Playing At Love: A Rogue Series Novel Read online

  PLAYING

  AT LOVE

  Lara Ward Cosio

  Copyright © 2015 Lara Ward Cosio

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692549234

  ISBN-13: 978-0692549230 (Rogue Publications)

  “Thank you” is not big enough to encompass all the gratitude I feel for my amazing husband, Luis.

  I am forever grateful for his gracious and

  unwavering support and belief in me.

  This book would not have been in the hands of readers without the encouragement and many edits

  of my role model and mother, Nancy Brands Ward.

  She made me a better writer and this a better story.

  ~

  If you enjoyed this novel, please share your thoughts

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  To learn more about the Rogue Series, visit:

  LaraWardCosio.com

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  rogue

  pronunciation: /rōɡ/

  noun

  1. A dishonest or unprincipled man.

  1.2 A person whose behavior one disapproves of but one who is nonetheless likable or attractive

  (often used as a playful term of reproof)

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  This moment was two months in the making. Sixty-three days, to be precise, in which Conor Quinn was mired in the wretched, sinking feeling that came with knowing he had hurt his friend as deeply as one could. And so now he greeted that friend, Gavin McManus, at the front door of his house, eager to ignore the fact that he was more than a half hour late.

  Hope was plain on his face as he watched Gavin, willing him to show some sign that all would be well. But it seemed they had exchanged personalities on this occasion. Gavin was self-contained, cool, and impassive, while Conor couldn’t suppress his emotions, looking to the other man with uncharacteristic neediness.

  With eyes averted and a barely perceptible nod, Gavin brushed past to make his way straight through the house and out the back to the studio.

  “Happy New Year, yeah?” Conor called after him.

  They were headed into the third week of January and hadn’t spent any of the holidays together as they had in years past. A recent falling-out meant their friendship had suffered, but so too had the band they started together over a dozen years ago. One couldn’t exist without the other.

  Conor had only been back in Dublin one day after a quick, and rather eventful, trip to New York when Shay, their drummer, called to say Gavin was ready to get back with the band to work on new music. The news was a happy surprise, as his thrice weekly calls to Gavin over the last couple months had been routinely ignored. Now Shay was playing the role of intermediary, which while helpful, was also completely foreign.

  As the lead guitarist of the popular Irish rock band Rogue, Conor had used his striking good looks, natural talent, and confidence to create an iconic image that transcended the music industry. Respected by his peers, he was also a paparazzi favorite, garnering attention for his dating life rather than any kind of scandal. His charm and status meant others clamored for his attention, but his loner tendencies made him highly selective with friendships. He and Gavin had been the best of friends for over two decades until everything came to light.

  Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Conor nodded to himself. Gavin was here now, which meant he was open to working with the band. If they could rekindle their writing partnership, there might be a way to also rebuild their friendship.

  Conor headed out back to the detached studio in his garden. This space had been his salvation during the low times of the last two months. He had lovingly and painstakingly pieced the studio together over the years so that the band had a place to experiment and record demos. Oriental rugs, the obligatory design accent in the rock world, were scattered over the wood floors. The walls were adorned with a precise row of framed copies of each of Rogue’s four studio albums, along with a copy of their live album recorded at Wembley. The row beneath these held gold record frames certifying the band’s impressive sales. A set of well-worn sofas and a coffee table rounded out the setup.

  Gavin was huddled with Shay and Martin, Rogue’s bassist. The three were speaking softly but with warm smiles and the occasional slap on the arm or back. Conor wasn’t used to being the one on the outside looking in. The vague jealousy that came with this wasn’t exactly new however, because if he was honest, he had felt jealous of Gavin before—jealous over Gavin’s talent, jealous over Gavin’s marriage.

  Conor had always been drawn to those that possessed raw talent—both out of admiration and a tinge of envy. He was attracted to that intangible thing that elevated mere aptitude to something great, especially in music. By studying his favorite artists, he realized the key to their genius was an ability to channel the wounds of a damaged childhood into their art. Gavin, having lost his baby sister and mother when he was just seven, had that same wounded artist aura. And he had used it to impressive effect over the years.

  With a stable home life, Conor had had the opposite experience. In fact, things had always come easily to him: academics, sports, girls, and especially music. He had shown exceptional ability with classical piano and violin, but he yearned for more. He wanted to lead from passion rather than proficiency, but doing so seemed dangerous. A cautious, only child to older parents, he was inherently risk-adverse. All that changed with the influence of Gavin’s unguarded friendship. Alongside his fearless and outgoing friend, Conor found a safe way to explore his passions, eventually funneling them into Rogue. Thus, the defining—and ultimately trite—conflict of his childhood was that his parents felt he was wasting his intelligence and talent by turning to rock music.

