Baby Surprises 7 Book Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  Before too long, the second guard returned, a tall, lanky man with a ponytail of blond hair in tow. I almost gasped when I realized he was a familiar face.

  The head of security was none other than Tony Cowan, a security specialist I’d worked with on more than a few occasions. His eyes went wide for a moment as he recognized me.

  “This is her,” said the second guard. “Says she had to use her old ID.”

  I could tell Tony knew right away that something was up.

  “Come with me,” he said, nodding away from the guards.

  I followed after him, and soon we were in a small office with a wall lined with security monitors. He shut the door and turned his attention to me.

  “Kendra Peters,” he said. “The badass chick-in-charge herself.”

  “That’s me,” I said with a smile. “And glad to hear you remember my official title.”

  He chuckled.

  “You’re really moving up in the world,” I said.

  “Oh, this?” he asked, gesturing to the monitors. “Just got the gig. Good pay, lots of responsibilities. Responsibilities like keeping sneaky label owners out of backstage.”

  His eyes moved over my uniform. “Last I heard Avalon was still in business. Which means that you’re moonlighting or…you’re pulling off something that you shouldn’t.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back against the station control panel, a grin still on his face.

  “Okay,” I said. “Tony, I like you enough to not bullshit you. I’m trying to get backstage.”

  He held up the lanyard. “Got the wrong pass for that, then.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I just want to see Johnny.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Aw, someone’s got a crush.”

  “It’s not like that at all,” I said. Well, it kind of was. But Tony didn’t need to know that. “It’s more of a business thing.”

  “You want to go backstage to talk business with Johnny Maxton?”

  “Why not?”

  “Come on,” he said. “You’ve worked with enough musicians to know what they’re like before a show. They’re about weird pre-show rituals and getting their heads in the game and all that.”

  “I’m not going in there with a spreadsheet presentation,” I said. “Just want to…put a bug in his ear, that’s all.”

  He looked away once again, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll let you back there as a personal favor—just this once.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I let out a squeal of joy, dropped my package, and ran over to Tony, throwing my arms around him.

  “A couple rules,” he said as I let him go. “One—you’re in and you’re out. Say your piece and get going.”

  “Can do,” I said.

  “And second is don’t make a scene. If it gets out that I let you back there, the people who hired me might start having second thoughts.”

  I gave him a salute. “Let’s do this.”

  “Don’t forget your package,” he said.

  I picked it up off the floor and soon we were off.

  “She’s good,” Tony said to the guards. “She’ll be in and out. Right?”

  “Right,” I said with a thumbs-up.

  The guards regarded me with one more pair of skeptical expressions, then opened the door.

  I was in.

  Chapter 3

  Johnny

  I’d seen it time and time again, but it never stopped being totally freaking insane to me.

  “How do you do it?” I asked. “Before every damn show?”

  Cole Park, Memphisto’s shaggy-haired, lanky drummer, looked up at me with a devilish expression on his face.

  “It’s what I need to stay focused,” he said. “Puts me in the zone.”

  I looked at the spread of vice in front of him, shaking my head at the debauchery of it all.

  “You put all that into your body and you’ll be lucky to make it through half of the first song,” I said.

  “Nah,” Cole said right back. “I’ve got a tolerance at this point. Barely even feel it.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Tastes so damn good.”

  I let out a scoff. “Then don’t let me stop you.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” said Cole.

  I stepped back and watched Cole go at it. On the table in front of him, evenly spaced apart, were three extra-large Custard Explosions from Burger Lust, one of the local chains.

  And he was going to eat every damn one of them.

  “What you got there?” asked Stone Shaw, the muscular, shaved-head bassist, turning his attention from the gorgeous redhead on his lap—a little pre-show ritual of his own—for long enough to ask the question.

  “Cookie dough here,” said Cole, pointing to the one on his left. “Then that’s caramel turtle. Finally, we got plain vanilla.”

  “Plain vanilla?” asked Stone. “That’s boring.”

  “You kidding?” said Cole. “People only think vanilla is boring because it’s synonymous with ‘plain.’ But it’s a complex flavor all on its own.”

  “I got to admit,” I said. “That ice cream looks pretty damn good.”

  Cole flashed me a hard glance. “Ice cream?” he asked. “I don’t see any ice cream here. This is all rich, delicious custard.”

  I laughed.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Have at it. And don’t come crying to me if you puke in the middle of the set.”

  “Nah, I’ve got an iron stomach,” he said, picking up his first treat. “By the time the set’s over, I’ll be ready for a little whiskey to get things settled.”

  I raised the bottle of booze in my hand. “I’m not wasting any time getting to that part.”

  I popped the top off and took a long swig from the bottle. The whiskey burned on the way down—just how I liked it.

  Once the booze was down, I plopped onto the couch in the green room, picked up the nearby guitar, and started picking gently. There were a few girls in the room, all of them watching me intently, big doe eyes on their faces.

  “What’s that?” asked Cole, already halfway through his first dessert.

