As You Were (Rising Star Book 2)

by Lee Piper

  “Let them.”

  “Hell no. It’s easy for you, you’ve already solidified your reputation as the best in the business. I’m still trying to make a name for myself, and I want to be known for my talent, not for taking advantage of other people’s generosity.”

  “You’re not taking advantage of shit. I’m offering.”

  “But other people don’t know that. All they know is you’re recording our album, so if they see you driving me to concerts and introducing me to world-class musicians, they’re going to get suspicious. Before long, rumors will start and my name will be synonymous with slut.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to put myself in that position, not for you and not for Kai Jenner.”

  “You’re coming,” he grits out.

  “Did you not hear a single word I said? I’m not going with you.”

  “I heard you,” Zeke growls. “I heard blah, blah, blah, I’m a pussy, blah.”

  A likely car accident is the only reason I don’t punch him in the junk.

  “You’re so worried about what people might say,” Zeke continues, oblivious of my clenched fists, “you’re willing to pass up chances others would sell their left nut for. You need to man the fuck up.”

  “And you need to stop talking.” My glare is huge. “I’m serious. Don’t speak to me until we’re back in the studio.” Spinning to the window, I mutter, “Otherwise I’m going to say something I’ll regret.”

  Zeke swears under his breath, but other than that, remains quiet.

  We’re silent for the rest of the journey.

  When I step into the production room, Drake is scowling at his phone. “Fuck.”

  I plonk on the couch in between him and Reid. “What’s wrong? One of your women giving you trouble?”

  “Worse.” He shows me the screen. “Heathen’s concert is sold out. Put an alarm on my phone to remind me, but I set it for the wrong fucking day.” Dropping his hand, he groans. “Was gonna buy you and Reid tickets; I know you guys dig them. Now it’s too fucking late.”

  Ignoring the ball of disappointment settling in my stomach, I pat his shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. I lucked out too—was going to do the exact same thing.”

  “And me,” Reid adds.

  We give each other sad smiles. “It’s all good,” I murmur to Drake. “We’ll see their next concert. We’ll synchronize our alarms and everything.”

  “But they’re not playing the west coast for ages. Tonight’s show is their last before heading to Europe, and after that they’re touring Asia and Australia before recording another album.” Resting elbows on his knees, he drops his head. “Goddammit.”

  Zeke strolls into the production room. His eyes zero in on my hand resting against Drake’s shoulder before snapping away again. After giving Reid a chin tip, he settles himself behind the console desk. No one moves. Spinning to face us, Zeke quirks a sardonic brow. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Since he already knows the reason for my reticence, I don’t respond.

  Drake exhales a long, drawn-out breath. “Missed out on tickets to see Heathen play tonight.”

  “Didn’t know you liked them.”

  “We all do.” Drake sighs. “Who do you think inspired the breakdown in our opening track?” He shakes his head. “Those guys play epic breakdowns.”

  “It’s true.” Reid nods.

  Zeke considers Drake for a moment. Even though his expression is carefully schooled, I’m pretty sure I know what he’s thinking. As though sensing my thoughts, his impenetrable gaze lands on me. I give a slight shake of my head, and the corner of his lips quirks. I narrow my eyes, and a dangerous glint forms. He wouldn’t dare.

  “I’ll get you tickets.”

  I stand corrected.

  “What?” Drake’s jaw drops open. “You will? Are you fucking serious?”

  A low growl sounds, only Reid and Drake are too buzzed to notice. Zeke, however, is well aware of the noise escaping my larynx. His expression turns wicked.

  “Yeah, I’m serious,” he replies, ignoring my pointed daggers. “Might even wrangle some backstage passes so you can talk shop with the band afterward.”

  “Holy fucking shit.” Drake’s smile is blinding when he turns to me. “Can you believe this, Wil? A killer show and backstage passes.”

  “Drake,” I murmur, “I don’t think it’s—”

  “You sure it’s no trouble, man?” Reid’s low voice interrupts me as he leans toward Zeke.

  “Hey.” I bump his arm. “We can’t—”

  “No trouble,” Zeke cuts in. I growl again, frustrated with being cut off for a third time. With a smirk, he pulls out his phone and taps away at the screen. “Like I told Willow earlier, I produced their last album. They always give me free tickets. Might as well use them.”

