Rifted Rock
Secrets of a rock star series
Paisley Pace
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chpater 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue: Two months later
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Vance
A black Lexus SUV rolled up just as I took the first drag on my spliff. Fuck. Kent, my manager, usually sent the car over at least twenty minutes late, to accommodate my schedule—or lack thereof. Chronic tardiness, he called it. Rock star time, I’d reply.
What can I say? You never know when you’re going to have to kick a groupie out of your hotel room or shoot a TV. Not that I’d ever carry a gun. I’m a lover. Not a fighter.
Until my back’s against the wall.
“Mr. Blake?” The driver rolled down the window and looked at me expectantly. With my mirrored aviators and my signature blonde mane tucked into a baseball cap, I wasn’t easy to recognize. Just another hipster getting high in a Central Business District alley.
“Give me five minutes,” I said, exhaling a plume of white smoke.
“I’m so sorry, but Mr. Coldwell expressly requested that I keep you on schedule today.”
This meeting must be more serious than I thought. “Hope you don’t mind if I smoke in your car, then,” I said, sliding across the smooth black leather and pouring myself some Scotch from a crystal decanter.
The driver’s mouth turned down in an almost undetectable frown. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But me and my twin brother Darrel spent the first eighteen years of our lives reading people’s subtlest moods. As foster kids, that skill helped us survive.
“This should cover the car detailing service.” I tossed a couple Benjamins into the front seat and rolled down my window. Didn’t need to give the poor fucker a contact high on top of everything else.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
The bills disappeared and the driver turned on the radio. The new Jack White song was playing—a sweet-sounding, country-inspired duet featuring the star and some dulcimer-voiced lass he’d plucked from obscurity.
My grasp tightened around my glass of Scotch. Rolling Stone had called me “the poor man’s Jack White” and said my band’s latest single was “woefully derivative—country and blues-tinged rock without the soul.”
Well, it technically wasn’t my song. A songwriter penned it, some asshat Kent had recommended. Someone he’d promised would get Brothers Three back on top.
That plan backfired, and drastically. Hence the early morning meeting—which for me meant any time before noon. I could guess how things would go. I’d yell at Kent. Kent would yell at me. I’d smash something, in predictable rock-star fashion, and he’d tell me to get my shit together, acting like a silver-haired stand-in for the dad I never had. Or wanted.
Fuck. I wasn’t stoned enough for this shit.
The driver pulled up to Kent’s office, which was housed in a former music studio in the French Quarter. Kent had offices in L.A. and New York, but I think he preferred his satellite in the Big Easy to all of them.
“I’ll let Mr. Coldwell know you’re here,” the driver said.
I stepped into the mirrored elevator and punched the button for the penthouse. A curvy blonde girl in a Tulane University T-shirt made eyes at me. One of Kent’s interns, no doubt, here for course credit and a ride on my famous cock.
“Mmm. Let me guess. Sativa blend?” she asked, touching my hand, the one holding the joint. “I’d love to get high with you.”
“Don’t you have a job to do?” I got out at the next floor. Stairs were what I needed. Nobody ever took the stairs. I bounded up eight flights (despite my bad habits, I never miss a workout—it’s a stress-relief thing) and burst in Kent’s office.
Kent looked up from a gleaming desk framed by panoramic views of the Mississippi river. Gold and platinum records lined the walls, and a 1958 maple top Gibson Les Paul guitar shone like a museum exhibit. Kent wasn’t too precious, though. I’d seen him whale on the thing.
“Your new intern is a pothead,” I informed him.
“She’s not my intern.” Kent signed a form and tucked the Mont Blanc pen in his Armani blazer. “She’s my new sugar baby.”
“You better give her more sugar, because she definitely wanted to fuck me.”
Kent shrugged. “It’s a business relationship. Like yours and mine. Which, coincidentally, is what I brought you here to discuss.”
“Discuss? What’s there to say? Our new single is a flop. We just cancelled our tour because you said Darrel had to go to rehab—“
“You’d rather he was dead or in jail?”
“He had it under control.”
“That’s what you told yourself. Because it’s what you needed to believe. He wasn’t okay, Vance.”
“And why do you get to decide that?”
“Because I’m the one who discovered you two busking on Decatur Street. Because I’m the one who paid Darrel’s bail bonds and lawyer fees. Because I fucking made Brothers Three. And don’t you forget it.”
“Yeah, you made us,” I muttered, looking for a paperweight or flower arrangement to throw. But Kent had evidently thought ahead and cleared the room of potential missiles. “And you’re going to be the end of us.”
“About that.” Kent pushed back from his desk and sat next to me, looking over his designer eyeglasses. “I’m sorry about the new single. Flops happen. It’s a setback. But I’ve got a plan.”
“What, another hack songwriter?”
“Not a hack. A genius.” Kent smiled and pressed a button on the intercom system. “Andrea? We’re ready for you.”
Andrea? I mouthed at Kent.
