Moonshine Eyes

  A Bad Boy Rockstar Novel

  Alexa Padgett

  Sidecar Press, Inc.

  Moonshine Eyes © 2016 by Alexa Padgett

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945090-07-3

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the material in this book.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

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  Edited by Nancy Cassidy

  Cover Art by Chris Philpot

  Dedication

  For you, my lovely readers. Without you, this wouldn’t be possible.

  Moonshine Eyes

  Sometimes, one glimpse is all it takes to fall in love…

  After a family secret sent my engagement crashing to the ground, I fled Milan. The moment I spot Seth across the Avenida Diagonal, I feel more alive than I ever did with my fiancé. Seth makes me happy, but the life I left behind is with my family, and I can make it safe.

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  http://www.alexapadgett.com

  Contents

  1. Seth

  2. Ramona

  3. Seth

  4. Ramona

  5. Seth

  6. Ramona

  7. Seth

  8. Ramona

  9. Seth

  10. Ramona

  11. Seth

  12. Ramona

  13. Seth

  14. Ramona

  15. Seth

  16. Ramona

  17. Seth

  18. Ramona

  19. Seth

  20. Ramona

  21. Seth

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from MIDNIGHT DANCE

  Acknowledgments

  About Alexa Padgett

  Also by Alexa Padgett

  1

  Seth

  When the man beside her knocked her shoulder with his closed fist, her gaze slid from mine to his. His voice escalated. Not quite shouting, but I stiffened. Dislike for the man and the way he spoke to her, the scowl building like a storm on his forehead, upset me. She was fine-boned, medium height, but the man beside her was at least double her size. Dark, pierced, tatted. Getting more animated—angry?—by the second.

  Her dark ginger hair had caught my attention first. Then her pale eyes met mine, held for one heartbeat…two…three.

  Intense.

  That was the only way to describe the bright flash of interest that connected us. Her pink lips had curved up as she dipped her head, raising her hand toward her hair, her eyes not leaving mine until the man hit her. My mouth dried up and neck tensed. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t seemed surprised by his animated response.

  One of Barcelona's tourist buses slid between us, its turquoise paint a visual shock after the girl's fresh loveliness. I darted left, frantic, trying to catch another glimpse.

  Italian. He spoke to her in Italian.

  My mom's family was from Sicily. I'd traveled through southern Italy many times during my childhood—“no reason to stay home and wait for your father to remember us” was her bitter response when I’d asked her about our summer sojourns when I was ten. Mom had been adamant I learn English and Italian concurrently, making me one of those kids who'd taken three years to speak a word. She’d nearly moved us back to Sicily to be near her extended family when my parents divorced. My one and only epic level meltdown led to a move across the country, not transatlantic.

  I peered around the edge of the bus in time to see the pierced and tatted dude pick up the girl and shove her up the steps of the bus. It pulled away from the curb, in a cloud of dark diesel exhaust and a chuff of the overworked engine. His voice drifted back to me, still raised in annoyance. He told her to stop acting so scared. Like that would be possible when he was acting so scary.

  An iron-haired docent stepped in front of me, her arms waving as she cursed me—at least I assumed the angry words were cursing—in Catalan. The language was different enough from Spanish that I had no clue what the angry teacher-lady said.

  Oh. Right. The headphones.

  I turned toward the huge, carved wood-and-metal door of the Sagrada Familia's original entrance and tossed the cheap plastic into the bin. The lady crossed her arms with a humph, and I shrugged in apology before I threaded my way through the crowd, drawn to where the girl last stood.

  She’d reminded me of an actress my mom liked. What was her name? I couldn't remember. Not important anyway. Seeing the girl again, making sure she was safe, was important. Damn important.

  I jogged up and down the large, bustling street, hoping, praying. No sign. Not that I was surprised. He’d manhandled her onto the tourist bus and it wasn’t like I expected her to hop off a moving vehicle.

  But…I groaned and slammed my hand against the edge of a nearby fountain, ignoring the pigeons taking flight around me. Like all my best memories, she’d slipped away long before I was ready to let her go.

  “What the hell?” my dad asked, puffing. He bent over, hands on his knees. “Why did you run off?” I turned toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise. Right. I was in Barcelona for quality time with my absentee father.

  Such was the less-than-glamorous life as the son of a famous rock star. Much as I wanted to simply be Seth Jameson, I wasn't. I was, as I'd always been, Carl Jameson's son. He was the drummer from the Supernaturals and I, for better and often worse, was the kid he remembered to trot out to the media just often enough to keep them interested in my boring life and my mother fending off photographers looking for the scoop into her twelve-year tumultuous relationship with a rock legend.

  Yeah, my dad rocked. Literally. So not figuratively. He sucked at the day-to-day life of child-rearing, as in he simply didn’t do any of it. But he’d put together this attempt at father-son bonding, stating he wanted a relationship with me…twenty years after my birth.

