Westside Series Box Set

by Monica Alexander

  After I made sure the clean-up process was under control, I told my team I was going back to the bus to do some work. I was halfway to the exit of the arena when I saw Van. He was slumped down on the floor backstage, leaning against the wall, his earbuds in his ears, his arms wrapped around his knees, and his gaze fixed on an unknown point on the floor while he nodded his head in time with whatever song he was listening to.

  Without realizing it, my heart started thumping rhythmically in my chest as I kept my focus locked on him, the memory the image elicited throwing me off. I hadn’t thought about that night in a long time, but suddenly I was right back there, four years earlier, when Westside was just starting out, and Van Salvatore wasn’t someone I had history with. He wasn’t even someone I knew.

  I’d heard his name before. He was one of the members of the new boy band that was opening for Sydney. It was the summer before my senior year of college, and I was interning on Syd’s promotions team. It was my first year on the road, since I’d spent the previous summer, when Syd wasn’t touring, working in the office, learning the business and feeling more than fortunate for the opportunity to work for a pop star who already had one successful album under her belt and another one in the works. It was a completely surreal experience.

  After a month on the road, I was feeling like a pro at my job and loving every second of it. That was when I met Van.

  Four Years Earlier

  I looked up from my clipboard to see a guy sitting on the floor. I recognized him as one of the members of Westside, but I didn’t remember his name. He had his arms wrapped around his knees, he was inhaling deep breaths, and his head was down. His right foot was nervously tapping against the cement floor.

  I didn’t have anywhere I needed to be immediately since Sydney had gone back to get her make-up touched up and relax before she went on stage in an hour. Westside was going on in about twenty minutes, which made it a little odd that this guy was sitting on the floor alone, far away from the entrance to the stage.

  Maybe that was the reason I walked over to him, or maybe it was just that he looked like he was going to be sick, but either way I didn’t like that he was by himself. Where were his bandmates? Probably getting ready to take the stage. But didn’t they realize that they were missing a key member?

  “Hey,” I said, a few seconds after I approached him and he hadn’t looked up.

  I watched him raise his head and meet my gaze, and I was almost immediately taken aback by how crystal clear his blue eyes were. I’d only ever seen him from afar when my boss, Laurie, had pointed out the guys when they’d arrived earlier in the day and told me their names, one by one. A different band had opened for Sydney for the first month of the tour, and Westside would be with us for the next three months.

  When I’d first seen him, I’d been too far away to notice the details of his features, but I saw now that his dark hair curled at the ends, and he had the chiseled features of a Greek god, only with fuller lips. He was strikingly beautiful. The only thing deterring from that beauty and at war with his dark features was the paleness of his face. He was as white as a sheet.

  I watched him swallow hard before he said, “Hi.”

  I squatted down so I was on the same level as him. “You okay?”

  His gaze locked on mine as he said, “Not really. I kind of feel like I might get sick.”

  I nodded. “That’s normal. You should throw up. Just get it over with.”

  He laughed and some of the color returned to his face. “I’m not sure I’d really feel better if I did that. No one wants to be the guy who puked.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I promised.

  He smiled and took a deep breath. I noticed his color coming back, and he was actually really tan, which only made him more attractive. I’d always been a sucker for guys like him, but I knew he couldn’t have been more than eighteen. He was just a baby.

  “Do you want me to get you a soda?” I asked him, wondering if some carbonation might settle his stomach.

  “I’m okay,” he said softly, taking another deep breath. Then he looked at me pointedly. “Do you think this was a mistake?”

  I frowned, not sure what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “I got in to Berkley. I was supposed to go there for four years, figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and then go to work like everyone else. I’m not really sure how I got here.”

  “How did you get here?” I asked him.

  He squinted at me. “I won a contest. My cousin wanted to be in a boy band, and he convinced me to try out with him. I think I might have been drunk when I agreed, but I did it anyway, and I made it all the way to the finals. They picked me to be in the band, and that was it. It all happened really fast, and I had to make a choice, so I deferred my acceptance, moved to L.A., started rehearsing, and now I’m supposed to go on stage in front of thousands of people and sing? It’s crazy, and I’m not sure I can do it.”

  “Yes, you can,” I said definitively, even though I had no idea if that was true or not. For all I knew, he’d get out there, freeze, and fail epically, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  He smirked at me, his mouth quirking up the tiniest bit at the corners. “You don’t know me, and you’re so sure I can do it?”

  I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Yes, because every day people get up on stages across the country and perform. Some are big stages, some are small, and I guarantee that ninety percent of the people on those stages are terrified for at least thirty seconds when they step in front of the crowd. But then they do what they’ve been doing forever, practicing and perfecting, and they’re okay. Just like you’ll be.”

  “But I haven’t been doing this forever,” he challenged. “I’ve only been doing it for six months.”

  “Can you sing?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Apparently, yes.”

