Wicked Girl: Wicked #3

  Wicked Girl

  Wicked #3

  Piper Lawson

  He was a legend, until he walked away.

  I was nobody, until I was dragged into the light.

  * * *

  I was never supposed to be part of Wicked, but it was always part of me.

  Now it's my turn to do something that matters.

  Even if the man I love hates me for it.

  Wicked Girl is the final instalment in the new adult rock star trilogy WICKED! Jax and Haley’s story begins in Good Girl, continues in Bad Girl, and concludes in Wicked Girl.

  1

  “Jax.” Across the table, Camille Taylor’s tongue darts out to brush her lip. “We need to talk.”

  Everything about her reads indecisive, which undermines the professional look she’s got going on. High-neck blouse. Bun like a ballerina.

  If she wanted to be a ballerina once, this gig must’ve been a rude awakening.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask, impatient, shifting in the padded leather chair and eyeing her up over the desk.

  “It’s Anne. She’s been here a year. But she doesn’t seem to be settling in.”

  Annie’s eighth grade homeroom teacher flicks her gaze toward the classroom door, like my kid can hear her from the hall.

  “She’s creative. Smart. But she keeps to herself. I don’t think she’s making many friends. Occasionally she’s disruptive.”

  My shoulders tighten. “Disruptive how.”

  She hesitates before uttering a string of words I’m sure I’ve misheard.

  “What?” I demand.

  “She glued feminine hygiene products to one of her classmate’s books.”

  Shit.

  I fight the urge to rip one of my fingernails. They’re all pretty much gone anyway.

  “Oh, and Jax?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is she channeling that creativity into other outlets? She was telling one of the boys in class about your music.”

  I shake my head. “She swims. She doesn’t even listen to my music.”

  “I find that hard to believe. We don’t know everything our children do.”

  “Annie doesn’t keep secrets from me.” My jaw tightens.

  “Anne’s a bright girl. She’s got excellent language and math skills. I wish she’d connect more with the other students—use her abilities more constructively.” Her gaze flicks past me, nervous, then back. “I understand from her file she’s had some changes recently. That can lead to acting out.”

  My hands tighten on the armrests. “Tell you what. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  I shove out of my chair and cross to the door.

  “Annie.” Outside, the red head of hair lifts from where she’s studying her phone with a pained expression. “Let’s go.”

  We follow the sidewalk out the front of the private school. It’s all brick and landscaping, and I wonder again what the money pays for that’s so different from the public school I went to. More trees? The lawn gets mowed every week instead of once a month?

  I glance over at my kid.

  In her school uniform, she looks the same as any other eighth grader in this place. But in the past few years, she’s changed.

  She wears her hair differently. It used to be in braids and now it’s down or in a ponytail, the kind that sticks out of the top of her head.

  I hit the locks on the Bentley, and we both shift inside.

  I put the car in gear and pull out of the lot. “Miss Taylor says you glued something to some kid’s books.”

  Caramel eyes land on me for the first time all night. “They’re called tampons, Jax.”

  Her lilting voice wraps around each word like she’s underlining them.

  It barely registers that she calls me by my first name anymore. I curse whatever god exists that it’s my job to ask, “Why?”

  “She swiped mine from gym last week. So I figured if she needed them so badly, she could have them.”

  “When did you get your… you know?”

  “Period?” She sighs, shifting in the passenger seat to look out the window. “A few months ago. Don’t worry. Mom helped me when I saw her at Christmas.”

  It takes all my control not to swerve.

  It’s almost April.

  I still haven’t done anything about the “you’re becoming a woman” literature my manager rustled up for me. It’s in a locked drawer, next to the stack of cash I’ll use for the hit on the misguided kid who asks her to prom in four years.

  Four years? Jesus.

  Some days I think that if I’d known the custody battle with Grace for my kid would’ve taken a year of our lives and dragged my sister through the mud—something she blames entirely on me when I drop my kid off for holiday visits—maybe I wouldn’t have done it.

  But I can’t say that. I can’t even let myself think it for long or I find myself reaching for a crutch. Because this is what I wanted. Everything I wanted.

  If it’s not enough, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  I force myself back to the conversation. “She also said you were talking about my work. My music.”

  The noise sounds like a snort. “That’s not your work anymore. You haven’t touched a guitar all year. You used to play with Ryan.”

  “Uncle Ryan.”

  “The last time he came by was six months ago.”

  Christ, she notices everything. It doesn’t feel like that long since I saw Mace, but her mind’s like a damn video recorder.

  Outside our house, I hit the button on my visor and the gates swing open. The Bentley cruises up the long drive, past the rows of trees and flower beds someone planted a long time ago.

  We live fifteen minutes from the school and she doesn’t have any friends close by. For the first time, I wonder why not.

  “Annie?”

  “Anne.”

  “Annie.”

  She grinds her teeth next to me. I want to shake her or point out she’s living in a damn mansion with everything she could want. And some days, it’s as if she doesn’t notice.