  Much as I wanted to blame Dad's lack-of-parenting for my methodical, plodding approach to life, I couldn't. I refused to turn into either of my parents. My dad still moved from woman to woman, maybe searching for the connection he'd found all those years ago with my mom. My mom, well, she'd remarried when I was twelve, stating we needed normalcy, but I saw the pain in her eyes each time she talked to my dad.

  Mom still loved Dad, and I was the constant reminder of how their once-perfect love affair had gone to hell. She had another son, now six. Cute kid, but I always felt like an interloper in my mom's new life.

  Which was why I’d chosen to go to university in Seattle, nearer my dad and the few friends I'd managed to retain from my early school days before Mom and I moved cross-country. As soon as I called my dad last year to let him know my college decision, he started planning “hang out” time, blocking off hours to spend with me. Like today. We’d wandered through Barcelona, talking in stilted bursts as we visited some of the city's greatest attractions before his sound check later this afternoon.

  I ran my hand through my over-long hair, shoving strands out of my eyelashes. I should have cut the unruly mess before we left for Europe, but the shaggy look was supposed to help me fit in better with the band. I needed all the assistance I could get—I didn't have a musical or cool bone in my body. I studied business. ’Cuz talking T-accounts would impress the ladies as much as playing in an indie rock band. Cue eye roll.

  The sad reality was that chicks flocked to my dad even though I was way closer to their age. Probably always would. I was surprisingly okay with that.

  “Nothing. Sorry. Thought I saw…someone.”

  I cleared my throat, squirming at my own lameness. I could just imagine what my dad was thinking. Even knowing the girl was gone, I glanced up and down the street once more, my heart thrumming with the same endless hope that had propelled me past my parents' estrangement and landed me here, in Barcelona. Not that I’d made much progress on that front.

  Dad slapped his hand on my shoulder as one would a sports buddy. “No worries. Saw plenty of stained glass for one day. I need to head over to the venue soon.”

  His excitement to have me here—just the third time I'd toured with him ever—was palpable. So far, he’d rolled with all my requests and quirks. Not that I had many. Since it was mainly Mom and me growing up, and she’d always been sad, I’d learned to keep my opinions and most of my emotions wrapped up tight, deep in my chest. Somedays I wasn’t sure what I felt…or, worse, if I ever could.

  I cleared my throat, shocked by the regret stinging there.

  “How long to get to the…what's the venue called?”

  “Palau Sant Jorgi.”

  I laughed. Relief loosening some of the tightness in my chest. “You butchered the words, but you're getting better.”

  “Years of touring, buddy.” He paused, considered something. With a shake of his head, he said, “It's about a twenty-minute cab ride.”

  “Anything good to see along the way?” I asked.

  Dad s
lung his arm over my shoulder. “Let's find those Gaudi houses you told me about.”

  2

  Ramona

  “You need to come home. No more of this foolish running away,” Giorgi said. His eyes held the same determined glint Mamma's did when she wanted Giorgi or me to have something we couldn’t afford.

  “I'm not running away. I took a semester to learn more about Spain. I worked in Madrid at an accounting firm, getting good experience. Now I'm visiting Barcelona for the weekend, and from here, I head back to Milan to prepare for spring courses.”

  “Because of that…that…I cannot think of a bad enough word for Aldobradino.”

  “He’s nothing,” I said with a wave of my hand, but that didn't stop my mortification or ease my worries about going home. We’d shared many classes, and seeing Aldo again so soon after our disastrous last meeting was more than I could stomach…especially after the continued calls and texts he still sent me each day. I swallowed down the fear that he would never take the hint and tossed my head.

  Giorgi was right. I’d run away, but I wasn’t going to let my brother know that.

  “He broke up with you because he impregnated his father's secretary.” Giorgi sucked in his lower lip, tonguing one of his piercings. He'd have to remove them after he completed his final year of university. As a kid who'd maneuvered through our violence-riddled Milanese neighborhood and earned acceptance into the law program at the university, he deserved his affectations.

  “I’m over him. More importantly, I shan’t see him again.” Not exactly true, but I didn’t need to tell my brother the pitiful truth: while I'd thought I'd found something special with Aldo, he’d simply enjoyed slumming with the smart girl from the tenements. Worse, Aldo's mother hated me before the introductions were even made. With a sneering look at my neat chignon, she’d called me a harlot and the spawn of Judas—like I controlled the color of the hair sprouting from my head or my mother’s former profession—and refused to eat with me.

  I left the house, not having even made it to the dining room, shaken and hurt. Aldo didn't follow me back through his family's front door. That was the first sign our relationship was destined to fail.