  “And you remember the lyrics to the songs you’re supposed to sing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re fine. Just do your thing.

  He laughed. “Do my thing. Got it. Who are you anyway, and how do you know so much?”

  “My name’s Elisa Donovan, and I’m an intern for Sydney Chase, but I grew up around the industry. My dad is Cal Donovan. Unfortunately I didn’t get his musical talents, but I learned a few things from the time I spent backstage at his shows when I was growing up. And trust me when I tell you that you definitely wouldn’t be the first person to get sick before a show. It happens all the time.”

  “Cal Donovan? The bassist for Shadowmen?” he questioned.

  I grinned. “That one and only. And although he doesn’t really perform anymore, he’s been around musicians his whole life. He’s owned a studio in Pasadena for the past ten years, so he’s worked with a lot of different bands, and he’ll be the first to tell you that very few musicians are as confident as they seem.”

  “That’s good to know, I guess.”

  “You’re not alone,” I told him, making him smile.

  I didn’t readily tell many people who my dad was or that he’d hooked me up with my internship with his connections. I didn’t want people to think I had an easy way because of him. The truth was, I worked my ass off to make sure I fulfilled my responsibilities, and I never would have asked him to help me out if I knew I couldn’t do the job well. I just knew how competitive it was to even get a foot in the door, so I’d leaned on him to make a call to Katherine Baker, who had done PR for Shadowmen when she was first starting out in the industry. I’d actually already known her for about ten years when she hired me.

  But for some reason, I didn’t feel bad about telling this guy about one of the things I usually kept close to the vest. Maybe it was because he’d opened up to me. He’d told me things I had a feeling he hadn’t told many people, and I sort of felt like I could do the same – especially if it helped him.

  “Did your dad get nervous before shows?” he asked me.

  “H
e did. He always took two shots of Jack Daniels before he went on stage. I’m sure I could find some of that for you if you wanted.”

  He smiled. “Thanks for offering, but I think I’ll be alright. I’m Van, by the way. Van Salvatore,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Van Salvatore,” I told him as I shook his hand. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I will be. Thanks for talking me down. I needed it.”

  “Any time,” I told him as I stood up. I reached my hands out to help him to standing.

  “I guess I’d better head to the stage,” he said, his voice sounding shakier than it had a few minutes earlier.

  “You’ll be great,” I promised him.

  “Are you going to come watch? It might be nice to have a friendly face nearby.”

  How could I say no to that?

  “Definitely,” I told him and saw a grin spread across his face.

  “Cool. I guess I’ll see you from the stage then.”

  “See you in a few,” I said as he started to walk away. “Hey Van?”

  He turned and looked back over his shoulder at me. “Yeah?”

  “This decision you made – it’s going end up being the best thing you’ve ever done. Trust me on that.”

  He smiled. “I think I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  I grinned at him as he turned back around and headed toward the stage, hoping he’d be okay, but I had a feeling he’d be fine. He might have been nervous, but with a face like that, he was made to be on stage. If he could sing, the fans were going to love him.

  Van still hadn’t looked up from where he was sitting on the floor listening to his iPod, and I took the opportunity to watch him. Four years was a long time, and he’d grown up so much since we’d first met. He looked different, but there was also a confidence he exuded that only came from years of experience. He was good at what he did, and the fans had loved him from the start. I hadn’t been wrong about that.

  And I knew he loved what he did. He’d told me that a year after we met. We’d become friends by that point, and we ran in some of the same circles, so I saw him pretty regularly. He was a good guy, fun to be around, shy at times and so sweet, but also funny and enthusiastic if you found him in the right mood. And he was definitely a flirt. I’d seen firsthand how he could easily charm the pants off of most women. It was one thing he didn’t have to work at, and he seemed to always have a different girl on his arm.

  Over Fourth of July that year, we were at the same beach party at Cam and Dillon’s house. Van came up to me with a wide grin on his face. He’d been messing around in the ocean, throwing a football with Phillip, and he’d walked up to where I was laying out with Sydney.

  His hair was dripping water all over my stomach as he cast a shadow with his broad shoulders, blocking out the sun. I’d looked up at him and asked him what the big idea was, but he’d just grinned at me and asked me if I remembered telling him that joining Westside was going to be the best thing he’d ever do. I told him I remembered, and his grin had gotten even bigger as he said, “You were so right.”

  That was the same night he’d kissed me for the first time, starting the whirlwind that our relationship ended up being. I knew when I agreed to date him that he wasn’t looking to be exclusive. He wasn’t in that place, and I told him I was okay with it. I wondered now what would have happened had I told him I wasn’t okay with it.

  A part of me knew the answer. We never would have dated. We would have stayed friends, and we probably would still be friends. And even though that might have been easier, I didn’t regret the year I dated him – except the end. We had too many good times to count. In the end, though, he hadn’t been the guy I’d wanted him to be. And maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected anything but what happened. I’d known what I was up against, and it was unfair to think he could be anything more than who he was.

