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

by Victoria Pinder

  5

  Phoenix

  The last thing I needed was a hard-on for the world to see.

  Attraction wasn’t supposed to steal my motivation.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Maggie, no matter what I tried, though I knew I needed to focus.

  To get my mind off the short blonde, I’d rewritten every 1950s classic for all eight of the contestants remaining. Maggie had her pop song. I had my classic rock with a slight country edge. And I’d tossed out the tweet, tweet, tweet refrain. Finnigan had his old school goth-rock version. Jane had her feminist rock sound. Wyatt and Rihanne had country versions of theirs. Sawyer had his hip hop and Joe went out with a power ballad.

  None of the selected songs had kept their classic version.

  Songwriting had always been rewarding to me, and my only way to get my voice out for the past few years.

  Tonight, the world not only heard my vocals, it heard people performing my arrangements, and seemingly in every tune.

  And sure, I could have let everyone fail, but at least now I’d go out showing the world my talent wasn’t all washed up.

  The first singer of the night passed me and patted me on the back.

  No sign of Maggie yet, but I met the young man’s handshake and said, “Joe, I had a hunch about you when we met the other day.”

  “Thanks, man,” he said and headed onto the stage.

  I should have been listening to Joe’s rendition of my composition.

  That had been my plan, but then Maggie came out.

  Dressed like she was ready to hit the Moulin Rouge stage tonight.

  She’d been the shy virgin who finalled. Now her natural beauty was gone in the red gloss of lipstick and unnatural color on her cheeks.

  Part of me wanted to scream at whoever did this to her.

  A small part of me whispered that I’d win tonight, but I shivered.

  I refused to be the heartless jerk again. It was one step closer to being the alcoholic who was kicked out of the band.

  I’d not go down that road again. Maggie deserved better. I didn’t want to upset her right now, but I pressed my hand against her bare arm and ignored the tremble her body sent through mine as I said, “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Don’t tell me.” She hopped in her thigh-high boots and said, “I’m just hoping the songs are old enough that my version works in spite of this outfit.”

  Not if she was breathless, it wouldn’t. But I held my unsolicited opinion. Even if backstage had sabotaged her, she had enough talent to wow the audience. I kissed her forehead, though the spark distracted me, and said, “I hope I’m wrong.”

  She glanced up and her blue eyes were softer as she said, “You were too nice to me and everyone else. Stop helping the competition.”

  Right. I was self-sabotaging. The stagehand pointed at me. That was my cue. My heart beat a mile a minute, but I went out on stage and the crowd cheered.

  Accolades like that, people clapping and shouting my name, hadn’t happened to me in a while. Memories of my past life when I appeared on stage to screaming twelve-year-old girls played like those old moments were alive again.

  I took my guitar—the one that had won me my first Grammy when I was eight—and strummed out a new sexed-up rock version of my song, “He rocks in the treetop …”

  I imagined hauling Maggie into a back room and watching her lose her mind to an orgasm as, instead of singing “tweet” to the crowd, I belted out “hey, hey, hey …”

  The female pop star from twenty years ago fanned herself and said to a live microphone, “Hot …”

  At least one person on the panel understood. I continued to rock out my new version, where rocking robin was a euphemism today’s teens understood. “Rockin’ Robin… hey, hey, hey.”

  The last note played and I put my guitar down, and realized I hadn’t lost the bulge in my pants entirely.

  The image of Maggie and her kiss from the other night never left me, even as all three judges stood up and cheered with the crowd.

  Tonight was mine. I knew it. The older British judge was the first to ask, “How in the world did you change this beloved old song this much?”

  Right. My heart was almost able to handle the adrenaline coursing through me as I said to the cameras, “I have always loved composing and arranging. I just hope the crowd loves my new, slightly sultry version, where I see a robin as more of a euphemism.”

  The crowd screamed again.

  I knew I had this round won.