  Rogue offered Conor the outlet to develop his talent, but it wasn’t until he fell for Sophie—Gavin’s wife—that his abilities reached new heights. It would take years for him to understand that part of his initial attraction to her had been a subconscious attempt to manufacture his own wounds to channel into musical inspiration. The anguish came, of course, from the fact that Sophie would always be Gavin’s, no matter how Conor might desire her. Or love her, as it turned out.

  That unrequited emotion was a large part of what made Rogue’s second album such a standout success. It had been written when, after several years apart, Gavin and Sophie were reunited, and the songwriting he and Gavin did together took on a new urgency. Conor’s guitar playing on “You’re My One” had so well conveyed ache and longing in the first half of the song, with a sense of soaring ecstasy driving it home, it was often called Rogue’s “Little Wing.” With Jimi Hendrix being one of Conor’s guitar idols, he was hesitant to accept the comparison. But he did understand that he and Gavin had created something with that song that resonated with millions of people around the world. He also knew his part in the song wouldn’t have happened without his tortured love for Sophie.

  As of two months ago, Gavin knew that as well.

  “So, I’ve got something I want you to hear,” Conor said as he pulled a Martin HD-28V acoustic guitar from its stand, determined to forge ahead. The guitar felt like a natural extension of his hands. He had honed his skills so well over the years that he could manipulate the instrument like a toy.

  The three men stopped talking and turned expectantly to him. The comfort he’d gained with picking up the guitar evaporated along with the riff he had in mind, and he stood frozen. His announcement had been born more out of a desire to insert himself into the group rather than true inspiration.

  “Hang on,�
�� Shay said. “I’ve got to hit the jax.” He removed his black flight jacket, tossed it on the sofa, and headed back to the main house to use the toilet.

  “You gotta take a look at the pictures of Celia and the kids from our trip to Disney World,” Martin said, pulling out his phone.

  Conor nodded, sensing that Shay and Martin were colluding to alleviate the tension in the room. Their distraction techniques would only work so long. Eventually, he and Gavin would have to communicate. But he gladly looked at the photos of Martin’s wife and their three boys. Conor was their godfather, after all, and seeing the kids’ ear-to-ear smiles on the Tea Cups ride elicited his own grin.

  Shay returned and threw himself down on one of the sofas. Martin soon joined him, leaving Gavin standing and Conor leaning against a stool, his guitar idle.

  “Well? Let’s have it, then,” Gavin said.

  Conor looked at Gavin, saw the challenge in his eyes. The hardness, too. Gavin was forcing himself to be here. There would be no “How have you been?” catch up session, no reassurance that they could begin anew. It was more of a straight in, no kissing situation, as the expression went.

  With a small nod, Conor launched into a riff he concocted on the spot, a variation, it turned out, of something he should have known better than to get anywhere near.

  “Enough,” Gavin said sharply before too long and they all looked at him. “Fuck’s sake, it’s got the same vibe as ‘You’re My One.’”

  Shit. He sure as hell hadn’t meant to conjure that up. The last thing he wanted at this moment was to agitate the wound he had inflicted on Gavin when he slept with his wife.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shay, ever the peacemaker of the group, saved Conor from having to defend his guitar faux pas. He jumped up from the sofa and went to his drum kit, suggesting Conor follow the rhythm he had been toying with, and soon Martin had picked up his bass and was plucking at it with gusto. Gavin served as conductor, suggesting changes in tempo or chord. This led to a sloppy jam session reminiscent of their earliest days as kids of fifteen and sixteen when they were learning their instruments in the safety of Conor’s parents’ house.

  It was during those early days that Conor began to aggressively pursue success with Rogue, boldly cold calling clubs for gigs and even serving as their first PR person, offering himself up for radio and print interviews when they were little more than a U2 wanna be. To him, the band was a job, and he worked obsessively to create a lasting career. Whereas Conor was the meticulous, purposeful brains behind their ambition, Gavin was the mischievous one with grand visions and no roadmap, yet every confidence they’d make it.

  Conor had seen a bit of this character in a kid he had run into just a couple days ago, on his flight to New York City to see his ex, Colette. Without any response from Gavin, and with a sudden longing for Colette’s particular brand of distraction, he had shifted his focus to her. The more he thought of her, the more he realized he hadn’t been fair to their relationship. He knew he had let his feelings for Sophie get in the way of something genuine with Colette. It felt like a wasted opportunity. Colette was beautiful, playful, combative, and great in bed. Beyond all that, he thought together they made sense. They already had a history (including a previous, brief engagement) and as an in-demand model, she understood his nomadic lifestyle. She satisfied all the checkmarks of who he should be with, the most obvious being the one labeled “not Sophie.” And so it was with his head rather than his heart—the heart he no longer trusted after it had led him to make disastrous decisions regarding Sophie—that he decided Colette was the logical way to move on. Being both stubborn and desperate to fix things, he hadn’t allowed himself to think of the reasons why this plan was inherently flawed.

  He had been willfully distracted on the plane ride over, allowing his seatmate to drone on about the state of the economy. When that yielded utter tedium, he left the sanctuary of the first class cabin to stretch his legs with a walk to the rear of the plane. It was there that a fourteen-year-old boy paled at the sight of him and stammered, “You’re Conor Quinn!”

