Legendary Rock Star: Enemies to Lovers Romance (Steel Series Book 1)

by Victoria Pinder

  I took another sip of my wine to cool down and for a few minutes we were quiet. Maybe too much so. I put my glass down and ran my hands through my hair like I was still a teenager in school dreaming about him.

  Finally, I broke the silence. “That sounds so long, but you’re only twenty-three. And you were only eighteen when you failed like that.”

  “Drinking was a crutch of mine,” he said, like that explained everything. He’d blown his chance to be in the number one band of the past decade, but he’d not ruin my shot now. Not even when he gave me that bad boy gaze that made my knees weak, and said, “You like rubbing salt in the wound?”

  “Regrets are like acid,” I said, as I’d heard my parents tell me tons of times. I refused to have any regrets. I pushed my glass to the side and met his gaze when I asked, “Just curious. I know what the all the news stories said online, but what really happened?”

  He sipped his virgin drink and glanced into the glass instead of at me as he said, “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll … It all went to my head.”

  At least I had a head on my shoulders, and I wasn’t fresh out of school. Plus, my parents actually listened to me. I was lucky. But not all of my friends were, and I never judged.

  “That’s awful,” I said. “Is that why you’re here for your second chance?”

  If the answer was yes, I would be competing against his second-chance story. I had to prove I was worthy of winning this whole thing, on my own. I probably shouldn’t have asked and shouldn’t know. I needed to be smart and stay objective where Phoenix Steel was concerned.

  But those sexy brown eyes of his made me pause.

  I wasn’t that closed off.

  Music poured out of my pores because I felt everything so intensely.

  And then the sexiest man alive said, “I was a clean-cut TV actor and singer. But we were heavily supervised on our weekly show. I went out of control when I didn’t have handlers anymore.

  “But the only thing I ever actually loved in life was singing for people. I’d like to do that for a living again, instead of being considered the washout.”

  And there it was. His background outclassed mine, by tons. I had directors and voice coaches, but they weren’t professional grade with ties to music executives.

  It’s why I needed the show to prove myself—and why he didn’t need this as much. I had to win, so I decided to chance the topic and said, “Fair enough. I read something in the news years ago about your parents?”

  It had been big news at the time, but I wanted to hear the story directly from his lips.

  He sipped his water this time and said, “I divorced them when I was fourteen.”

  The food arrived and the waitress pushed a business card at Phoenix. It probably had her number on it, and I wasn’t jealous. I refused to react. Once she left, I scraped the plate as I cut my chicken sandwich and said, “Why?”

  I’d never gone a day without my parents. And not having them around when I was a teenager would have made some horrible dates—like when Tyler laughed at me for wearing lace and a long skirt for a dress to the dance—so much worse. They’d talk me back to normal, over popcorn.

  But Phoenix said, “They were living on my paycheck and spending it all away.”

  “Where did you live after that?”

  “The show had staff to watch out for me. My agent, Mark, shuffled me around. But when I had time off, I stayed with an aunt and uncle in Pittsburgh and hung out with my cousins.”

  “At least you had a place to go.” My parents wouldn’t take a dime of my money even if I shoved it in their account. I added ketchup to my plate and said, “I’m glad I had it different.”

  He fixed his plate too, then he asked, “Your church-going parents saved you?”

  “Don’t knock it,” I said and bit into my sandwich. For pub food, this wasn’t bad.

  He winked at me and said, “I’m not.”

  We both ate our dinner quickly. I hadn’t intended to eat much, but somehow the dinner made me relax and I wasn’t analyzing the notes I’d sung or the guy I was sitting across from.

  I was having a good time.

  But then a song started to play on the radio. The same one I’d sung on stage. I finished my last bite and I hoped the song was good luck. The judges had liked it. I waited for him to finish eating, and then I reached across the table like I would if he was a friend, and squeezed his hand. I instantly felt a spark as I said, “Tell you what, let’s make a bet.”

  I let him go quickly, but I could tell from that sparkle of curiosity in the look he gave me that he liked being dared. Maybe no one else ever dared him. If I survived this slight tremble that still ricocheted through me—not that I’d ever mention that to him—I’d test that theory out again. He leaned closer to me, and asked, “A bet?”

  A sing-off. Not that he knew that yet. I scooted closer and ignored the awareness of him in my skin and said, “Yes. If I win, you come to church with me some time.”

  He crossed his arms, which made his muscles hard, and then raised his eyebrow. “First you make the bet, and then you set the stakes, Carrigan.”

  “You can call me Maggie.”

  “Maggie.” He said it like my name meant something to him.

  I probably shouldn’t have let myself think that. I pointed toward the microphone on the stage and got back on topic. I said, “Right. We’ll sing right here, on that karaoke machine. Whoever gets the most applause wins.”

  “That’s it?” he said, like he’d already won. Then he leaned closer and I smelled his woodsy cologne as he said, “Your stakes are small.”

  Well, he did have name recognition. I gave him that. But then, surprise was all in my favor. I crossed my legs under the table and said, “It all depends. What happens if you win?”