  The pop star then said, “Before you go, Phoenix, the fans at home will want you to kiss the camera for them.”

  I stopped. The New Year’s special when I was seven and stayed up to host the ball drop had become a viral sensation. My cheeks heated as I said, “I’ve not done that in fifteen years.”

  She gave me a cocky look and said, “Come on now.”

  Anything to win. I kissed the camera and gave it a wink, this time as an adult. I pointed at the pop sensation when I said, “That is for you …”

  Then I strutted off stage.

  The emcee was announcing the next performer that was to go on stage. I passed the all-country girl and said, “Rihanne, break a leg.”

  She tipped her cowboy hat at me and said, “Thanks for your help, Phoenix.”

  “Not a problem,” I said and headed into the after-performance studio.

  From now on, though, I needed to ensure I won, and only me. No more destroying my own chances to somehow wash away my mistakes.

  The host interviewed me about my performance, and I was smiling and mostly talking about how everyone needed to vote for me.

  After that I heard the end of Rihanne’s song, but I met the blue-eyed gaze of my siren. Instead of going to the wait room, I doubled back. She was fidgeting in her tight outfit. But she pressed her hand to mine and I had goosebumps when she said, “You were great out there.”

  Rihanne headed toward the booth I had just vacated. I didn’t budge from Maggie’s side as I said, “Thanks. Is it Jane’s turn now?”

  She trembled a little. “Yes, then me.”

  “Are you sure you want to wear this?”

  “I want to win.”

  A singer needs to control his or her voice, and she was obviously having trouble. But I hugged her and didn’t care that the crew saw me when I kissed her forehead. I said, “Ignore me. I don’t want to distract you.”

  She placed her hand on my chest and my heart fluttered from her simple touch while she said, “Yes you do. And it’s working”

  I held on a little too long and said, “Look, Mark texted something about the Christmas songs I sent over, but I’ve not read it yet. Come find me in the contestant wait room when you’re done.”

  Jane finished her rock girl performance and the lights were starting to flicker, Maggie’s cue. She widened her stance as she said, “Maybe. If I have time.”

  “Break a leg,” I called out to her as she strutted onto the stage.

  Wardrobe had worked too fast on her transformation. Her walk seemed unnatural. I headed into the wait room and took a water from Finnigan. Then I joined him, Sawyer and Joe on the guys’ couch where we had a better view of the stage.

  Maggie’s voice was breathy at the beginning when she sang, “Well mama, he done told me …”

  My mind raced. She’d had perfect pitch when we sang together. And then I saw her waist.

  I knew it. Her clothes pinched away her power. That was likely the cause of her new breathiness.

  The judges clapped and one said, “That was powerful and so different.”

  Maggie smiled and said, “To be honest, I’d never heard the original.”

  “Seriously?” the British judge asked, like he was mocking her.

  She nodded to the cameras and her hair shook. “And I worked all night to ensure the song was ready… Phoenix helped me.”

  The pop star then said, “Rumor backstage is that you and he are doing more than just writing music.”

&nbs
p; Maggie’s face turned red and she glanced at the stage and not the cameras as she said, “There is no time for anything else.”

  She seemed guilty and the pop star motioned with her head as she said, “Honey, there is always time for romance.”

  “I’m here to win.”

  “Not with that pitch,” the British judge quipped.

  Her shoulders slumped and she headed off stage.

  My heart beat faster as I waited for her to come in the door.

  She finished her after-performance interview and plea for votes and headed into the wait room as Wyatt finished out the night with his country music.

  I jumped off the guys’ couch and greeted her at the door as she said, “They hated me.”

  I hugged her and confirmed my suspicion. Her outfit was too tight. I rocked her and said, “No, they didn’t.”

  I felt her tears on my shirt as she said, “I won’t be shocked if—”

  I wiped her face and wished she hadn’t worn this over-dramatic stage makeup as I said, “Don’t say anything negative. Cameras are watching us in here. Let’s just cheer on Wyatt now.”

