Chapter 20: The Broken Note: Chapter 20

Jarod Cross’s bodyguard is waiting for me in the parking lot after school. I feel myself bristling when I look into his shadowy eyes. I’ve been around the slimy side of darkness my whole life and I can smell something on this guy. Something that makes me uneasy.

My phone rings.

It’s an unknown number.

I wonder if it’s mom.

“Hello?”

“Cadence,” Jarod Cross’s smoky, million-dollar voice, fills my ears. “Lucien is waiting for you in the parking lot. Do you see him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I’m preparing for a concert, so I’ll need you to come to me. Is that okay?”

There’s something in his tone that tells me there’s only one right answer to that question.

I tuck my bottom lip into my mouth. “Yes.”

“I’ll see you in a few,” Jarod Cross says. “I’m excited for our partnership.”

“I haven’t told you my answer yet.”

“You’re a smart girl. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

My skin crawls with warning. I hang up the phone and walk over to the man dressed in a full black suit despite the wickedly hot temperatures.

I’m not doing this for me. I’m not doing this for money.

I’m doing this for Serena.

She deserves to be returned to her rightful place and the person who lied about her and ruined her life needs to be punished. I won’t stop until I accomplish both. Whatever I have to do to get my hands on Jinx’s evidence, I’m willing to do it.

Lucien watches me with hard eyes. He opens the back door.

I climb in and he slams it shut.

My heart lunges to my throat. I dig my fingernails into the seatbelt as he takes off.

The thought shakes me to my core. Why am I thinking of him? Rather than being a damsel in distress, I should find my own way out.

But if I call Dutch, what do I say to him?

There is no reality where that will go over well.

I’m on my own.

Thinking quickly, I put my cell phone on record and set it under my thigh.

“Your name is Lucien?” I strike up a casual conversation.

Beady black eyes flash in the rearview mirror.

I force a smile. “How long have you been working for Mr. Cross?”

There’s a long period of silence.

I think he’s not going to answer, but he eventually says, “About five years.”

“Really? The way you two interact, I thought you’d been working with him since the beginning of his career.”

Lucien’s mouth falls into a thin line.

I clear my throat. “Where are you taking me?”

Still nothing.

“What does Mr. Cross want me to do?”

Still nothing.

My heart slams against my ribs. I dig my fingernails into the phone, wondering what I should do next.

Something doesn’t feel right.

This man. This ride. The rockstar’s request.

“You don’t need to record this,” Lucien says, his voice crisp and dry. “Mr. Cross wouldn’t hurt you.” His eyes flash on me again. “Not as long as you cooperate.”

My nostrils flare. Does he realize how he sounds? Maybe in Lucien’s head, that was meant to comfort me, but all I heard was ‘

.

I lick my lips and turn off the recording. He’s made his point. There is no way to escape these circumstances. All I can do is trust that I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.

Lucien returns his cold eyes to the street.

The rest of the drive happens in stifling silence.

Finally, he pulls the car into a giant arena. There are paparazzi out front, but none of them are back here.

The car engine dies.

Lucien opens my door for me like I’m someone important.

I glance up at his face.

He stares at me, a cruel glint in his eyes. It reminds me of that kid in kindergarten who used to put ants into puddles just to watch them drown.

“That way.” He points, flashing a cuff link with a tiger symbol on it. “He’s waiting up there.”

I stumble past him, glad to be away from his strangely unsettling presence.

The stairs leading to the stage are big and wooden. My sneakers thump on them loudly, but the sound is swallowed up by the massive cacophony above. Giant cranes are swooping across the stage. Men in T-shirts with the label ‘CREW’ on the back, hustle in desperation.

In the circle of the chaos, calm and sinisterly beautiful, is Jarod Cross. He’s got a guitar strung over his long, lean body. Tattoos grace his chest and most of his arms, which are on display thanks to his black wife beater. The lights all point to him, bathing his face in white and mystery.

He turns his head to the side and I can see Dutch. The way they hold their guitars with careless grace, the way they both stand in the middle of the spotlight without fear, it’s alluring in a strange and sinful way.

Jarod Cross’s blue eyes snap open and he cuts his gaze across the stage as if sensing my presence. He sees me and a slow, confident smile stretches across his face. Like a cat who has the mouse right where he wants him.

“Cadence.” He swings the guitar over his head in one smooth motion. Someone approaches and accepts the guitar from him.

