CHAPTER 1
LUCKY
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
PRESENT DAY
I despise Nicholai, but I can’t forget the lessons he taught me.
Dark sunglasses.
Big, floppy hat, with my hair tucked under.
Scarf.
Hoodie.
Old, baggy jeans and my most worn-out boots.
If I was lucky, I wouldn’t get recognized. Which is a funny thing to say, because my name is Lucky. Unfortunately, luck is a fickle bitch and sometimes she blesses me and sometimes she mocks me. She’s also entirely unpredictable, so anything could happen.
Today, I’m hoping for the blessing. The jury is still out.
The thing is, all I want is to be normal. Is that asking for too much?
For just one day, I long to be someone else other than Lucky Lazzarini, international pop star. So, here I am, once again, despite countless previous failures, donning a disguise and hitting up the local bar around the corner from our hotel in Seattle. I had to sneak out, away from my nagging manager, Becky. She’d be pissed once she’d discovered I’d escaped out the service entrance through the kitchen.
Now that I’d fired my latest round of bodyguards, she’d be even more pissed. In fact, I’d turned off my cell phone before walking into the bar, just because I knew she’d blow it up, but also because she’d insisted I turn on the GPS locator, just in case.
Not just in case I got lost.
Just in case some crazed lunatic decided today was the day I needed to leave this realm. The thing is, with a job like mine — and don’t be fooled with the glamour and glitz — this is a job with a capital J. But, the thing is, being in the public eye, being recognizable, becoming a household name in the blink of an eye like a flash of lightning, it brings out the crazies.
I’ve had death threats.
I’ve had stalkers.
I’ve had online psychopaths threaten everyone from my dog to my dead mother. I don’t even have a dog.
I’m used to the game. I don’t have a thin skin, at least not anymore. But the thing I hate the most is not being able to just go out in public and live my life without the constant cell phone cameras being shoved in my face, or people asking for my autograph when I just put a bite of food in my mouth at a restaurant, or, simply being able to sit at the end of the bar and enjoy a damned whiskey with a beer back.
Since that’s what I long for the most, I keep trying.
I don these disguises and even though I usually fail, I can’t help but keep getting back on that horse. Sure, it’s dangerous, especially now, now that Nicholai is out there losing his ever-lovin’ mind, but that still doesn’t mean I want to stay locked in a fucking hotel room every night of my life.
I need to be normal.
Just for a few hours.
Even if I’m pretending.
It’s not that I’m not grateful. My god, my life is a blessing, if ever there was one and I owe it to every fan that ever bought a concert ticket. I wouldn’t give it up for the world. But I wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, either.
It’s fucking hard.
It’s never-ending.
And I absolutely, no matter what, am not allowed to quit. Walking away isn’t an option when you get this big. If I threw in the towel, like I’ve fantasized about a million times, I would be taking jobs away from hundreds of people. The sound engineers, my band, the grips and production and lighting folks. The stage managers, the costumers, the dancers, the merch sellers, and so, so many others.
And then what? I retire to my desert island with a butt load of guilt weighing me down? No, thank you.
Ruining people’s lives is not an option, not so I can enjoy a little vacation, it isn’t. And even with Nicholai’s threats, I can’t stop. So, I keep going. And I keep doing this — showing up incognito to a random bar in a random city, even if I already see someone giving me that squinty-eyed ‘I think I know her’ look that I’ve come to recognize so well.
I adjust my glasses, look away, and continue to drink my beer, hoping that tonight, I will indeed get lucky enough to make it back to my hotel room without having to call in the brigade.
The whiskey goes down smoothly, so smoothly I order another. The burn is a painful pleasure that warms everything inside of me that was cold and shivering from the drizzling rain I’d trekked through to get here. There’s something dark and mysterious about Seattle. The people are a little rougher and harder than their Oregon neighbors, and the grittiness of the wet downtown sidewalks make me think of New York City a little bit. Of course, it’s nothing like New York. It’s green and lush and cloudy and smells like fish everywhere you go. Not to mention the flannel that everyone wraps themselves in. And the absence of dog-sized rats running around.
No, it was a far cry from New York.
Maybe that’s why I like it so much.
Sipping my whiskey, I imagined what it might feel like to live here. Hell, to live anywhere. I had houses, but I didn’t really have a home. I worked so much, my tour bus was more of a home than my place in Los Angeles or my house on Long Island. But Seattle could be nice, I thought. I could settle in and find a little vintage house in a hilly neighborhood, with a view of the water. Become a regular at the neighborhood bar, not unlike this one, actually. Somewhere the beer taps never run dry and the customers know when to leave folks alone.
I know I shouldn’t but I’ve made it this far, so I order a third whiskey. The hotel is stumbling distance away and I’m feeling confident I’ll make it back without incident. There’s a big difference between the second whiskey and the third one, and when that difference hits me, I feel it right away. The bar stool my butt is planted on feels a little wobbly. Each time I put the glass down on the bar, it gets a little louder, because my depth perception is slightly altered. But damn, it feels so good. Too good. So good, I remember how much I miss it.
The good ol’ days of slamming down as much booze I wanted, without anyone ‘watching’ me, except for Nicholai, of course, but he only encouraged me. Now that he’s gone, you’d think I’d have more freedom, but no. My new ‘team’ came with only more restraints than I’d had before. Not only was Becky a constant presence in my life, but in the background there were so many other pieces and people in play. Public relations reps, record label executives, managers of managers. I didn’t have to deal with this stuff before.
Not that I’d go back, no way. Nicholai is a monster. A scheming, lying, murderous monster and I want nothing to do with him. In fact, if I could, I’d stop thinking about him all together, but lord knows that’ll never happen. It’s not like I can erase the last ten years from my memory, as much as I’d like to.
