MENACE IN CADENCE

Warnings: Rated T so nothing too graphic but there are plenty of dangerous situations, violence, gun violence, and some swearing.

Author's Note: This started out as a Supernatural AU but it became so AU that it was no longer Supernatural (no monsters of any kind in this fic except human ones). But if you notice A LOT of similarities between the brothers in this fic and the Winchester brothers - that's the reason why. If you want to know what Dash and Mason look like, just picture Sam and Dean Winchester. That's what I do.

If you don't know who Sam and Dean are, look them up - you can thank me for it later, you know, right after you thank God or the Buddha or Tom Cruise or whatever higher power you give credit to for creating something so delicious ;)

~0~0~0~

CHAPTER 1 - The Sin of Secrets

This is her favorite part of the day. The magical moment where her past completely disappears, swallowed up in the blissful energy of the here and now. In the encompassing thrum of music. In the energy of the crowd. In the crescendo of the violin in her hands taking complete control of her body and mind, invigorating and thrilling her like nothing else she can imagine.

Her long hair whips her face as she jerks and twists and hops. Through a blur of blonde, she catches sight of the brothers at the front of the stage. Mason and Dash in their element, belting the melody into their microphones in perfect unison, charming and completely enthralling the small crowd of the bar.

A wild spin gives her a glimpse of young Landry on stage-left, his normally nerdy exterior morphing into a shimmering mass of cool as he jumps up and down, plucking furiously at his bass. The fierce pounding of Terrence's drums behind him pushes a fast tempo that sets the whole room ablaze with energy.

Yeah, definitely her favorite part of the day.

The faces of the audience are blurred but she can see the bodies moving and the hands in the air. She knows exactly what they are experiencing. She was one of them, once. Just a girl in a bar, out for a few drinks with friends and finding herself unexpectedly and wholly captivated by the Lannan brothers on stage.

Well, brother. In her case.

"When I neeeeded youuu…" She harmonizes into her microphone, looking up just in time to catch the wink and the smile Mason sends her way. Her heart does its usual little flip at the private moment but then her foot is stomping, her hair flying, her bow a blur of motion, and Mason turns to belt into his own microphone as they hit the final chorus.

This is the second to last song on the set list tonight, a Rogues of Rampart original that affects her every time they play it. Behind the intentionally deceptive words that hint of jilted love, underneath the misleading upbeat tempo and flippant tone, lies a well of hurt and pain. It's a song of a child's disappointment in a parent, something she can more than relate to. But even more affectingly, it's the work of Mason's sensitive soul. A glimpse deep inside him unlike any she's ever offered him.

Considering it's a virtually unknown song by a virtually unknown band, it's always well received and never fails to get the crowd riled. The goal of any struggling bar band is to go out with a bang, to have the audience stagger out of the bar feeling pumped and talking about the band for days to come... and hopefully dish the ten bucks for a CD on the way out the door. This song does just that.

They wrap tonight's show with a lively cover of Saint Motel's (You're Just) My Type, led by Dash and his endless onstage energy and charisma. Although they have a lot of traditional folk and classic rock songs in their repertoire, the brothers insist on ending every performance with their own take of a current hit. She loves My Type because the Rogues substitute the horns with double violins so she gets to spend most of the song face-to-face with a smiling Mason, who puts down his guitar and takes up the second violin. As talented as he is, this isn't one of his go-to instruments like it is for her and keeping in perfect sync to make this song work had been hard to master. During a practice last week, they had figured out that facing each other and holding up-close eye contact made the timing fall flawlessly into place.

And makes this far more fun… there is something intense and weirdly intimate about it, as if she and Mason are the only two in the room despite the crowd just a few feet away.

How did she ever get this lucky?

~0~0~0~

"Jamie! Where's Dash?"

Landry slams his palms down on the merchandise table in front of her, his face red with exertion and obvious annoyance. "He's supposed to be helping us load the gear."

Jamie has a good idea where Dash is but hesitates to tell the frustrated nineteen-year-old bass player.

"Take a guess, kid," Mason chuckles as he walks past carrying a large Marshall amp that's dragging a long chord behind it. He's on his fourth trip out the side door to where Terence's van is parked at the curb. As soon as they finish on stage, it's Jamie's job to work the Merchandise table, selling CD's and t-shirts to raise some desperately-needed traveling funds for the band, while the other four members pack the equipment into the van but Dash has developed a recent habit of spending the time 'securing company for the night', as he puts it.

