Groupie Love (A Rock Star Romance) (Love in Shades)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Groupie Love

  by

  Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Groupie Love

  Copyright © 2016 Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents appearing therein are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status of the various products referenced in this work

  Stories by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Esquire Girls Series

  Amber’s Story

  Up All Night (Amber – Book 1)

  In your Arms Tonight (Amber Book 2)

  Live for the Night (Amber Book 3)

  When the Night is Over (Amber Book 4) - (The conclusion to Amber’s story)

  Or get Amber’s full story, all in one boxed set: Amber Nights (Amber – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Madison’s Story

  Waiting, Always (Madison – Book 1)

  Yours Always (Madison – Book 2)

  Loving You Always (Madison – Book 3)

  Always & Forever (Madison – Book 4) – (The conclusion to Madison’s story)

  Or get Madison’s full story, all in one boxed set: For Madison, Always (Madison – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Ruthie’s Story

  Desire, Untamed (Ruthie – Book 1)

  Blinded by Desire (Ruthie – Book 2)

  Desire Ablaze (Ruthie – Book 3)

  Beyond Desire (Ruthie – Book 4) – (The conclusion to Ruthie’s story)

  Or get Ruthie’s full story, all in one boxed set: Ruthie’s Desire (Ruthie – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Hailey’s story

  Moment of Weakness (Hailey – Book 1)

  A Moment in Time (Hailey – Book 2)

  Beyond this Moment (Hailey – Book 3) – (The conclusion to Hailey’s story)

  Or get Hailey’s full story, all in one boxed set: Moments with Hailey – (Hailey – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Esquire HEAT Series

  A Very Eager Intern

  A Very Frustrated Attorney

  Standalone novels

  Matteo

  Beast

  Table of contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  A Very Eager Intern, A Novella (Limited Time Only)

  Coming tomorrow!

  Julia’s story…

  Click here to purchase your copy!

  Chapter 1

  Mackenzie

  Early June

  I cross my fingers behind my back as I slide the white envelope across the table to Willow and Julia. I’m too nervous, my hands are shaking too much for me to open it myself.

  Willow squeals as she grabs for it and tears it open.

  “Tell me! Tell me!” Julia demands excitedly as she wiggles in her chair and slams her fists into the varnished tabletop, causing wisps of her long blond hair to slide over her shoulders.

  In her excitement, she smacks into the chair of a mean-looking woman with penciled in eyebrows, gaudy fake jewelry, tacky hair extensions and a tan that I’d describe as more baked than bronzed. She looks like she made a wrong turn on her way to audition for the Jersey Shore and ended up here, at this bustling Starbucks only a few blocks from Times Square.

  And she has the attitude to match.

  “Hey! Watch it, you yuppie!” she hisses, snaring at Julia over her shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Julia mumbles insincerely as she adjusts her chair. Then, she lowers her voice. “Who the hell pissed in her venti, full-fat, lukewarm, no foam, decaf lattee today?”

  Willow scrunches her nose and furrows her eyebrows, her whole body rattling with laughter.

  I don’t know what I’d do without these girls. They have a way of lightening up even the tensest moments with their silliness. We all met at Bambina Ballet class when we were six years old and we’ve been inseparable ever since. We’ve stayed best friends even when Willow dropped ballet in favor of computer science and other nerdy pursuits during high school and when Julia moved to France for a spot as a corps dancer in the Opéra Nationale de Paris last summer. At this point, I’m not sure what it would take to tear our trio apart.

  That’s why hearing my friends’ laughter right now makes me feel sane – sort of like wrapping up in my favorite security blanket – even though my heart is running amuck in my chest. My entire future is riding on the words typed on the sheet of paper in that envelope.

  “Guys. Focus,” I say, drawing their attention back to the situation at hand.

  I’ve been dancing since I was a toddler. Ballet is my one true love. A ballerina is what I’ve wanted to be since I got my first pair of pointe slippers the day I turned three. And this letter either takes me one step closer or twelve steps further away from turning my passion into my profession.

  There is no backup plan. No Plan B. There’s nothing to fall back on if this doesn’t work out. That’s why my fingers and toes are crossed that I get accepted into the Joffrey Academy of Dance.

  I’d stumbled out of bed at around 2 p.m. today, my head pounding as if there were a thousand tiny soldiers on foot drill in my brain. My hangover – and the night of mindless drinking games that created it – were immediately forgotten when I noticed the letter bearing Joffrey’s emblem sitting on the table in the foyer. I texted Julia and Willow and told them to meet me here a.s.a.p.

