by E. M. Moore
“I have a good feeling about you, Aisley. Someone like you is going to take this job and run with it. There are positions here at Big City for people as driven as you. We all have to start somewhere.”
My stomach flops over like a dead fish as shame fills me. I make my lips curve into a smile even though I don’t feel it inside. Mr. Nolan’s right. Did I really think I was going to walk in here and get a job writing songs from the get-go? This is probably how everyone starts. The bottom. The peon jobs no one else wants.
Besides, if I don’t take this job, what else am I going to do during the summer? Heather’s going on vacation for most of it, so I was just going to be slumming it at home by myself anyway. If I do a good job for Mr. Nolan, he could hire me permanently. He said so himself. All I need to do is leave a good impression.
I can do that.
“This sounds…great, Sir. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Excellent, Aisley. I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
I start to stand, but he holds his hand up.
“One more thing if you don’t mind.” He lowers his voice. “Like I said, we’re a little worried about the band’s work ethic right now. It would be really helpful if you gave me daily check-ins to start. If things start picking up on the album front, we might be able to move it to weekly, but daily should do at the beginning.”
Wow. These guys must really be on thin ice.
On the other hand, if they just did their fucking job, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
“I can do that,” I say, forcing a smile even though my stomach churns. So, I’ll basically be a glorified babysitter this summer. That’s what I’m hearing.
I know the twisting in my stomach right now is just sour grapes, but I can’t help it. This band is there. They have their dream, while some of us—ahem, me—are no where near it. Why are they letting it slip out of their hands? Labels don’t just let artists disregard contracts.
Mr. Nolan stands. “Check your folder. I think you’ll find that you’re getting paid quite generously. Plus, there’s a plane ticket in there for you for tomorrow. On the house, of course.”
My eyebrows raise. “Tomorrow?”
“We don’t like to sit on things in this business, Aisley. Time is money.”
“Right,” I say. “Sure. Of course.” I realize I’m rambling, so I cut myself off with a “I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow.”
I shake hands with Mr. Nolan and then step out of the office, acutely aware that he can still see me as I walk down the hallway. I try to keep my calm, complacent face on, but as soon as I turn the corner, the facade drops. Sure, this is a start, but it isn’t what I thought I’d been called back for when I stepped through the glass front doors earlier.
Whyyy? I call out dramatically in my head. Now I’ll have to explain to everyone that I’m not going to be the song writer I thought I was going to be this morning. This whole thing was stupid, and I’m an idiot for getting my hopes up.
I blow out a breath. On a positive note, I’ll be staying at a beach house. I open the folder and take a look at the papers in the file. I smile at the salary which is clearly spelled out on the following page after all my assistant duties. Tucked in the back is the plane ticket. I pull it out, expecting to see LAX as the airport code to where I’m headed tomorrow. Los Angeles, baby! Butterflies start in my stomach. I’ve always wanted to go there. But when I look down, I don’t recognize the three-letter acronym.
As soon as I get off the elevator and exit the building, I lean against the exterior and take my phone out to Google ORF. Where the hell is ORF?
I blink down at the screen and sigh. Seriously? Norfolk, Virginia?
Who is this fucking band?
2
It turns out the band’s name was buried in the paperwork. Or, you know, right on the first page in front of my face, but I was too busy reading the word Assistant and feeling like my dreams were moving further and further out of reach.
As only my best friend Heather could do, she put everything into perspective for me. I smile now while flying twenty-three thousand feet in the air, remembering her gigantic hug and send off. They want you to be their assistant? You’re going to go there and be their fucking assistant. You’re going to amaze them with your assisting skills until they grovel at your feet and beg you to wow them with your songs. That’s it, Aisley. Play their game until you show them who you are.
She’s right, of course. She usually is, though I never tell her that. I don’t have to say it in words. She knows how I feel about her.
I stare down at the album cover on my phone. As soon as I saw the name The Rowdy Rogues, I went to iTunes and downloaded their first album. The album cover interests me. It’s the guys—four of them—standing in front of a staticky shamrock, green and black, both stark and faded colors mixing. The art itself is a little dark, so it’s impossible to see the guys, except for the fact that they look like the typical rock and roll type. There are tattoos and leather. Studded belts and ripped jeans.
Basically, the kind of guys that make my heart skip a beat and drool start to gather at the corners of my lips.
I press play on the first track. Immediately, the sweet tenor of the lead singer comes on. My mouth parts, and I close my eyes while I listen. The song stays low and steady for a moment, and then bam. The drums, guitar, and bass kick in, forcing the song in my face, and before I know it, I’m smiling. When they get to the chorus, I suck in a breath. I know this song. I just didn’t know I knew it, and the band’s name didn’t ring a bell when I first read it either.
I lean my head against the plane. I lucked out with the window seat, so I stare out over the clouds. Their music is the perfect backdrop. Their album takes me on a journey I don’t want to veer away from. By the time the last note hits my ears, I’m already on Google, searching the shit out of them. There isn’t much. Just what the record company puts out, and that’s just a short bio and the album with the names of the songs on it. I don’t even see any verified personal social media profiles, just one profile for the band itself that I can tell isn’t managed by them at all. There are some fan groups and chatter about them online, but that’s it. And Mr. Nolan is right about one thing, they all want the second album.