  Jane scooted over to let her sit next to her as she said, “I thought you were both amazing.”

  Maggie turned and held the other woman’s hand like they were friends now as she said, “Jane, you made your song country-rock glam. I was half terrified to go next.”

  Jane’s brown eyes assessed both of us as she said, “I’m doing my best here, same as you are.”

  “I guess,” Maggie said.

  I took my phone out and read a new message from Mark. The last thing I needed was for Maggie to get bad press because of me. She’d never talk to me then.

  But my hair stood on end as I read: If your girl keeps wearing clothes like that your likeability factor goes down. And she’ll lose. A good girl at your side helps repair your image. Don’t mess up your comeback.

  I forwarded the text to Maggie while her conversation with Jane lulled. As she read it, I asked, “Is this okay?”

  I won’t ever wear a corset again, she texted me back.

  At least she had a professional star-maker’s opinion now. She hadn’t wanted to listen to me.

  Wyatt’s song ended and the judges critiqued him.

  We all filed out to go back on stage in a few minutes. I pressed my hand on the small of Maggie’s back and as we turned a corner, I said, “Look, no matter what happens next, I want to talk to you, alone.”

  Her blue eyes were huge as she stared at me and asked, “Are we allowed to leave here?”

  There was a commercial break. We had a minute. I pointed to a closet and said, “Come with me.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. No one was paying attention to us. She nodded and we ducked inside the nearly pitch-black room.

  I could hardly see her, but I held her hand to my heart as she asked, “Where are we?”

  In a few minutes the judges would announce the lowest three. I clung to her and said, “I just wanted to be alone for a minute to say that meeting you changed me. I’ve had songs flowing through me that I’m having trouble getting the time to get down.”

  She cupped my face and said, “That’s great.”

  Honestly, she made the world better for me. I said, “I already sold two more songs to Indigo 5.”

  She bounced on her feet and her smile somehow made the dark room brighter. “So you won’t mind when I win.”

  I kissed her hand and wished I could kiss her. But her stage makeup would show on me, so I held back the urge and said, “That won’t happen. But I keep seeing that you’re important to me.”

  “Me?” she asked, and her new fake lashes batted.

  I hoped I was wrong, but I had a bad hunch. Hair and makeup had sabotaged my gem. I said, “While I want to win, I want you with me when it happens.”

  The music grew louder. Commercials were ending and she patted my shoulder and said, “We should get back out there.”

  This could be the last time. Her lipstick might stain but I didn’t care. I said, “We probably should, but first I want to do this.”

  And then I claimed her lips.

  She wanted me, too. Her hands hung onto my shoulders as she stood on her toes and her lips met my own desires. A second later she went back down on her heels and said, “We should …”

  “We should,” I repeated and kissed her again.

  It was like this might be the last time and I needed to have her.

  My body ached to claim every morsel of her, but the music grew louder. I stepped back and opened the door.

  If I was right, she needed to step up her game. I asked, “Are you wearing a corset?”

  “Yeah,” she said and walked back to her place in line beside me.

  I massaged her back and said, “That’s worse than tight, and that’s why you’re breathy.”

  “The designers said this new look would help me,” she said, and wiped her lipstick from my face.

  I stopped her. “How many girls do you know who dream of wearing corsets?”

  “None.”

  Her lipstick traces would only enhance my persona, but it might hurt her, especially in that outfit. I said, “You can’t let the backstage people destroy your voice.”

  “I should have listened to my gut,” she said, with her hands on her hips.

  The judges were talking to the crowd. We only had minutes and my heart beat in tune with the stage music as I said, “I shouldn’t have said anything and just let you continue like this, but that wouldn’t be right. And I need to win fair and square.”

  “You have a sense of honor?” she asked. Her eyes were huge.