  They know how much this means to me.

  I wouldn’t be able to do this on my own. That’s why I’m thrilled that Julia suddenly showed up from Paris a few days ago to surprise us. And Willow was able to sneak out of the startup where she’s interning for just long enough to be with me as I open the letter.

  As the tension mounts, Julia squeezes my hand and Willow gives me a knowing smile. They both know the anxiety of waiting for that life-changing-for better-or-for-worse letter. Last year, I was the one holding Julia’s hand as she read her admission letter from the Opéra Nationale de Paris and three months ago, my arm was around Willow’s shoulder as she got the news that she’d been accepted for a summer internship at one of the hottest tech startups here in New York City.

  It’s got to be a ‘yes’. Please god – tell me they said ‘yes’.

  I grab onto the edge of my chair, my nails digging into the wood as Willow slides the folded page out of the envelope. “So…” I can’t help the expectancy in my voice as I stare at her.

  She unfolds the paper with trembling hands and her eyes dart down the page. Julia scoots closer, peering over Willow
’s shoulder. My heart stutters when I see Willow’s expression fall.

  Julia gasps sharply. “Oh no…” she mutters.

  The tears are heavy against my eyelids even before Willow’s gaze shifts up to look at me. I feel my stomach twisting and tightening.

  Julia’s chair grates loudly against the floor as she drags it close to me. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she whispers hoarsely as she wraps her arms around my shoulders and drops her head to the curve of my neck.

  Willow purses her lips and stares at me, her face full of sympathy as the tears pour down my cheeks. “This can’t be happening,” I mutter nearly shaking with disbelief.

  Willow shakes her head, her dark curls fluttering with the movement. “I’m sorry, Mac. Joffrey’s a ‘no’. You didn’t get into the program.”

  Chapter 2

  Mackenzie

  3 weeks later

  I slide the door open and step out onto the patio. The sun beats down on my skin from a perfectly blue California sky. A gust of tepid air rolls in from the Pacific, blowing my long chestnut hair into my face. I brush my hair back as my lungs fill with the salty air.

  I make a mental note to text Michael and thank him again for letting me stay at his Carbon Beach seaside villa for the summer (by the way, being an entertainment lawyer must pay my brother handsomely because this place is ah-mazing). He also helped me convince our up-tight mother that getting refused by the school of my dreams was devastating and that, instead of picking up some summer credits towards a Political Science or Economics major, I need time to recover and sunny California is the perfect place to do that.

  I’m still reeling from the whole situation. I was so sure that I’d get into the program. I guess that overconfidence made me complacent. I didn’t rehearse as much as I should have, I didn’t keep my body in perfect shape and I didn’t give my all at the audition for the admissions committee. I spent way too much time partying and hanging out with shallow guys who weren’t worth my time.

  But I won’t just bow out. I won’t simply exit, stage left. I plan to fight for my dream. When I apply again in the fall, I’ll be ready. I’m sure of it.

  I could blame my failure on the admissions committee; say that they were unfair. I could blame it on the fact that ‘Aunt Flo’ came with an awful, crampy vengeance on the morning of my auditions and had me almost doubling over in pain. Hell – I could blame it on my parents not giving me enough hugs as a child. But the truth is, my not getting into Joffrey is nobody’s fault but my own.

  When I was initially preparing my application just over a year ago, my ballet coach warned me that my performance could use some more work. “Your passion far exceeds your technique,” she had scolded in that haughty, aristocratic tone of hers. She’d suggested that I take some time to perfect my craft before applying to Joffrey. So, I convinced my grudging parents to let me take a gap year to focus on dancing. Although they would have both preferred that I jump on the track to law school and become a lawyer like my father and three siblings, I somehow convinced them to allow me to continue to pursue dancing…while they continued to foot the bill.

  But during my sabbatical, I was anything but focused. I allowed myself to become distracted. Partying, shopping and dating – in that order – were my priorities. And while I stumbled from distraction to distraction, living only in the moment, the last thing on my mind was working towards my future.

  So, that is how I ended up losing the thing I wanted most in the world, a spot at Joffrey’s world-class dance academy.

  I’ve never been a big fan of adulting, but I’ll tell ya this – watching the opportunity of a lifetime slip through your fingers has a way of sobering you up. Quick.