  He stirred his straw in his iced water and a smile grew on his face when he said, “If I win, I get to kiss you.”

  The idea played across my mind like it had when I was a teenager, in love with a poster that I stared at for hours until I fell asleep. I even kissed my hand and pressed it to his picture every time I walked out of my room. But no … he was far too close. The heat in my face couldn’t be ignored. I shook my head, ignored the tingle on my lips, and said, “Nope, that’s not an option. I’m saving myself.”

  His gaze narrowed and he stared at me. Luckily, I was still wearing layers of clothes, but it didn’t feel like enough to stop his penetrating gaze. He asked, “For what?”

  The last thing he’d know was the truth. Music was my rebellion and I honestly believed that someday the right guy would show up. The one I’d been saving myself for. I said, “For … not a bar bet. Name something else.”

  He sat back and my heart drummed in time with the rhythm he tapped lightly on his cheek. If he called me a virgin, I might melt, and that wasn’t good. Finally he nodded and said, “Fair enough. If I win, you sing and record a duet with me.”

  Singing a song with him might be fun, and a small dream come true. So I jumped right to what I needed to know, “Where and when?”

  He placed his hands on the table as he said, “In my home. I have a studio. I’ll give you a copy you can use as a demo, free of charge.”

  “You’re on.” I said. I half wanted to lose this competition now, but I led him toward the stage. Recording a song with him might finally make me forget how obsessed I had been with him, for so long. I had read all the articles I could find about him, like some stalker might, for longer than any of my friends did.

  But when we hit the stage, I became Maggie Carrigan, the star that needed to break out of my life and shine. Singing was in my blood.

  We both had the crowd’s attention for our karaoke battle.

  3

  Phoenix

  On stage Maggie transformed. She wasn’t just the shy girl in all black clothes with the vocal cords of an angel.

  She was fierce and a firecracker.

  So I had to pull out all the stops to win.

  For my next song,
I picked my own one hit when I was part of the soon-to-be biggest band in the world.

  Then the crowd went insane and people all over the room were taking my picture.

  Maggie rolled her eyes and tried to win back the crowd, but they were mine now.

  I’d won our bet.

  As the song ended, the lights went out and we stepped off the stage. I paid for our dinner and we made our way out the side door. She elbowed me and said, “You sang your own song. That’s why you won.”

  The night air in the side street had a slight electric tinge to it. Or was it just my adrenaline that picked up steam again? I brushed my ribs like she’d hurt me when she hadn’t and said, “I won’t lie. You were more competition than I expected, so I took a shortcut.”

  Her eyes were wide as I called for my driver. She said, “Cheating should mean you forfeit—”

  “We’re recording a song together,” I said. The blue Toyota Rav 4 pulled up beside us. “It will be fun. And I’ll get you back to the hotel before your parents worry.”

  She tapped her shoulder and then hopped into the car with me and took out her phone to text. She said, “They are probably already worried, but you’re right. I’d love to sing with you.”

  She put the phone away and smiled.

  A few minutes later we were close to my house and recording studio. I said, “We’re supposed to move into the camp for contestants in the morning, so it’s our last night of freedom anyhow.”

  The driver pulled through my black gates and up past the sparse palm trees and the green grass front lawn of my estate in Beverly Hills.

  She glanced up at the glass and cement modern mansion I called home and walked with me to my door as she asked, “Is that where you live? And you still want to sing?”

  “I only ever felt alive on a stage.”

  “How do you afford this?”

  “I still write a lot of songs, and some A-listers have hit it big with my music.”

  I opened the door. The glass roof of the center part of the grand room made this place bright most days, but for now I flipped the lights on and said, “I was thinking we’ll keep it simple. Something we both know, like a Christmas song.”

  Without a word I directed her through double doors to the studio and she stared at all my equipment and recording booth.

  I glanced at her lips and wanted to know what she tasted like.

  For a moment I wasn’t sure what she’d do, but she rolled up her sleeves and put her phone on the mixer as she asked, “’O Holy Night’?”

  I held the door for the recording booth and she slipped past me. As the door closed I pointed to the instruments and said, “Perfect. Can you play?”

  “I’m on piano,” she said quickly, sitting down and adjusting her microphone to the right height.

  I picked up a simple guitar—the one I’d used when I first mastered the instrument on my teenage TV show—and put it around my neck. For once it didn’t strangle me.

  “I’ll add guitar,” I said.

  She strummed a few keys like she was learning my piano and said, “A demo with you will probably be good to have up my sleeve.”

  “I’ll make a few copies,” I said, and that adrenaline high I’d been on all night drove me to play a few notes on the guitar. “And you can email me for any changes you’d make.”

  This was the first time I’d even tried to record anything in over a year for myself, not that I’d tell Maggie. Instead I picked up the melody and asked, “How’s this?”

  “Lower the bass,” she said quickly.

  I followed her orders and her piano notes fell in tune. Then she belted out the first line of the classic song: O holy night! The stars are brightly shining …

  I jumped in and sang the refrain with her, then took the second verse.

  It took only a few minutes to finish, and in one take. I turned off the recorder and motioned toward the studio.

