Free Moonlight Kiss by Luann McLane Page B

the place. He’d have to wait until tomorrow and have his manager book it for him. He gave her Phil’s e-mail address. “Thanks. I’ll check it out and get back to you.”
    “Sure thing. Let me know if I can be of any other help.”
    “I will. Thanks a lot.”
    After ending the call Rick leaned back in his leather office chair and blew out a long sigh. He ran his hand over his scruffy signature beard and then shoved his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, artfully cut to frame his face. He had a small gold hoop earring in one ear and wore black leather almost every day. More often than not he had a young, busty blonde on his arm whenever he went out on the town, which was just about every night.
    Rick pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Living the life of a rock legend was damned tiring. He’d been ready to head out for the night when a picture of him and Addison embracing flashed across the television screen. Rick remembered when the embrace happened . . . on the night his son had announced his engagement to Addison. But clearly some hotshot pop-news reporter had dug it up to throw fuel onto the rumor that Rick was responsible for his son’s broken engagement.
    Rick sighed again and looked down at the big combat boots he almost always wore. They were heavy. The buttery-soft black leather pants were clingy and hot. His beard itched. And his long-ass choppy hair was ridiculous. But the long hair, bearded face, and leather were part of his brand, his style. Who he was . . .
    Or was it?
    “Hell, no.”
    Was it ever?
    Rick clenched and unclenched his fists, thinking, brooding. Wondering how his life had come to . . . this. Pretending until he didn’t even know who the hell he truly was anymore. He started humming the slow, soulful
original
version of his first breakout hit single, “Jagged Edge.” But his record label had wanted hard rock, and at eighteen who was he to argue? After “Jagged Edge” went platinum, his future was set. He’d had to work harder at a style of music that didn’t come as naturally and often felt as if he were playing a role instead of living his life. But money and fame were difficult to turn down.
    Was Garret’s flippant, unconcerned attitude about life a result of being Rick Ruleman’s son? The answer was easy: of course. How in the hell could Rick expect his son to be responsible when he himself still lived off of his glory days, refusing to grow up? What had Garret’s mother called it when she’d shouted that she’d wanted a divorce? Oh yeah: the Peter Pan syndrome. He’d laughed in her face and walked out the door, never really thinking she’d have the nerve to divorce him or go for sole custody of five-year-old Garret. But she did, calling him an absentee husband and father. And he didn’t fight it because he knew she was right. But instead of letting Becca know that he was devastated, Rick had acted as if he didn’t care.
    But he did care then and he cared now. . . . He just sucked at life.
    Rick looked down at the combat boots. And so he played the role of badass rock star, but now that he was in his midfifties he was stretching it a bit. Thinking he needed a stiff drink, he pushed to his feet and headed for the liquor cabinet in the dining room. Except for drinking to excess now and then he had at least stayed away from drugs and preached against them. He did have that to be proud of. He’d seen too many of his friends go down that sorry-ass path to ever become a user. And to his knowledge Garret never touched the shit either.
    After pouring two fingers of bourbon over cracked ice, Rick plopped down on the sofa in the great room. He took a deep swallow, letting the smooth, cold bourbon turn to fire in his belly and numb his brain. He leaned back, holding the crystal glass loosely in his fingers, willing his body to relax. It was early. He could still go out, but the thought held little appeal. He suddenly decided that for