The Griffin's Secret Page 2

  Jackson tried not to laugh. “Doesn’t sound so crazy.”

  The haunted look returned to Darius’s eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” He whispered the last words, “Until he had a roadie killed for violating his rule.”

  Yeah, big difference. “Killed? How?”

  Darius jerked his neck. “That was the worst part. He had the other roadies do his dirty work.”

  “Either he pays really well, or the roadies are loyal as hell.”

  Darius flicked his gaze up, then away. “He cast a spell over them. They had no choice.”

  Something had definitely spooked Darius. “What’s the name of the band?”

  “Malcontent.”

  The catchy song he’d heard in the truck, the earworm he couldn’t get out of his head. A shiver coursed over Jackson and he stole a peek at Grundy, whose smile widened as he nodded. Not that Jackson needed further proof this whole scene had somehow been a setup. Pointing the way ahead for him.

  Resigned, Jackson asked, “Where is he now?”

  “West somewhere.”

  “Where your destiny awaits. With the setting sun.” Grundy tapped his shoulder and descended to the floor.

  The old wizard was taking a break already? Jackson wanted to leave. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m finished.”

  “You can’t be done already.” Jackson had expected to lay there for hours. He strained to see over his shoulder and caught sight of a splash of color.

  Grundy jerked his head at the wide mirror on the wall. “Check for yourself.”

  Jackson slid his feet to the floor and swaggered over, reluctant to view the fresh ink. He turned, and his mouth gaped. “Amazing. How did you…?” No one worked that fast. No human, at least.

  Grundy arched a brow.

  The tattoo weighed on him like a separate entity. A stone. A compass pointing west. “The setting sun, huh?”

  Grundy’s slow nod confirmed it.

  “Must be the direction I need to head.”

  Darius shot to his feet. “No way. Don’t go anywhere near him.”

  “Not,” Grundy said, “without these.” He pressed something into Jackson’s palm.

  He opened his hand to reveal a bracelet of thick strands of woven silver. Beside it was a silver charm with an intricate design of a griffin and shaped like a guitar tuner. “Jewelry? Seriously?”

  “A teman bracelet woven in the tulang naga pattern.” When Jackson’s brow remained furrowed, Grundy said, “Teman is the Java word for friend. Like the silver itself, the dragon-bone weave is strong protection against evil.”

  Jackson tried not to wince. “You’re hinting my destiny has something to do with evil?”

  A shrug. “You are certain to encounter it in some form.”

  Darius wagged his finger at him. “Especially if you go to work for Malcontent. I got away, but you might not. Listen to me, man. My life flipped from horrible to amazing after I left.”

  “Just like your tat predicted.” Maybe there was something to the idea after all. Jackson lifted the silver griffin and examined it. “What’s this for?”

  Grundy put away his tools. “The griffin likewise protects against black magic.”

  “Then why do I need this?” He dangled the silver chain.

  “Wear it. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with both.”

  Tired of fighting fate and every obstacle it threw in his path, Jackson fastened the bracelet onto his wrist and pocketed the griffin. “Only one thing left to do.”

  “I’ll drive you.” The jingle of Grundy’s keys sounded like the sweet music of freedom.

  At Jackson’s efficiency, the three of them made short work of boxing up his few belongings. Essentials, he tossed into a duffel bag. Everything he owned fit neatly into the back of the truck, a pathetic statement on his shallow life.

  Grundy recommended his friend’s storage facility. “It’s late, but he’ll open up for me.”

  “Let me guess,” Jackson said. “He owes you?”

  Grundy only smiled, but sure enough, the owner sleepily handed over a key.

  After stowing the few boxes, his guitar, and the mangled Harley in a unit, Jackson secured the lock. His heart broke leaving them behind.

  “Take it easy, Darius. Thanks for everything, Grundy.” He climbed out of the truck cab and shut the door.

  “Stay well, Jackson Grant.” A wave, and Grundy drove away. Darius’s worried face faded behind the passenger window.

