Sweet memory the painted.., p.27
Sweet Memory (The Painted Daisies #1), page 27
“Regardless of what we think or how it does or doesn’t add up, he’s here, threatening Jonas and me. He’s waiting for us in Albany, so security has been increased. We’re not going on the bus today. We’re dividing up and taking vans and sedans. Different cars than we’ve been using,” Paisley told them. “But…if you don’t want to do this…if you want to go home, I’ll call Asher and tell him we’re canceling the tour.”
Fiadh inhaled sharply. “No way am I giving that asshole Riggs the satisfaction of us quitting. It’s what he wants. He wants us to break our contract so he can have our money and finally wash his hands of us. No fecking way.”
Paisley moved away from Jonas, dropping his hand and instantly feeling the loss in every ounce of her, but she needed to comfort her friend. She tucked her arm through Fiadh’s. “You can’t decide for everyone, Fee.”
Fiadh scowled but bit her lip and said nothing.
The others were silent for a long time.
Adria was the first to speak. She met Paisley’s eyes, chin raising as she said, “My family―like yours―has already been through a lot. Tati…what happened to my sister… I’m not really keen on putting them through more, but the Rojas family has never given in to bullies, criminals, or killers before. My dad would be the first to tell me not to walk away, so I’m in.”
Paisley felt Fiadh’s tension ease ever so slightly.
“I’m assuming the Secret Service knows? Which means my dad has already been notified. I’m actually surprised I haven’t heard from Mom. The United States doesn’t give in to terrorist threats, right? Like Adria said, our family isn’t going to cave now. I won’t either,” Leya said, but her hand shook as she spun the cup in her hand.
They all looked to Nikki. She’d done more than just replace Landry on guitar by giving her bass parts to Finn in the shadows. She’d also taken over all Landry’s lyrics in addition to her own because her voice was the closest to Landry’s gritty depths. If they lost Nikki, it would be difficult to recover. They might be able to eventually, but not soon enough to stop Asher from suing them.
Nikki rubbed her temples. “I’m still not sure I can believe this is the man who killed her. But if there’s a chance that we can find out, then I’m in.”
Paisley’s body broke out in goosebumps. For the first time since she’d brought them all back together, it felt like they were actually a team again. A unit. One goal in mind. End the asshole who’d taken the person who’d brought them together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jonas
RELEASE
Performed by Imagine Dragons
Jonas and The Painted Daisies traveled to Albany in thoughtful silence, and when they got there, they spent three days preparing for the concert. The band rehearsed at The Palace while he and Zia hustled behind the scenes, trying to pull together a show that wasn’t supposed to happen for days yet.
In addition to the increased staff that came with the tour kicking off, Reinard, the FBI, and the Secret Service all sent more people until there was a dense sea of men and women surrounding the Daisies. They spread the band out across several hotels in the area, hoping to make it harder for the stalker to know where everyone was. Any time they left the hotel or the theater, they played a shell game with all the cars heading in different directions. It felt like they were living in an espionage movie.
For three days, they heard nothing. There was no note, no sightings, just a silence that left everyone on edge. All the agencies were flexing their muscles, trying to find Artie, and it was almost asinine that they were coming up empty.
The day before the concert, Jonas was rooted to a spot offstage, watching as Paisley crooned into a microphone, when Zia found him. He didn’t say anything to her as they stood listening to the band. Paisley’s voice filled the theater and landed directly in his heart, every word, every syllable, every note resonating deep in his soul.
“If you don’t ease up, everyone’s going to think you’re the stalker,” Zia teased.
Jonas dragged his eyes from Paisley down to Zia. She wasn’t much bigger than Paisley, but her hair was full and curly, adding height to her. She arched a thick brow at him, brown eyes twinkling.
Jonas gave her a wry shrug. “I can’t seem to help it.”
Zia laughed softly.
He smiled before turning serious. “I’ll ease up once they’ve found him.”
