Chasing Lucy – Chapter 1

Three Years Earlier – California

Under normal circumstances, the smooth sound of the string quartet would slow my heart and calm my nerves, but tonight, at the Young Musician’s Benefit Gala, nothing will silence the brisk beating in my chest.

Hushed profanities slip from my mouth as I read the bid sheet on the table. I whip my head around in search of the person who outbid me—again. AM47. It could be anyone. The auction ID gives no indication of gender, age or social status. And that doesn’t bode well for me—or my strategy to emerge victorious.

I admire the cherry-red electric guitar displayed in front of me, closing my eyes to imagine my fingers running down the fretboard. She’s beautiful. A rare replica of Lucy, a 1957 Gibson Les Paul, signed by Eric Clapton, my idol. Only a hundred of these bad boys exist in the world, and this one will be mine by the end of the night.

Hiding a sly grin behind my palm, I outbid AM47 by five-hundred dollars, adding a little smiley face beside my bid, just to be cheeky.

With less than an hour until the auction closes, I place the pen down and make my way to the other item I’m trying to win.

An elegant frame displays three glossy red guitar picks in a triangular pattern, along with Clapton’s autograph. I stop myself from squealing. My hundred-dollar bid for the tiny triangles of plastic is yet to be surpassed. I’ve got this. My game’s on point tonight.

Adrenaline courses through me, but I reel it in. This is no time for arrogance. AM47 and three hundred other guests stand between Lucy and me.

Across the crowded ballroom, the joyful cadence of Mom’s laughter floats above the buzz of conversation as I head in that direction. On the edge of the dance floor, my parents chat with Peter Hart, Dad’s business partner.

Mom loops her arm through mine when I walk up and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Hi, sweetheart.” Her lips curl into a teasing smile. “Did someone outbid you, again?”

“Ugh, yes. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not backing down.”

“Oh, my stubborn girl.” Mom smooths her hand down my arm. “Don’t set your heart on that guitar. The whole point of the gala is to raise money, you know.” She winks at me. “Daddy might even put in a bid against you.”

“He’d better not!” Of all people, he knows how much I ache to own Lucy, replica or not. And it’s his fault. All those passionate stories of Clapton and the legendary guitar. Who wouldn’t be inspired?

She grins. “I’m teasing. Relax.” Easy for her to say. I check my watch again. Thirty-nine minutes to go.

Dad turns toward me. “Paige, you remember Peter, don’t you?”

“I do.” Who forgets a character like Peter Hart? He stands out in this room of suits, with his faded blue jeans and mussed-up hair. Even at fifty-something he still looks like a rock star. Like he partied too hard a few too many times and couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of him.

“Little Jimmy, not so little anymore,” he jokes.

I fight back a groan. Stupid nickname follows me everywhere. Thanks, Dad. Jimmy Page. Very subtle. Jesus. Pick a nickname I might actually live up to. Not the God of Rock’n’Roll. Hell, start with a female musician and go from there. Not Jimmy fucking Page.

Peter holds his hands out in front of him. “I still remember when you were just a tiny thing, cuddled up in your father’s guitar case.”

Quiet laughter escapes my mouth. “I love that photo.” It hangs proudly on the wall in my parents’ living room, flanked by all the other photos of my brothers and me.

“Ben tells me you’re attending USC Thornton. How’s their music program? You like it?”

I smile at the man who’s starred in countless stories of my parents’ life before kids. “It’s incredible. California is even better than I imagined.” I’ve only been in the university dorm for a few short months, but already it feels like home. I fit in, no longer the outcast in a town full of Southern Belles.

“Good, good. What are your plans when you graduate? Will you work for Sawyer Hart Studios back home in Tennessee?” He pokes me playfully with his elbow “Or will you grace us with your talent at our studio here in L.A.?”

Argh. Of all the topics to choose from, Peter had to pick the one in which Dad and I don’t see eye to eye. I glance at my father. “Honestly, I’m not sure I want to edit other people’s music for a living. I’d rather be onstage—”

“Nonsense,” Dad blurts. “A life on the road traveling from one gig to the next isn’t any way for a young lady to live. Tell her, Peter. We barely managed it ourselves.”

I clench my fists. The two of them were living the high life, touring with Defiant Rock, until my brother, Eric, came along and my parents settled down in Tennessee. Apparently, the lack of a penis makes me unfit to pursue the same career.

Peter claps my dad on the shoulder. “Ben’s right. The studio’s a safer choice. Nothing wrong with staying behind the scenes.”

I shake my head. “The only music I produce is my own, and that’s just for my YouTube channel.”

“She’s a little celebrity,” Mom gushes. “Eighty thousand subscribers and counting.”

“Aww, Mom, give it a rest.” I keep my eye roll to myself. The account started as a joke to prove to my brother’s friend I could play Prince’s Purple Rain. He shared the video, and from there it snowballed. Now a bunch of my songs have over a million views.