  Jackson watched the truck grow smaller. Someday he hoped to see the old man again. For now, he strode to the highway and stuck out his thumb. A trucker pulled over and asked where he was headed.

  “As far west as I can go.” Starting tonight, he’d forge a new path, one leading away from here and away, finally, from this mess of a life. As much as he loved what his past contained, it was forever out of his reach. Whatever his future held, he intended to grab hold and not let go.

  * * * *

  Outside the bus window, the world flew by. Layla wished she could reach through the glass beside her bunk and catch the scenery like a butterfly, hold it for a little while to examine all the detail. The real colors, vivid and alive, not muted by the tinted glass. If only the rest of the world could see in as well as she could see out, she might not feel so isolated.

  A futile wish, so she released the thought. After rummaging through her small bookshelves above the mattress, she found the sketch pad and began to draw a butterfly. She hummed a song she’d been composing in her mind. A haunting melody she couldn’t forget, yet couldn’t quite figure out the rest.

  “Don’t waste too much, love.” The low voice held menace.

  She shut her eyes against the unspoken message. Why did so many beg to hear that harsh voice? Who could fall for such a cold man? Loving him would be a terrible waste. Every concert was the worst sort of torture for her.

  She made her tone airy and careless. “There’s always more.” Unfortunately. Otherwise, she could go her separate way.

  “I said save your energy.” Mal’s words clipped the air.

  She sighed. The bus had every luxury except privacy. Next time, she’d remember to draw the flimsy curtain shut. “Fine.” She kept sketching but stopped humming. Out loud, anyway. The melody continued in her head.

  He leaned his elbows along the rail. “You just can’t know the absolute thrill of standing center stage.” Like his voice, his features had softened. “The energy of the people pulsing through me, their love flowing to me.” Long hair to his shoulders, his pale blue eyes sparkled as he smiled dreamily. “Holding them captive with each strum.”

  No small thanks to her. And if he had his way, she’d never experience the same thrill. “You mean captivated, don’t you?”

  His shrug dismissed her argument, then he winced. “What’s the difference? Why must you dwell on petty semantics?”

  His mood swings never surprised her anymore. True to his name, Mal couldn’t sustain a pleasant mood for long.

  She kept sketching. “No reason.” Except the difference lent a critical distinction to his motive. Pleasing the audience or owning them. He’d almost had her believing he cared about someone other than himself.

  A dangerous mistake.

  “I’m bored.” Yawning, Mal scratched his belly, thin as the rest of him, and much less awe-inspiring than his costumed stage persona. “I’m going back to bed.”

  She waited until he’d shuffled to the rear of the bus and closed the narrow door behind him, then set aside her pad and pencil and slid her feet from the bunk to the floor. She walked to the front where Fred strummed his guitar on the plush cushions, shaved head bent low.

  At her approach, he looked up and grinned. “I loved your song, even if he didn’t.”

  Too bad no one else would ever hear it. “Play me something sweet.” She closed her eyes and listened to the soft notes he drew from the strings, exactly the kind
of soothing music she needed. When he finished after a few minutes, she exhaled slowly. “Divine. And you needed no one’s help.”

  Fred cradled the instrument to his chest, concern in his hazel eyes. “Why don’t you go rest? Tomorrow night will be here all too soon.”

  Like she needed the reminder. “Tomorrow night and the next and the next. When will it end?”

  The guitarist gave a lopsided smile. “Hopefully never. Or at least, not for a long time.”

  “Don’t say that.” The very thought sapped her will. After five years of touring with Malcontent, the concerts had begun to blur together, each one the same as the last.

  False pleasantries abandoned, Fred met her gaze. “Sorry. I know this life isn’t always fun for you.”

  The only one of them who treated her like a living, breathing person. She treasured their conversations, however infrequent. Fred’s soft-spoken kindness acted like a healing balm to her soul, and she couldn’t ruin what small friendship they had by constantly bringing him down. “I love the music. I love life on the road.” If she didn’t spend all her free time in virtual exile on the bus, she wouldn’t mind traveling one bit.