He was a part of me now, whether I liked it or not.
At least he’d taught me one good thing. How to hide.
With the whiskey buzz came the guilt, so I paid my tab and finished off my whiskey, knowing Becky was probably combing the hotel looking for me by now. I was just about to leave when a hand landed on my arm.
“I know you!” A male voice slurred. My eyes landed on the hand first, then shot up to the man’s face. He was drunk. Way drunker than I was. Leering and swaying, he brought his face close to mine. I pulled my arm away and jumped off the barstool.
“I don’t know you,” I said, grabbing my purse.
“You’re that star! The singer!” He grabbed my arm again, his fingers wrapping around my bicep and gripping me tightly. I pulled away, but I couldn’t shake him loose.
“I’m sorry, sir, you’re mistaken,” I said. “Please let me go.”
“My daughter lovessss you,” he hissed, his eyes raking over my curves, despite my effort to hide every one of them. “You’re fucking hot, you know that?”
“Sir, please let me go!” I insisted, still attempting to wrench my arm away.
“Let me buy you a drink!” he slurred, pulling me back to the bar. My purse fell to the ground between us.
“No!” I shouted, my eyes darting around for help. My eyes locked with the guy at the end of the bar, pleading. He nodded and stood up, walking over quickly.
“Hey, man, that’s my wife!” he shouted. The drunk guy froze in surprise, looking at him, then sizing him up.
“No way,” he said, shaking his head.
He took another step forward, peering deeply into the drunk guy’s eyes.
“Dude, let her go,” he said. He reached out, removed the guys hand from mine, then stepped between us.
“She’s not your fucking wife,” he slurred.
In a flash, the other guy wrapped his arms around me, leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, his tongue opening them and sliding inside, hot and wet and searching. In shock, I froze, my body tensing up as he leaned me back, kissing me like he’d just married me.
And just like that, it was over. He raised me back up, staring defiantly at the other guy.
“Now, leave us the fuck alone, you drunk asshole!”
“Sorry, man, my bad,” the guy said, holding up his hands and backing away.
My lips burned from his touch and I stared over at him in shock. I’d barely noticed him before, but now I drank in his image with as much gusto as I’d consumed my whiskey earlier.
Tall and lean, with lush and long blonde hair that fell to his shoulders in thick waves, he flashed his blue eyes down at me with a mischievous grin. His 501’s hugged his hips and the white tank top he was wearing was almost entirely covered up by a heavy, black, leather vest that had a patch that said ‘Ziggy’ on the breast.
“Sorry for the kiss,” he said. “It was either that or knock him out and I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
I looked up at him and shook my head in disbelief.
“I’m sure you could have come up with a different solution,” I said, my voice laced with anger. “You always go around kissing women you don’t know?”
“First time, actually,” he shrugged. “You’re going to kick me in the balls now, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“I mean, I probably deserve it. It was basically assault. I know better. I apologize,” he looked down at me with sincere contrition, but it was those damned eyes that did me in. I guess if I had to be kissed by some random dude, it could have been a lot worse.
“I should go,” I said, grabbing my purse and walking towards the door, my lips stinging from his kiss. “Thank you.”
“Wait,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ve already had enough, I think,” I protested.
“Coffee?” he asked, his brows rising hopefully.
I paused and looked around. The drunk guy had stumbled out of the place already, and nobody else was paying us any attention. Despite the brief interruption, I realized that my disguise had worked for the most part and was still working, it seemed. And here, gesturing for me to sit down next to him at the bar was an ordinary man, doing the most normal thing in the world, asking a woman in a bar to join him. It was everything I’d wanted to pretend I could have. Hell, I already knew he was an amazing kisser.
Screw Becky, I thought. She could sweat it out a little longer.
I smiled and sat back down, nodding at him. “Coffee would be good.”
He gestured to the bartender and ordered. “Coffee for both of us, please.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said. “That guy was a jerk.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Sorry about the kiss.”
“It’s alright,” I said, biting my lip. The feel of his lips lingered still, and I fought the urge to reach up and touch them.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I froze. I couldn’t remember the last time someone asked me that question. Such a simple request and yet, I’d forgotten how to answer it.
“Lucky.”
“Lucky, really?” he asked, nodding with a smile. “That’s a cool name.”
I looked over at him suspiciously. Did he really not recognize me?
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“Ziggy,” he said. My eyes shot down to the patch on his vest and nodded.
“So it says,” I said. “What’s on the back?”
“Of my cut?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. He turned around, flashing a large logo. Gods of Chaos was embroidered on the top rocker, with Motorcycle Club on the bottom and a very scary skull and cross bones emblazoned in the middle. I nodded. It all made sense. The long hair. The handsome, rugged face. The tattoos. The leather. “What kind of bike have you’ve got?”
He turned back around and flashed me a smile that damned near knocked me off my stool. For fuck’s sake, he was hot. Bright, sparkling blue eyes, a killer smile, with heavily tattooed forearms and biceps that were on display like a work of art. My fingers twitched in my lap as I imagined dragging the tips of them around the edges of each one, memorizing their shapes by candlelight.
“It’s a Harley Dyna-Glide Super Glide Sport,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. He was fucking adorable, clearly beaming with pride about his pride and joy.
“That’s cool,” I said. The coffee arrived and we sat by side, sipping quietly for a moment. I was still wearing my sunglasses, even in the darkness of this bar on a dark, rainy night and I knew I looked ridiculous. I took them off, but mostly because I wanted to get a better look at him. He glanced over at me and I waited for the flicker of recognition to appear.
It didn’t. He smiled openly, his eyes wide with no clue of who I was.
How refreshing, I thought, as I smiled over at him.
“So, Ziggy, are you from around here?” I asked.