I’m sure I look as dazzled as I feel, but I can’t find the strength to hide my expression. It’s my first time standing on a professional stage. Although Redwood Prep takes music seriously, this is not a school presentation. This is on another level altogether.

“You’re here.” Jarod snaps his fingers.

Magically, a bottle of water appears in front of him.

He twists the cap, takes a swig and holds out his arms.

The bottle is promptly removed.

He drops an arm around my shoulder. “Come. Walk with me.”

I stumble beside him, wondering when the hell I went to sleep and started dreaming about rockstars giving me stage tours.

“Everyone,” Jarod Cross gestures to his band, “this is Mulliez’s best student—Cadence Cooper.”

The musicians jut their chins up in a cool sign of greeting.

My stomach clenches nervously. “Hi.”

“Mulliez chose her?” The bass guitarist slides his eyes over me.

“How do you know Mr. Mulliez?” I ask.

“He played with our band. Briefly,” Jarod says. “He might not be with us now, but you never forget your bandmate.”

“What do you play?” the drummer inquires. He’s a tall, thin guy covered in tattoos. His hair is so shaggy that it hides most of his face.

“Piano,” I murmur.

“Keys?” He bobs his head. “Not bad.”

“We’re guitarheads over here, but we respect the piano. No hate.” The bass guitarist pumps a fist into his chest.

“You should play something.”

“Yeah, definitely. Let me hear what Mulliez staked his life on.”

Jarod chuckles. “Cadence?”

“I can’t.” The words escape on a squeak. Quiet and fearful.

Put me up against a raging monster like Dutch Cross and I’ll fight tooth and nail.

Ask me to play in front of a crowd, and I lose all my fire.

“Why not?” Jarod arches a brow.

“I have stage fright,” I admit, clasping my hands together.

The entire band goes silent.

Jarod studies me with a long look, his gaze sliding from my butt-length hair to my dusty sneakers. “What kind of relationship did you have with Mulliez?”

At once, everyone in the band stiffens.

I do too. What the hell is he insinuating?

“Were the rumors true?” Strangely, Jarod Cross seems more amused than scandalized.

I’m immediately on edge.

Mess with me? Fine. But don’t come after the people I care about.

“Mr. Mulliez chose me because of my talent.” I pierce the band with my gaze. “Not for any other reason.”

“How did you qualify for Redwood if you have stage fright?”

I inhale deeply. “Do you guys have a wig around here?”

They’re rockstars. They keep some kind of costume in the building.

“No.”

My heart pounds faster.

I can’t do it without a wig. I can’t do it.

Jarod’s hand falls on my shoulder. “Cadence, it’s okay to admit the truth. If Mulliez—”

“He didn’t,” I growl.

Jarod’s amused smile gets bigger.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Dutch pushed me out of my comfort zone more times than I can count. It’s time to see if it worked.

“Do you have a drum cover?

Jarod snaps his fingers. “Get this girl something to cover herself.”

I accept the thick blanket and approach the piano to the left of the stage.

By now, most of the crew members are watching us curiously, trying to see what’s got Jarod Cross so engaged. I ignore everyone and throw the blanket over my head, covering my hair like a veil.

I’m sure I look ridiculous, but at this point, I’m too invested to care.

There are no lights under the piano. It’s dark and difficult to see the keys. Not that I need to. Every note is etched into my bones and buried deep under my ribs.

I close my eyes and play.

ekes out and spreads through the arena. It’s an angsty, rebellious rendition of Jarod Cross’s first hit song.

My fingers tease the black keys, climbing octaves to layer the already insidious beat with an extra dose of chaos. Louder. Louder. Until the only thing I can hear is my heart bursting in my ears.

And then soft. Like the wind. Flowing. Lightweight. No gravity.

I click my foot on the sustain pedal and let the last note ring, dragging their hearts over the coals for as long as possible before I release them from my trance.

When I’m done, I lift my hands.

I’m too embarrassed.

I just bled all over the piano keys. What if they see the mess and laugh at my cowardice? What if they don’t understand?

My stage fright’s improved a little, but not that much. I don’t trust what happens if I throw this blanket off my head and face the crowd.

Slowly, the sound of applause breaks out behind me.

It’s followed by another.

The applause thunders through the room, building until it matches the crescendo of the song.

