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

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Besides, I’ve got an album to finish up and our record label is becoming more and more difficult to deal with. I’m starting to wonder exactly what value they provide that justifies the enormous cut that they take from our album sales.

  Okay – time to face the day.

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” I say as I sit up and lean forward, tickling Ms. Red Head in the ribs.

  What the fuck is that smell? My lungs burn as the putrid odor floats through the room.

  It takes a few attempts to rouse her, but eventually she purrs and stretches like a feline before her eyes slowly flicker open. Her big green eyes blink up at me as if she’s unable to believe what she’s seeing.

  “Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” she shrieks.

  I narrow my eyes at her, alarmed and confused. “What?”

  “I can’t believe that I fucked you last night! Ohmygod! I fucked Everson Coal last night! You are the fucking British god of rock and I fucked you!”

  #LifeGoals

  “Aaaaahhhh!” she shrieks again as she tries to get up, but more than a little wobbly, she stumbles over her own legs and tumbles off the bed. She’s now butt-naked and spread eagle on the floor.

  I sure know how to pick ‘em. Sophisticated and ladylike. My mother is probably rolling over in her grave.

  Another voice comes out of nowhere. “Ugh – shut the fuck up.” My head darts to the other side of the bed and that’s where I see a short-haired brunette in her underwear balled up in the fetal position on the floor, snuggling with the overturned wastebasket. There’s a pool of thick, bubbly liquid right near her face.

  Aha! Now, I’ve pinpointed the origin of the rancid stench wafting through the room. It’s that random chick’s vomit.

  How classy.

  I swing my legs over the side of the king-sized bed and almost step on two other naked girls cuddled together on the rug.

  Just a typical Thursday morning in my world.

  “Okay. That’s it. Everybody out,” I say, helping one of the girls to her feet while the other rolls over, reaching for a stiletto carelessly discarded in the corner of the room.

  Miss Vomit-Face rises gingerly to her feet, heading in the direction of my en suite bathroom, blissfully unaware of the used condom stuck to the bottom of her foot.

  It seems that even in my state of mindless drunkenness I’d remembered to practice safe sex. I mentally pat myself on the back because god forbid one – or more – of these groupies should turn up pregnant.

  “No, no, no, sweetheart!” I dash across the room and brace Miss Vomit-Face by the narrow shoulders, herding her and the other girls out the bedroom door. I grab their clothes and help them down the stairs. The last thing I want is for some groupie to fall and break her neck on my property. I place a quick call for a taxi to get these sloppy girls home safely.

  Chivalry is not dead, my friends.

  I schlep into the living room where Razor is lying shirtless in front of the television. His dirty, blond (not ‘dirty blond’, the hair color. ‘Dirty blond’ as in ‘unwashed blond’) hair is matted to his face and a Playstation control is in his hand. There’s a few naked chicks asleep around him, too.

  “Everybody out! Everybody out!” I bark. “I’ve got work to do. These 70-inch flat screen TVs don’t buy themselves.”

  When I finally make it into the kitchen, I find Kid, in his boxer briefs, sitting on a stool by the counter while a busty blond serves him a beer and my very last bagel.

  Breakfast of champions!

  “Yo! Last night was crazy, bruv!” he says excitedly. And loud. Too loud.

  “You guys are gonna have to leave. Like now,” I say, massaging my throbbing temples. I’m fucking exhausted.

  We’ve been rehearsing for our upcoming tour every afternoon. A wild party follows every night. But today is our day off and I’m looking forward to spending the next twenty-four hours away from my wacky band mates.

  I’ll catch some sun, go for a swim and, if I’m lucky, I might even run into the pretty girl I saw yesterday dancing on the patio next door.

  Kid gives me a carefree half-shrug before turning his attention back to the blond. “Linda – how about we continue this party back at my flat, yeh?” he suggests with a cheeky grin on his chocolate-brown face.

  “It’s Lisa,” she informs him, pouting angrily.

  “It’s Beautiful,” he says with earnest eyes and a tone sopping with flattery. Somehow that makes her blush and just like that, all is forgiven.

  He grabs the bagel and hooks his arm around Lisa’s waist as he ushers her past me, towards the front door.

  “Aren’t you gonna take your pants, mate?” I ask, glancing around the room in search of his discarded clothing.

  He blinks down at his Avengers boxers and bare legs before he gives me a sheepish grin. “Oh yeah. My pants.” I shake my head in disbelief.

  He heads into the guest bedroom just off from the kitchen and returns, wearing dark jeans and buttoning up his light blue shirt.

  He pauses next to me, excitement bubbling in his dark brown eyes. “So, we do it again tonight, bruv?”

  My annoyance quickly dissipates as I contemplate the idea of doing it all over tonight. After all, I’m a fucking rock star.

  I grin at him and snatch the bagel out of his hand, pushing him towards the door. “We do it again tonight.”