  Except for Mal. No one loved him except Mal himself, and the confined quarters strained everyone’s nerves.

  Fred grinned. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”

  Her heart squeezed. “He wouldn’t have been able to stay in the same room with me. What I do is a joke, a mockery of music.” Nothing like his artistic genius.

  “No way. You’re—”

  “Please don’t try and make me feel better.”

  Guitar in hand, he rose. “I’d better get some shut-eye. You should, too.”

  She hid her loneliness behind a smile. “I will. Soon.”

  He shuffled to the back of the bus.

  And as soon as she could manage it, sleep wouldn’t be her only means of escaping an existence she could hardly tolerate. Funny, how many people would do anything to get on board this enclosed hell, and all she wanted to do was get the hell off.

  Snuggled under the warm cover, she instinctively reached for the iPad. She’d convinced Mal to get her one so she could watch videos. Research and study, she’d told him, but she was fairly certain he knew otherwise. Sometimes, Mal dropped the bastard persona, but not often enough.

  A touch brought up YouTube. Another few strokes, and a list of videos appeared. She tapped Jimi Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” and settled low against the pillows. His intensity never failed to captivate her. The movements of his fingers seemed deliberate, yet amazingly free, dancing along the neck and strings of the white Fender Stratocaster. When he raised the strings to his mouth and plucked them with his teeth, and then flipped the guitar behind his head and still played every note perfectly, goose bumps raised on her skin. Musical genius at its finest. Jimi had no need of magic. He’d given this performance before meeting the woman who’d introduced him to other musical powers and then cursed him in a jealous rage.

  So tragic, to have lost a great talent so young. At least he’s free now.

  Unlike Layla, who suffered like her mother and grandmother had before her. Soon, she would break free of these bonds. Very soon. With no boundaries, who knew how far up she could go? So high, she could kiss the sky.

  But heights such as those could be dangerous. Mal was living proof.

  Chapter 2

  The tattoo burned like hell, made Jackson want to bust out of his skin. Out of this room. Despite his bouncing knees, he scraped his palms against the rough denim of his jeans. Crazy old man full of crazy stories. Should never have let Grundy anywhere near him with a needle.

  One good thing came of the chance meeting with Grundy: a job lead. The only reason he reined in his impatience and stayed put. The kind of gig he’d waited to score since he first picked up a guitar at age twelve. The kind that would lead him exactly where he needed to be—everywhere and nowhere, and as far from the past as the job could take him.

  When Grundy had said Jackson’s destiny lay with the setting sun, it had a ring of truth. He’d found a friendly trucker headed to California. Couldn’t get any farther west than that. Unlike his other tats, Grundy’s design had calmed right away. Like it freaking belonged on his skin. Future? Happiness? Jackson avoided hope for both.

  But since he’d arrived for the interview… Shit. The griffin practically spewed fire, writhing beneath Jackson’s skin. He shifted in his seat, but movement only amped up the burn.

  Remaining still became impossible, so he paced. The door opened and Kev leaned in. “He’s ready for you.” He disappeared down the hallway.

  Finally. Jackson grabbed his leather jacket and strode after the guy. The buzz cut, the ripped muscles on a body edging toward forty, and the no-bullshit tone all screamed ex-military. Probably why he was the head roadie.

  Any movement came as a relief, but more important, after wandering aimlessly for the past two years, Jackson was finally moving toward something. Good, yeah, but also a little strange. In his experience, setting down roots didn’t exactly agree with him. And had a nasty side effect for those around him.

  Passing an open door, he glanced in at the exact moment a girl looked up at him. Like a dream, she rendered him motionless. The fresh ink on his back swelled like the griffin wanted to jump off him. Every detail burned into his mind. Her eyes, of deepest brown, glittering with distrust, and a fire he couldn’t name. Long, black hair with a sheen from the overhead lights. Mocha skin, almost luminous. Long legs drawn under her. Even while sitting, graceful as a gazelle.