Jamie laughs. "Let me guess, that little brunette in the white top with the swoop down neckline."

Mason grins, turning sideways to squeeze through the narrow doorframe. "That's the one."

She rolls her eyes. She had noticed the cute girl in the front row stealing all of Dash's attention during the band's cover of SIXX A.M.'s Stars, shouting back enthusiastic "Alright's" as he sang the chorus directly at her. Real subtle. He had held her gaze and even pointed and winked at her during their closing number so it isn't that surprising he sought her out as soon as the band finished on stage.

Landry huffs loudly and runs a hand through his wildly untameable curls. "Unbelievable," he mumbles before heading back in to help Terrence pack the drum kit.

Jamie glances towards the bar to see Dash weaving his way through the thinning, mostly-drunk crowd. He has an arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of the brunette in the white top and Jamie has to suppress an amused laugh at the sight because Dash is freakishly tall with massively broad shoulders and the girl is slim and five-two at most. He completely dwarfs her.

"Hey, Jamie," he greets her, his eyes flicking behind his uncut bangs over to the stage beyond her merch table. She swears a fleeting expression of wariness crosses his face and realizes he is deliberately avoiding the rest of the band. He knows he's going to catch shit for bailing on his share of the work tonight.

"Hey, Dash," she replies teasingly. "The guys were looking for you."

"Uh, can you tell Mase I'll see him in the morning?"

"What do you mean?" she asks with feigned innocence. "Where are you going?"

His face tightens and he gives her a 'please don't embarrass me' expression.

"He's coming home with me," the girl supplies, rubbing a hand in circles across the well-defined set of abs that Dash's tight t-shirt does nothing to hide.

"Um, this is Stacey," Dash supplies awkwardly.

"Hi Stacey," Jamie says, unable to hide her mocking tone.

"Hi. You're really good on the fiddle. And that little guitar thing you played those couple of songs, too."

"Oh, thanks," she acknowledges graciously. "And it's a mandolin." She decides to cut Dash a break and peers up at him. "We hit the road at eight A.M., remember."

"I'll be back by then."

"Have fun."

Stacey chimes in again with a giggle. "Don't worry, he will."

"I'm sure that's true," Jamie manages with a straight face. "Dash loves his fans."

"Night, Jamie," he grates. "Oh, speaking of fans, your guy in the suit was here tonight."

Jamie's heart tightens in her chest. "Wh-what?"

"That guy in the suit I told you about last weekend, in Cincinnati? He was back. I saw him here tonight." It's his turn to adorn a teasing look, having no clue the effect what he's saying is having on her. "I mean, following us from Cincinnati to St. Louis? That's not a fan, Jamie. That's a stalker."

"Couldn't have been the same guy," Jamie stammers, forcing her voice to stay even, trying desperately to hide her spike of fear at the revelation. She hadn't seen the man Dash had spotted at the gig last weekend but the way he had described him... staring at her, serious expression, expensive suit, lurking in the back of a seedy club...

No, it can't be. They can't have found her.

"Dash! What the Hell, man?"

She sees Dash wince at the sound of his big brother's voice behind him.

"I take it me and Jamie got Trudy to ourselves again tonight?" Mason continues, giving Stacey a slightly disapproving once-over as he reaches the table.

"Trudy?" Stacey queries, looking confused.

"Trudy's our RV," Dash explains absently before turning to his brother. "Yeah, you know..." He trails off, stealing a glance at Jamie.

Mason just nods. "Cool. Just be back by eight. We gotta get to Durham by suppertime."

"I'll be there."

"Oh, and the guy from that bar in Louisville called," Mason adds as Dash starts to leave. "We got the gig. Saturday night, three weeks from tomorrow."

Dash scrunches up his face. "You mean the Saddle 'N' Spur? Mase, that's a country bar. Like full-on country."

"It's a gig."

"But we don't do country. We've got an acoustic set and an electric set. We can tweak each of 'em to suit the audience but even our folk stuff isn't Taylor fucking Swift."