  Maybe I could help her stay one more week. Reality shows loved drama and having Maggie as my girl would probably mean higher ratings. I understood TV and so did the judges. So I took her hand and said, “Don’t tell anyone. I am a bad boy, remember.”

  The judges were calling the performers out as she asked, “What happened to your parents after you divorced them?”

  “Does it matter?” I asked. It was almost our turn to go out.

  She swayed on her feet. “No, but I was always curious.”

  “My cousins were almost normal. It was nice to be around them.”

  As the lights focused on us, I kissed her for the crowd and judges to see. Mark might have said her outfit would bring down my chances of reformation, but it didn’t matter. I wanted her, and I held her hand and we walked on stage as the crowd went wild.

  6

  Maggie

  Maybe I was a fool.

  I listed the reasons in my head.

  I was his backup plan for fixing his bad boy image.

  Phoenix made my head spin.

  Falling for him seriously would be stupid.

  My skin still had tingles and my lips still ached from his kiss.

  The closet was a mistake.

  I knew it, but I went anyhow. And now here I was, holding his hand.

  If I kept this up, the crowd would turn on me. I’d not wow people with my voice if all they talked about was my horrible clothes and my hooking up with Phoenix.

  And then the host stalked past us singers in line as he said, “Tomorrow night these three singers will perform their hearts out.”

  “I’m scared,” I whispered, once he’d passed and I knew the camera was off us for ten seconds.

  Phoenix squeezed my hand in sympathy and said, “Just smile. Whoever it is has 24 hours to retool their performance.”

  Right. He thought I was one of them. And I couldn’t quite breathe. I scooted closer to him so I could smell his cologne. Somehow it helped me relax. I said, “I shouldn’t have let wardrobe talk me into this thing.”

  He held my hand to his chest for a moment and said, “You’ll be fine.”

  The host turned suddenly and I froze, like I wanted to play dead. But then he said, “Joe, you’re in the bottom three.”

  So Phoenix was fine, since Joe was in the rock category like he was.

 
I glanced to my side, and suddenly the host clapped Phoenix on the back like they were friends or something and asked, “Phoenix, is there something going on with Maggie here?”

  Phoenix’s gaze made me melt when he said, “Maggie is my muse as well as the most competitive person on the stage.”

  My heart raced like I was sprinting around a racetrack right now. My parents would have heard him. The host asked, “Your muse?”

  Phoenix’s brown eyes made my insides soft like butter when he said, “Her beauty and her hypnotic voice have inspired some melodies.”

  No, no, no. If I went home now I’d hate myself. He was making me an extension of his story. How did I lose my gumption this fast? Over a teenage crush who, for all I knew, really saw me as competition too?

  I wasn’t just a way to fix his image.

  He shouldn’t even be here. He’d had his chance. This was mine. Besides, maybe everything that had happened between us was a lie. I wanted to take my hand back from him, but the host was asking Phoenix, “And what happens when one of you goes home?”

  Then I lost him forever.

  This talk about me being his muse was all for his selfish reasons. I wasn’t born yesterday. I’d lost my chance all over a few backstage kisses.

  How stupid was I?

  Phoenix said, “We’ll figure it out. First I’ll win and then I’ll find out what happened to my muse.”

  “Or I win and he goes to cry in his mansion,” I interjected.

  It’s a man’s world and there were serious guy overtones to what he’d said. If I was important to him, he’d have told me first, right?

  The host bought it as he said, “Wow that’s interesting.”

  “I’m here to win,” I said. But my treacherous soul wanted to believe those soft-spoken words of his behind the scenes, which couldn’t possibly be true.

  Then the host said the obvious, “Well, Phoenix, the crowd and judges love you. You’re safe.”

  Phoenix squeezed my hand like he’d been afraid.

  But this was crystal clear to me. I was in big, big trouble. The host turned dramatically toward me and my stomach twisted when he said, “Maggie, your turn.”

  “Hi,” I breathed out. It was all I could manage to say to his drama.