  Discipline will have to be my best friend this summer. I resolve to stick to my new regimen and keep from falling back into old patterns. My new routine is planned, printed and taped to the fridge. Wake up at 5:30 and down half liter of water. Jog along the beach at 6:15. A breakfast of yogurt, fruit and granola by 7:30. Then, yoga and meditation. If the weather isn’t too hot, I can rehearse on Michael’s patio until about 11:00 or 11:30 after stretching and warming up. Then, lunch – typically lean chicken or turkey with steamed vegetables or salad. Then, I go swimming for an hour or two but I have to hit up the dance studio in downtown L.A. by 2 p.m. I get home by 7:30 p.m., shower, ice my ankles, have a good, clean dinner and be in bed by 10:30.

  No refined sugar. No dairy. No bread.

  I considered cutting out pasta and alcohol too, but who am I kidding? I’m Italian.

  So, that’s the routine in a nutshell and I’m sticking to it.

  No distractions. No deviations.

  It’s around 9:15 on this beautiful Wednesday morning when I push up onto my toes en pointe, lifting my arms gracefully above my head until the tips of my fingers touch. My shoulders dip back and I angle my head to lengthen my neck. I twirl slowly to the melody on repeat in my mind as a light breeze blows in from the ocean, tickling my skin.

  This feels good. I feel good.

  I get lost in my movements, lost in the moment. It’s easy and for the first time in a long time, the weight of my failure isn’t pressing down on my shoulders, threating to crush my spirit completely. I feel serene but more determined than ever.

  People think that ballerinas are just cutesy girls who run around in fairy costumes, playing Tinkerbell all day. I think that’s just plain ignorance. Ballerinas are much more than pretty girls who love to twirl and tumble.

  Ballerinas are badass.

  Our muscles are strong enough to put most grown men to shame. We have a high threshold for pain. We’re more flexible than most people could even dream of.

  And ballerinas are disciplined. At least, we’re supposed to be. That’s the one trait that I most have to work on this summer.

  A raspy male voice carries over the sound of the ocean crashing against the face of the cliff below. I drop onto my heels and peer over at the palatial all-white beach house next door.

  A tall, shirtless Adonis stands on the patio, leaning against the rail. A white towel is wrapped low around his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. His washboard abs are bronzed, a deep, sexy V dipping under the plush terrycloth of his towel. He has long, toned legs and black ink swirls across his chest and down his biceps. He rakes his fingers through his head of thick, shaggy dark hair as he speaks animatedly on his cellphone – is that a British accent I hear? – but his gaze is fixed on me.

  Hot damn.

  I should probably look away but like I said…Hot damn!

  Seeing a beautiful, man in Los Angeles is nothing to write home about. It seems that the hotness rating of the typical male resident of California hovers at least three or four points higher than the national average. But this guy…his hotness is off the charts, even despite the distance between us. I’d hate to think of how good-looking he is up close.

  And, he’s looking at me.

  Why is he looking at me?

  Something flutters in my chest making it a little hard to breathe. I don’t know exactly how long we spend staring at each other. But the trance is broken when two topless blonds bounce out of his house wearing nothing but itty bitty g-strings and ear-to-ear grins. They’re all long legs and slim waists as they giggle and fuss over the brooding hottie on the phone.

  “Come back to bed,” I hear one of them squeal before swiping her tongue up the side of his face.

  Ugh – Gross.

  The other one grabs him by the hand and nestles her breasts against his abs. He doesn’t protest as they drag him towards the open patio door. Shirtless neighbor’s eyes stay on me until he disappears back into the house.

  Chapter 3

  Everson

  I roll over and my head is pounding. I’m vaguely aware that a pair of long, smooth legs are twisted around mine. I force one eye open and find a mane of curly, auburn hair scattered across my chest.

  I try to piece together the events of last night to figure out exactly how I ended up in th
is position. All I remember is that Kid, the drummer, and Razor, the lead guitarist, showed up at around 9:30 with two cases of beer and a couple of pizzas. They called a few girls and in the wink of an eye, there were at least thirty people here at my beachfront condo getting shit-faced drunk.

  And now, here I am the morning – at least I assume it’s still morning – after with Ms. Red Head’s face in my lap, mere inches from my morning wood.

  As any red-blooded man who wakes up to find a hot chick, mouth agape, near his crotch, my first instinct is to nudge her awake and slide my todger right back between her parted lips, but after a while in the music industry, the whole hot-random-sex-every-fucking-day-of-the-week thing is honestly starting to get a bit…redundant.