"Actually, she's crossed over," Jamie interjects without thinking, her mind still distracted by thoughts of a man in a suit. As founding members of the Rogues of Rampart, the band's management is handled solely by the brothers and she, Terrence, and Landry rarely question their decisions. Especially her, being the newest member who joined them less than eight months ago. Creatively, they all have their say, but not when it comes to the band's business.

"Sorry," she retracts quickly, not wanting to get in between the brothers on a managerial matter.

Mason waves a dismissive hand at his little brother. "Don't sweat it. We'll throw in Thunder Rolls and we'll be fine." He shoos Dash towards the door. "Go, go, go. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That doesn't rule much out," Dash snorts but heads out the front door with tiny Stacey still tucked under his arm.

~0~0~0~

Calling Trudy an 'RV' is being generous. She's a 1976 GMC Motorhome with twenty-six feet of tacky original decor plastered over with rock posters and band flyers. The brothers picked her up dirt cheap in New Orleans several years ago and she's served as their home ever since.

And now she's Jamie's home, too. Crowded doesn't quite explain the living situation; 'complicated' would be a better word. 'Cozy' and 'comfortable' work too... but so does 'fish bowl'.

Trudy's side door opens to a seating area with a fold-away table tucked in right behind the swivelling driver and passenger seats. This is where the band eats most of their meals and jams for hours on end and is, by far, the most used portion of the motorhome. The narrow, galley kitchen and currently-out-of-order bathroom sit across from the three-foot-wide bedroom housing nothing but a narrow bunk bed. Dash sleeps on the bottom bunk and the top is piled to the ceiling with a jumble of clothes, instruments, magazines, and whatever else gets thrown up there to avoid being tripped on. It's a small room for a big guy and doesn't lend itself well to allowing its occupant to have overnight company.

But the bedroom Dash used to sleep in, the one that takes up the full rear quarter of the motorhome, with the fold down double bed and real mattress, is now shared by Jamie and Mason. In fact, they spend most of the wind-down hours after the show tonight in there and Jamie guiltily enjoys the freedom that comes with having Trudy all to themselves. No trying to stifle moans, no trying to avoid shaking the camper too much, no having to whisper their intimate endearments, no need to put clothes back on to get up and grab a drink. She loves Dash, she really does, but it's nice to have Mason to herself for a while.

She's in the kitchen now, standing completely nude while she carefully selects the coldest of the dozen beers crammed into the small fridge. She hears a car outside and it sounds close so she pulls a quarter-size opening in the flowered curtains over the sink and peers through. Surely it can't be Terrence's van because he always parks it outside Landry's motel room. He claims it's for safety reasons, WalMart parking lots aren't always the safest places to overnight and the van holds majority of the band's equipment, but Jamie thinks it's because more often or not, kind-hearted young Landry gets a double room and Terrence usually snags the offer of the spare bed. The Rogues of Rampart manage to stay busy but their gigs barely cover their travel and food expenses. Landry, who gets financial support from his well-to-do parents back in Clarksville, Maryland, is the only member who can afford a motel room on a regular basis.

It's not the van outside. It's a sleek, black, expensive-looking sedan and Jamie's mind can't help but flash back to Dash's description of the man in the suit. But the car keeps going, the red taillights reaching the edge of the parking lot and turning left out onto the main road. She closes her eyes and lets out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

"You're being paranoid," she chastises under her breath. "It's been ten years. He's long forgotten you."

She climbs back onto the bed, crawling up to Mason and handing him an open Coors Light. He's lying on top of the covers in nothing but his boxers and he grunts his pleasure at the feel of the cold bottle in his hand. "Thanks, hon."

She sighs, draping an arm over him and snuggling in close while her mind still entertains dark thoughts.

She feels a low chuckle rumble through his chest."What's bothering you?" he asks, a smile apparent in his voice.

He knows her too well. She exhales slowly and debates her answer. She hasn't told him yet. Mostly because ninety-nine percent of the time she convinces herself he doesn't ever have to know. Who she was doesn't matter to who she is now. She's simple, plain, boring Jamie Brown from Bend, Oregon. Has been since she was fourteen years old. That's who she is with Mason and who they are together is all that counts now.