The girl peeked in, all brunette bangs, big, shy Bambi eyes and artful thrift-store clothing. She couldn’t have been older than the Tulane student in the elevator, but something in her wide, wounded gaze suggested that she’d seen both the good and the bad sides of the world. Just like Darrel and me.
Kent and Andrea shook hands. I saw him offering her a seat, a drink, but I didn’t hear what they were saying. Although I’d been smoking weed all morning, I felt the high hit me all at once at the sight of her luscious tits straining against a thin, vintage David Bowie T-shirt. The grad student barista vibe she worked so hard to cultivate couldn’t hide those take-no-prisoners curves. I felt my dick stiffen inside my jeans and wished I could fuck her right there on the desk.
“So what do you say, Vance?” Kent asked.
“Uh, what?” I tried to snap to attention mentally, but only my hard-on was the only part of me that was remotely ready for business.
“Are you ready to work with a new songwriter?”
I looked from Kent to Andrea, who smiled shyly, hopefully. I couldn’t believe this bombshell was the new songwriter. Throw some hair extensions, stage makeup and a sequined bodysuit on her, and she could have been a pop star herself.
“Uh,” I said, rendered speechless for the first time in a while. All the blood had gone to my little head. “Yeah.”
A smile spread across Andrea’s face, as soft and sudden as dawn
breaking. “Thank you—I’m so grateful for the opportunity. I’m a big fan of Brothers Three.”
“I’ll get my driver to come around and pick us up, then.” Kent pulled out his cell phone.
“Driver?”
“Earth to Vance,” Kent said. “Did you not hear this conversation? We’re going to the studio to jam. See how you and Andrea’s styles vibe with each other. And try out those new songs.”
“Now?” I croaked.
“My bad, I thought you wanted a new hit single ASAP,” Kent said.
I did. But mostly, I wanted some time alone with Andrea.
Chapter 2
Andrea
I knew the architects hadn’t designed the lobby with the express intent of making me feel small and inconsequential, but that’s the effect the soaring ceilings and Carrera marble floors had on my psyche. And when I stepped inside the gleaming, mirrored elevator, I saw my smallness reflected back at me from a million different angles. The vintage pencil skirt and cardigan I’d picked out for the occasion and paid for with my last twenty dollars looked more threadbare than stylish. My wavy brunette hair looked less like Zooey Deschanel’s, and more like the Geico spokeswoman’s.
“Going up?” asked a girl with a platinum-blonde bob. Her Tulane T-shirt, perfect French manicure and sparkling Cartier watch all emanated wealth.
That’s the kind of girl who belongs here, I thought. Not a high-school dropout. Not trailer trash from Amelia, Louisiana.
I shook my head and straightened up, lifting my rib cage and throwing back my shoulders. I’d heard enough negative talk from my ex. Now that he wasn’t around to hurl abuse at me, I’d be damned if I’d throw it at myself.
“Yes, floor ten.”
“That’s the penthouse. You’ll need a special key card to get in.”
“Kent said he’d buzz me through.”
The blonde girl raised her perfectly microbladed eyebrows as if to say, Oh, you’re on a first-name basis with Kent, manager to the rock gods? “He’s in a meeting with Vance right now. You know, Vance, from Brothers Three?”
She extended a rose-gold iPhone and showed me a selfie she’d taken with Vance. It was supposed to impress me, but it had the opposite effect. Judging by his slouching poster, Vance clearly hadn’t been aware that he was being photographed.
“Yes, I know of him,” I said as the elevator dinged. I scurried inside, grateful for a moment of solitude.
You belong here, I reminded myself. Vance and Kent wanted to meet you. And if you play your cards right, your days of struggling are over. You’ll finally be able to move on with your life.
The elevator opened into a small, luxuriously appointed foyer with a white shag rug on a polished wood floor and a white leather sofa. I didn’t want to sit down for fear of tarnishing the pristine surroundings. Almost immediately, a masculine voice summoned me on the intercom. Hesitantly, I opened the office door.
I noticed Vance at once—every inch of his muscular, six-foot-two body was poised to strike. It was the caged, leonine energy he exuded right before smashing a guitar on stage, the larger-than-life intensity that he displayed every night he went on tour. No wonder he only played stadiums. No other venue was big enough to contain him.
My eyes slipped down to the bulge in his pants. That, too, was larger than life. I guess the tabloid stories were true. If anything, his shaft looked even bigger than the press reported it to be. And his features—the sensuous mouth, sharp, angular jaw and cruel sneer—were even hotter than they’d been on the posters that adorned my bedroom when I was a teenager.
Vance caught my gaze and fixed me in the crosshairs of his frank, open gaze. There was no posturing, no swagger in his eyes. Only curiosity and candor. He seemed to look right through me. I gulped as nervous sweat sprang out on my forehead.
“Andrea! We’re so pleased you could make it. Can I offer you a drink?” asked a fit, tan, forty-ish executive in a suit. Kent was a bit of a silver fox.
