“Something wrong, Dad?”
“Let me know when you do plan to come home. May ask you to bring me a souvenir.”
Souvenir. One of our Cali brothers nearby probably has drugs, guns, or cash they want me to bring to New York. Not exactly a thrilling prospect when most likely Mallory will be riding with me.
Since another MC had been infiltrated by the FBI a couple years ago, my father won’t supply more information over the phone. “Whatever you need, Dad.”
We talk for a few more minutes.
“Any club runs I’m missing out on?”
“Headed to Empire this weekend.”
“Meeting up with the Lost Kings?”
“Possibly.”
“Good. Say hi to Grinder for me.”
“Will do.”
Miss riding with my club. Would love to have Mallory on the back of my bike for a trip like that.
After we hang up, I stare at the phone for a while.
I’m too old to be homesick, right?
Mallory
My agent’s cloud of puffy blonde curls are barely visible over the files piled on her desk. Even so, she radiates authority, and I jump when she barks at me. “Don’t sit. Go. Now.”
She thrusts some papers in my hand. “A pilot. Primetime television. Blonde with big boobs. You’re perfect. If the show gets picked up for a full season, it could be huge for you.” She shoos me out the door with no other information.
The role is “sexy lifeguard.” Since I possess zero knowledge about lifeguarding, I keep my expectations low.
On my way to the audition, I stop at a pay phone to call Chaser and leave him a message.
Blondes of every height and bust size occupy the casting office when I arrive. I locate someone who seems to be in charge to sign-in and hand over my headshot.
“Have a seat.” The girl flicks her hand in my direction without glancing up.
I scan the room for any available chair. The only spot open is in the corner next to a woman who, judging by the downcast gazes and lack of chatter in her section of the room, everyone else seems to fear.
She sweeps her gaze over me as I approach and moves a magazine off the seat next to her. “Hi, I’m Pamela Scott.” She holds out her hand, tilting her head and staring at me as if her name should mean something.
“Mallory Dove.” I shake her hand.
“Yeah,” she narrows her eyes, “I thought you looked familiar.” Her soft, southern drawl almost takes the sting out of her condescending attitude.
What should I say? Somehow, thanks doesn’t seem appropriate.
“My boyfriend saw your picture in L.A. Weekly.” She places her thumb by her ear, pinky pointing toward her mouth. “He calls me up like, ‘babe, you’re in L.A. Weekly. That’s so cool.’” Her gaze roams over me in such a disapproving way, I wonder if her boyfriend made it out of that conversation alive.
“How wild is that? I see the guy every day, but he confuses me for some random blonde chick on a magazine cover.”
A nervous smile flickers over my lips. I can’t say I’m fond of being referred to as ‘some random blonde chick,’ although, I guess it could be worse.
Finally, she shrugs and laughs. “He’s dumber than a box of bricks, but he has a massive cock.”
“Congratulations.” How else should I respond to that statement?
I force myself to appear calm. To hide how much she intimidates me as I give her a cautious once-over.
I suppose we look somewhat similar. To be completely honest, she’s like some gorgeous, exaggerated version of me. Bigger, blonder hair, fuller lips, larger breasts, smaller waist, flawless tan. I kind of wish I’d chosen a different seat now.
“So, what’s your story?” she asks, focusing her laser-beam eyes on my face. “What have you been in?”
Feeling like I’m interviewing for a job I never applied for, I tick off my short list of accomplishments.
“Pfft. Kickstart. Oh my Gawd. Music videos. Why would you waste your time with a job that pays so little and gives you lousy exposure?” She leans in closer. “No one’s going to take you seriously with that on your resume.”
Are we not sitting at the same audition together? Not in the mood to be judged by this stranger, I pretend to take an interest in her job history. “What have you done?”
Her lips part and she stares at me for so long I have the urge pull out my compact and check my makeup. “I was January’s Playmate of the month last year.”
Sorry, Playboy isn’t on my reading list. “Oh. That’s great.” My voice creeps up at the end of the word, making it sound like a question—almost sarcastic, which wasn’t my intention.
She fluffs her hair and throws an imperious scowl my way. “I was Miss Louisiana. That’s how I was discovered.”
“Oh.” I don’t know a damn thing about pageants. “That must have been fun?”
“Sure.” She snorts.
“Pamela Scott!”
“Wish me luck!” She pats my leg as she breezes past me.
“Good luck,” I mutter.
More nervous than ever, I focus on studying my one page of lines.
Chapter Nine
Mallory
One of my favorite things about living with Chaser has to be the impromptu concerts I walk in on almost daily.
My mouth quirks as I open the door and find him on the couch strumming his guitar, every so often stopping to jot down a few words. Today, he’s intensely focused on playing the same succession of notes over and over.
I close the door behind me as quietly as possible, not wanting to disrupt his flow.
He tips his head up anyway.
“Whatever that was sounded awfully sexy.” I motion for him to continue playing.
“Yeah?” His mouth stretches into a smile, but the distance in his eyes says he’s still focused on music. “It’s this riff I’ve had in my head for a couple of years now.”
“Years?”
“We have a few half-assed lyrics for it, but I haven’t found the right melody.” He shrugs. “Alvin said he’s been working on something.”
“Wow.” I’m endlessly fascinated by their process and the way the guys seem to work together seamlessly, sometimes.
And other times how they want to rip out each other’s throats.
“Go on.” I wave my hands at him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Sit with me?”
“Sure.” I perch on the edge of the chair across from him and wait.
He reaches over and resets his metronome.
“You’re working with the metronome today?”
He shrugs. “It keeps me honest.”
I’m not sure how to interpret that but I’ve noticed he only uses it on occasion; other times, he prefers to sit and play whatever comes to him.
Over and over, he works on the same chords he’d been fiddling with when I came home. Sometimes humming along. Other times with his eyes closed.
Finally, he shakes his head and sets his guitar in its case.
“How was the audition?” he asks.
I shrug. At first it had been awkward, but the director was kind and put me at ease. “They want me to come back.”