  Maybe I missed his friendship, and maybe being around him again was harder than I thought it would be because those friendship feelings still lingered. Maybe that was what I’d been feeling. But could I be friends with him after what we’d been through? He wanted that, and maybe I could try. Maybe I could be his friend.

  With that thought in mind, I walked over to where he was sitting. He looked up when he saw my shoes in his peripheral vision, pulling an earbud out as he met my gaze..

  I smiled. “This scene looks familiar.”

  “I promise I’m not going to get sick,” he said. “I just needed some quiet time.”

  He knew exactly what I was talking about. Why did that give me the smallest of thrills?

  “So you found a wall to sit against when you have a perfectly good dressing room with a couch, Sour Patch Kids and Swedish Fish?” I teased him.

  He smiled. “You know my rider.”

  I shrugged. “Some things are hard to forget.”

  Van nodded knowingly. “They are. So what’s up?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m okay,” he told me, his intense blue-eyed gazed locked on mine.

  “I’m glad. Have a good show, okay?”

  “Are you going to watch?”

  I faltered for a second, his question taking me back four years. So much had changed since then, and because of that, such a simple question felt more loaded than I wanted to admit. I knew I wasn’t ready to watch him perform, though.

  I shook my head. “I can’t. I have too much work to do. The launch tomorrow is consuming most of my time right now.”

  He nodded. “That’s cool. Don’t work too hard.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, even though it was a lie. Brent and I were going to be up late.

  With that, I turned and headed toward the exit. I fought the urge to look back over my shoulder at Van, wondering if he was watching me walk away. A part of me didn’t want to know, because I wasn’t wholly convinced that what I’d been feeling for him had been lingering feelings of friendship. I was starting to think it was more than that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Elisa

  I was glad I didn’t see Van the next day. After the night before and my trip down memory lane I was feeling a little out of sorts, and I didn’t need any distractions. I needed to focus my full attention on work.

  The event we had planned to launch Westside’s first fragrance was going to be huge, so I spent all day at our hotel in New Orleans with Brent working on last minute preparations. There was a lot to consider, since we had two events happening simultaneously. We had to make sure each member of our team knew exactly what they were responsible for in order for the night run smoothly.

  Not only did we have a signing for an hour where the guys would autograph the actual bottles of perfume for the first few hundred fans who’d shown up at the venue to meet them, but there were also a hundred fans who’d get to attend the actual launch party where Westside would perform. Those fans had won a contest we’d held back in the fall and had been flown out to New Orleans for the launch, the private show, and the concert the next night. It was a huge deal from a publicity standpoint.

  During the party, each member of our team would be paired with a member of Westside, along with their security guys, to make sure they had everything they needed and weren’t hassled by the fans. Mostly the guys would be stationed around the party so the fans could mingle and talk to all of them, but we’d accompany them to the restroom, to get food or a drink, and even to take a break if they wanted one. They weren’t ever supposed to be alone.

  Brent was taking point for the night, since getting Westside their own perfume had been his project for the past year, but the logistics of the launch party were all on me, and if anything went wrong, I’d have to fix it. It was the biggest event I’d done for Westside since I’d been working for them. I’d helped plan and organize similar events for Sydney in the past, but for some reason, this seemed bigger. Coordinating screaming fans around four guys versus one g
irl was a completely different ballgame.

  Lucas and Leslie were in charge of meeting the fans who’d won tickets for the party at the airport and riding with them back to the hotel, where they were each given a Westside swag bag that Holly and Corinne had spent all day putting together.

  At five Brent and I headed over to the venue, a rooftop bar that had sweeping views of The French Quarter and the Mississippi River. Twinkle lights were strung all around the roof, and there were a good mix of couches and tables and chairs to give people options if they wanted to sit down. We’d be in a room downstairs for the first hour as the fans came in and met the band, while those with passes for the party would be escorted upstairs to mingle until the band finished the signing. Then the guys would make their entrance, sing three acoustic songs, and join the party.

  When we got to the venue, everything seemed in order, and the manager of the bar was more than accommodating with everything we’d asked for upfront, including the circular stage in the center of the roof that had to be constructed to our exact specifications. I was semi-holding my breath, wondering if the party might go off without a hitch, which would be an extreme feat.

  At six I walked over to the edge of the roof and looked down to see that the line that was a few hundred people deep when we’d arrived was now completely wrapped around the block. The band wouldn’t arrive until closer to six-thirty, and we’d start letting people in at seven. Not everyone was going to get in, and that sucked. I felt bad for the fans who’d made signs and were donning Westside t-shirts who wouldn’t get the chance to meet the band. This was a big deal, and some of them were going to be so disappointed.

  “Do you think we should tell the people at the back of the line that they probably won’t get in?” I asked Brent.