Nikan Rebuilt--A steamy, emotional rockstar romance Read online

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  To Nik.

  Out of all of my boys, writing you has shaped me the most. You’ve changed my world view. I promise to honor the things you taught me.

  Acknowledgments

  Honestly, I’d be lost without the support of YOU, dear readers. So, I want to thank you for supporting me on this journey. Your messages and posts mean the world to me. It still blows my mind that you are willing to read my words, write reviews, and travel to see me at signings. A massive thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Where are my bloggers at? I love you so much. All of you. Over the last couple of years, it has become harder and harder to successfully promote your book. Without your support it would be incredibly difficult to reach as many readers as we do. To those of you who take the time to review our stories and share them with your followers, I am beyond grateful.

  Thank you to my super-agent, Beth Phelan. Three years and five months ago, you responded to my query. Choosing you as my agent remains the best decision I’ve made in my writing career.

  Our first full book together, Alexandra Sehulster!! Thank you so much for taking on these broken sexy men.

  It takes a team to release a book. Thanks to the lovely peeps at St. Martin’s Press (Marissa, Titi, and John), and the team at Heroes & Heartbreakers.

  Every day I am amazed by the incredible female authors I’m surrounded by. Each one is a powerhouse in their own way. Special thanks to Robin Covington, Kimberly Kincaid, Avery Flynn, Selena Laurence, Sidney Halston for being such awesome friends. It’s a privilege to know you, ladies!

  Thank you to Danielle Barclay at Barclay Publicity for ensuring each and every book release starts with a bang.

  To my Stars for simply being you! You are my happy place on the internet.

  To Amanda and Michelle . . . thank you for brightening school pick-ups and for picking me up when I feel down . . . oh, and for the wine . . . can’t forget to say thank you for the wine!

  To Tim . . . the last twelve months have been crazy and chaotic, but they’ve repeatedly shown me two things. That I married a good man, and that we’re the strongest team I know. I love you more than ever.

  To L & F . . . As per our usual release day routine, I’ll read what I wrote to you out loud. So here goes . . . Pick up your towels. Why aren’t your coats hung up? Where are your glasses? Did you do your homework? Yes, you need to shower. No, it’s not the weekend. I don’t know where your cat is. Did you wash your hands? Who didn’t flush the toilet? I figured I’d get our usual morning routine out of the way before I say this . . . I love you. I love who you are, and I already love who you will become. Be amazing, my lovelies. Now come here while I fill up your kisses tanks!!

  Letter from the Author

  Having been born in England, I became a Canadian citizen by choice. My husband is Canadian, and my children were both born in Canada.

  When I created the character of Nik over three years before Nikan Rebuilt was published, it was because I had read about the disproportionate number of First Nations children in care.

  Since then, I have become much more aware of the reality of two things: the shameful treatment of First Nations in Canada—this goes for all Indigenous Peoples, but as Nik is First Nations, I speak about this specifically—and the importance of #ownvoices.

  I recommend Bev Sellars’ book, Price Paid, to anyone who wants to learn more about the controversial (and brutal) Indian Act, and the history of oppression and attempts at colonization. Ms. Sellars is the retired chief of the Xatsu’ll (Soda Creek) First Nation and was an advisor to the BC Treaty Commission. I also suggest watching the testimonies of those who attended the residential schools (wherearethechildren.ca). The residential school system was a boarding school system designed to assimilate children into the dominant Canadian culture by removing them from their own cultures. Over 150,000 children were forced to attend. ~6,000 students died while residents.

  Writing Nik’s story was a difficult decision. I am not First Nations, that is not my experience, but I strongly felt he had a place in this series of stories. No amount of research by me can replace the authenticity of a First Nations author. I read several books while preparing to write this book, and my hands-down favorite was Rose’s Run by Dawn Dumont. The rest can be found listed on my website along with other resources that I found helpful. (www.scarlettcole.com)

  As this book is set in Canada, all terminology is correct to the Canadian experience. For example, reserve is used, not reservation, which may be more familiar to U.S. readers.

  10% of my first-year royalties for this book will be donated to the Woodland Cultural Centre, formerly the Mohawk Institute Residential School.

  Despite my every effort, there is a chance I have made mistakes in the writing of this book. If I have, I profoundly apologize and will use this as an opportunity to learn.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “November is getting off to a less-than-stellar start for one of metal’s favorite bad boys. We’re told we haven’t seen the worst of the videos yet, but according to a source close to Nikan Monture, guitarist for explosive band Preload, Nikan isn’t worried, as the footage is old.”

  Nik glared at the TV and the peppy entertainment-show anchor. “How about you make the story about me being hacked? About someone stealing my personal property?” he muttered as he started the coffee brewing and the kettle boiling. It was too fucking early in the morning to deal with this shit. He needed his lemon drink for his throat and some coffee to kick-start the rest of him before he could deal with the fallout. Three women had already been in touch asking what actions he’d be taking. The videos were from his private collection, all filmed with absolute full consent, the most recent one having been added three years ago. He’d grown up and moved on, but had stupidly forgotten to hit DELETE.