But then there's that other one percent of the time. The moments when she thinks she should just go for it, shed the burden of the secret she's keeping. It's not like he's going to blame her for what her father is. It's not like he's going to dump her and kick her out of the band because she shares DNA with a monster. In fact, of all the people in the world she could tell, Mason would understand. She knows he and Dash grew up in an environment of domestic abuse. Mason doesn't talk about it much but there are times when he opens up a little, hushed intimate moments when he gives her glimpses into his past.

She should return the trust.

But her situation is different, she justifies. Her father is different… he's so much more than a mean drunk.

Besides, keeping her secret is so intertwined with her survival instincts, she can never bring herself to form the words. So, as usual, she deflects.

"Aren't you worried about Dash?" she says finally, lifting her head to rest her chin on Mason's bare chest so she can peer into his green eyes. "I get he's young and the appeal of the whole rock star thing but... this is the fifth night in a row he's gone home with a different girl. I hope he's using protection."

Mason laughs out loud and bends up to press a fond kiss to her forehead before flopping back down again. "You worry too much."

"Don't you? He's your baby brother."

"First off, he's twenty-three years old and six-foot-four. He's not my 'baby' anything. Second, the fact that you believe his whole 'I got a girl in every port' thing would go right to his big, inflated ego." He laughs again, swinging his arm up so Jamie can settle into the crook of his shoulder. "It was my birthday last Monday, remember?"

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with Dash?"

"He offered to give us Trudy for the week. Give us some space, some private time. It's his present to me." He looks down at her, the whites of his teeth gleaming in the ray of light from the WalMart sign slipping through the tiny crack above the curtains. "He's been crashing in Terrence's van most nights. Half the girls were made up."

Jamie gasps. "What? That's even worse!"

"Worse than a steady stream of slutty groupies?" Mason's laughing at her again.

"No, worse because Trudy's his home and he's sleeping in a van full of equipment because I'm in his space," she elaborates.

Mason looks confused. "The bunk's his space. This is ours."

"Only since I moved in."

"Which he's fine with."

"Is he?"

"Of course." It's Mason's turn to look confused. "Why? Has he said something?"

Jamie shakes her head. "No," she says honestly.

He presses another kiss to her forehead and smiles. "Like I said, you worry too much."

She relaxes against him and hums contentedly on her exhale. How is he always so damn laid back and easy-going? How does he always make her feel like everything is going to be alright with just a few sweet words and a smile? His gentle optimism always manages to calm her fears, quash her worries, and most importantly, make her feel safe. Like nothing bad could ever happen when she's with him.

"Dash said that guy in the suit from Cincinnati was at the show tonight," she blurts.

He nods slowly and takes a sip of his beer. "Yeah, I saw him."

"Really?" She arches a fretful eyebrow. "I didn't."

"That's 'cause you always hide out at the back of the stage," he scolds her mockingly. "I keep telling you, your voice is too good to be burying in harmonies and choruses. But that's alright, we're wearing you down. We'll have you taking lead on a song before the year's out or my name's not Mason Lannan."

"Not gonna happen." She frowns and adds quietly "I don't like the attention."

"Seems like you got the attention anyway, what with your stalker in the suit an' all," he teases. "Couldn't take his eyes off you. Not that I blame him."

She tenses and he clearly picks up on it because he sets his beer down on the bedside table and rolls to face her, cupping her cheek in his large hand. "He's harmless, James," he assures her soothingly. "You're in a band. A little bit of extra attention comes with the territory."

But she doesn't want extra attention. She's spent the last ten years trying to avoid extra attention. Until Mason and his passion and his promises came along and she couldn't resist throwing caution to the wind and joining a fucking band of all things.

"Besides," he continues, "you have four full-time bodyguards ready to kick his ass if he tries anything." He laughs again. "You should embrace it all. I mean, not like Dash embraces it but at least try to enjoy it a little."

She swallows and forces the ridiculous and paranoid nervousness away. "You've got stalkers too," she says, trying to sound teasing.

Mason grins. "'Course. Tons. Only mine are called groupies and they do most of the embracing."

"You're such an ass." The dark edges of her mood slip away and she hauls the blanket up over them, curling up close and nuzzling into his neck. Somehow he's managed to do it again, to make everything alright, and when she falls asleep fifteen minutes later, her dreams are happy and peaceful.