  I take a breath to steady myself as I hit the button for the garage and angle the car inside. “I’ve never seen you with any friends from school.”

  “I hang out with Cash and Drew at lunch.”

  “No girls.”

  “So?”

  “Your teacher thought you might be trying to impress a boy.”

  She snorts. “Those two are not worth impressing.”

  “Good.” Relief has my shoulders sagging, because if she’s into boys, I can’t deal with that.

  “Do you want to know if I’m a lesbian?”

  How I manage to throw the car into park, I’ll never know. Especially when every instinct is to hit reverse and mash on the gas pedal of life.

  “You’re thirteen years old.”

  “I’ll be fourteen in the summer.” She opens her door and scrambles out, leaning back in after. “If I do like boys, I wouldn’t waste my time on either of them. Drew is smashing Chloe Hastings, and I’m pretty sure Cash doesn’t have testicles.”

  The door slams before I can process those words.

  I rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose. There’s no way this week could get worse.

  Until my phone rings.

  2

  Haley

  Vinyl.

  Computer hardware upgrades.

  A great cup of coffee.

  Seafood doesn’t even make the shortlist of things I’ll shell out for.

  Though here in Philly, mussels are hauled off boats every day, which means they don’t have to be expensive.

  This place is expensive.

  I reach for the front door, but an attendant dressed in black beats me to it.


  The restaurant is cozy, intimate, and definitely not my choosing. A dozen tables sit under fairy lights sprinkled in the ceiling and corners.

  A familiar blond man stands abruptly when he spots me across the restaurant.

  “Wow. You look gorgeous,” Carter says as I pull up in front of the table, his gaze running over me. “This for me?”

  I smooth a hand over my skirt. “Actually, I was at Wicked for meetings. If I’m coding, it’s yoga pants and coffee stains all the way.”

  He looks good too. He always does. Tonight he’s wearing dress pants and a crisp button-down. His blond hair curls at the collar. Carter rounds the table to drop a kiss on my mouth, and I turn my face. He catches my cheek instead.

  Burn, I imagine Serena saying.

  The chair is pushed in behind me—maybe by the same ghoulish attendant, because he’s gone before I can turn around.

  I open the menu. “Food first, then work? I’m starving.”

  “It’s always work with you.” His grin is teasing, but he complies. When the server comes, Carter orders a bottle of wine. “How do you like the restaurant?”

  “Very Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” He chuckles. “How’s the tenure application going?”

  Carter’s brows scrunch together. “It’s always hard being the youngest to do something. The administration wants to find reasons to tell you no, or not yet. Of course, I’m not going to let them get away with it.”

  Our wine is delivered and poured, and Carter orders lobster. I get the steak. Rare.

  “You’re looking for blood tonight,” he observes.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Wicked’s living up to its name, huh?”

  I take a sip of my wine, feel it tingle through me as I turn the stem in my fingers. “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to convince people of things. Maybe it’s my age. Or inexperience. Or the fact that I have a vagina.”

  “For the record, I love that you have a vagina.”

  I swallow a laugh. “But sometimes… sometimes I think people just don’t like change.” Work is a safe subject with Carter, and it feels good to vent to someone other than Serena.

  “That’s what’s perfect about computers,” Carter says. “It’s just you and a terminal, and you can change the world.”

  He talks a lot about changing the world, but I know he means solving interesting technical problems while making money.

  It’s not a bad thing; it’s just how he is. He likes a certain lifestyle and wants to be well-known. He’s brilliant at what he does, so he can afford that desire.

  “Sometimes I wonder how things might have been different if I’d gotten back into school. I could be a grad student by now.”

  “You’re one of the best coders I’ve met, degree or not. You take apart problems like no one I know, because you’re genuinely curious about them and you believe you can solve them. And, I’m glad you’re not a grad student by now.”

  I raise a brow.

  “If you were my grad student, we couldn’t do this.” His eyes sparkle.

  Our meal arrives. When my steak, potatoes, and carrots are set on the scratchy white tablecloth, I let out a little groan that goes unnoticed by Carter, who’s looking at his lobster with both anticipation and satisfaction. We dig in, and the first few bites have me sighing.

  Okay, maybe there’s more to this nice restaurant thing than I thought.

  I look at Carter, happily devouring his lobster, and a memory flashes across my mind. Mace hurling his guts into a bucket after ordering diner lobster. My mouth twitches despite the long day.

  “What’re you laughing at?” Carter prompts.

  “Nothing. Just a memory.”

  It’s shocking how many memories I have of that tour.

  Shocking because it was only a month. Not shocking because the human brain records new things a disproportionate amount of the time. And nearly everything I experienced on that tour was new.

  Living with musicians and roadies in hotels and on a bus.

  Learning how to operate one of the best sound systems in the business.

  Falling in love with a man I never should’ve met.