  “And ladies, for the record, having seen a handful of the videos, we’d say Preload’s hits are not the only huge thing in Monture’s life.”

  Nik groaned as he ran his hand through his hair and tugged on the ends. He knew how big his dick was and, given the number of women who’d seen it, it wasn’t a secret that he was well endowed—but, fuck, did the world need to hear about it over breakfast?

  He looked down at his phone and realized it was actually closer to lunch. Not that the time of day made any difference. He grabbed a lemon from the silver dish on the counter and began to slice it.

  “Either way, between Preload’s upcoming North American tour and the leaked videos, I’m sure we’re going to see much more of Monture in the coming weeks.”

  He reached for the remote and turned the TV off before he could do something stupid—like rip it off the ugly kitchen wall on which it had been hung just yesterday and smash it on the ugly linoleum floor. At least none of the gossip networks knew where he was for now, hidden away in the fixer-upper Cabbagetown house he’d bought four doors down from Elliott, a fe
llow Preload guitarist, and around the corner from the group home in which all of them had grown up.

  The rest of the band, the men he called brothers, had his back, though they were as frustrated about the leak as he was. Dred, Preload’s lead singer, had texted to say reporters were still hanging around his driveway, waiting to see if Nik surfaced there. And Lennon and Jordan had gotten into a scuffle the previous day with the paparazzi on their way into Elliott’s place, which housed their recording studio.

  Unable to join in on working on new material with them even though he was only four doors away, he’d attempted to work here, but the results lay in crumpled balls on the kitchen island. Nothing had come together; everything had sounded jarring. His block was getting worse, but he could never share with the band the reason behind it. How on earth could he tell them he didn’t really love metal or the music they played? He didn’t hate it, but it didn’t strike the same chord in him as it did the rest of them.

  When they’d first started playing instruments together in the group home, metal had been all Jordan had wanted to play. It seemed to be the only reason he had for leaving the attic in which he otherwise hid. And it had been a way for Dred to channel his anger. As the eldest, who had always felt a familial sense of responsibility for them all, Nik had wanted them to be happy. He’d made it his mission to give them what they’d needed to survive. So he’d done what he did best. Faked it. For fifteen fucking years. For the sake of keeping his family together.

  Angrily, he threw some lemon slices into the mug, then gripped the counter. Goddamn, those videos. . . . No, those moments had been his only windows of escape. They weren’t for the world to see.

  Barefoot and wearing only a pair of jeans, Nik poured boiling water into a mug and added some honey. It was his routine every morning, some self-care for his vocal chords. Even though he only sang backup to Dred’s scorching vocals, his throat still took a beating. November and the Canadian leg of their world tour would be here soon enough, but first he had to survive today and deal with the record label’s cyber-security team, who were helping him find the source of the leak. Perhaps he should just stay inside and help the contractors he’d hired continue demolishing the upper level of his home.

  When he’d first started looking for a new place, he’d looked at premium condos, all glass-and-chrome modern. All finished to luxurious specs. They were places where he imagined himself living the bachelor life of parties and regular visitors, with enough space too, for him to babysit Petal, Dred’s daughter, or their new baby that was on the way, or have Daniel, Elliott’s stepson, come hang out. On paper, the penthouse of the Tip Top Lofts or one over in Bloor West Village at the top of the South Kingsway had been exactly what he’d been looking for—perfectly laid out for entertaining and able to allow him the anonymity he craved when he wasn’t on stage. But within minutes of entering them with his realtor, he’d immediately known they weren’t right. None of them felt like home. Nowhere ever really had. The home he’d shared with the rest of the band was the closest he’d ever gotten to that feeling. So he’d cancelled the rest of the viewings, gone to the Starbucks at the intersection of Jane and Runnymede, and written out a list of what was important: Cabbagetown, where he’d grown up, a place he’d be relieved to return to after months on the road. Proximity to the men he thought of as family. And finally, a place he could work on with his own hands, make his mark on, and set down roots in. His forever home, even if he was the only one in it. A place he could retrofit with the layout he’d planned years ago with the woman he’d intended to spend the rest of his life with.

  Until he’d blown his and Jenny’s forever.

  He left the first-floor apartment and jogged up the stairs to the second floor, trying to ignore the faded yellow wallpaper.

  Underneath the dirt and debris of a house that had stood empty for a year, it was easy to see that it had once been an incredible single-family home. The worn newel on the wooden post at the top of the stairs was evidence of just how many people had made their way up and down the staircase that ran through the middle of the house. It sucked that someone who had seen a business opportunity in the late eighties had ripped the building apart, turning it into six apartments. But even so, it had remained a place for families. One of the doorframes in apartment three had pencil marks showing the heights of a growing child, and the tenants in one of the ground-floor apartments had installed a small swing set in the backyard. Families had lived here, had grown here, had been happy here. Unlike his own, which had been decimated by the early death of his father and the murder of his mother.

  He shivered at the memory of all the blood. Thinking about it—and the pain he had experienced—always made him feel sick to his stomach.