~0~0~0~

She awakens with a start, Mason's fingers wrapping around her wrist in and almost painfully tight grip. The light is dim but she can make him out, hovering above her and pressing a finger to his lips in a 'hush' gesture. She nods and he moves away to crawl off the foot of the bed, dressed in nothing but his boxers. He is reaching for the tire iron propped up next to the bathroom door when she hears what must have woken him... a firm rattle of the outside door knob.

She pulls the sheet up to cover her chest, wishing she had some clothes on. It isn't the first time Trudy has caught the attention of curious passer-bys, sitting all alone at the edge of an empty WalMart parking lot looking like an easy target, but it still never fails to make Jamie's heart pound in fear.

"Ho, someone's in here!" Mason calls out, his deep voice even and fearless. Most of the time that's all it takes, the sound of a voice inside enough to discourage any thoughts of entering.

The air is tense as the pair hold their breath, waiting for the usual mumbled apology and welcome sound of footsteps retreating. They don't hear either.

She sees Mason tighten his grip on the tire iron and walk towards the door.

"No, Mason, no," she whispers urgently but then the door flies open with a loud bang and chaos erupts. She screams when she sees two large, dark silhouettes charging inside. "MASON!"

She scrambles forward, trying to disentangle her feet from the sheets and keep her chest covered at the same time. The camper is shaking and the unmistakable sounds of a fight are coming from the front sitting area. The slapping sound of punches landing on skin, thuds as bodies connect with furniture, unfamiliar voices mixed with Mason's, grunting and cursing.

She's off the bed and in the narrow galleyway, barely aware the sheet is still held firmly to her chest as she rushes forward. Her heart lurches and she falters in her charge when a third man enters, stepping through Trudy's doorway with all the calmness of a Sunday stroll. Mason comes into view behind the latest intruder, slamming backwards into the cabinet by the stove only to push off immediately and throw a punch at the closest of the men before him.

"Mason!" she screams again, trying to quell her panic long enough to remember where she put her phone last night and simultaneously searching for something to use as a weapon.

Mason suddenly screams out in pain and drops heavily to the motorhome's vinyl floor, curling in on himself and twitching.

"Mason!" Jamie screams again, this time her voice giving out in sheer horror. She tries to rush forward again but the third man steps into her path. She barely gives him notice, trying to shove her way past him, desperate to get to Mason. The way he dropped… she's terrified that he's been stabbed or shot.

The third man is not allowing her to pass, using his considerable size to block her way in the confined space of the motorhome.

"Isabella, stop," he says calmly.

The name he uses punches the breath from her body and she freezes. The hand not holding the sheet up reaches out to grasp the counter in an effort to steady herself while she drags her gaze upwards to the face of man in her way.

He's tall with dark hair, forty-something, and for the first time she realizes he's wearing a suit.

"We just tazered him," he's saying, gesturing to Mason on the floor behind him. "He'll be fine in a minute or two."

"How do you..." She starts to ask how he knows her name, her real name, when she realizes she doesn't have to ask that question. It's been ten years - she was only fourteen the last time she saw him and he was younger and didn't have a beard - but she recognizes him. It's him. It's definitely him.

Marco Burani. Her father's right-hand man.

She just stares dumbly at him for the next few seconds, a myriad of thoughts and emotions racing through her mind. Finally she swallows and tightens her grip on the bunched sheet at her chest.

"Let me see him," she says, pointing to Mason. Her voice is but a breathy whisper so she steels herself and tries again. "Let me see him."

Uncle Marco ... no, he's just Marco now... Marco shakes his head. "In good time, Isabella. You and I have some business to discuss."

But Jamie can't think past Mason lying still on the camper floor, groaning weakly. "Let me see him." She tries to get around Marco again and he stops her again, this time with a steely grip around her upper arm that has her crying out in pain.

"Damnit, girl, listen to me when I'm talking to you!"

She whimpers at the threatening tone and takes a few steps backwards, childhood memories flooding back to her.

"I'm here to deliver a message from your father."

Her heart lurches and her eyes dart to the camper's open door behind him.

"He's not here," Marco assures her quickly.

"How'd you find me?" she stammers.

He gives her a disapproving look. "You got sloppy. Joining a band? How long did you think it would be before someone recognized you and word got back to Tommy? We found you weeks ago."

