Not as long as the guys keep looking at me like I’m about to break. Therapy once a week is barely enough to keep them off my back.
Fuck, this is bullshit. But I have a job to do here. At least this is true. “We want to make music, period. We’re always going to be there, playing, whether the crowd is ten people or ten thousand.”
The guy nods, happy with the footage. “Thank you so much for coming in, Miles. It’s been great talking to you.”
He’s not selling that story. I shake his hand anyway.
The director calls cut. I shift off my stool and move away from the bright lights pointed at my eyes.
There isn’t much room in this tiny studio. The director and the journalist are on one side of the room, checking the footage on their digital video camera.
Tom is standing in the other, shooting me the evil eye. His dirty blond hair falls over his green eyes as he shakes his head. “Fuck, Miles. I thought you made my life difficult.”
“I showed up, didn’t I?”
He looks toward the director, then his gaze comes back to me. “Women hear you groaning about all that pain in your soul, and they fall in love with the idea of fixing the broken bad boy.”
“And?”
“Give them more to use. They’ll fucking enjoy it.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
He shoots me an obviously not that look.
“I’m not bullshitting our fans.”
“Yeah, it’s bullshit? You don’t write those miserable songs because there’s too much pain in your soul?” He mimes tearing his heart out of his chest. “You don’t stay up at night, staring out the tour bus window, wondering if some girl will ever see into your soul?”
“Not when I have you, Sticks.” I press my first two fingers together. “You and I are like this. You see every bit of pain in my soul.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, asshole.”
“You started it.”
“And I’m the immature one?”
I nod.
He stares back at me. “You want to be successful or not?”
“What do you call this?”
Tom huffs. “A start.” He runs a hand through his sandy hair. “You’ve got money. Good for you. Unless you’re gonna spread it around, lay off the sanctimonious bullshit. Me, Pete, and Drew have to eat.”
Tom hasn’t wanted for anything but fame, fans, and adoration in a long, long time.
He’s the one being an asshole.
Not that I expect anything else.
I shoot him my sweetest smile. “I’ll play up the broken bad boy thing if you skip sex for a month.”
He laughs. “You go first.”
He doesn’t stand a chance. He’s already thinking about inviting the makeup girl over. Hard to blame him. She’s hot. Red hair. Nice tits. A tight dress that shows off her cute ass.
But the way she’s looking at us—Ooooh, another rock star to fill my quota. It’s more bullshit.
Sudden fame is supposed to be fun.
Women throwing themselves at my feet is supposed to be fun.
But I didn’t get into writing songs for more bullshit.
The hair stylist, a short brunette in an equally tight dress, waves hello. Her pink lips curl into a smile.
Her eyes fix on mine.
They plead fuck me.
Okay. If she doesn’t ask about songs, I’ll fuck her.
I nod to Tom. “I’ll see you later.”
He nods back and goes to talk to the makeup girl.
I smile at the hair girl.
She comes up to me and motions to the journalist. “He’s a little… naïve.”
That’s enough of an invitation. “You want to go back to your place?”
She presses her lips together. “Okay.”
I slide my arm around her waist and lead her back to my motorcycle. Then she’s getting on behind me and I’m already done with thinking.
***
I get back to our place in the Hollywood Hills a few hours later. Tom isn’t back. No doubt he’s still with the makeup girl. The man enjoys his one-night stands.
He enjoys everything he does. He’s especially giddy about his newfound fame. It’s all he’s ever wanted: to feel important and adored. And the money—we are cleaning up. But then, I already have more than I’ll ever need.
I shower then plant in my room. There’s something nagging at my gut. Usually, that means I’m about to figure out the start of a song. But when I sit down at my desk and pull out my pen and paper nothing comes.
This is a recipe for picture perfect inspiration. Windows wide open to blue skies. Clean, empty room. And somebody is playing guitar down the hall. That must be Drew. If he’s playing, he’s in a good mood.
I close my eyes and push my thoughts out of my head. As much as Tom annoys me, the drummer is right. Women want to fall in love with the broken bad boy. My past speaks for itself. I hit every box on the damaged rock star checklist.
If I came forward with all that shit, I’d have women eating out of the palm of my hand.
We’d get tons of press.
Be twice as popular.
But there’s no fucking way.
It’s funny. I don’t want anyone to know about my past. But it’s there on the album. And on the one before that. Every single one of our songs, save the one Pete wrote, is about some ugly feeling I pulled from my gut.
My past is there for anyone who wants to look.
But no one does.
They sing the catchy chorus. They compliment the song. They make it into what they want it to mean. And that’s fine.
That’s my job.
But just once, I wish somebody would really get it.
I wish I could drop the bullshit cheeky answers.
I wish someone would understand me.
My shoulders shrug of their own accord. I have everything I want. I’m not getting hung up on the minor details.
I close my eyes and channel that feeling in my gut.
Slowly, I coax the song into my pen.