Zia pulled on his arm, spinning him three hundred sixty degrees and pointing with her finger at all the muscled men and women with guns and Tasers. Jonas’s eyes landed and stayed on Ronan Hawk and his goddamn camera for a moment before Zia had successfully turned him back toward the stage.
“Do you see all this security?” she asked. “He isn’t going to get to her.”
The layers of protection should have made Jonas feel better, but for some reason, it made his skin crawl, like there was something they were all missing. A piece they hadn’t put together.
That’s where his brain was at as he and Paisley exited the theater later that afternoon―on the lack of progress and no word from Artie. Maybe he’d given up because the security had been too thick, but that idea didn’t feel right either.
His gut and chest were equally tight as they made their way into the back alley. It was a large space, big enough for semi-trucks to pull in and drop off stage equipment, and it was empty except for a single black sedan waiting for them. The rest of the band had already headed back to their various hotels.
Jonas opened the back door of the car, and as Paisley went to slide in, there was a loud ping on the sedan’s roof, like a heavy rock had been thrown. His heart rate spiked, eyes darting around, brows drawn in confusion. It wasn’t until another clang joined the first that his brain caught up, and then pure panic filled him.
“Gun!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear, and he acted on instinct, shoving Paisley inside the car and yelling, “Get on the floor!”
Paisley made a sound of protest, face as panicked as he felt, but when the roof was hit with another bullet, she ducked. Jonas dropped to his haunches, adrenaline pumping, hatred for Artie swimming in his veins, and tortured fear for Paisley’s life almost paralyzing him.
He used the vehicle as a shield while Trevor and two other bodyguards raced toward them.
“Get her out of here,” Trevor yelled into the mic, yanking on Jonas’s arm and pulling him toward the cargo bay as Paisley’s car spun out, kicking up dirt. Gunshots followed the sedan out of the alley.
Jonas’s heart slammed in his chest, the terror inside him turning to fury as the car disappeared. A chant in his head began, growing slowly louder, telling him to find Artie. To end him. To end this. So, when Trevor tried to pull him inside the theater, he jerked away. Instead of running to safety, he sped toward the shots coming from a window on the top floor of the four-story building behind the theater.
Gunfire rained on the blacktop around his feet, and Jonas zigzagged as gravel debris spattered up his legs. Anger burned, fueling him. Trevor shouted at him, words he couldn’t decipher because of the blood pounding in his head and rushing through his veins. The only call he heeded was his own silent chant.
Find him and end him.
The back door of the building was locked, but it was in an old wooden casement, and Jonas didn’t even think twice about throwing his shoulder into it. Pain ratcheted through his arm, but he repeated the motion, and this time, the frame buckled and cracked just as Trevor’s voice broke through the rage.
“Jonas! Fucking wait!”
But he didn’t. The doorway led into an emergency stairwell, and Jonas bounded up it, taking the steps two or three at a time. His feet echoed on the cement, sending the sound upward as hate rampaged through him. Artie had cost him everything. So much fucking pain.
As he rounded the stairs on the fourth floor, he realized he couldn’t hear the gunshots anymore, only Trevor’s feet pounding on the stairs below him, calling after him, and dread settled in. Jonas would lose him if he wasn’t quick enough.
He burst through the door at the top and raced down the hall. An old man came out of one of the offices, and Jonas flung him to the side. The man cried out, but Jonas didn’t stop, focused solely on reaching Artie. He shoved open the first door on the right, closest to the theater, and a trio of women looked up with huge eyes from where they hid behind their desks.
He swirled around and took off toward the next office. He smashed open the glass door so hard it cracked, the sound sharp and brittle in the darkened room. It was silent, but there was a tension in the air Jonas could feel.
“I’m here, asshole. Come and get me!” Jonas growled into the quiet.