Hell, I want the second album.
I start the album again, this time paying particular attention to the lyrics. God, they’re freaking good. I bite my lip, trying to imagine the lead singer’s voice singing my songs. My style could totally work for them, especially their less rock heavy stuff. Their slower songs, the ones I can feel their passion spilling from their instruments. That’s what I want to sound like.
By the time the plane lands, I’m suddenly a lot more optimistic than I thought I would be. I immediately text Heather and tell her to check out The Rowdy Rogues. The link I sent her brings up their album cover. Her only response is They’re hot. Oh, fuck. Don’t get pregnant.
I shake my head and laugh. I love that my best friend is hilarious, but I wish she loved music as much as me. I mean, she likes music as much as the next person, but we can’t talk about it on a deeper level. Her eyes start to glaze over. Then again, mine do the same thing when she starts to talk science. Yep. My best friend is a science nerd. She loves rocks. Literally, rocks. Not rock and roll. Rocks, the kind you skip over water. She’s going to be a geologist.
Don’t even get me started on how we became best friends. It’s ridiculous.
I step off the plane and head toward baggage claim. When I get there, I see a guy in a black suit who’s holding a sign with my name on it. Ooh, fancy. I give him a short wave. “Hey, I’m Aisley.”
He drops the sign to his side and smiles. “Excellent. Let me help you get your bags.” He takes off for the conveyor belt automatically, and I follow behind him, tugging my carry-on up onto my shoulders.
“There it is,” I say, pointing to the red luggage I borrowed from my parents. I don’t know anyone my age who has luggage yet. It’s pretty bland for my tast
e, but it had to do, especially because this trip is last-minute.
He easily plucks it off the belt and sets it beside him. He stays staring at the belt. “Is that one yours too?” he asks, staring at another red bag that’s similar to the one he’s picked up.
I shake my head. “No, just the one.”
He turns toward me, forehead full of lines. “This is it?” he asks, pointing at the one lonely piece of luggage next to him.
When I nod, he turns and walks away. He’s very formal and business-like. Very un-rock and roll, if you ask me. I have to hurry to catch up to him because of his long strides. “Have you been working for the record company long?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t work for Big City. I work directly for the band.”
“Oh, cool.” When he pushes the airport doors open, the heat hits me like I walked into a furnace. I immediately pinch my shirt and fan it out. It’s freaking stifling out here. “How are they?”
We walk up to a sleek black SUV. “Ma’am?”
I stand there awkwardly. “I mean, I’m just wondering if they’re nice guys or…?” Are they just extremely good looking guys who can sing and play a pants off a girl?
He places my luggage in the back of the SUV and shuts the door. “I think they’re pretty normal twenty something guys.”
Well, that tells me exactly nothing. I frown at his back as he goes to the side of the car and opens the back door. I glance around him at the front of the car, but he gestures with his hand for me to get in the back, so I step inside.
The vehicle is freaking huge. It’s not a normal SUV. The back is set up like a limo. There’s a bench seat in the far back and then one closest to the front of the vehicle but facing the backseat. I climb in and sit on the plush leather, running my hand over the seats. There are glasses on the sides, sitting in neat little cupholders. When the driver gets in behind the wheel, he tells me to get comfortable because we have about an hour and a half drive.
I collapse into the seat. How could I not be comfortable? This is amazing. But aside from the fancy car, my stomach churns. I hadn’t expected for the drive to take this long and now that I’ve heard what the guys can do, I’m super nervous about meeting them. I bite my lip and look through the square hole that separates the front of the SUV from the back. “What’s your name anyway?” I ask.
“Rex,” he says, putting on his blinker to pull away from the curb.
“How long have you worked for the band?”
“A couple of years,” he says, shrugging, obviously not as interested in talking about the band as I am.
I look at him through the rearview mirror. He’s wearing dark shades and he’s pretty buff too. It wouldn’t shock me to learn that he’s also a member of their security team. He certainly looks like he could frighten people off. Plus, with a name like Rex, it fits.
I open my mouth to say something else when he pushes a button and suddenly, there’s a divider sliding into place, separating him from me. I deflate when I realize I’m relegated to the back of the vehicle by myself. I talk when I get nervous, so maybe Rex just wanted to shut me up, but still, that was pretty freaking rude.
Instead of talking, I scoot over to the side of the SUV and stare out the window to see the sights go by. After some Googling last night, I figured out that the guys were most likely staying in the Outer Banks. It was the only place I could see them having a beach house big enough to fit us all, and one that more than likely had a recording studio in it as well.
When I lean my elbow down on the door with a sigh, I accidentally hit something and a TV in the corner turns on. I almost shriek when the screen lights up the interior and there’s a girl hysterically laughing on whatever show starts playing. I hold my hand to my heart to try to steady my heart rate. Jesus. Heart attack time.
After that, I start snooping some more to see what other cool stuff this vehicle has inside it. In some lower cupboards on the side, there’s a few bottles of amber colored liquor. I open it up and sniff it. It’s definitely not the cheap ass rum and vodka Heather and I partake in at college. Whatever it is, it’s real shit. Whiskey maybe.