“I need the room!” Jarod Cross barks.

Footsteps patter.

Whispers rush.

Finally, it all fades to silence.

I feel the drum cover shifting and, slowly, it drapes off my head to my shoulder and into my lap. I meet Jarod Cross’s blue eyes and find him leaning over the piano, his lips quirked up.

“Burying that talent would be a crime,” he says in a low hush. “Have you ever thought about touring?”

“Me? Tour? No.” I shake my head and brush my hair down. The blanket caused frizz to rise all over.

“You obviously know how to play. And you had to have played in public for Mulliez to discover you.”

“I usually wear a wig and makeup.”

“A wig and makeup?” He chuckles, low and deep.

I squirm. Exhale. Change the subject. “Mr. Cross, do you really want me to spy on Dutch? Why?”

“I suspect that my son is dealing drugs,” he says bluntly.

My eyes widen. All the air gets sucked out of the room and I can’t breathe.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a long time, but when I saw all the money in Dutch’s account well… I started investigating.”

“He wouldn’t… Dutch doesn’t do drugs. I haven’t even seen him smoke.”

“Dutch is rebellious by nature.” Jarod Cross folds his arms over his chest. “He would do anything to get back at me for the wrongs he perceives I’ve done.”

My mouth opens and closes.

“I did my research, and you—Miss Cooper—are the only one who seems unafraid of my son. It’s why I chose you. It’s why I know you won’t let me down.”

My skin starts to crawl. The one thing I hate, more than anything in this world, is the substance that turned my mother into an addict and the people who benefit from the trade.

If Dutch is dealing…

“No. He isn’t the type who’d hide if he were doing that,” I insist. Why does it hurt to think that Dutch could be dealing? Why do I want that to be a lie so desperately?

“Some people disguise themselves better than others.” Jarod Cross picks up the drum cover. “You should know something about hiding your true self.”

My chest burns. I see through his smile to the truth beneath. He’s taunting me. Challenging me.

The danger of the moment rolls through my chest like a storm, deep and foreboding. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know that I’ve stepped into rushing, dangerous currents. At any minute, I can sink like a stone.

“If you’re telling me this to try and keep me away from Dutch, you don’t have to bother. I’m not interested in your son.”

He laughs. It’s a twisted sound. “I don’t care about your high school romance, Miss Cooper. All I ask is that you keep an eye on him and report to me if you see him doing anything suspicious.”

“So you can report him?”

“No.” He blinks innocently. “So I can save him from himself.” Sadness settles over his face. “It’s hard to be the son of a celebrity. Even worse when all your mistakes are paraded before the world. I’m his father. My biggest desire is to protect him.”

I nod, wishing my mom was that considerate of us.

Jarod Cross walks around the piano. His hand drapes over the top. “How would you feel about opening for fan meetings in London?”

My knees weaken. “O-open? For you? No, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Think about it.” He checks his watch. “That’s enough for today. You can leave.”

“Wait.” I shoot to my feet.

He turns, blue eyes dark and assessing. “Is there something else you want?”

“Yes.” I swallow hard. “You mentioned getting me a scholarship or money.”

“Yes…”

“I don’t want either of those.”

“What do you want?”

“My friend was falsely accused and expelled from school. Can you bring her back?”

“Your friend? By chance, is it the one who started the fire?” He rubs his jaw.

I hold my breath. My deal with Jinx is Plan A, but I don’t intend to let Jarod Cross have his way unless I get my three wishes from him.

He considers it and nods. “I can bring her back.”

My heart balloons with hope.

“But she won’t be able to graduate this year.”

My shoulders sink. “No.”

“And she’ll always be remembered as the one who set the fire.” He arches a brow. “Is that really what you want?”

“No. I want her to come back to school and—”

“I meant do you want to waste your payment on someone else?”

“Yes.” There’s not a second of hesitation.

“How sweet.” His voice is deep with amusement and something else. Something I can’t decipher. All I know is it really isn’t a compliment. “Give me what I want, Miss Cooper, and I’ll do everything I can to help your friend.”

I swallow hard. Despite hearing those words, I still feel like I’m getting into bed with the devil.

Jarod Cross waves a hand. “Now go. Lucien will give you the things you need.”

“The things I need?”

“To spy on my son.” He turns back and gives me a hard stare. “I’m expecting great things from you, Miss Cooper. Don’t disappoint me.”