  “Wait, you know them?” Drake shifts his attention from Zeke to me. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’ve been trying to but keep getting interrupted,” I grit out.

  Zeke rubs a large hand over his mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s trying not to laugh.

  “It’s a great opportunity.” Reid nods.

  “Yes, exactly.” Drake nods too, seconds away from throwing his neck out in his enthusiasm.

  Smirking, Zeke puts his phone away and stretches muscular arms above his head before folding them so his fingers knit behind his neck. Kicking his feet out in front of him, he crosses long legs at the ankles. I want to give him the ultimate death stare. I want to show him how unaffected I am by his arrogant stance. However, my eyes have other ideas. They’re too distracted by his biceps stretching the material of his shirt to do anything but ogle.

  So, ogle I do.

  Zeke raises a sardonic brow.

  Shaking my head, I turn to our drummer. “Reid—”

  “Think about it, Wil.” Reid’s expression is earnest. “Bands are introduced to other bands all the time. We need to make connections if we’re gonna get anywhere in this business. And if we go to the concert, we’re gonna meet one of the most successful rock bands on the planet. Who knows what doors that might open?”

  Damn it, he makes sense.

  “We’re going, right?” Drake’s face is hopeful.

  Exhaling, I mutter, “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “On whether you can go another night without getting laid.” His expression falters. “You didn’t think this through, did you?” I grin, enjoying this more than I should. “If we’re meeting Heathen backstage, there’s no time for random hookups. This is strictly business.” Tipping my head to one side, I consider him. “You know what? I think abstinence will be good for you. It’ll be character building.”

  Reid reaches behind me and cuffs Drake on the back of the head. “She’s right, bro. Fuck knows your dick could use the respite.”

  “Jesus.” With a groan, Drake flops back in his seat.

  Chuckling, I shake my head, my insides a mixture of nervous excitement and trepidation for the night ahead.

  The music is loud. Really loud. The pounding rhythm starts at my feet, the vibration from the quad box so intense tremors shudder their way up my sweaty calves. My ribs are a cage rattling in time with the rhythmic drumbeat, and my head is a crucible of well-crafted lyrics. Strobe lights flicker blue, green, and red as they illuminate the four-piece on stage. The stench of heated bodies crushed together combined with the beer spilled on the sticky floor means on every inhale my nostrils beg not to have to do it again.

  But I ignore the smell. I ignore the people in the mosh pit acting like human pinballs. I ignore the way my Converse high tops peel from the sullied concrete with every movement. Instead, I invest my sole focus on the music, this band, and Kai freaking Jenner.

  “Oh my fucking God, Wil!”

  Okay, I can’t ignore my best friend, Shiloh. She’s jumping up and down beside me, her double D’s demanding their own zip code. Long brunette hair swirls around her narrow shoulders, her chocolate eyes alight with excit
ement. She’s the frontwoman and vocalist of a heavy rock outfit, and this pint-sized pocket-rocket more than appreciates the man on stage.

  “Can you believe this shit?” she squeals. “Remind me to tell Zeke I’m naming my next song after him.”

  Reid wraps his hands around her waist and pulls her tiny frame against his front. Leaning down, he murmurs something in her ear, and the red tinge staining her cheeks tells me it’s something she likes.

  I’m so happy for these two. It took years for them to find their way back to each other, and now that they’re together, neither one is letting go. And the fact we’re so close to the swarming mosh pit without Shiloh having a panic attack is huge. It’s a testament to how far she’s come with Reid’s help.

  Kai steps out from behind the microphone, his straight brown hair hanging over broad shoulders. Swaggering to the front of the stage, he never falters in his guitar solo. Kai’s skills are insane, unbelievable, mind-blowing even. He’s also shirtless. His tall frame and sinewy muscles glisten under a blanket of perspiration. Ripped black jeans are slung low on narrow hips, and the hint of a tattoo peeks from below the waistband. Yep, he’s smokin’. There’s no doubt about it. Though, unlike the last time I saw him play live, Heathen’s lead singer doesn’t send that bolt of unbridled need through me.

  Kai bends one knee, shifting his weight forward. He dips his chin, his fingers a whir on the fretboard. I scream. And jump. And scream some more. “You rock, Kai!”