  A trapped gazelle. He shook off the weird thought. Why should he assume something like that? But if it were true… Anger washed over him, rippled through his tightening muscles.

  “Dude.”

  The word snapped him back to real time.

  Kev stood beside another open door. “In here.”

  Jackson dragged himself ahead. No one here. “I thought you said he was ready.”

  A smirk. “You wait for him. He waits for no one.” Kev jerked his head.

  First test of the interview? Yeah, testing his patience.

  Kev shrugged. “Unless you have somewhere more important to be…”

  “Nope.” He draped his leather jacket over a chair and sat, steeling himself against the sting on his back. “I’m just surprised he takes a personal interest in every hire.” Must be a real control freak.

  “You’re a fast learner, kid. Let us worry about details.” Mimicking pulling a trigger, Kev winked before disappearing again.

  Not a fast enough learner, but I’m trying. Jackson could never outrun his past.

  The faint scent of an exotic flower on an ocean breeze hit him the second the girl walked in. Every part of his body stood at attention, taking in the way she moved. The curve of her slender hips. Those long legs…they’d wrap around the back seat of his Harley perfectly. Wrap around him perfectly, too.

  A flip of her onyx-silk hair sent it behind her shoulder as she sat opposite. “Who are you?”

  Good question. He’d been seeking the same answer for too long. “Jackson Grant.”

  Her eyes darkened, deep brown to charcoal diamonds. “Why are you here?”

  “For the roadie job.” Was she the first gatekeeper? A gate she kept locked, he’d bet. Or maybe she was another test. Kev had warned him there’d be tricky questions and to answer straight. Something told him she asked out of curiosity.

  “You think you’re up for such a demanding job?”

  Again, the impression hit him she was making these questions up as she went along, ad-libbing off his replies.

  He’d play. “I’m strong. Dependable. I follow orders, keep my head down, and stay out of trouble.” And he liked his privacy.

  Her features smoothed, hard as porcelain. “Do you.” Not a question.

  He’d answer anyway. “Yes.”

  Did disappointment curl her lip? Or boredom? Why did he care? If he could,
he’d blast out of there before his own curiosity got the better of him. Already, she’d gotten under his skin. Crazy how the tat no longer singed him, but now twisted like a trapped animal.

  With a plastic smile, she batted her eyes, and the false flirtation didn’t suit her. “So. You’re a yes-man.”

  The way she said it, he’d be no different than any other roadie serving the great rock star, Malcolm Fetterman. Fine by Jackson. The less he stood out, the better. Except for her. He hated to think of her glossing over his presence, but that would be better, too.

  He drummed his fingers on the table. “I need the job.” Where the hell was Malcolm anyway? The longer he stayed with her, the more he wanted to. Definitely couldn’t afford that kind of trouble. He glanced at the open door, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through the same interrogation again.

  She tapped the table. “You’d have to travel constantly.”

  “Perfect.” No different than his usual way of life. Except this time, his paycheck would remain steady.

  “You wouldn’t miss your family?” She dipped her head. “Your girlfriend?”

  He curled his lip this time. No one’s business but his. He shifted in his seat. “They’re better off.”

  Her brows knit, and then her expression became unreadable as the Sphinx. “The hours are long, and the equipment’s heavy. Everything has to be exactly as Mal orders.”

  Did he imagine it, or had she winced at her own words?

  He shrugged. “It’s his show.” Someday, Jackson would have his own roadies. And would treat them much better than Malcolm Fetterman did, if the stories proved true.

  Her steely focus cut into him. “Mal doesn’t hire musicians except for those in the band. And there aren’t any openings in Malcontent.”

  He didn’t allow himself to blink. “No problem.”

  “But you play, don’t you?” Her gaze dropped to his callused fingertips drumming the tabletop.

  He drew his hand down. “No.” A necessary lie. She might suspect, but couldn’t possibly know the truth. Almost like leaving one of his limbs behind, he’d locked his Fender in storage in New Jersey with his paltry possessions for six months. By then, he’d know whether this gig worked out.