A Reverse Harem Romance Collection Box Set

by Lane Hart

I want to help these guys succeed in creating a hot new album like the last one. They have to, or I go down with them.

  As soon as the guys come off the stage, I follow them, ready to see what the problem is for each member and fix it. Not just for them, but because I love my job and I want to keep it. Seeing how my dad suffered trying to make it big makes me want to give those opportunities to deserving musicians everyone else has overlooked.

  When I spot one of the young roadies dressed in all black carrying Davis’s white Fender guitar, I show him my backstage pass on my lanyard. “Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can find the members of Malus?”

  His eyes look at my pass for only a second. “They’re back in the dressing room. Not exactly a place for a nice girl like you.”

  Great.

  “Too bad, because I don’t have a choice,” I reply. “Can you show me which room?”

  “Sure,” he agrees before he turns around and starts back down the way he just came from. “Down here, and the first room on the left.”

  “Got it, thanks,” I tell him.

  “Good luck,” he replies with a chuckle before he walks away.

  I park my luggage at the door and then raise my knuckles to knock rapidly, while taking a deep breath to calm my nerves.

  A bearded man with tattoos opens the door and looks me up and down salaciously. I know he’s Davis Hunt, the guitarist, before he opens his mouth to ask over his shoulder, “Who ordered the little blonde secretary with a stick up her ass?”

  Holding up the pass that’s around my neck, I tell him, “I’m Tessa Graham, from Black Hawk Records.”

  “Whatever,” Davis mutters when he braces his hand on the door frame, blocking me from entry.

  From inside the room, I hear, “Oh, fucking great!”

  When I look under the raised arm of the big man who is as wide as a redwood tree, and at least as tall, I see the cursing is coming from the clean-cut band member I recognize as Clarke Nash, the drummer. “Let her in, for chrissakes, and could you try to be a little nicer!” he tells Davis.

  The giant opens the door a little wider for me to squeeze by him with my rolling luggage, barely.

  Inside the room, my eyes sweep around the tables of food and alcohol and several leather sofas, taking it all in. Someone with messy brown hair is face down on the sofa, either asleep or dead. I hope it’s the former. And awesome, the dark-haired guy I recognize as Ford, the lead singer, currently has a brunette kneeling between his legs either worshipping him for the rock god he is or sucking his dick. Probably both.

  My cheeks redden in embarrassment at walking in on such an intimate act, but none of the guys, especially Ford, seem concerned. And the girl’s so unfazed, her head doesn’t even pause once in her bobbing.

  “We need to talk. Could you please get rid of…” I wave a hand toward the woman on her knees.

  Like the famous arrogant ass he is, Ford smirks at me and holds up one finger, indicating I should wait before he grabs the back of the girl’s dark hair to hold it in place. Then he throws his head back on a deep groan that I translate to mean he’s unloading down her throat with all of us watching. It’s not that I wanted to watch, but it’s hard to look away from a man you’ve idolized on stage, making sex sounds while being pleasured.

  “Jesus, Ford!” Clarke grumbles as he continues to pace around the room.

  Davis chuckles in amusement before he says, “They always want to suck the lead singer’s dick, even though mine is twice as big.”

  Opening his eyes, Ford flips the guitarist off with his free hand but keeps his intense blue gaze on me as his lips part, and the sounds of wet suction fill the room as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  And yes, deep down in my gut there may even be just a hint of jealousy for the woman who gets to touch Ford Donohue in such a way that most women, and even I, have only dreamed of. Even though it’s only one-sided, I bet the brunette leaves the room with her head held high, proud of her accomplishment – getting to put her mouth on a rock star.

  Rather than give him the satisfaction of showing my physical interest in him, I cross my arms over my chest indignantly, barely refraining from tapping my foot while I convey my annoyance at Ford’s rude behavior.

  “Thanks, babe,” Ford tells the woman in his deep, smooth, sexy voice that could melt butter while he pats the top of her head like she’s a good dog. I’m thankful to finally hear the sound of his zipper going up. “Give us a minute, love?” he asks.

  The woman gets to her feet while wiping her mouth with her hand and then trots over toward me with a grin on her face, not a trace of discomfort from having an audience for her performance before she walks out the door.

  Wow. I’m getting one hell of an introduction to the band tonight. It’s not the one I imagined, where all the guys were perfect gentlemen who understood the record label’s issues and wanted to correct them and produce a new album as soon as possible.

  Wishful thinking.

  “I take it that’s Bennett Hale?” I ask, pointing to the sleeping man.

  “Yep.” Clarke walks over and gives the guy’s shoulder a shake that does absolutely nothing. “Sorry,” Clarke says with a cringe. “He just had a little to drink after we got backstage.”

  “It sounded like he was drunk on stage. It sounded like you all were two sheets to the wind up there, except for Davis. What’s going on, guys?” I ask them.

  They all remain silent, so I gather my courage and continue on my rant, hoping I look more confident than I feel in this new role. “The record label is losing its patience. You’ve got seven months to come up with some new songs and record them for the second album, or they’re cutting you loose.”

  “Good,” grumbles Davis before he meanders over and flops down on an empty leather sofa, taking up the majority of it.