“A Coke, maybe?” I couldn’t keep the nervous, lilting intonation from my voice. Vance’s eyes hadn’t left me once. I felt them burning a hole into the Aladdin Sane album cover right over my boobs.
That’s when I noticed that he reeked of weed.
“Sure you don’t want some rum in that Coke?” Kent asked, smiling. “You’re in rock star world now.”
“I know,” I sipped the Coke and looked out the window, where the Mississippi River’s curves sparkled and undulated like a woman in a sequined dress. “It’s a little intimidating, to be honest.”
“Don’t be intimidated. We love your sound. We think you really get what Brothers Three is all about,” Kent said.
“Well…they’ve been my favorite band since I was fifteen.”
“Listen. I’ve got a cabin about an hour from here, in Saint Francisville,” Kent said. “What do you say we head out there for a few days, play around in the studio and see what happens?”
If I hadn’t been in the middle of a sip, my mouth would have dropped. A free stay in a millionaire’s woodsy retreat? Studio time with the biggest rock star in the world? I hadn’t expected this when I’d responded to Kent’s Craigslist ad for songwriters and sent him the audio file.
My life was changing faster than I thought. But I guess that’s the music industry for you.
“Sounds great,” I said.
“What do you say, Vance?” Kent asked.
Sprawled in a chair, his long legs akimbo, the musician only grunted. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no. As eager as I was to collaborate with Vance, I couldn’t tell if he felt the same way about me.
“Are you ready to work with a new songwriter?” Kent asked pointedly.
“Uh, yeah,” he said in that sexy, throaty rasp. I couldn’t help but get a little turned on. So many nights, I’d fallen asleep with him crooning in my headphones.
And now we were actually going to be working together!
“Thank you—I’m so grateful for the opportunity,” I said. “I’m a big fan of Brothers Three.”
The opportunity, I reminded myself. That’s the important thing. Do not screw this up. You can’t afford to.
And even though I wanted to jump Vance’s bones right then and there, I resigned myself to keeping things professional. There was too much at stake to mess this up. Besides, I was a songwriter. Not another horny groupie.
And I was determined to keep it in my pants.
Chpater 3
Vance
Kent and Andrea talked while I fantasized about sucking Andrea’s tits, feeling those smooth legs wrapped around my waist, hearing her voice urging me on. She caught me staring at her tits and blushed. I looked her in the eye, frank, unembarrassed. I’m not ashamed of wanting to fuck.
“Bowie fan?” I asked, breaking the sexual tension more for her comfort than my own.
“Yeah. I probably relate the most to his Ziggy Stardust era.”
“I did, too, when I was in high school. But now I’m actually all about Lazarus. His arrangements weren’t only genius—so were his collaborations.”
“Bowie is everything I aspire to as a songwriter,” Andrea said.
“Speaking of,” Kent said, glancing down at his smartwatch. “It’s time to go. The car’s here.”
“Wait, where are we headed?” I wasn’t usually this out of it. Andrea’s presence had thrown me for a loop.
Kent rolled his eyes and swept a stack of papers into his briefcase. “To my studio. I told you, we’re going to work on your next hit single.”
“Hold up. I didn’t realize you meant right this second,” I said.
“You have anything better to do?” Kent said. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You have a busy afternoon of getting wasted in dive bars and doing bong hits with undergrads. But unless you want that endless wellspring of pussy to run dry, you better get in the car right now.”
Andrea flushed and folded her arms across her chest. I could tell she didn’t care too much for the reality of life as a rock star.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I told her.
Andrea’s warm brown eyes sparked with anger. “It’s Ms. Hebert,” she snapped.
“Duly noted,” I said. “Can I get a minute alone with my manager, Ms. Hebert?”
“Of course,” she said, suddenly meek and deferential. It was weird the way she turned on a dime. I could have sworn she wanted to fuck me. Then she was pissed. And now she was sucking up to me?
I waited for the office door to close behind Andrea. Then I turned to Kent. “What’s going on here?”
Kent shook his head and clipped a cigar. He loved nothing more than to take road trips while puffing on a fine Cuban. I think that’s the real reason he kept a studio ninety miles away.
“There’s nothing I could do to make it more clear,” he said, picking a thread of tobacco from the cigar.
“I mean, what does Darrel think about hiring a new songwriter?”
“Darrel lost his right to make executive decisions around the time he was getting his stomach pumped in LSU Medical Center.”
“Oh no. Fuck that.” I grabbed the half-full cup of Coke and flung it against a wall. It shattered just as Andrea poked her head back in. Her mouth dropped, and she looked from me to Kent.
“Just one of Vance’s signature tantrums. They’re harmless.” Kent groaned when he saw the brown Coke stain on his white rug. “Damn it, Vance. I’m only stocking clear liquor and Sprite from here on out.”
“I’ll be waiting in the car.” Andrea disappeared like a mouse scooting back into its hidey-hole.
“You’re paying for that rug,” Kent said.
Rifted Rock: Secrets of a rock star series Page 1