I also find the controls for the radio. After flipping through a few local channels, I can’t figure out how to turn on the satellite radio to find something I know I’ll like, so I end up shutting it off.
There’s only one more button I haven’t pushed yet. I push it and find that it’s not actually a button, it’s more like a toggle switch. I push it forward and the divider that Rex put up starts to slowly pull away. I immediately stop.
“What’s she like?” I hear.
I freeze. There’s no denying the tenor in that voice. I’ve just listened to it through my earbuds all flight. It’s the lead singer of The Rowdy Rogues.
“Typical twenty-something girl, I’d say,” Rex says.
I smile at that. That was the same non-committal answer I got.
“Seriously?” the lead singer snaps. I read online that his name is Ian McGrath. The name suits him, like he was born to be a rockstar and nothing else.
“What’s her name?” a different voice asks. “Is she hot?”
Before Rex can answer, Ian growls, “It doesn’t fucking matter what her name is or what she fucking looks like. Christ, Sean. We have more important things to worry about.”
I grit my teeth and lean forward. Ouch. Someone’s fucking testy.
“I only saw her for a minute or so,” Rex says. I can’t see him from where I’m sitting. I can only hear him. He’s obviously using Bluetooth to talk to them, which means that whatever happens on either side of the divider is completely soundproof when the divider is in place. No wonder why he put it up. He didn’t want me to hear this.
“You’re no fucking help,” Ian says with a sigh.
“We’ll just have to see for ourselves,” another voice says.
My brows pull in. I didn’t expect them to be as interested in me as I am in them. Honestly, I kind of thought I’d be background noise all summer.
“Still waiting to hear how hot she is.” the same guy who asked if I was hot before says.
My mouth quirks up into a smile. I admit, I have a thing for guys in bands. Singers, guitarists, bassists, drummers, it doesn’t matter. People who are musically inclined turn me on like nothing else. And these guys? Their music already made my toes curl.
“I’m in my mid-forties. I’m pretty sure I’d go to jail if I commented on the appearance of someone half my age.”
“Just a hint,” the guy says, not letting Rex off the hook.
I bite my lip. I know I should close the divider. I’m eavesdropping right now, and that’s not cool for anyone to do. I’m barging in on their privacy, but I also can’t help myself either. I’m intrigued by them. Why isn’t there much information about them online when they write an album like that? They seem to be grassroots still, but the fans they do have are rabid.
“Who fucking cares?” another voice says. “That’s not what we’re here for.”
“Christ, Sean. Get fucking laid already,” Ian says, and I decide I like him better when he’s singing.
There’s a growl over the phone that makes my eyebrows raise.
Mr. Nolan was right. They don’t seem to be getting along all that well.
“We have to go,” Ian says.
“Roger that,” Rex answers. He hits a button on the steering wheel and utter silence descends from the front of the SUV now.
I quickly push the toggle switch back and the divider closes again with an almost silent hum. I blow out a breath, hoping I won’t be called out for eavesdropping on my first day. That wouldn’t be good at all.
3
Rex slows the car. I instantly straighten, thinking we must be getting closer to the house I’m going to be spending an undetermined amount of time in. All I see at first are two curving staircases that meet at a deck on an upper floor. The house is on stilts like most of the others around here.
I push the car door open and pract
ically fall out of the vehicle. It’s still hot out here, but there’s a salty breeze in the air that catches my hair and wraps it around my face. I tuck my strands behind my ear and gaze upward, using my hand to shield my eyes from the sunshine. The house is huge, at least three stories tall. It’s fenced in on all sides with a garage to the left. Beyond the house, I can hear the waves lapping at the shore. Even out front where I am, there’s evidence of the beach. There’s sand mixed in the grass and palm trees sprouting up here and there around the perfectly manicured lawn.
Rex stops when he sees that I’m already out of the car. He switches direction and goes to the back of the SUV and grabs my red bag out, motioning toward the steps as he drops it next to me. “They’re inside.”
Suddenly, I wish Mr. Nolan was here to introduce me to them. What am I going to say? Hey, what’s up? I’m your assistant. Do you want coffee? I imagine all five of us are going to have to get together to work out some sort of routine or schedule. With that thought, I walk up the cool, rounding stairs and knock on the front door. Below me, Rex is pulling the car around to the garage. I watch him until the SUV disappears and then knock on the door again, following it up with hitting the doorbell. I wait for a few more minutes, but still, no one comes.
Okay… Maybe they’re out back?
I drag my luggage back down the stairs and head toward the back of the house. I get to a door in the fence and try to open it, but it doesn’t budge. It must be locked from the other side. I stare up at the house, looking to see if I can find any signs of life in the windows. I know they knew I was coming because Rex was on the phone with them. Though, I suppose that didn’t mean they were at the house. They could be anywhere together.
I drag my red bag behind me through the grass to head to the other side of the house. There’s the same door on that side too, and it’s also locked. I jiggle the handle, but nothing gives. It’s solid and definitely doing what it’s meant to do—keep people out. Except, I’m not supposed to be out, I’m supposed to be in.