  I mentally slap myself. Usually I catch my brain before it goes down that path. But tonight, whether it’s the long day or the wine or the fairy lights, I don’t catch it in time.

  He’s here. Humming along my skin.

  The sound of his voice laughing in my ear.

  The feel of his lips the first time he kissed me.

  The look on his face the day he walked away.

  My stomach squeezes, and I reach for more wine.

  “Good thing we got a bottle,” Carter quips. “Since your mood’s already improved, I don’t need to show you this. I will anyway.” He sets down his fork and knife and lifts his phone. “We have an offer.”

  He slides his phone in front of me between the dinner plates the waitress set in front of us. I shift in my chair, uncrossing and recrossing my legs to get more comfortable.

  The piece of software we’ve been building is actually our second project together. After we won the competition with my music program Digital Record Enhancement, or DRE (as Serena named it), we decided we made a pretty good team. We turned a version of it into an app that’s available on every device to amateur and professional producers and provides a steady, if small, revenue stream.

  This new program we want to sell outright to a company that will do the same.

  The six-figure number on the screen imprints on my mind.

  “Wow. I’m not going to lie. I know where my fifty percent is going,” I say.

  He raises a brow. “Fifty?”

  “That’s what we agreed.”

  “Fine.” He grins, and I can’t tell if he was just pushing my buttons. One of the reasons I can’t quite get a handle on him—and that I never really want to. “Celebrate with me. Come home with me tonight.”

  I swallow the sigh.

  We’ve done it before. Not enough that I’d call it a pattern, which is why he’s not sure of himself when he asks. Carter’s intelligent and attractive. And if he’s a flake, that’s not a crime.

  When I’m bored, I can resist. It’s when I’m lonely—which takes a lot given my tolerance for being alone—that it’s hard to say no.

  I never crave sex, but sometimes it feels like I’m desperate for human connection, even if the human in question isn’t the one I want to connect with.

  The ring of my phone interrupts us.

  The number on the screen has my spine stiffening.

  I hit Ignore and take a steadying breath as I fix a smile on my face and focus on my dinner companion. “I appreciate the offer, but I have work to do tomorrow.”

  “You realize how wrong that is? Between your inheritance and this money, you don’t have to work at all.” I open my mouth to argue, but he does it for me. “Of course, I know you couldn’t deal with that. It’s not in you not to try new things—to learn all the time.”

  And that’s why I do this. Because even if Carter’s never going to be a kindred spirit, he understands what it’s like to do the work because you can. Because you want to. Because wasting your abilities is a crime.

  The phone rings again, a different tone.

  Now, it’s a video call.

  Of course it is.

  He won’t stop. I know it as surely as I know the bill will come and Carter will make another play before he puts me in my car and I go home alone.

  My gaze flicks around the restaurant as if I’m looking for an escape.

  Maybe I am.

  No luck.

  My body shivers with nerves or anticipation.

  I can handle Carter blindfolded. This man, even a thousand miles away and on the phone? This is going to be harder.

  I hit Accept.

  I’ve seen Jax Jamieson on TV, but his image now, a little grainy from questionable reception, is something else. Because those eyes are on me, and though it’s dark wherever he is and I can’t
make out their trademark amber color, the shape is the same. His sculpted mouth. The hard jaw. The hair falling over his face.

  “Jax.” I say his name as coolly as I can. “Can I call you back?”

  “No.”

  I lift my gaze to Carter, apologetic. “Excuse me one moment.” I shift out of my chair and duck into the hallway by the coatrack.

  “Are you on a date?” His commanding tone has me bristling.

  I take in the near-black backdrop. “Are you in a coffin?”

  His eyes narrow. “We don’t talk in two years and now you’re trying to enforce my contract.”

  “I don’t enforce contracts.”

  “Bullshit. One of your suits threatened me. You’re seriously going to take the song I gave you and produce it without me?”

  I think of the sheet of paper I’ve carried around for the better part of three years. “It’s not a threat. It’s a courtesy. We want to give you notice.”

  “It’s my song,” he grinds out. “You can’t do whatever the hell you want with it.”

  “It was a gift,” I retort, my voice rising too. “In case you’ve forgotten, that’s how gifts work.”

  I brace myself for a chain reaction, one detonation leading to another, but Jax surprises me by regaining his composure. “You’ve changed.”

  “So have you. We all have, Jax.” I take a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, and let it out. “You have a choice. Do the album. Or let someone else finish what you started.”

  I hid End without waiting for him to respond.

  In the bathroom, I smooth out my appearance and pretend the shortest call in history didn’t shake me to my core before returning to Carter.

  “So what do you say?” He grins, all teeth and boyish charm. “Nightcap at my place?”

  3

  “Burger or nuggets?” I slide my sunglasses down my nose and glance toward the passenger seat.

  My daughter pulls out an earbud and looks between me and the drive-through window. “I told you. I’m vegetarian.”

  I give up and pull out of the lane.

  “Why don’t you order anything?”