arrival but I didn’t expect the intensity of the welcoming committee.

  Or, one could say, unwelcoming committee.

  Shirleen Jackson was sitting behind the gleaming, polished, blond-wood reception desk. Standing in front of it was Stella Gunn and Kai Mason.

  I knew Shirleen and I knew she knew my father and furthermore I suspected she did a happy dance when he was handed a fifteen year sentence. Therefore, I expected her face to turn to stone when she saw me (and it did).

  I knew Stella Gunn and Kai Mason because they were famous. Their romance had played out in the papers and on local news and I’d watched it with avid fascination along with the rest of Denver.

  All of them looked at me, none of them smiled.

  I walked through the door and it fell closed behind me so I could see the rest of the room.

  Luke Stark was leaning against the desk and his head came up from studying a manila folder. When he saw me, his face went blank and his eyes went cold.

  I stopped myself from swallowing and, as per normal (as I’d had loads of practice), I walked, back ramrod straight, chin up, one foot in front of the other (like I learned in deportment classes) to the desk.

  “Hello, I’m Sadie Townsend. I have an appointment with Liam Nightingale,” I said to Shirleen.

  Shirleen looked me from top-to-toe, her tawny eyes frozen and I knew her thoughts. I’d had twenty-nine years of people looking at me like Shirleen did and coming to one of three conclusions.

  First, I was a spoiled rotten, rich, Daddy’s girl and not worth the time.

  Or second, I was the daughter of a dangerous drug lord and by association scum of the earth.

  Or third, I was the daughter of a dangerous yet powerful and wealthy man and there might be some way to use me to get what they wanted.

  I figured Shirleen was in the first category.

  My eyes slid to Luke Stark and I knew from his continued arctic stare that he was a mixture of both one and two.

  I didn’t even look at Stella Gunn and Kai Mason.

  “Sit your fancy-ass down. Lee’ll be with you in a minute,” Shirleen said and my eyes moved back to her.

  I was a little surprised that she would be obviously rude but I let it deflect off me like I was wearing armor. It hurt, like it always hurt, but I was damned if I’d let it show.

  So I didn’t.

  I was good at this. I’d had loads of practice at this too.

  I turned on my heel, back still straight, chin still up, giving the impression that I was dismissing her and everyone in the room as beneath my notice.

  This was another defense mechanism with which I had loads of practice.

  I sat down on a leather couch and crossed my legs, relaying the appearance that I hadn’t a care in the world. I magnified this by casually pulling my cream skirt up my knee and surveying my manicure like it was utterly fascinating.

  I was wearing the palest of pale pink on my nails, the manicure was perfect, as it should be; it had only been finished two hours ago.

  I was wearing designer from head-to-toe.

  My hair was not dyed, it was naturally an ultra-light, golden-cream-strawberry blonde and also had this weird mix of natural soft ringlets combined liberally with waves. I wore it long and down my back. Today I had the front pulled back in an expensive clip and it tumbled down to my shoulders and back. Although not dyed, the cut cost three hundred dollars.

  I had on a cream, pencil-slim skirt that skimmed the knees and had a pleated kick pleat in the back. I also had on a little, short-sleeved top, pale pink (to match my nails) with dozens upon dozens of pink pleats at the sleeves, capped with cream, satin ribbon. The top had a square neckline and fit like it was made for me. My slingbacks were to-die-for with a slim, four-inch heel, they were uber-elegant. I set my pale pink clutch on my knee and moved my eyes to a studied fascination of my shoe.

  The door opened and I looked from my toe to the door.

  Indy Nightingale and her sister-in-law, Ally Nightingale, walked in. I’d seen India Savage and Liam Nightingale’s picture in the wedding column. She was a gorgeous redhead; he was an extremely handsome, dark-haired man. They were a beautiful couple and, if their photo was anything to go by, very happy.

  I knew Ally from my not so happy run-in with Daisy a few months ago.

  Daisy Sloan was friends with the Nightingale clan and she had been my friend once.

  Well, she’d almost been one.

  The run-in hadn’t been a run-in, exactly. I saw Daisy, Daisy’s eyes t
urned to polar icecaps when she saw me, she whispered something in Ally’s ear, Ally’s eyes cut to me and they went hard.