Weeks ago? Why are they just coming for her now?

"Are you here to kill me?"

"No."

"I'm not going back to New York."

Marco snorts. "He doesn't want you to. He's finally figured out you were far more trouble than you were worth. You and your mother."

"Mom died a year ago."

"We know that too."

"Then what do you want?"

"Like I said, we have business to discuss."

He beckons to the two men behind him and Jamie cranes her neck to peer past him while he's distracted, still needing that assurance Mason is okay. She sees he has rolled onto his stomach and is shakily pushing himself up onto his hands and knees.

Marco pulls his foot back and lands a vicious kick in Mason's stomach, eliciting a pained grunt from the downed man and a scream of panic from Jamie.

"Cuff him and gag him," Marco orders.

"What? Why? No!" Jamie scrambles to get past Marco once more but he backhands her fiercely across the face. She tumbles backwards and the impact with the floor sends a jarring pain shooting up through her hip. She ignores it and struggles to get back up, aware Mason is becoming more animated as he wrestles the two men trying to slap metal handcuffs around his wrists.

"Leave him alone!" she half yells, half pleads, terrified of what their plans are for him. "Leave him alone! Mason!"

"Jammm..." His raspy attempt at her name is cut off by the dirty rag that is shoved in his mouth. She watches in horror as the goons wrap duct tape around it. He's pulled roughly up to his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back and a goon's firm hand on each shoulder.

"Isabella, shut up," Marco snaps.

It's only then she realizes she's crying and she quiets instantly, her eyes still locked on Mason's. He looks confused, no surprise there, ... and angry, that's rare for him,... and scared. She's never seen him scared before.

"Look at me." Marco's voice is dangerous now.

She obeys immediately, bunching the edge of the slipping sheet back up in front of her as she stands up straight.

"Now, you're going to stay quiet and listen to what I have to say. Don't make me pull out my gun. Trust me, it wouldn't end well for your boyfriend. Got it?"

Jamie nods emphatically, her voice completely lost in her terror.

"Good." The sudden picture of calm, Marco pulls a manila envelope out of a pocket inside his suit jacket and holds it out to her. "Open this after I'm gone. It contains all the particulars you'll need."

She takes it with trembling hands and lays it on the kitchen counter, not daring to peek inside.

"Your father is facing some difficulties with work," he explains slowly. "Ours is a competitive industry and as I'm sure your aware, Tommy doesn't deal well with competition or adversaries."

One of the men standing next to Mason lets out a snort. "That's not exactly true, Burani. He deals with 'em clean and swift-like."

The second man guffaws and the two laugh heartily at the joke that has Jamie's insides twisting in a painful knot. She remembers how her father dealt with people who crossed him or challenged him.

Even Marco smiles. "Yes he does," he agrees, turning back to Jamie. "Or he did. There've been a lot of unfortunate repercussions in this particular rivalry and that tends to attract unwanted attention from certain authorities. That's where you come in, Isabella."

Translation, her father has killed too many people and the cops are getting nosey. What can that possibly have to do with her?

"A wager has been placed. Winner takes all, loser backs down. No muss, no fuss, no bodies, no cops." He pauses and Jamie gets the sudden feeling Marco isn't fully on board with whatever this is all about.

"You can sing, Isabella. You've always been very good, just like your mother. I remember how well you sang as a child. Turns out, your father's adversary has a son who can also sing. To make a long story short, a little bit of bragging at a recent church event led to some insults, some name-calling, some punches, and finally, to a wager. So you and this mook's boy are going to join American Idol and whoever's kid gets the farthest, wins."

Jamie just stares at him in confusion and disbelief, trying to make sense of what he had just said.

"That's crazy," she says finally. "That's crazy. My dad's fucking crazy."

He slaps her face before she can even flinch. "Watch your mouth."

Pressing her hand to her cheek to lessen the sting, she looks back up at him and nods meekly. "Okay," she says. "Okay, I'll do what you want. I'll try out."

"No, you won't just try out," Marco says coldly. "You'll win. At the very least, beat the little brat. Remember, you have to get further than him."

Jamie nods again, eager to convince them she will do what they want, no matter how insane it is, so they'll just hurry up and leave. "I can do that," she assures him. "Tell my dad I promise, I'll win his bet for him."