  “It’s beautiful,” said one of the girls, a blonde with cleavage pouring out of her top.

  “Yeah,” said the girl next to her, a waifish brunette with a pixie cut. “So pretty.”

  I gave them a little flick of the chin to show that I’d heard them. Either of those girls would be on my lap with a snap of my fingers, so who the hell knew if they meant what they’d said. Not that I cared all that much, anyway.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just some random chords.”

  That was a lie. Really, it was some solo stuff I’d been working on. But the song was still in its infancy—not yet ready for public consumption. Not that I’d be able to talk my label into letting me perform my solo work.

  The brunette hopped up and come over to me, taking a place on the couch to my right.

  “You’re so talented, Johnny,” she said, now seated close enough to where I could smell her perfume and make out the interplay of greens in her eyes. “Can you show me how to do that?”

  I let out a scoff. “Lessons are two hundred bucks for a half hour.”

  She made a pout that was most definitely an attempt at being cute.

  “Come on,” she said with a coy smile, the tip of her finger moving slowly up my forearm. “I bet I can think of another way to pay…”

  I flicked my eyes up from the guitar.

  “Yeah,” I said. “If you don’t have cash, I’ll definitely take a check.”

  The other guys in the band let out some laughs, and the pixie-haired girl’s expression fell. I’d had my fun with groupies over the years, but the more I’d gotten bored with the obvious things you can get up to with them, the more I started to enjoy simple things, like watching the look on their faces when they realized that they’d met a man they can’t just fl
utter their eyes at and have melt in their hand.

  “You’re no fun, Johnny,” said the girl.

  “I’m plenty fun,” I said right back. “But not when I’m trying to get into the zone. Now give me some space—I need to focus.”

  I decided that playing my own stuff wasn’t the right call for the moment—it was attracting too much female attention. So, I decided to warm up for the show by running through some scales and arpeggios. They were good practice, and nothing seemed to bore girls faster than shred practice; they liked the more soulful stuff.

  “Opener on stage yet?” I asked as my fingers blurred over the fretboard.

  “Yep,” said Cole, now halfway into dessert number two. “Grindhouse just went on.”

  I watched Cole wolf down his treat and shook my head.

  “You’d better be careful, Cole,” I said with a smirk. “We’re not in our twenties anymore. You keep destroying milkshakes like that and we’re going to have to start loading you onto the stage with a crane.”

  “It’d be worth it,” he said as he shoved his spoon into the cup. “What’s the point of being a rock star if you can’t indulge your hedonistic tendencies?”

  “Good fuckin’ question,” said Stone, the girls now fawning over him.

  A year or two ago, I would’ve agreed with him. But lately, I couldn’t give a good damn about drugs and girls and all that. Sure, I still liked my booze, but even that was starting to lose its appeal. Anymore, all I cared about was my music. Everything else was just killing time until I could have my guitar in my lap.

  Right as I hit the end of the fretboard, the door to the green room opened. Marcus Thorne, Memphisto’s rhythm guitarist, strolled in with a big smile on his face.

  “What’s up, party people?” he said.

  “The usual,” said Stone, not taking his eyes away from his redhead.

  “I can see that,” said Marcus as he took a look around the room.

  Cole dropped the last of his three cups into the others and sat back, a contented smile on his face.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Now I’m ready to rock.”

  “How about being ready to hear we’re going to take the band to the next level?” asked Marcus.

  I raised an eyebrow in curiosity, and then my stomach sank when I realized what it likely was he wanted to talk about. Marcus was all about money and fame, the music having taken a backseat in recent years.

  “Why?” asked Stone. “What you got in mind?”

  “I could tell you,” said Marcus, “but I’ve got just the guy here to explain.”

  “Oh no,” I said out loud, knowing what this meant.

  “No way,” said Stone. “Not before a show.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” said Marcus. “And when you hear what he has to say, you’ll be glad I brought him in.”

  “Shit,” I said. “No talking you out of this, huh?”

  “Nope,” said Marcus. “He flew in just to talk with us tonight.”

  “That supposed to make me feel special?” I asked.

  “Feel however you want,” said Marcus, “but this is some important shit. It’s the difference between being a big band and, like, a majorly freaking huge band.”

  “That what you want?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it what you want?”

  I opened my mouth to speak but realized that there wasn’t going to be any talking Marcus out of this.

  “He here now?” I asked.

  “Right out in the hall.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Send him in.”

  “Good man,” said Marcus. “Good freaking man.”

  He ducked out into the hallway and called out to someone.

  “You guys are going to freaking love what Rick has in mind,” said Marcus. “Some real next-level shit.”

  “Yeah,” I said, not looking forward to it one bit. “I’ll bet.”

  Moments later, in sauntered Rick Silver, the manager appointed by Redemption Records, the massive label that had put out our last two albums. He was a lean guy, dressed in a suit that managed to look extremely expensive yet extremely cheap at the same time, his Italian leather shoes gleaming in the lights of the green room. His black hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears, his eyes behind a pair of clear plastic glasses.