Onto the paper.
I’ve got three lines down when my door opens.
Drew takes a quick look on my bed, deems it worthy of his ass, and takes a seat. He’s got his guitar in his lap.
His dark eyes meet mine. He says nothing. Just nods.
His fingers move over the fretboard as he plays a riff. Then he’s moving into a chord progression, the start of one. It’s not quite there, but it’s got potential.
“It’s good,” I say.
He half-smiles. “I know.”
“We don’t need to write another song for six months, easy,” I say.
He motions to the pad of paper sitting on my desk.
Fair point. I take another look at the lyrics. They might work with this. “Play it again.”
He does.
It sounds just as good the second time.
The third time, I hum along to work out the melody of the verse.
Drew doesn’t offer commentary on the lyrics or the melody. He’s all guitar, all the time. As long as he gets total control of the guitar track, and gets solos in a handful of songs, he’s happy.
Well, happy is relative. Drew isn’t exactly a happy-go-lucky guy.
“What about a major-to-minor there?” I offer.
He shoots me an are you really giving me advice look, but he does try it. Then he tries something else.
Then something else.
That’s it.
We both know it.
I nod.
He starts from the top.
This time, I make notes of the cadence as I hum through the song. Usually, I’m strictly lyrics then music. But that doesn’t exactly endear me to the other guys in the band.
We go through it again. Again. Again.
Until there’s a knock on the door.
“You two are going to hurt my feelings.” Pete is standing in the doorframe. His black hair is the same shade as the makeup lining his eyes. And as
his shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
The guy has a look.
“Get your emo ass in here if you want to play,” I say.
“You’ve been checking out my ass?” He winks. “Don’t let Cindy know. She gets jealous.”
I guess that means they’re on. Lately, the two of them breakup and get back together every other week.
Drew attempts to hide the frustration creeping onto his face, but he fails miserably. As much as I love starting shit, I know better than to press this issue. Pete is madly in love with his high school sweetheart. Drew is adamantly against relationships of any kind—his certainly failed spectacularly enough.
I’m not about to tell our bassist he’s a poor sucker for believing in love. He knows my feelings on the subject. It blows up in his face often enough that he must feel it too.
Love destroys everything beautiful.
When it destroys him, I’ll be there, ready to write another fucking song.
That’s all the four of us know how to do. Shit goes bad, we play. That doesn’t always fix things, but it never hurts.
“Your girl gonna get jealous if you go to your brother’s party?” I tease.
“Which one? Tom throws a party every other night,” Pete says.
“This weekend,” I say.
Pete shrugs.
I look to Drew. “You bringing your friend… what’s her name? With the nice tits?” I remember Drew’s friend Kara vividly, but the guitarist is suffering from some delusion that the two of them will be flirty friends forever.
She’s cute, smart, sweet. She won’t have trouble finding someone to warm her bed. If it’s not him…
He’s going to be one miserable motherfucker if he has to watch her with someone else.
Drew glares. “Say that again, see what happens.”
Fuck, he makes this too easy. Riling up Drew is fun. And it’s for his own good. “She’s hot. If you don’t get some of that…” I shrug my shoulders as if to say I will.
I won’t.
But someone will.
He spent our entire tour texting her nonstop, but he can’t admit he’s into her.
Pete shoots me a grow up look.
I shrug back. What’s it hurt?
“You should clear your bed for her,” I say.
“You should fuck off,” Drew says.
“I’m hearing that a lot today,” I say.
Pete chuckles. “I wonder why.”
I ignore their attitude. My eyes meet Drew’s. I arch an eyebrow. “Is she coming?”
He glares. “With a friend. Don’t think about touching either of them.”
I won’t, but it’s fun pretending. “What if the friend is begging me to fulfill all her fantasies?”
“You want to work on this chord progression or not?” Drew asks.
I let it go.
I wait for Pete to grab his bass, then I settle in to my seat. This, us making music, is where we belong.
This is the only place where there’s no bullshit.
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
Miles
Fuck, I’m getting old.
There’s a raucous party downstairs and there are only two thoughts going through my head.
One is that’s too fucking loud.
The other…
Not going there.
I’ve been struggling with these lyrics all week. They’re not going to come to me today.
Might as well make someone come. I need out of my head.
I slide my notebook into a drawer, clear all the unnecessary shit off my bed, and head downstairs.
Tom really outdid himself. This party is in full swing. The music is pounding. Everywhere I look, people are getting hot and heavy.
Everywhere except the table in the corner. That’s top shelf shit and it’s going fast.
Someone brushes up against me. A woman. It’s not an accident. I don’t have to look at her to know that. I can tell from the way her hand curls around my forearm.
“Oh my God. Are you really Miles Webb?” She moves closer. “I’m a huge fan.”
I pull my eyes away from the booze to look at her. She’s a cute blond with her fake tits on full display.
She stares up into my eyes. “I don’t do threesomes.”