  Chapter 4

  Mackenzie

  It’s just after 11:00 a.m. when I power down my phone. My mother’s been trying to call me, but I really don’t want to talk to her. When I’d answered her call a few days ago, she spent 25 minutes spewing her negative energy, chastising me and reminding me of every mistake I’ve ever made.

  I don’t want to think about the old Mackenzie.

  I want to focus on the new me, the one who’s responsible, determined and focused.

  I step onto the patio and turn on my Mp3 player. The sounds of Ellie Goulding stream out of the speakers and I let the sun warm up my cheeks. I’ve never liked dancing to classical compositions. Mozart could never get my blood pumping the way a good Calvin Harris tune can. I pull in a deep, long breath as I close my eyes. I let go of all thought and let the music move me.

  I allow myself to get lost, my body following the command of the melody. A pirouette melts into a set of bourrees followed by a series of jumps and a perfect fouette turn. I feel strong, beautiful, in the zone.

  A loud bang startles me, causing me to stumble out of an arabesque. A surge of high-pitched giggles comes soon after. I frown and glance over at the mansion next door. I see a mob of hussies stumble towards a taxi idling on the curb. Not one of them is stable on her feet. The big-boobed red-head takes a seat on the driveway and shimmies into her cut-off jeans before climbing into the car next to her friends. Once they’re all inside, the cab pulls away with a loud screech.

  Damn you, stupid, hot neighbor and your reckless visitors. Those assholes blasted music loud enough to rattle my windows. All. Night. Long. I literally had to put in ear buds just to fall asleep.

  I huff as I draw my attention back to my music and my dancing. I’m determined not to let the sexy, slutty man next door and his unsavory houseguests become a distraction.

  And just then, the infamous man-whore himself steps out onto the patio in all his shirtless glory. He’s got a guitar slung over his shoulder and a pad of paper in his hand. Dark shades are pulled over his eyes and his hair is a shaggy mess. I roll my eyes trying yet again to focus on my dancing.

  But I know he’s watching me. I feel a tingle of awareness creep down my spine as I move into fourth position. I try to ignore it but it’s insanely disorienting. I feel so utterly watched. Which is weird because I’ve performed for audiences of hundreds of people, I led a flash mob on the steps of the MoMa. I’m accustomed to performing for spectators.

  So, why the hell is this guy getting under my skin?

  I try to concentrate for a few more minutes, but it’s just impossible. I feel like my body is blushing a
ll over. I blow out a frustrated breath as I spin around on my heels, hook my hands on my hips and glare at him.

  He’s sprawling in a lounge chair, positioned to face me head-on. His guitar leans against the wall beside him and his notepad sits on his lap. And I can see the smirk on his face from all the way over here. When I stare at him, he doesn’t even have the decency to look away and pretend that he hasn’t been gawking at me since he stepped outside.

  Instead, he has the nerve to smile.

  And wave.

  Seriously?

  I roll my eyes dramatically, although I feel my cheeks flush. A smile tickles my stupid, stupid lips. I bite it back.

  I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me smile.

  No, no, no, Cassanova. Ain’t gonna happen. He may look finger-licking good, but I’ve got discipline on my side. As a matter of fact – I check the time on my phone – my schedule calls for another 15 minutes of rehearsal before lunch.

  I attempt another arabesque, but feeling self-conscious, I stumble. That guy is still staring at me.

  Ugh. Forget it! Rehearsing is pointless with him just sitting there, watching me. And I definitely don’t want him to see me blushing. I might as well head in for lunch early today.

  I turn around and stomp back into the house.

  And there goes the first chink in my iron-clad routine.

  Chapter 5

  Everson

  “Let’s take it from the top,” I growl in frustration. Things just aren’t jelling today. We have a concert at a small local venue three nights from now and we sound like shit. The gig is an informal rehearsal for our cross-country tour that starts in less than two weeks. That’s why we’re up rehearsing at the crack of dawn.

  I glance over at my mates, all standing there with their respective instruments, just waiting for my cue. As pissed as I am that our performance this morning is shit, I can’t help but grin to myself.

  The White Hot Coals have come a long way from our days practicing in the basement of Razor’s parents’ Raynes Park home in the south-west of London. Now, we’re the number one pop rock band in America, we’re working on our second album and we’re about to go on a countrywide tour.

  I’ll never forget the day that my first royalty check cleared in the bank. I bought this beach house here in Malibu shortly afterwards and I haven’t looked back since. Setting up a state-of-the-art, at-home recording studio here was one of the best decisions I’ve made because it leaves us lots of space to record and even rehearse without me having to leave the house.

  And the spectacular view of the Pacific coastline doesn’t hurt our creativity, either.

  Movement on the beach just outside the huge picture-window catches my attention. The beautiful brunette from next door ambles slowly across the sand, hair blowing in the wind. She slows to a stop just at the water’s edge, letting the waves come up and lick her toes. There’s something melancholic but beautiful about the way she moves. I silently wonder what on earth could make such a pretty girl so sad.