  He pushed his thoughts aside as he opened the door to apartment four, bracing himself for the stale smell that always hit him when he entered. It wasn’t nasty, more like the damp smell that books took on when they’d been hidden in an attic too long. Bland walls that had yellowed over time contrasted with original dark-wood floors that had been scratched and scuffed by furniture and footsteps. A large pile of left-behind furniture was stacked by the door, ready for the Salvation Army. Lennon would be heading over soon to help him carry it all to the ground floor. Then they were going to rip out the kitchen.

  One day soon, the apartments would be returned to a single-family home he could be proud of.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the large mirror resting against the wall. Everything about his appearance looked the same as it had yesterday and the day before that. Yet his reflection was becoming less familiar somehow with each passing day. Nothing about him had changed. He was the eldest. The guitarist. The reliable backup vocalist. The patriarch. His days of being the wild child, the one trying to escape reality through hedonism, were over. Because no matter what he tried, there were still days when none of it felt enough. When nothing filled the growing pit in his stomach.

  He felt Jenny’s absence more now than ever. He peered out of the room into the hallway and could imagine her bounding up the stairs toward him. She’d be smiling at him the way she used to, radiating with everything that was good, and caring, and sexy as hell—all just for him. They would have a bedroom of their own, and the kind of bathroom Jenny always used to dream about. One with candles, and bubbles, and no time limit because there wasn’t a queue of other kids waiting to use it like there always had been in their respective group homes.

  But that was never going to happen. He couldn’t fix what he’d done the way he could fix up this house. Even after all this time, the pain of his stupidity hadn’t diminished. He knew deep down that a love like the one he’d felt for her, found with her, only came along once in a lifetime. But he’d lost his chance—he’d lost her. And clearly she didn’t want to be found. Nobody knew where Jenny was. And heaven knew he’d looked.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out.

  X

  Shit. It was from Albi, a twelve-year-old living in the group home in which he’d grown up, a home the band supported because of their love for Ellen, the woman who had raised them in it and still ran it now. X meant a kid was in a difficult situation from which he couldn’t get himself out. X meant a kid needed help.

  Every time Nik saw X on his phone, relief raced through him that he’d read an article about a way to help kids extricate themselves from danger and proposed using it with the kids to Ellen.

  Nik dialed Albi’s number and focused on the script they’d agreed on just in case someone was listening in. Someone who had the power to hurt Albi if they thought for one moment they were being set up.

  “Hello.” His voice was shaky, unusual for the cocky street kid.

  “Albi, it’s Nik. There’s a problem at the home, and I have to come get you. Where are you?”

  “On Bremner in front of the Jays stadium, by gate five.”

  Nik placed his cup on the windowsill and ran back down the stairs to apartment one, into which he’d mo
ved while he was renovating. “I’m on my way, kid. Ten minutes, fifteen max.” Nik hung up the phone and resisted the urge to reassure Albi that everything was okay, that he’d be there soon, that he needed to stay strong and not do whatever it was he felt uncomfortable about. But doing so would give too much away if someone else was listening in on Albi’s call.

  It was the first time Albi had used the emergency X. Other kids at the home had used it and had tried to reassure Albi it was okay to do the same, especially when Albi had been returned to the home in a shitload of trouble by the police after being caught shoplifting in the Eaton Centre.

  Nik pulled a T-shirt over his head while simultaneously shoving his feet into his sneakers. He grabbed an elastic and tied his long black hair back, then added a baseball hat and shades as he walked to the door and pulled on his jacket. He patted his pockets. Keys, wallet, phone. He set the alarm, locked up the house, and jogged down the steps to his car.

  He might not have a family of his own, but he’d always be able to help these kids.

  And as the engine of his all-black Jaguar F-Type roared to life, he knew it had to be enough.

  * * *

  The fuel light flashed on Jenny McKade’s decade-old car just as she pulled off the highway.

  Thank God.

  The last thing she had time for was an emergency breakdown on the 401, a highway she hated more than life itself. Nothing good had ever come from being on Highway 401. She remembered the day her father had bundled them into the back of the car when she was seven, the trunk filled with what he’d called their post-apocalyptic survival kit. Jenny remembered not being allowed to bring her doll, Kayla, or her favorite Dr. Seuss books because they’d needed the space for “supplies.” As they’d driven north from their simple home in the Beaches, Jenny’s hopes of ever being reunited with her precious toys and things decreased with every mile they crawled up the Don Valley Parkway. But it wasn’t until they’d hit the 401 that her father had begun to ramble even more than usual. Something about doing it all wrong at that siege in Waco, a comment she hadn’t understood until she was much older after asking Pauline, the lady who ran the care home in which she’d been placed, what her father had meant. All she knew back then was that her father had gotten them to chant the words “We will overcome” until they had seen signs for the Toronto Zoo. For a moment, she’d thought it had all been a ruse, convincing herself that they weren’t leaving her friends and her school and her dolls behind and instead were going to the zoo as a surprise for her birthday, which was just six days away.