  That was it. Not a run-in but not pleasant either.

  Now Indy and Ally were laughing at something but when their eyes moved in the direction of Shirleen, they saw something in her expression then they moved to me and their laughter died.

  “Shit, I forgot, is it Wednesday?” Indy said to Ally.

  Ally’s eyes went glacial as they rested on me. “Yeah,” she answered.

  I didn’t know exactly why Luke, Shirleen, Indy and Ally (and I guessed Kai and Stella, although I hadn’t looked to be certain) hated me but I suspected it was either because Daisy hated me or because they suspected I hated Hector Chavez. Rumor had it they were a close-knit group. The papers had talked about what had now become the semi-famous Rock Chicks of Fortnum’s Bookstore and the Nightingale Men of Nightingale Investigations in their articles about Stella and Kai. They were known to be crazy and fun and willing to lay their lives on the line for each other.

  Even though a part of me was jealous as hell, I was glad Daisy had that. Daisy was a good person, she deserved it.

  As for me, I’d never had a friend, not a true, genuine friend, in twenty-nine years. I used to feel sorry for myself about this fact. But then I realized it was just my life and, as with everything else, I learned to live with it. Either people didn’t trust me, they didn’t trust my Dad, they didn’t stick around or they used me. I learned a long time ago to shut them down before they could rip out my heart, tear it to shreds, stamp on it, kick it around a bit and then spit on it.

  When that happened, trust me, it was no fun, it hurt, loads, so I stopped it before it could start and didn’t let anyone get close.

  No one.

  Ever.

  That was until Daisy. But that didn’t work out.

  When Daisy hit the Denver social scene, I thought she was aces. She was not brittle and fake like everyone else of my father’s (and thus my) acquaintance. She looked like Dolly Parton. She dressed like Dolly Parton. She had a voice with a country twang. She had a tremendously cool giggle that sounded like jingling Christmas bells.

  And she was real. And she liked me too.

  But Nanette Hardy was ripping her to shreds at Monica Henrique’s garden party a couple of years ago, really laying into Daisy like only vicious, catty Nanette could do. Monica was giggling and I was quiet and waiting for my chance to get in a good shot. My chosen topic was Nanette’s husband getting rear-ended (literally) by the pool boy which only Nanette didn’t know about, everyone else knew all about it and was laughing behind her back when Monica’s face went pale and she was looking over my shoulder.

  Nanette quit talking and I looked behind me. Daisy was there.

  I caught the pain in her eyes before she looked at me like I was slime.

  Then she walked away.

  I knew why. I’d been nice to her; I’d been hoping she’d be my friend. She thought I was talking behind her back which was worse than what Nanette and Monica were doing. Everyone knew Nanette and Monica were bitches, it was expected.

  I called Daisy half a dozen times and went over to her house twice. She wouldn’t see me, or at least that was what her husband said when he turned me away from the door.

  In the end, her husband Marcus had come to visit my father. My father had told me under no circumstances was I to try to communicate with Daisy Sloan again. He explained it was crucial, it was duty, it was business. Bottom line, Marcus was a powerful man, nearly as powerful as my father and my father couldn’t have Marcus as an enemy so I needed to back off.

  Ever the dutiful daughter, I didn’t try to contact Daisy again.

  I didn’t blame her for thinking what she thought of me though I would have liked to have the chance to explain. Even though I didn’t blame her, it hurt all the same.

  I never spoke to Nanette or Monica again. Well, that was, I never spoke to them again after the “incident” a couple weeks later when I outed Nanette’s husband at a cocktail party at an art gallery, he took that opportunity to share he was gay, he divorced her and was now living in Miami with his boyfriend, Pedro, but how would I know all that would happen?

  Nanette and Monica had been “friends” for years. I didn’t miss them.

  Daisy had been a semi-friend for a couple of months. I missed her.

  “Is Hector here?” Ally asked Shirleen and I just stopped myself from sucking in my lips. Instead, I stared at the plush carpet in the offices.

  “Ally.” It was a male’s deep voice, I was guessing Luke Stark’s as it was coming from his direction. His voice held a warning.

  “I’m just asking,” Ally said.