A waitress passes by, a platter of hors d’oeuvres balanced on her hand. I snag one from the tray and pop it in my mouth. Conversation over.

Mom leans in close. “Nice try. I know what you’re doing.” A giggle sputters from my lips, and my hand shoots to cover my mouth as little flakes of pastry fly out. “Go on, go check on your bid.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, mouth half-full. “You’re the best.”

Across the room, a man hunches over the table in front of Lucy. He turns in our direction, a mischievous smile splitting his face before he tosses the pen onto the clipboard.

AM47.

Narrowing my eyes, I peer around my mother’s shoulder to get a better look as he heads for another table. He’s tall, at least six feet, with dark brown hair cropped short in a military style. A quiet groan rumbles in my throat as he stops in front of the guitar picks and scribbles on the paper. The air in my lungs empties in a bitter hiss. I’m going to have to up my game.

In front of the picks, I survey the damage and sigh. He’s upped the bid to two-hundred-fifty dollars. So much for an easy win. I scratch down an even three and head back to Lucy.

Christ! I ball my fists and bite my lip to keep the curses from tumbling out. He’s increased the bid to thirty-four hundred dollars, but it’s not the price that’s got me cussing. It’s the little note he’s left beside it: Sorry, sweetheart, you need to be of legal age to bid with Daddy’s money.

Hmph. He’s messing with the wrong woman. Dammit. I’m nineteen, and this money is mine to spend how I see fit. At fourteen, while other kids sat at home playing video games, I was at the Riverside Café with Eric, playing music for the dinner crowd two nights a week. Of course, it was Eric’s job, but he let me keep the tips.

Without a second thought, I double the bid again. He can kiss my ass to the tune of sixty-eight-hundred dollars. I scribble down a message beside my bid: Sorry, jackass, I’m legal, and the money’s all mine. No smiley face.

Continuing along the tables, I feign interest in various items before slinking behind a large flower arrangement with the perfect view of the auction. A middle-aged woman stops in front of the guitar, her gaudy fuchsia dress clashing against Lucy’s luscious red tones. She reaches for the pen, and I freeze, refusing to blink or speak or move. She pauses as if to reconsider, then lowers her hand and moves on to the next item. My shoulders relax. Crisis averted.

But not for long.

AM47 appears from behind a small crowd and strides with purpose toward the guitar. The corners of his mouth tip up as he scans my message and for a moment he stands rooted in place. My pulse soars to a rapid staccato beat that echoes in my ears. Perhaps the online article I read about delivering a knock-out bid was right. I’ve psyched him out!

Peeking around the massive cluster of pink and white hydrangeas, I track my enemy. He stares at the paper then picks up the pen and writes on the page before leaving.

I dart toward the table.

Beside his new bid of eight-thousand dollars, it says: You might be legal, but that dress shouldn’t be. 

Shit. He knows who I am—and he’s flirting with me. It should piss me off, but instead, I look down at my dress and smile. It’s a perfect match to Lucy. Red. Sexy. Badass.

A gala official announces twenty minutes remain until the auction ends, so I jot down my new bid of a cool ten grand and leave the space beside it empty. No more notes. This is war.

Facing the auction tables, I scan the room for any sign of AM47. A familiar woman stops beside me. Shoot, what’s her name? Her bountiful curls resemble Diana Ross’s famous do, and her name is something similar. Donna? No, that’s not it.

“Paige, how are you, dear?” She lifts her champagne flute to her mouth and takes a sip.

To hide my confusion, I inject my voice with added enthusiasm. “I’m well. It’s so nice to see you again!”

“You’re too sweet. How’s college? Freshman year, right?”

Torn between being rude and standing guard over Lucy, I recite my textbook answer. “Yes. It’s amazing. Better than I—”

AM47 stalks toward me.

Oh. My. God. I swallow the golf-ball-sized lump in my throat. He should be illegal, not my dress. Gorgeous is an understatement. His shirt, unbuttoned at the top, tucks into the narrow waist of his dress pants, doing nothing to disguise his toned physique. He rakes his gaze over my body before his dark eyes pin me in place.

The woman pats my arm. “Are you all right, darling?”

AM47 stands beside us. “Sorry to interrupt, Davina. Would you mind if I steal my friend away for a moment?”

Davina? Dammit, he’s right.

“Of course not, dear,” she coos.

AM47 nods his approval and holds out his hand, a gentlemanly gesture that seems less than chivalrous. I place my hand on top of his, the social etiquette ingrained in me as a child taking precedence over my desire to tell him to go to hell.

“I’m not your friend,” I hiss.

“Not yet. But you will be.” He leads me onto the dance floor, pulling me around so we’re face-to-face, and puts his hand on my waist.

His broad shoulders dominate my frame, and my head tips up to meet his inquisitive stare. “Why are you doing this?”

“I had to dance with the girl who’s been a pain in my ass all evening.” He smiles, and a solitary dimple appears beside his teasing grin.

My stomach flutters. Of course he has a goddamn dimple.