  “My beautiful boys!” he said, clasping his hands together as he took place at the front of the room.

  “What’s up, Rick?” asked Cole, his hands on his full belly.

  “Hey,” Stone said absently, his attention still occupied by the groupies.

  I didn’t say anything, part of me hoping I could pretend that he wasn’t there. But I’d had enough meetings with this loudmouth to know that wasn’t likely to be the case.

  “Boys, boys!” said Rick. “Put down your toys and bring it in.”

  The faces of the girls fell when it was clear that they’d been included along with my guitar in the “toys” description.

  “That means ‘scram’,” said Rick to the girls.

  The groupies turned to Stone, awaiting their orders.

  “You don’t want to be here for this boring shit anyway,” he assured them. “I’ll see you two after the show.”

  The girls left, Stone giving his redhead a quick swat on the behind as they did. The redhead let out a squeal and a giggle and then they were gone.

  “‘Boring shit’?” asked Rick. “This is the future of the band we’re talking about here.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Stone.

  “Pay attention, Stone,” said Marcus. “And show a little freaking respect. Rick’s the reason we’re able to sell out a stadium like this.”

  “Pretty sure the music is what does that,” I said.

  Marcus and Rick both shot me withering looks. I hated to admit it, but Marcus wasn’t entirely wrong. We’d been doing all right after our debut album had made the splash it did years back, but Rick and Redemption had taken us to the next level. Seemingly overnight, we went from playing mid-sized clubs to opening up stadiums for rock gods, and ever since our third album, Dark Souls, we’d gone from openers to headliners.

  Not bad for a rock band out of Portland.

  But it had come at a price. Redemption Records gave us more resources, but in exchange, they wanted more control. And as any artist will tell you, nothing kills the muse like control.

  “You ready boys?” asked Rick. “Because what I’ve got to say next is going to take us from ‘sky-high’ all the way up to the stratosphere.”

  “Can’t wait,” I said.

  I grabbed the bottle of whiskey.

  I was going to need it.

  Chapter 4

  Johnny

  I gave my guitar one last strum before setting it down, putting my feet up on the table, and folding my hands behind my head.

  “Still eating that crap, huh kid?” Rick asked Cole.

  “Yup,” said Cole with a proud smile.

  “Before every show?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, I hope you’re doing freaking low-carb the rest of the time. The moment you start busting out of those skinny jeans is the moment we lose the female demographic.”

  Rick hadn’t wasted any time in uttering my least favorite word in the world—demographic. Everything came down to demographics for him. In his mind, our audience, our fans, weren’t made up of individuals to whom our music spoke, but separate categories, all itching to be marketed to.

  And I hated it.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Cole.

  “Can we get to it?” asked Stone. “I need to get my head right for the show.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Rick. “This won’t take long.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” I said, my eyes focused on the tips of my black sneakers.

  “Cute,” said Rick. “Anyway, I’ll get into it.”

  Rick took the duffel bag he’d had slung over his shoulder and set it down on the table in the middle of the room.

  “Boys,” he said, unzi
pping the duffel and reaching inside of it. “I’m pleased as hell to present to you the next line of merch!”

  He triumphantly pulled out a T-shirt with our logo on it, a picture of all the guys in the band below. And the word “Memphisto” was written in glitter. I looked closer and saw that there was something…off about our faces. They looked polished and rosy-cheeked, like weird dolls.

  “The hell’s going on here?” I asked, leaning forward and tapping on the shirt.

  “Yeah,” said Stone, looking at where my finger was pointed. “We look like anime characters or some shit.”

  Rick set the shirt down and put his hands on his hips like some conquering hero. “You guys heard of K-Pop?”

  “Like Korean pop stars?” asked Stone.

  “Like Korean pop stars,” I confirmed.

  My stomach tightened. I had a feeling what Rick had in mind, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “If I asked you which demographic had the most disposable income, who would you guess?” He paused, a smile still on his face.

  “Wait,” I asked. “Is this a rhetorical question or a real one?”

  “Real one,” he said. “Go on.”

  “Single men?” asked Cole.

  “Nope,” said Rick. “Ultra-fans aside, men actually barely spend money if they can help it. Try again.”

  “How about single moms?” asked Stone, a sly smile on his face. “Like hot, hot single moms.”

  “Wrong again,” said Rick. “That money goes right to their kids.”

  Rick turned his attention to me, waiting for my answer.

  “How about we just pretend I gave a wrong answer so we can get to the point?” I asked.

  Marcus shot me a hard look, then spoke. “What about teenage girls? Like you were talking about?”

  Rick made a “snap and point” gesture at Marcus.

  “Bingo,” he said. “Right on the damn money.”

  “Teenage girls?” asked Cole. “Seriously?”

  “Yep,” said Rick. “No one’s got more cash to spend than middle and high school girls still living at home. Between part-time jobs and daddy’s money, they have cash to burn.”