  If other passengers didn’t recognize Conor as the guitarist for Rogue, the biggest rock band to come out of Ireland in the last twenty years, he still would’ve turned heads as someone they suspected must be famous for something—actor, model, professional soccer player? Low-slung black jeans hugged his hips and a simple black tee-shirt flattered his lean, athletic frame. Ray Bans were pushed up into his black hair, revealing deep blue eyes and high cheekbones. His signature silver pocket chain added a bit of flash.

  Once the kid’s nerves settled, Conor learned he was flying on his own to visit his father for the first time since his parents had divorced. The broken home explained why he saw some of Gavin in him. He proved to have an impressive knowledge of music history and Conor spent an hour debating him over which bands truly deserved to be in the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. It had been more enjoyable—and easier—than preparing his case for Colette. Somehow engaging with strangers was always easier than nurturing deeper connections.

  “So what’s it going to be?”

  Conor heard the question asked but it felt far off. It took him a moment to shake his reverie and look up. Gavin stood before him, his face colored by impatience.

  “What’s that?” Conor asked softly. He realized that though his guitar was slung over his neck, his hands were on his hips. When had he drifted off?

  “Where the fuck is your head? I sent Marty and Shay out so we could talk. I asked if you’re going to get your shit together already,” Gavin said.

  The irony of the tables having turned so dramatically wasn’t lost on Conor. Not a few months ago, Conor was the one lecturing Gavin about getting clean and doing the right thing by his wife. Now Gavin seemed to think Conor had his own issues.

  “I, em,” he started, then faltered.

  “Con, I need you to at least try to be in the present moment with us here.”

  Conor cleared his throat and said, “I wanted to tell you that Colette and I are engaged.”

  Gavin watched him for a moment. “Again? And why for fuck’s sake?”

  Conor understood Gavin’s reaction, though he had hoped it would be mitigated by relief from seeing that he was moving on with Colette. Gavin and Colette had always rubbed each other the wrong way and had a history of contentious interactions, so he could see why it would be difficult for Gavin to understand that part of what Conor had always enjoyed about Colette was her combative nature. She made him work for her affection and the pursuit was a turn-on. Their relationship had been built on this from the start, just over two years ago, as she declared she didn’t want a serious relationship with him. He had had a reputation as a serial dater of models and actresses, and she claimed she was happy to be the next in line since she didn’t want anything more either. The reverse psychology had, of course, the effect she desired as it made him want to pursue her all the more. She had left him waiting on her calls back or not shown up for dates or flirted with other men in front of him to get a response. And because the band had been in between albums at the time, he had indulged her in these games. It had been a fun distraction.

  The memory of those good times had inspired his flight to New York to woo her back, and he knew the drama of his unexpected arrival would feed her craving for intrigue and attention. In hindsight, he’d probably sabotaged his efforts by confessing to her about Sophie. He thought they deserved a clean-slate, but her reaction made him realize too late that he hadn’t fully thought things through.

  They stayed up all night, going over the implications of what he had told her and what he wanted now. She resorted to calling him “Connie”—the nickname she knew he detested—and mocking his Irish accent. She had been modeling since age sixteen, traveled the world, and could carry herself with sophistication and poise as a result. But there were still times when their age difference was all too clear. At twenty-three, she was eight years younger than him.

  He couldn’t fault
her anger. She had, in fact, had suspicions about his feelings for Sophie when they were together the first time. That was part of why he confessed to her, to show her that it had all amounted to nothing more than a one-time episode. More importantly, he argued that all he wanted was another chance with her, that he thought they could be happy now that there was nothing else in their way.

  Young, but not naïve, she had manipulated the mea culpa into a new engagement. Though he hadn’t seen it coming, the ultimatum somehow didn’t surprise him. It was something he should have thought of prior to coming to her. She would take him back despite the messy confession he had made, but only if he made a spectacle of showing the world she was who he had chosen in the end.

  Despite the element of game playing, he convinced himself this was the right thing, that they could work if only he left the baggage of Sophie out of it this time. After all, rock stars and supermodels went together, didn’t they?

  Conor forced himself to focus on the present, to address Gavin’s incredulity over the engagement news. “I know you don’t have any love for her, but I do. You’ll find your way to some kind of friendship, I’m sure of it.”

  Gavin closed his eyes in a slow blink. “I don’t suppose my opinion of her would hold any sway with you? Because despite it all, I think you deserve better.”

  Conor had to keep himself from smiling at Gavin’s words. That was the old Gavin, uncensored and giving. Conor hoped this moment would stretch out undisturbed.

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, Gav, but she’s the one for me.”

  “She is? Colette is the one for you?”

  That was short-lived. Conor suppressed a sigh. It had been stupid to think Gavin would find some measure of relief in knowing about his engagement.