  I gave the impression that this exchange bounced right off my armor too but my stomach clenched.

  God, I hoped Hector wasn’t there. That would be awful.

  I knew there was a chance I’d run into him as he worked for Nightingale now but I was hoping he was busy doing private eye stuff, gallivanting around town bringing down perps and taking photos of cheating husbands in the act and whatever else private eyes did.

  Even though Hector worked for them, I chose Nightingale Investigations because they were the best. Better than the best. My father said Lee could move his operation to New York or Los Angeles and corner the market on investigations, security and bounty hunting, he was that good.

  One of the things my father taught me was always but always get the best.

  “He’s here all right,” Shirleen answered Ally’s question and even though I felt my heart beating faster, I allowed myself to lift my chin and look calmly and coolly at Shirleen.

  She was pretty, middle-aged and hitting it well. She had beautiful mocha skin and the biggest afro I’d ever seen, but it suited her perfectly. She had magnificent eyes.

  I knew she once was competition for my father in the drug scene but she’d pulled out and gone straight. I admired her for that. That must have taken a ton of courage and it said a lot about her.

  Still, it didn’t stop me from staring her down. My cool blue eyes locked with her arctic tawny ones. We had a stare down and even though she was very scary, I won.

  Then again, I always won. I was good at the stare down. I could hold a cool, calm, unaffected stare for hours. It was something else I had loads of practice with.

  Once she looked away, I aimed my composed glance at Ally then at Indy. They had attitude (the good kind), I could see it and sense it. Regardless, they were also no match for me and both looked away before I did.

  I knew I was not making friends and winning allegiances. That was the point.

  These people would never want me to be their friend.

  I looked down at my toe again and thought about Hector.

  When I knew Hector, he’d been a man in my father’s army. My father liked him a great deal. My father told me Hector reminded him of… well, him. Smart. Sharp. Good instincts. Loyal. Skilled. Hungry, but in a good way, an ambitious way.

  My father had a high opinion of himself.

  Hector was one of very few men my father trusted and respected, totally.

  It was a mistake.

  What we didn’t know was that Hector was also an undercover DEA agent. In fact the undercover DEA agent that brought my father’s empire down.

  What neither Hector nor my father knew was that I helped him.

  The Feds took everything, my father’s house, his cars, his condo in Boca, his furniture. They froze his bank accounts. They even tried to get my trust fund but since it had been set up for me by my grandmother before my father was a Drug King, they couldn’t touch it.

  I was glad they took all my father’s stuff, it was tacky and ostentatious. My father had been a nothing, a nobody and married a rich girl. He’d come up from nothing the hard way, the dirty way, the vile way and he’d proven himself to my mother’s family, to the world by becoming rich, powerful and very, very frightening. He’d driven my mother to leaving us that was how frighten
ing he was. She left me behind. She left everything behind. Didn’t even take a suitcase.

  She just disappeared. Poof. Gone.

  And she never looked back. Not once.

  I’d been eleven.

  I didn’t dwell. I’d lost a lot by then, a lot of friends, a lot of servants I’d tried to make into friends (a mistake I learned early not to make again), my grandparents were all dead. Losing my mother was just another in a long string of loss. I was used to that too and it didn’t faze me. Or, I should say, it fazed me (truth be told, it destroyed me), I just never let it show.

  Hector was something else.

  I knew right away he wasn’t what he wanted us to think he was.

  I’m not a super-sleuth or anything. It was just that, you spend enough time around bad people; you know them when you see them.

  You also know the good ones too.

  And there was something about him. Something about the way he held himself, the way he looked, the way he looked at me.

  God, he was beautiful. Quite simply the most handsome man I’d ever clapped eyes on in my whole, entire life. This was saying something. My father surrounded himself with fit, athletic, good-looking men; his personal army was recruited specifically to reflect on him.

  Hector had flatly refused the makeover my father usually demanded of the boys from the streets that he fashioned into gentlemen criminals. My father respected that too.

  Hector was Mexican-American. He looked rough and was straight out tough. One look and you knew you did not mess with him. He had thick, black, wavy hair, black eyes, long legs, broad shoulders and a lean, amazing body. He knew who he was and what he wanted and he had a confidence that was unreal.