  I’m not the only one losing my sanity. To my right, Reid whistles piercingly while Shiloh screams her appreciation. To my left, Drake hollers through cupped hands. In front is a sea of writhing bodies, and behind a mass of swarming fans. Everywhere I look, people are going crazy for the musical geniuses on stage.

  When the last song comes to a dramatic end, thanks to the heavy instrumental breakdown, Kai grips the mic, yelling, “Thank you, Bayside!” He lifts a free hand, his index and little fingers pointing toward the crowd in a universal signal for devil horns as the lights fade to black.

  The house lights come up and Drake, Reid, Shiloh, and I face each other. We’re a bedraggled mess. Our clothes are plastered to our bodies, sweat-soaked hair sticks to our faces, and I’m fairly certain I’m standing in someone’s spilled drink. But our grins are enormous, we’re buzzing with energy, and the best is yet to come.

  “Dude, that was fucking awesome,” Drake yells, forgetting he doesn’t have to talk over the music anymore.

  Reid’s eyes are bright silver, a testament to his unbridled exhilaration. He claps our lead singer on the shoulder. “Did you hear that fuckin’ drum fill in their last song?” His strong tattooed arms mimic the movement with perfect accuracy. “Eli plays so fuckin’ tight, man. Every. Goddamn. Time.” He shakes his head in wonderment. “Fuck.”

  “Forget the drum fill, it’s the lyrics that stole the show.” Shiloh bounces on the balls of her feet, too pumped to stay still.

  Reid faces her, incredulous. “Forget the drum fill? Forget the fuckin’ drum fill? You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Fuck no. They were way more powerful than sticks on skin. Don’t get me wrong, Eli was solid behind the kit, but even he can’t compete with Kai’s lyrics.”

  The drummer buries his hands in his girlfriend’s hair, forcing her head back. “Darlin’, you’d better watch that mouth of yours or you know what I’ll do with it.”

  Shiloh bites her bottom lip, her eyes mischievous. “Bring it.”

  But before Reid has a chance to make good on his X-rated promise, Drake groans. “Keep it in your fucking pants, dude.” He shakes his head. “Let’s focus on what’s important here.” After a pause, a slow grin forms on his face. “The fact we can lord this concert over Jasper and Tobias for an eternity.”

  Shiloh points her index finger at Drake. “Hey, you lay off Tobias. He’s already been through an epic shitstorm the past few months. He doesn’t need you adding to it.” She pauses, her smile wicked. “But go hard on my twin. Jasper deserves everything he gets.”

  “Is that why Tobias isn’t here?” I ask. “Because of the temptation to drink?”

  My best friend smiles sadly. “Yeah, he’s finding sobriety tough at the moment. The guy’s always used alcohol as a numbing tool, you know? So, he doesn’t know how to deal when life throws him a left hook. Putting himself in a situation where it’s easily accessible isn’t the best idea right now.”

  I shudder, thinking back to a month ago when Tobias wrapped his car around a tree after drunk driving. There was a moment when we weren’t sure if he’d make it. It was beyond terrifying.

  “Jasper’s hanging with him tonight, keeping him company and all,” Shiloh continues. “My bro and me rock, paper, scissored it to see who was on babysitting duty.” Shaking her head, she laughs. “Dude chooses rock every fucking time. It’s like he forgot we shared a womb for eight months. I mean, come on. Of course, I know what he’s gonna choose, that’s why I suggested the freaking game in the first place.”

  We all laugh at Jasper’s predictability. For a long time, I harbored a monster crush on Shiloh’s twin. It’s hard not to because the guy’s seriously hot. Since we all grew up together, I watched him turn from a scrawny boy to a drop-dead gorgeous manwhore. Yeah, he knows he’s good-looking. He could even give Drake a run for his money in the number of bed notches he’s accumulated over the years. But there’s more to Jasper, and that’s what attracted me to him. He’s good-natured, compassionate, and he’d give his last penny to anyone who asked. He’s an insanely talented visual artist, musician, and writer. The guy’s a prodigy, really. Since he’s never looked at me as anything other than a friend, my infatuation’s been safely locked away and no one is any the wiser. Thank Zeus. It’s hard enough trying to deal with my emotions for Zeke, let alone my best friend’s brother.