  Handing back his ring—at his demand—was humiliating. Finding out from my friend that he’d given my engagement ring to his new fiancée mere days later had been even worse. Then, the messages started, stating he’d changed his mind and wanted me.

  Well, I didn’t want him.

  “Anyway, Little Sword got his comeuppance,” I said with a grin. “Have you seen that woman? The secretary? Amelia told me he still calls her Ms. Corsini. Probably because she's at least twice his age.”

  I glanced back at the Sagrada Familia as we waited for the bus. But my eyes didn’t light upon the towering Gothic architecture. A man with dark hair—too long for a conservative business student like Aldo—stood out front. He wore faded jeans and a T-shirt that fit snug across his broad shoulders. His dark eyes were trained on me like he couldn't quite believe his eyes. Maybe he couldn't. My hair likely flashed blaze-bright against the dull cityscape. I put a hand up to cover my bright locks but I couldn’t pull my gaze from his. His lips parted and mine echoed the action. Those dark eyes widened and my heart slammed against my ribs, the pace faster than birds fleeing a piazzo.

  “Idiotas. Both his parents for naming him something so stupid and him for letting you go.” Giorgio’s fist smacked my shoulder as his arms flailed. “You sure he's not the reason you ran away?”

  Not for the reasons Giorgi thought, and I didn’t want to enlighten him.

  “You shouldn’t fear coming home. Oops. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”

  A bus slid to a stop before us. He rubbed my shoulder, muttering another apology. When I tried to climb on behind Giorgio, he picked me up and set me on the top step. “I’m sorry, Mona. Let me help you.”

  My whole body blushed with embarrassment at my brother’s manhandling. That’s what I told myself because I couldn’t possibly feel desire for the man standing across the street. Just one more fleeting touch of our gazes. A lie—I wanted more than another glance.

  I’d never reacted to anyone like that before. Definitely not to Aldo. I sank into my seat, puzzling over my reaction.

  “I knew you still cared for that piece of excrement,” Giorgio cried, his anger rising. “He hurt you and now you’re afraid to come home for fear he’ll further break your heart.” Giorgi crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “I won’t let him.”

  “He can’t break my heart.”

  Giorgi nodded, his face solemn. “Mamma misses you.”

  “That’s why I’m coming home with you on Monday. I’ve missed her, too.” Though, I worried heading home sent Aldo the wrong signal. Perhaps he would think his messages reeled me back home.

  “Last stop. We need to go, get ready for tonight.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I promised you fun, and I'm delivering.”

  I forced my attention back to my brother and his devious smile. He pulled out two tickets from his pocket as he beamed. He practically shoved them into my face. Pulling back far enough to see, I read the bold words at the top.

  “The Supernaturals. A concert?” I asked, trying not to scrunch my nose. “Well, music is better than a football match.”

  “I cannot believe you're Italian,” Giorgio snapped. “We breathe football. But this—this is the coolest band. Like ever. And they’re here the same weekend as we are. I’ve always wanted to see them live.”

  I shrugged. I liked music but I didn't attend concerts. Just like I didn't care much for sporting events. So many people in one place made me all-too-aware of my slenderness and the fragility of any human body.

  Giorgio tucked the tickets back into his wallet before helping me off the bus at Casa Batló, still grumbling at my lack of excitement. But it was good-natured mumbles. My brother wasn’t just my best friend, he was my protector and would do anything—anything—to keep me safe. Not that I’d let him. Not anymore. Standing on my own feet, my own merit, living my life and making my own mistakes, was paramount to me growing up and letting Giorgi move on to his own life. At twenty-four, Giorgi spent too many years worrying about me. I’d hoped my engagement to Aldo would end his need to protect, but the subsequent fallout when that relationship collapsed meant Giorgi was even more protective than before.

  We needed to find a balance, he and I. One where I wasn’t smothered and he wasn’t so concerned. Madrid had been a good first step, but I needed to demarcate those lines back in Milan—both to Giorgi and Mamma. My pulse fluttered in my neck as I built the conversation in my head. Mamma wouldn’t like my desire for independence and Giorgi would be even less inclined to let me walk out of our mamma’s apartment alone.

  I pushed the thoughts aside. I had this weekend for fun. To enjoy my brother’s company without a fight or worse. So I’d enjoy these moments and worry about the coming war of wills later.

  The crowds expanded with the heat of the day, now many people deep. The weather was mild, especially for the week before Christmas. Clearly, the Friday before one of the country’s largest holidays wasn’t our best choice for touring Barcelona, but we were here, and I’d always wanted to see this city. Giorgi was quiet as we waited our turn to move forward enough to take in the façade of the house.

  “Gaudi was a genius,” I said with a sigh. Architecture had always fascinated me, nearly as much as numbers soothed me.

  “You and your old buildings. I like the tiles,” Giorgio decided.