Steady Bass

By Laura Kitchell

Dan Perry is devoted to his music and his bandmates, but when it comes to women, it’s casual.

Until he meets Charla.

She’s edgy, tough, and completely opposite to his type. There’s nothing casual about her.

She intrigues him, and he can’t resist the attraction, but she won’t give him a chance. Life interferes, however, when an attack lands her in the hospital, and Dan is the one person who’s there for her.

Charla must still overcome her injuries, her past, and her mistrust to make a place for him in her heart.

WARNING: This book contains subjects and scenes that may be considered disturbing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Kitchell
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463894361

Laura Kitchell

Laura Kitchell lives in Virginia and was published for the first time in 2007. She became a member of the Quality Novelists Coalition in 2013. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Chesapeake Romance Writers. Connect with her on Facebook at [e-mail] and visit her website at laurakitchell.com.

Book preview

STEADY BASS

Book Four of FlameSmith in Love

by

Laura Kitchell

WARNING: This book contains subjects and scenes that may be considered disturbing.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

A FlameSmith Romance

Book Four: Steady Bass

Copyright© 2018 Laura Kitchell

Ebook Version by Smashwords

ISBN: 9780463894361

Cover Artist: Argent Arts

Editor: Katherine Alexander

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my mother, my biggest fan, my honest critic, and my greatest cheerleader. To Sara, a staunch friend and a talented writer. To Katherine, whose editing is always priceless and makes my books worth reading. To Kristen, for her insight into the terrifying mind of a serial killer and her vast knowledge about criminal profiling. And to Chesapeake Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America, whose support and expertise made me the writer I am.

A special thanks to the fans of FlameSmith in Love, whose patience and understanding in waiting for this book shows how much you love this series. Your gentle but insistent requests for this book got me back in the writing chair after a very difficult dry spell.

Chapter One

Dan had become a third wheel, or in FlameSmith’s case, a fifth wheel. When had that happened? When Air found Beatrice, he supposed. He wanted to be okay with it, but he couldn’t ignore a restlessness that permeated his days since Beatrice had moved into Air’s house.

A cramp seized his hand, and he dropped his pen onto the coffee table. Good God, Kendel, how many of these do we have to sign?

She kicked an empty box into the entryway and slapped another stack of publicity photos onto the table between him and Burn. Only five hundred.

Five hundred! On the couch facing him, his best friend threw his pen up in defeat. When it popped him in the head on its descent, he growled.

The redhead laughed and rubbed the spot. We didn’t have to do this contest, but now that we have, winners need prizes.

Why couldn’t we just give away the ones with our digital signatures? Fans seem perfectly amenable to buying those from the online FlameSmith store. Dan dug a thumb into his palm. They had worked so hard for years, and now they coasted on their success. Efforts they made were by choice, and making music had once again become a labor of love and personal expression rather than an attempt to sell albums.

Not much of a prize if it’s something anyone could have. She retrieved Burn’s pen from the carpet and placed it on the new stack.

I hate when you do that, his friend grumped, smacking the empty sofa cushion beside his. He went to the kitchen and took two long-necked beer bottles from the refrigerator. Using logic and sense is unfair. I have no defense.

Dan chuckled and accepted one of the beers. I wonder if I can convince Marty to sign my name to these.

Ask and you risk her stabbing that pen into your chest. Kendel pointed at the photos before him. She’s your assistant, not your slave, and a tougher woman I’ve never met. Now get back to signing.

She is a brute, he agreed. A bit like you’re being right now.

Kendel slapped his shoulder then did a shooing motion with one index finger. Get to work. We have to start getting ready for the party soon.

Burn scrubbed his face red as he resumed his seat on the sofa. Whose idea was it to have this bloody contest?

In unison, Dan and Kendel accused, Yours!

Damn me.

Giving his hand a shake, Dan eyed the photo of him in concert. Vancouver, if memory served. Hair flying and feet a full half meter mid-air above the stage, he looked fierce. On the other side of the table, Kendel and Burn shared a kiss. As much as he enjoyed their happiness, it reminded him how loneliness infused his life. He had his assistant and his friends. In Manchester, he had an aging aunt. But he longed to have someone here, coming around the corner with a smile for him. Someone special and awesome, even if only just a friend.

Signing his name in the lower right corner, he said, I’ve been thinking.

Never a good idea, chap, said Burn. You should stop immediately.

Ignoring him, he glanced at Kendel then signed another photo. Since you’ve moved into Burn’s room, I thought it might be nice to bring in another flat mate.

Absolutely not! Look what happened last time we brought someone in. I completely lost my heart. It’s gone for good.

Aww! The redhead wrapped her arms around the lead guitarist and kissed his cheek.

Burn scowled, but affection softened his eyes and added a slight curve to his lips, robbing him of his edge. Dan might envy them their love, but he enjoyed his bachelorhood.

He shrugged. It felt better having all the rooms occupied.

Kendel smiled Having another woman around would be great. Marty doesn’t count. She’s more a dude than you two.