  As fans disperse toward the bar, exit, or toilets, I reach into the back pocket of my skinny jeans and pull out the lanyard with an access all areas pass. Holding it up to the others, I wiggle my eyebrows. “Ready to meet the band?”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Drake yells.

  Shiloh squeals, “Hell yes!”

  Laughing, I follow Reid as he leads his girlfriend through the sea of people between us and the side exit. Curious looks and not-so-subtle exclamations are thrown our way as we move through the crowd.

  “It’s them, isn’t it?”

  “Oh my God, they’re the band that won Rising Star!”

  “Hang on, isn’t she the chick from the rival band?”

  “Quick, where’s my phone? Where the fuck’s my phone? I need to film this.”

  Thankfully, we make it through security without incident. The whole being-recognized-in-public thing is still new to me, so I never know how to act. As we walk along the exposed brick corridor, our shoes squeaking on the polished concrete, I’m beyond relieved to see a sign for the women’s bathroom. Holding up one hand, I call out, “Won’t be long.”

  Drake throws his head back in a dramatic groan. “The fuck, Wil? Can’t it wait? We’re about to meet Heathen, for fuck’s sake.”

  “No,” I call over one shoulder. “My bladder’s about to burst! I’m not going to stand in front of Kai with my legs crossed!” Turning to my friend, I raise my eyebrows. “Shiloh?”

  “I’m good, thanks. Just gonna hang here and grope my man for a bit.”

  Some low murmuring and a deep groan follow as I roll my eyes and scurry inside.

  Soon enough, I’ve taken care of business, washed my hands, and am bracing myself against the chipped porcelain sink. When I stare at my sweat-soaked reflection in the mirror, whiskey-colored eyes gaze back at me.

  “Stop it, Wil.”

  Shaking my head, I clear my subconscious of the smoldering look that has haunted me since early this morning. After we accepted the tickets, Zeke spent the remainder of the day—when not immersed in his console—watching me. It was weird. And hot. And so freaking distracting I tripped over my guitar lead and
almost head-butted Drake’s ass as he adjusted the microphone stand.

  Not my finest moment.

  Even now, when I’m moments away from meeting my idol, Zeke’s face, his body, his silent promise of dirty deeds circle my brain. Clearly, I need an intervention. Figuring Reid and Drake are the best people for the job, I quickly wash my face, tidy my hair, and dry my shirt under the hand dryer. After taking a deep breath, I step into the hallway.

  They’re still talking about the set. Even from several feet away, it’s obvious that Drake’s animated hand gestures, Reid’s epic air-drumming, and Shiloh’s husky laugh recount Heathen’s performance. But they’re not alone. Zeke is leaning against the exposed brick, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his worn jeans and feet crossed at the ankles. The sleeves of his black button-down shirt are pushed up powerful forearms, while the top few buttons are left undone. Through the sliver of space near his collarbone I spy tanned skin. My mouth waters.

  Zeke nods at Drake, his dark hair catching the artificial light overhead. The usual chocolate strands shine a tarnished copper. I stop.

  “Sweet Aphrodite.” My lazy perusal becomes fixed on his face, or more specifically the corner of his mouth that tilts upward by the smallest of increments. Zeke Danton is smiling, smiling. Granted, it’s tiny, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quirk of the lips, but it’s there. His entire expression changes with the subtle movement. The harsh lines smooth and the dark scowl lightens. He transforms into a lethal version of his former self.

  “He’s going to ruin me,” I whisper.

  My bandmates and bestie are so busy gushing about the set they don’t even realize the unprecedented phenomenon taking place before them. But I do. Warmth blankets my heart, the gentle heat deceptive in its strength as it squeezes to the point of pain. I welcome it; a perverse part of me laughs in the face of the smarting hurt, wanting to bask in its cruel beauty.

  Zeke notices where I stand motionless in the doorway and his smile drops. Rather than turn into a familiar scowl, his expression heats, then cools. It’s beyond confusing. He pushes off from the wall, leaving the others behind as he saunters toward me. It’s only when the ends of our shoes meet that he stops and those eyes peek from behind thick lashes. “Hey.”