He turned, feeling along the wall in the dark for the light switch. Pain exploded through his head as he was hit from behind with a hard object. He sagged toward the wall, palms outstretched, catching himself, just as a second blow struck him. He landed on his knees, a tortured roar escaping him. He couldn’t fucking let him win. His eyes swam, and he fought the black threatening to sweep him under. He swiped a hand out at the feet of his assailant. He’d barely gripped an ankle when a crowbar slammed down onto his bicep, sending ripples of agony through him. The metal clanged as it hit the ground, and his attacker turned, fleeing into the adjoining room.
Trevor burst in with his gun drawn. He glanced down at Jonas before continuing through the doorway into the next room. Jonas struggled to his knees, his arm screaming as he tried to use it to push himself up. He’d barely gotten to his feet and taken a shaky step toward the door Trevor had gone through when he returned, holstering his weapon.
Jonas staggered around him, but Trevor caught him in a death grip. “He’s already gone, Jonas. He went down the fire escape. We have men following him.”
Fuck!
Loathing and despair surged through Jonas, but through the haze of emotions came the physical pain. His head was ringing, and when he put his hand to the back of it, he came away with blood. White dots flickered in his vision.
“What the hell were you thinking, Jonas?” Trevor growled. “No weapon. No training. You’d end up dead, and then what the fuck would I tell Marco? He’d never speak to me again. He’s barely speaking to me now, thinking I’ve betrayed Garner and him by going to work for Reinard.”
Jonas moved past him, needing to see for himself that Artie wasn’t there. Two windows were open, letting in a cool breeze, a storm brewing and darkening the sky. One of the windows led out to the fire escape, and the other looked down into the theater parking lot.
“How the fuck is he able to sneak past everyone, Trev? This place should have been locked down.”
“They cleared the building this morning, Jonas. It’s not like they’re sitting on their hands and just waiting for him to kill someone.”
“Paisley. Not someone. He wants to fucking kill Paisley.” The agony ripped through his chest five times worse than the pain in his head.
Trevor’s throat bobbed. “I know.”
They glared at each other for a moment before Trevor asked, “Did you see him? Was it actually Artie?”
Jonas groaned internally. No. He hadn’t seen the guy’s face. He shook his head, and his eyes landed on a paper on the floor by the window. He picked it up, and the skin on the back of his neck prickled. The picture was of Paisley from the day before, singing onstage inside the theater. He knew it was from the day before because she’d worn a skintight skirt that had clung to her hips all day and tortured him. They’d barely gotten inside the door of her hotel suite before he’d pushed her against the wall and kissed her until they were both breathless.
Artie had fucking been there. He’d taken a photograph from inside the fucking theater. On the note, Paisley’s face was scratched out, and the words read, If you leave her, you can save her.
Jonas’s hands clenched, fisting the note.
Goddamn it.
The horrendous truth raced through him. It wasn’t a new thought. It was one he’d had over and over again since the day he’d first met Paisley Kim and argued the skills of ABBA with her. The truth was, he couldn’t have her. He couldn’t stay with her. Not if he wanted to keep her safe. Landry had been right all along. They didn’t belong. Not because he was some screwed-up kid with anger issues and no potential, but because Paisley would never be safe at his side.
Trevor took the paper from him, worried eyes scanning Jonas’s face. “You’re bleeding, Jo-Jo. Let’s get you looked at.”
When they went back into the first room, men were flooding it. Men who would fingerprint and scan every corner, but who Jonas had no faith in because they still hadn’t caught one weasel of a human being―a gang kid with no training—while the men in the room had thousands of hours of it. The fury he’d felt when he’d realized it was bullets shooting at Paisley filled him again.
He wanted to slam all of them into the wall, just like he’d wanted to put a fist in the faces of the men who’d shown up too late the night Landry had died. Trevor was at his side, and maybe he could feel the anger coming off Jonas in waves, because he put a hand on Jonas’s shoulder and said in a soothing voice, “Breathe. Let’s go get you checked out and then get you back to the hotel. Paisley has got to be scared and worried about you.”
It was a low blow because Trevor knew Jonas couldn’t stand the thought of Paisley frightened and alone. But it got him out of the room without smashing walls or people.