"I believe you," Marco replies with a shrug. "I know you'll sing your damn heart out to win this thing because I'm going to take a little insurance."

"Wh-what do you m-mean?" Jamie stammers, already suspecting what's coming next but pleading to God that she's wrong.

"Plain and simple. If you win, Mason here goes free. You lose, he dies." Marco jerks his chin at the two men behind him. "Put him in the trunk."

"NO!" Jamie all out panics, leaping at Marco, punching and clawing and trying to get past him to Mason, who's suddenly being manhandled towards the door. Mason's kicking and shoving but with his hands cuffed behind his back, he's no match for the two large men. Jamie grows more and more frantic as they hit him repeatedly to get him lax enough to muscle through the narrow doorway and his muffled grunts turn to semi-conscious moans.

She's screaming his name the whole time he's being dragged to the car and when she hears the thud of the trunk closing, her knees give out. She lands on the floor with a thud. She feels tears on her face and her breath is coming out in gasping sobs. Marco stands in the doorway, blocking her exit, his expression cold and impassive.

Finally he stoops to pick up the fallen sheet from the floor and drops it in her lap. "Cover up," he deadpans. "And splash some water on your face. It's going red and you've got an audition tomorrow. I probably shouldn't have hit you so hard."

"Please," she whispers, looking up at him imploringly from where she is sitting on the floor. "I'll do what you want. You don't have to take him."

"I think we do. You disappeared for ten years, Isabella. What's to stop you from doing it again?"

"I promise I won't."

"This way I know you won't. And this way I know you won't involve the police. You can't tell anyone about our arrangement, understand? Not the cops, not your best friend, not your little bandmates and especially not the brat you're going to beat. As far as anyone is concerned, you're Jamie Brown and you want to be the next Rihanna because you just like to sing." His look hardens. "Your father is a man of his word. You know this. If you get farther than the brat, you know he'll hold up his end of the bargain and let your boyfriend go."

He moves away but turns back when he is on Trudy's metal step in the doorway. "I don't think I have to spell out what happens if you disobey. I doubt you've forgotten Jack."

Another loud sob escapes her. No she hasn't forgotten Jack. As if she could ever forget Jack.

"Just beat this other kid, and you'll get your boyfriend back in one piece. All the information you need is in the envelope."

And with that he's gone, closing the door with a loud smack behind him. She pushes to her feet and rushes to the window, peering out in time to see Marco's silhouette sinking into the passenger seat of a black sedan and the car driving off. She stares at the red tail lights, knowing Mason is beaten, tied-up, and gagged in the space right behind them and thinks for a second she is going to throw up.

She swallows the urge down but her breath is coming in ragged pants and she clamps her hands to the sides of her head in a strained effort to think clearly.

What should she do?

Call the police? No, she can't disobey. They would shoot Mason if they even caught a whiff of police.

Start up Trudy and follow them? No, she would never keep up and that would only get Mason killed.

Oh God, she is going to get Mason killed. Mason is going to die and it's all her fault. Oh God, no. God, no. No.

What should she do?

She makes a dash for the bedroom, crawling up the bed to snatch her cell off the bedside table. Her fingers are trembling uncontrollably as she fumbles through the screen touches and finally presses the phone to her ear, trying to catch her breath while it rings.

"Nnnngh, this better be good. It's four-fucking-thirty in the morning."

"Dash? Dash, I need you to come home. It's Mason."

~0~0~0~

T.B.C...

Author's Note: The whole premise of this story lends itself better to television since the music will be lost a little in the written word, but if anyone is actually reading this and who is musically talented and would like to get involved, I would LOVE a you-tube video or two of Jamie's version of the songs she covers in her American Idol adventure. Or the songs the Rogues of Rampart cover in their unique style or that any of the other contestants take on. Seriously folks, I am insanely jealous of musically talented people (of which I am NOT one) and would love to see your takes on the songs. Just send me a link and I will post it next chapter in case anyone else reading wants to see it.

That said, more happens in this story outside the competition than in it so it's really just an action drama with an American idol backdrop. And since the judges are real people, I keep their involvement impersonal (just on the AI show within the fic - no personal lives or making them seem like dicks etc...)

Thanks for reading so far... I hope you enjoyed it enough to come back!