I scoff. “You’re one to talk. If anyone’s the hemorrhoid in this situation, it’s you. And don’t call me a girl. Stop acting like you’re so much older. What are you, twenty-one?”

A small laugh rumbles in his chest, and the dimple makes another appearance. “Twenty-two.”

My heart races as I drink in every feature of his face. His chiseled jaw is smooth and stubble-free, and chocolate-colored eyes crinkle in amusement. Dammit, Paige. He’s the enemy. Run away.

Leaning back, I try to wriggle from his grasp, but he pulls me tighter to his chest. The movement draws his cologne around me. I’m doomed. Even his scent is intoxicating.

Focus, dammit. I came here with a purpose, a plan. I’m sticking to it. “I want Lucy.”

“So do I.”

“Hmph.” I bet he’s not even a musician. “Let me guess, it’s the perfect shade to match the color of your throw pillows? No, wait—I know your type. You want to hang Lucy on the wall over your bed.”

His brow furrows. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re one of those wannabe musicians who buys instruments in place of art.” I imagine him in his bed with Lucy on the wall above him. “Or, maybe you need a legitimate excuse to call out a woman’s name when you jerk off. Oh, Lucy,” I drawl.

After what seems like an eternity, his slack-jawed expression morphs into something else. His head tips back as he lets out a roar of laughter, drawing the attention of the dancing couples around us.

“Shhhh.” I swat his bicep. “Stop that.”

His shoulders continue to shake after he quiets down. “I can’t believe you said that.” He maneuvers us to a less crowded area of the ballroom floor with the grace and skill of a seasoned dancer. “Now I have to know, what would you do with it if I let you win?”

I roll my eyes. If he let me win. So cocky. “I’d play it. Not let it collect dust over my bed while I sleep.”

“Or jerk off,” he adds, his tongue nipping out to wet his lips.

AM47 leans his head down into the crook of my neck. His hot breath tickles my skin, prickling every hair on my body. “Come home and help me hang it.”

My breathing hitches. I half expect his tongue to taste the sensitive spot below my ear. And dammit, I hope he does. A soft moan floats in the air between us and my shoulders stiffen.

It’s mine.

I shake away my wayward emotions. He’s playing me, teasing each of my strings like a finely-tuned instrument.

The song ends, but I can’t form a coherent word. This is not how tonight was supposed to play out. I thought I’d be bidding against surly old men. Men who’d graciously bow out once I batted my eyelashes and explained how stories of Lucy inspired me to pursue a career in music.

“Thank you for the dance.” AM47 lays a gentle peck on my cheek, pausing to meet my eyes before walking away. He melts into the crowd while I recover from the assault of his kiss. My traitorous body rebels against me, and I rub away the goosebumps on my arms.

AM47 hovers a few feet away, conversing with several guests near the auction tables. I sidle past the group and plant myself in front of Lucy. Standing guard, I prepare to make one final bid before the clock runs out. Lucy sits at fifteen grand—courtesy of my dimpled opponent. A quick peek over my shoulder confirms my suspicion. AM47 is paying very close attention. He breaks into a grin. My cheeks heat as I turn back to the paper and hide my matching expression. Damn him and that dimple.

A monotonous voice booms through the speaker, announcing the end of the auction. I gasp. I haven’t increased my bid. A gala official works her way along the tables, picking up papers one by one. With seconds left, I reach for the pen.

No!

It’s gone.

I glance down the length of the table. They’re all missing, every one.

Son-of-a-bitch! I glare at AM47 as he flashes a smile and waves a handful of pens. This can’t be happening. The woman picks up Lucy’s bid sheet as she passes. Oh my god. My stomach clenches—he won.

AM47 stalks toward me, tossing the pens onto the table. I step back, but he follows, leaning in. A few more inches and his mouth will brush against my lips. I turn my face away, and he mumbles under his breath. “Your eyes… they’re so expressive.”

I shiver. He tempts women with his athletic body and charming smile. And I fell for it. Lured away from Lucy by a little piece of eye candy. I glance at the guitar and square my shoulders, simmering rage bubbling back to a rapid boil. “Then it’s perfectly clear what I think of you right now.”

He laughs that quiet rumble, seemingly unfazed by my venomous tone. “Don’t be mad. I let you have the picks.”

The picks! I can’t believe I forgot about them, though they’ll only be a reminder of this night and how close I came to owning a little piece of music history.

I grit my teeth. “You’re a jerk.”

“It’s for charity, remember—think of the children.”

“Bullshit!” I poke him in the chest. “If you’d thought of the children, you wouldn’t have stopped me from upping the bid.”

He pauses for a moment, and I raise my eyebrows.

“Yeah, you’re right. She’s gonna look fantastic over my bed, don’t you think?” He beams at me, showing off that fucking dimple. He could get away with murder with that smile.

I turn to storm away, but he grabs my hand. “Wait.” He leans down, peering at me as if he can’t believe I’m leaving. “What’s your name?”

Now it’s my turn to smile. “You can call me Lucy.”