  “That was fun,” I said. “Let’s mix it.”

  She followed me, making the air smell sweeter, and took a seat right next to me as we cleaned up the recording and added a few tracks we selected for the beats. Once we were finished, I hit play, and she smiled and batted her eyes at me as she said, “I love this.”

  I had so much energy I was tapping the desk like a drum. I hit the button and said, “Then let’s finalize it and we’ll sign releases so we can both do whatever we want with the demos.”

  She sat back and then got up, and opened the mini fridge, grabbing a water. “Awesome,” she said. “I’d like my copy as soon as possible.”

  I airdropped it to her and then asked, “Would you mind if I send this to my agent so he knows I’m actually recording again?”

  She shrugged and finished her water. “Go ahead.”

  Then she signed the paper that said we were both freeing each other from suit for using the songs publicly.

  “You haven’t been recording?” she asked.

  I airdropped the file to Mark, my agent, and said, “I’ve been at a crossroads, to be honest.”

  She folded her copy of the release into her pocket. Then she pressed her arm into mine and folded her hands on the table.

  “What’s going on in your head?” she asked.

  Words I hadn’t expected to say to anyone out loud came out of my mouth. “I don’t know who I am without singing. Mark suggested I go on the show so I’d get my face back out there for music executives to see.”

  She pressed her lips together and her blonde hair fell forward, blocking her face, as she said, “I’m here for my first big break. I can’t live in my parents’ basement apartment anymore.”

  She smoothed her hair and took a rubber band out of her back pocket and pulled it back in a ponytail.

  Part of me wondered what else she had hidden on her—including her figure, which was probably gorgeous. I felt my cheeks heat up and said, “I hadn’t meant to tell you about my plans with Mark. It just came out because I trust you.”

  She pressed her hand to my face like she was studying me and asked, “Why?”

  I didn’t dare touch her. I might frighten her away.

  I said, “Because the muse is slipping away, and I can’t let my past destroy me.”

  She stood and her thumb brushed against my chin. She said, “Tell you what, let’s do another song.”

  The pulse in my veins quickened. I pursed my lips because I didn’t understand. “What?”

  She took my hand and pulled me up as she said, “Come. ‘Silent Night’ is my favorite Christmas song.”

  I held onto her hand and ignored the spark that rushed through me and said, “I have a fondness for ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.”

  She opened the door and shrugged like she was flirting. “We can sing both.”

  I probably made up the last bit in my mind. No way a good girl like her flirted with a man in his house in the middle of the night. I retook my seat near the guitar and said, “I should get you back to the hotel with your parents.”

  But she played the piano and I let my fingers follow. And then our lyrics blended and we sang again.

  As we finished, she jumped out of her chair and said, “Let’s mix these songs too.”

  I saw the brightness in her eyes and my own body reacted, but I put my hands in my pockets and asked, “Are you sure?”

  She held up one finger and curled it, calling me like a siren. She said, “It’s my life. So, yeah.”

  My last girlfriend had been a model. The one before had been an actress. Maybe I’d been spending too much time with people without a song in their heart.

  Or maybe it was just Maggie who made my heart sing again, but I wasn’t sure. I sat at the mixing table and said, “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

  She shook her head and started analyzing the beats like she was the one with music in her background. She said, “If a few Christmas songs bring you cheer then, yeah, it was fun. And I hope you don’t give up on music.”

  Her blonde hair framed her bl
ue eyes. I could see now that it had brown roots.

  So she dyed her hair. Maybe she wasn’t as naïve and innocent as she appeared, but either way I winked like I knew her secret and asked, “So you want me to win?”

  She snapped her fingers like she was declaring war and said, “No! You’re going down like the Titanic. But music is part of your soul. Don’t give up on yourself.”

  I relaxed next to her and drank from the water bottle she’d left for me. I said, “I am feeling better tonight.”

  She took my hand and curled it in hers as she said, “So let’s head in and record the rest of the Christmas album now.”

  My heart was almost bursting with everything that had happened tonight. I had won a spot on the show, recorded music for the first time in months, and met this sweetheart of a woman who continued to surprise me. I raised my eyebrows and asked, “What?”

  She gave that adorable over-the-shoulder smile of hers and said, “We’re already one-third done. Seven more songs and we’ll cut ourselves a merry little album.”

  Now that was a title, Merry Little Album. And it would prove to my agent that I was serious and back in action. But I asked, “You’re serious?”

  She laughed and the sound was infectious. Part of me wished I could record it and listen to her whenever when I was feeling low.

  “Why not?” she said. “Your studio is pretty awesome, and we can finish before we have to check in for training.”

  If we rushed. It was already one in the morning, but we could record all the rest of the songs within the hour. My skin had pins and needles of excitement, but I asked, “What about your parents?”

  She stopped at the desk, picked up her phone, typed and hit send as she said, “I don’t need their permission. I’m an adult now. And besides, they know that when I’m doing music, I can’t stop.”

  At least her parents trusted her. My own parents hadn’t been supportive—unless teaching addictive behavior counted. But I only said, “That’s good.”