  You need to get your head out of your arse and go talk to her, man. I’ve avoided doing that since the day I first saw her dancing out on the patio wearing body-hugging leggings and one of those loose-fitting shirts that hang off one shoulder. My cock twitches a bit just thinking about the way she moved.

  And with a body that flexible, God knows I could have some fun with that girl.

  I cringe when I think about the fact that I waved at her yesterday. I fucking waved at her. What – are we in primary school? Honestly, I’m not too sure what I’d say to her if I went up to her. My pathetic flirting skills definitely need some upgrading.

  You see, one of the perks of being a rock star is that pussy just sort of falls into your lap. You don’t have to work for it. No chase, no hunt.

  Groupies are benevolent souls. God bless them.

  But the downside is that your courtship skills eventually just shrivel up and die…And truth be told, I kind of miss the chase sometimes.

  My attention travels back to the girl on the beach. She seems different from the other girls I know. I can tell that she has no idea who the fuck I am. That alone is refreshing. To her, I’m probably just the creeper who lives across the way and can’t take his eyes off of her.

  “Coal – are you even listening to me?” Joaquin’s voice rings out from the keyboards somewhere behind me and I realize that I’ve been staring at the dark-haired beauty on the beach for god knows how long.

  Razor comes up next to me, eyes riveted to the window as my gorgeous neighbor slips out of her bikini cover-up, her magnificent body now on display. He’s staring at her, slack-jawed. “Whoa – who’s that?” His brown eyes are glowing with lust.

  Kid sidles up beside him, looking equally mesmerized as he ogles her. “That’s my next concubine,” he hoots with a smug look in his eye. “With an arse like that, I’d definitely clear my schedule for a weekend or two.” He nudges Razor in the shoulder and they both chortle as their hands collide midair in an obnoxious high-five.

  No. Nope. Not happening. She’s mine.

  I yank on the cord and the blinds snap shut. “Bugger off, mates. Look the other way,” I growl in a low menacing tone, shooting daggers their way.

  “Whoa. We’re just joking, bruv,” he says throwing his hands up in surrender and taking a sharp step backwards. “No need to be a wanker about it.”

  I know Kid. He’d hit on anything with a pulse so I do have to be a wanker about it to make sure that he keeps his wanker away from my perfect, perfect neighbor. “That girl is off-limits to all the rest of you,” I say decidedly, my eyes lingering on each of my band mates in turn.

  Razor huffs. “We don’t have to fight over any one girl. We’ve got like a dozen groupies coming over for drinks later.”

  I open my mouth to put him in his place, to tell him that this girl is way out of his league, that she’s different from the easy girls that come to our wild house parties. Only a fool would lump her in with those groupies but then I immediately snap my mouth shut. I’d sound crazy defending that girl on the beach because although my gut tells me that she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever been with, I don’t know her. I’ve never spoken a word to her.

  My phone rings, putting a halt to the escalating tension in the room. I give Kid a cutting glare as I brush past him to grab it off of the table.

  “It’s Claudie,” I announce as I hit the ‘answer’ button. “Hey Claud.”

  “What the hell took you so long to answer the phone, yeh?” Claudia is my sister and the manager of the White Hot Coals. Our parents died in a car accident when I was 15 and Claudie appointed herself the boss even though she’s only three years older than me. She’s been brandishing her authority over me ever since.

  I puff out a breath, not in the mood to deal with her snark today. “We were just rehearsing for our next gig. We’re all here. You’re on speakerphone.”

  “Hey boys,” she says. The guys respond almost in chorus. Then she immediately cuts to the chase. “Glad you’re all there together, actually. Look, I’ve got some execs from the record label on the other line. And you’re not gonna like what they have to say. Basically, they’re trashing the new album. They want you guys to toss everything out and start over from scratch.”

  “What!?!” Kid growls.

  “Nah – fuck that!” Razor shouts.

  My shoulders go tense. I can feel my blood boiling.

  “Look, guys. Keep it together. Let’s just hear what they have to say and then we’ll strategize from there on out.” Claudie is trying to keep her tone level but I know that she’s seething beneath the surface. “I’m about to conference you in.” The line goes silent and then she’s back. “Mr. Warren – I’ve got all the boys on the call.”

  “So, as I was saying –“ Ugh! I’d know that annoying nasal voice any-fucking-where and of course she’d be behind the label busting our balls.

  Natasha Warren, A&R Director at Angel City Records, daughter of the label’s
founder…and my bitter ex-girlfriend.

  “This so-called album that you guys put together, is pure trash. It doesn’t fit with the direction that the label is trying to steer the band towards. It’s unacceptable. There isn’t one hit song on it. Nothing that would play in the top 40. You guys are gonna have to start over from scratch and I’m gonna need a marketable product within eight weeks.”

  I try to keep my tone neutral. “Care to tell us exactly what you don’t like about the album, Mr. Warren?” I know that Tasha’s just wielding her power to spite me.