Damn. Does she really think I’m scouting for a third just because I’m no longer staring at her tits?
She does.
I shoot her a panty-melting look and let my voice drop to a seductive tone. I’m teasing her for that. “What if I invite Tom?”
Her expression gets hungry. Greedy. She giggles. “Not with other girls. But if you want to invite one of your bandmates…”
I don’t like the tone of her voice.
I don’t do the rock star fantasy thing. She can have sex with me. She can’t have sex with the hot guy she saw in a music video.
This is only happening if we’re both in it.
But fuck, that table in the corner is calling my name…
Better this than that.
I slide my arm around her waist and nod to the stairs. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Stephanie.”
I lead her through the crowd. Fuck knows I want this to be the kind of sex that gets me screaming her name.
This needs to be something real.
But from the way she’s pawing at my arm like I’m a fancy trophy…
Shit, I should invite Tom to watch. At least that would be interesting. But he’s lost in the fray.
Drew too. Not that he’d ever accept that invitation.
Pete’s always down to watch, or at least listen, when he and his girlfriend are in the off phase of their on/off drama shit.
But shit, they’re on right now.
And he’s off someplace.
Which means it’s just me and Stephanie.
Just our bodies.
I lead her into my room.
Onto my bed.
Out of her clothes.
She tugs my t-shirt over my head. Pulls my jeans and boxers to my feet. Then she’s dropping to her knees.
I let my thoughts slip away for long enough for it to feel good.
I slip on a condom, throw her onto the bed, get behind her.
But the way she’s grunting already, without me even touching her—
Fuck, this is bullshit.
My body is responding, but my head is off some other place, and it’s not coming back.
I’m tempted to call this off now, but I’m not going to be a selfish fuck.
I press my eyelids together and stop trying to push my thoughts away. It’s almost fucking working when the door opens.
That must be the no-longer-M.I.A. bassist.
Only it’s not.
It’s a woman. She’s staring.
Staring and blushing.
Stephanie shrieks. She scrambles off the bed and pulls a sheet over her chest.
The newcomer stares.
“Miles,” Stephanie whines. “You fucker! I told you I don’t do threesomes.”
It’s too bad. The way this woman’s brown eyes are lighting up as she stares is intriguing as all hell.
A hundred bucks says Stephanie will stick around if I ask this woman to watch.
Fuck, I’m considering it.
But the way she’s staring… she looks more dumbstruck than anything.
I raise a brow. “You mind?”
She barely manages to take her eyes off my cock for long enough to offer an apologetic look.
“I’m sorry.” She presses her lips together. “Excuse me. I thought this was the bathroom.”
Sure, she did. It’s a bad excuse, but if I’m going to have bullshit sex, I might as well do something fun. The clueless fan being punished by the big, bad rock star…
Could be interesting.
I nod to the hall. “Next door on the left.”
Her gaze goes back to my cock. Again, she blushes.
Again, she barely manages to pull her eyes away from my hard-on.
***
Twenty minutes later, I’m washed up and back to mingling. The Steele brothers are nowhere to be seen, but Drew’s on the couch. With his friend. The two of them are drunk off their asses, but given the way she’s cozying up next to him—well, I hope he took my advice about clearing his bed.
A redhead in a tight dress and high heels paws at my arm. She shoots me that please fulfill my rock star fantasies look.
I used to get off on that kind of adoration, but it doesn’t do shit for me anymore.
I play my part. I make a joke. I offer her a charming smile. But I’m not here.
My gaze shifts over the room.
There she is, the “shy” girl from upstairs.
She’s cute—chestnut hair, brown eyes, long legs. Fuck that’s a short skirt. And she’s wearing sneakers. Those legs are all her.
She looks as out of place as I feel. Not just her casual shoes, but the tortured expression on her face.
Her eyes meet mine and her cheeks turn red.
She’s picturing me naked.
And goddamn is it showing in the flush spreading over her chest.
I’m not about to let her get away with that Oops, I can’t believe I walked in on your tryst thing.
She forces her gaze to the floor, then makes her way through the crowd, to the kitchen.
I excuse myself and follow her.
“You’re not big on respecting people’s privacy, huh?” I ask.
She turns and gives me a long, slow once-over. This time, she manages to keep her gaze off my crotch.
She clears her throat as she makes eye contact. “No, I’m not big on alcohol. I can’t find anything else to drink.”
Sounds like Tom.
Sounds like bullshit too, but on the off chance it’s not…
Well, I’m not about to fuck with someone’s recovery.
I make a point of brushing the back of my hand against her shoulders as I pull open the fridge.
Her eyelids press together.
She takes her tongue between her teeth.
She wants me.
Badly.
I drop my voice to something low and seductive. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
She grabs a water bottle and holds it to her chest. Her eyes stay glued to mine. They’re going wide. She’s working something out.
Rock Star Romance Ultimate: Volume 1 Page 86