He couldn’t argue. Marty had worked as his assistant for years. He had hired her shortly after moving to Los Angeles, and she was as much a part of the FlameSmith family as his bandmates. She had a kickass attitude, not taking shit from anyone, especially Burn, which was important to her longevity in Dan’s employ. He loved her, but like a buddy.

Now wait a minute, his friend protested. Who said anything about a woman?

Dan leapt on the hole in Burn’s argument. So another flat mate it is.

Huh? Burn blinked.

Before his friend could properly voice a refusal, he slid off of the settee and hurried toward his room. I need a shower before the party. Talk to you later.

* * * *

Charla!

Inserting the final button on her waistcoat into its hole, she stepped out of the changing room into chaos. Fire licked atop two pans on one of the stoves, and the club manager had both meaty fits in his feather-like hair. Three of the waiters who had come with her from the temp agency stood drenched in punch and dripping on the floor.

She shoved the would-be chef aside and slammed lids on the infernos. You’re useless. Go mix more punch. I’ll make the stuffed mushrooms.

She always found herself in The Concord Club’s kitchen, working with food. She wanted to hate it, but part of her loved it. A part she wanted desperately to deny. Squaring her shoulders, she pretended it didn’t matter that she enjoyed making delicious dishes and seeing the pleasure they gave. Given a chance, people took advantage, and her skill with food only gave others a way to use her. Just look how the club manager had her at the stove. She’d learned that by experience. She reinforced her defenses and faced Jerry with a scowl.

The manager coughed and lowered his hands, his hair now standing on end. You’re saving me.

She poked him in the chest. Yeah. Again. This time you’re paying me extra, under the table, ya hear, Jerry? And hire a damned chef next time. Who is this? Your neighbor?

A nephew, the manager said, his shoulders sagging.

Stop being such a damned cheapskate. You serve superstars here. You can afford to hire the best. Charla checked to make sure she had extinguished the fires then stacked the mess on an unused stove and started fresh with clean pans.

Exhaust fans hummed, drawing smoke out of the kitchen, but the charred pans still expelled wisps that threatened to choke her. The too-sweet fruity scent of spilled punch mingled with it, causing her stomach to roil.

She waved an impatient hand at the three dripping waiters. Go get cleaned up. You’re making the floor a damned skating rink. We only have twenty-minutes before guests begin to arrive.

The temp agency had assigned her to The Concord Club three times, and all three times, she had rescued Jerry from one kitchen disaster or another. A combination of having a four-star Michelin chef for a dad and her work in his gourmet restaurant had prepared her for the kitchen. It served well for a paycheck, but she had begun to dream of acting soon after arriving in Los Angeles from Ohio. She ignored a pang of irritation over the fact that she hadn’t received a single callback.

Tonight’s pay would fill her gas tank, feed her for the next week, and cover her cell phone bill. What Jerry paid her off of the books, however, would buy that outfit she wanted at Monroe’s – a classy ensemble with a sexy red pencil skirt and a gold silk blouse that screamed star quality. She would look expensive when she walked into her audition the day after tomorrow. Maybe it would cure casting directors’ disinterest in her and win her that much coveted callback.

By the time the three waiters returned, their hair wet from washing and their uniforms fresh from the dry cleaner’s rack, she had two hundred mushrooms cooked. She plunked a container of toothpicks on a stainless steel counter next to a stack of ceramic platters.

Let’s get these ready to circulate. She waved them over.

She pulled platters of hors d’oeuvres from industrial refrigerators, some with paté and some with cream cheese concoctions, and thrust them into the hands of loitering waitresses. Then she trimmed spare ribs from the bones and cut them and prime steaks into bite-sized pieces for broiling.

Soon, the clatter of dishes, rising temperatures, and the back and forth of liveried servers brought the kitchen to life. Steam billowed from a fresh batch of mushrooms in sautée pans, their scent mingling with roasted beef, ribs, and garlic, creating a mouth-watering fragrance that had everyone smiling.

Jerry sent the waitresses to serve upstairs then made his nephew carry the bowl of punch to the reception table where he ordered him to stay and serve for the rest of the night. Charla bit back a laugh. It served the nughead right for thinking he could come into a restaurant and play chef.

When short ribs she had placed in the oven smelled nearly done, she prepared a wine and garlic glaze in a saucepan on the stovetop. As the waiters carried more mushrooms out, she pulled tender beef from the oven. She took her time glazing, skewering, and placing them on platters.

The guests are arriving, said Jerry, his hair restored to some semblance of order. How’s it coming in here?

It’s coming five hundred dollars’ worth. She sent him a pointed look, her tight lips daring him to disagree.

I was thinking more along the lines of three. His throat grew dark pink.

Are you serious? Don’t fuck with me. I swear to God, I’ll never work for you again. She straightened and planted her knuckles on her hips. I swear.

The pink spread up his cheeks. You need the work.

Waiting jobs are everywhere. You need me more than I need you. Five hundred.

He coughed. I won’t need you when I get a pro chef in here.

Ha! Shaking her head, she bent to finish preparing the last platter. "Good chefs aren’t cheap, and you are a damned scrooge. Besides, that doesn’t help you tonight."

He stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

She fed a spare rib into the silent opening and arched her eyebrows. You think that would’ve happened with your nephew in charge? You think that would’ve happened if I hadn’t taken this assignment?

Jerry closed his eyes, and the pink faded from his skin. He chewed then sighed. Sonofabitch, that’s enough to make a man melt. Fine. Five hundred.

Grinning, she did her best cheerleader impression. Awesome! Great! You finally met my rate. Let’s go! Feed folks! And hope nobody chokes.

Ha ha, he said dryly.

She lifted a platter into a perfect supinated palm support at her shoulder, curtsied with a sweet smile, then shot him the bird with her free hand as she kicked the kitchen’s swinging door and headed to the party.

* * * *

A platter of gray mush on crackers glided past, and Dan turned up his nose. Next came raw vegetables and then flutes of champagne. Seriously? He asked, Who organized this?

Kendel combed pale fingers into her flame-red hair. Marty and I hired a planner. He came highly recommended and has a wonderful reputation.

Did you tell him this was for a metal band? asked Burn, turning a cracker hors d’oeuvre this way then that before flicking it into a trash bin.

We did, she said. I don’t understand this.

Oh, fucking hell, muttered Marty, coming from the entrance and joining them near the punch table. Her black lips curled into a snarl, revealing shockingly white teeth. This party is tired.

What is this food? Air clomped over in biker boots, Bea on his arm and sexy in a Judas Priest T-shirt and painted-on black jeans.

Servers in black and white uniforms moved among the guests who mingled quietly amidst dimmed lighting from sunken bulbs in the ceiling and strings of tiny white bulbs wrapped around railings and support poles. Cut glass tumblers and fine flutes of champagne looked out of place in the hands of people wearing FlameSmith T-shirts, jeans, and leather. He shared a glance with Air, and they shared a laugh while shaking their heads.

Jay strolled over in black leather and only a plain black leather vest covering his otherwise bare torso. He twirled a drumstick while shaking his head.

Celeste didn’t come? asked Marty, glancing past his shoulder.

Nope. She didn’t want to. Is it me, or is this wingding lame?

Marty nodded, swinging her arm to take in the entire party. Other than the guests, this wingding is the lamest.

A pretty brunette approached, her platter the most attractive in the club.

Meat! Dan snagged the entire plate.

Hey! Air and Burn yelled at the same time.

Chill, the waitress said, a tough but amused glint in her guarded chocolate-brown eyes. There’s more.

The uniform did nothing for her, but it couldn’t completely hide her figure. Dan let his gaze linger on high breasts, flaring hips, and long legs. He popped a piece of steak into his mouth, and his knees softened as an explosion of flavor rushed over his tongue and the morsel gave way in tender submission under the pressure from his teeth.

Damn, he whispered, closing his eyes.

Burn reached for a piece, and he swiveled to protect his newfound treasure.

What’s your name? he asked the waitress.

"Hey You works as well as anything." She shot him her middle finger as she headed for the rear of the club.

Air laughed.

She’s a tough one, that, said Beatrice. Amazing she has a job, treating customers like that.

I like her. Kendel chortled.

Grinning at her spunk, Dan stared at her pert, retreating ass. She’s hardcore. She’s the most metal thing about this party.

Marty punched his shoulder. You like ‘em sweet and blond, so get your eyes off of her ass. She’s more than you can handle.

His assistant probably had him right, but he didn’t have a date tonight, and he hadn’t enjoyed a challenging woman in a long time.

When she appeared, bearing a platter of spare ribs, he waved her over. Hey You.

Funny, she drawled.

He shrugged. Just doing as you told me.

Air plucked the second platter from her, and Burn went after the morsels with ravenous zeal. Kendel shook her head, hooked arms with Bea, and headed for the door to greet V and Izzy as they entered the club.

Before the waitress moved on through the crowd, Dan leaned near and said, Have you tried one of these?

Yeah. What of it, band boy?

Don’t be so defensive. They’re delicious. My compliments to the chef.

She sized him up a long moment. Thanks.

He blinked. Wait. You made these?

Be glad. The chef they had was shit. The mushrooms are good. I made those, too. I wouldn’t trust anything else. You’ll get more germs than from a roadie.

A man in a cook’s toque nudged him from behind and tried to give him a glass of punch.

Fuck that. Dan nudged her. Hey You, have a drink at the bar with me. Help me eat these. They’re delicious. What’s in the sauce?

She narrowed her eyes, and her long lashes cast a striated shadow on the upper curve of her high cheekbones. My boss would frown on it.

He barked a laugh. More than you shooting his guests a random fuck-you finger?

I’m working.

Yeh, for me. This is our party, lame as it is.

You guys look metal. Why are you having an event like this?

Wish I knew. And we are metal. All the way. He grinned and ate another bite of beef. The woman could cook. What else could she do? My God, these are amazing.

You really want me to have a drink with you?

Yes.

She glanced over her shoulder. Fine. I’ll meet you at the bar in ten minutes.

He grasped her elbow before she could leave. Where are you going?

With a sly grin, she said,