Once they were in the hallway, he tossed off Trevor’s hand and stalked toward the stairs. He’d only gotten down two flights when his eyes started to swim again. Trevor was right there at his side the entire time. He paused while Jonas got ahold of himself and then spoke into his mic, asking for an EMT to meet them at the hotel.
There was a flood of cop cars and the detail’s vehicles in the parking lot when they emerged out the back of the building. Fucking Ronan Hawk was on the cargo bay of the theater, filming it all.
Jonas crossed the lot and used one hand to lift himself onto the bay, bringing himself up next to the man. They were almost the same height, and Ronan might have been lanky, but he had muscle behind his Hollywood player looks. It wouldn’t be an easy fight, but Jonas was confident he could take him.
“Stop filming,” Jonas demanded.
Ronan's eyes narrowed in on him. “Not going to happen. I’ve waited two years to finish this. They deserve to have their story told.”
“Not their grief and loss. That’s private. They don’t need you showing it to the world.”
“Don’t they?” Ronan asked. “I hate to break it to you, but that’s exactly what they need.”
Jonas stepped forward, grabbing Ronan’s shirt, his fist tightening as he wrestled to control the anger and hate and despair threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted to hit the man, just like he’d wanted to hit Artie and the useless security team. He wanted to send everyone and anyone who didn’t have Paisley’s best interest at heart spinning out into the dark recesses of space.
But he wasn’t the same man who’d swung at the photographer two years ago or who’d slammed his way through a sea of bodyguards who hadn’t been there for Landry. He’d changed, hadn’t he? The hate pounding through him made him doubt it. Maybe he’d never change.
“It would be a mistake to hit me,” Ronan growled, eyes flashing.
A mistake. God, he didn’t want to keep making the same ones. He didn’t want to be his mom who never learned, never saw anything but herself and what she wanted.
Ronan and Jonas glared at each other for a long moment, and then Jonas dropped his hands, turned on his heel, and stepped off the cargo bay to where Trevor was waiting to take him to Paisley. To the one person who he never wanted to let down again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Paisley
LIVE BEFORE I DIE
Performed by The Corrs
Even though she was safe, tucked into her suite at the hotel, Paisley was still shaking from head to toe. Her body couldn’t stop shivering. They’d been shot at. She’d been shot at. And Jonas… God, she’d left him there. She paced the room, twisting the beads on her ring, heart pounding viciously as she waited.
She texted Jonas. She called Jonas.
Nothing.
She couldn’t breathe. Ice tugged through her veins, and she felt like she was going to pass out, her vision blurring and the sights and sounds going dim in a way they hadn’t in a long time. She forced herself to the door, opening it and drawing the eyes of the two men standing there.
“I…I need to know. Have you heard? Is Jonas okay? Did they catch the stalker?”
The men exchanged looks.
“Trevor and Jonas are on their way to you now.”
Relief washed over her. Jonas was okay. She sagged against the wall, and one of the guards frowned. “Are you okay, Ms. Kim?”
She inhaled slowly and sharply. “Yes.” She stepped back into the suite and then spun around again, belatedly thinking of Zane. Guilt flew through her as she hoped he was okay as well. “And Zane? Do you know where he is?”
“With the others, combing the scene.”
Thank God, she thought, returning to the suite and resuming her tread back and forth across the room. The more she paced, the more her fear and worry turned to anger. How dare Jonas shove her in a car and leave himself out in the open! He could have been killed. What would Paisley do if she lost him on top of losing Landry? God, she loved him too much to lose him now.
Her feet stalled. Her heart stopped.
She loved him.
Of course she did. She may not have put those words with the emotions, but it had always been there. She loved him deeply, passionately, and without end.
By the time the suite door opened, she’d gone through the gamut of emotions and landed back on anger at the thought of him doing something so stupid and reckless―even if it was as reckless as she’d been, trying to lure the stalker out on her own.