  “No, no, no. This is not good!” Clarke mutters as he reaches up with both hands and starts tugging on his short blond hair. “Ugh. Now I can’t breathe.” Reaching into his jeans pocket with a shaking hand, he pulls out an albuterol inhaler and puts it between his lips to take a few puffs.

  Well, at least someone is taking this seriously. Maybe too seriously.

  “Calm down. You guys still have plenty of time to buckle down and do this,” I assure him before he passes out.

  Ford gets to his feet and strolls over to me, all sexy male confidence and attitude. “Sorry to tell you this, babe, but I haven’t been able to write shit in years. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t. So why don’t you go back to your high-rise and tell those fuckers that unless they have a magic wand that they can wave, a new album ain’t gonna happen within a few months.”

  With that proclamation, Ford goes over to the door, jerks it open, and leaves, slamming it shut behind him.

  “What he said,” Davis grumbles before he gets up and is out the door too.

  “Clarke, I know you’re the most reasonable one,” I say, since he’s the only one who hasn’t been an asshole, an arrogant prick, or unconscious during my pep talk. “We have to figure out how to make that magic Ford was talking about, or you’re all going to have to get normal people jobs, myself included. I can’t imagine the four of you have much money left from the first album, right?”

  “No, we don’t,” he says when he sits down on the sofa and bends over, placing his head between his legs. His words are muted as he continues, “Ben’s been borrowing from me for weeks now. Davis probably isn’t far behind. Ford will be okay for a while because he’s the front man and has some other promotional shit going on.”

  “So tell me, what do you think you guys need to start writing? How can we make the four of you productive and successful again?” I ask.

  “I dunno,” he answers from between his legs.

  “Anything, Clarke. Just name it, and I have the power to make it happen.”

  Lifting his head to look at me with worried but beautiful deep green eyes, he asks, “Anything? Really?”

  �
��Yes. Ask away,” I say, taking a seat beside him. “That’s what I’m here for. Think of me as your very own personal genie. Instead of three wishes, though, you get as many as it takes to get this group back on the path of success.” I rest my palm on his thigh in a show of comfort to calm him down, not just because I wanted to touch him to make sure I’m really sitting here, talking to one of the members of my favorite band.

  “Wow, okay,” Clarke says, and his broad, tense shoulders seem to relax a little. His elbows dig into his knees, and he rests his head in his hands. At least that’s better than having his head at his ankles.

  “Anything coming to mind?” I ask, giving his thigh a squeeze when he continues to remain silent. “Let’s start with you. What do you need, Clarke?”

  Finally, he looks over at me, right in the eye again, and says, “I need things to slow down. Every day, I wake up in a new city, and it’s impossible to think when we’re always on the move. If I’m gonna help Ford write music to new lyrics, I need to be able to catch my breath once in a while.”

  Great, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “You want to cancel the remaining stops on the tour?” I ask for clarification.

  “Yes. And I know that’s not possible, but—”

  He pauses midsentence when I pull out my phone from my purse, hit the contact in my favorites, and put it up to my ear.

  “What are you doing?” he asks with his light brows drawn together.

  “Yes,” Joseph Cole answers the call.

  “Hi, Mr. Cole. It’s Tessa. Sorry to bother you so late, but Malus would like to cancel the tour as of today, so you should probably have someone notify all the venues and issue refunds for ticketholders.”

  I clench my teeth to brace myself for the silence that follows, wondering if I’ve overstepped my boundaries for this assignment he’s given me.

  “Give me a moment,” Mr. Cole tells me.

  I’m holding my breath, worried he’ll come back on the line and tell me I’ve lost my mind and that’s not possible. If he does, then I don’t know what we’ll do. The tour doesn’t end until a month before the deadline.

  “Okay,” Mr. Cole says, when he finally returns to the phone. “If that’s what they need, then we can cancel, effective today. It’s not like tickets are selling all that great anyway. We’ll make more on the new album and tour than the measly sales over the next few months.”

  “That’s great!” I reply. “We’re already making progress, sir.”

  “Yes, you are, Tessa.” He pauses briefly. “Do whatever it takes,” he reiterates. “My ass is on the line here too, you know?”

  “Thank you, sir, and I understand,” I say, before ending the call.

  “Wh-what was that?” Clarke asks, his eyes bulging and mouth gaping.

  “I canceled the tour,” I explain with a broad grin. “You’re right, you all need some time to think if you’re gonna produce another great album, and that means getting off the road.”

  “Just like that?” he asks. Looking toward the door and then over to the sleeping man, he says, “Shouldn’t you have asked the other guys first what they want to do? Won’t we all lose money?”

  “It won’t be much money. Besides, everyone looks like they could use a break more than the cash. Why? Do you think they’ll be upset?” I ask him. From what I’ve read about them, he grew up playing with these guys since they were in high school together.

  “No, but…but, the arenas, the fans…” Clarke stammers.

  Reaching over to give his knee another comforting pat, I tell him, “They’ll all be taken care of. And believe me, the loss will be worth it once you guys come out with new hits.”

  “Yeah, well, what if we can’t?” he asks.

  “You will,” I say confidently, even if I have my own doubts. “Whatever it takes, okay? Just ask me, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “If you say so,” he replies, as he looks down at my hand and then licks his lips.

  “Now, tell me how to get the other three gentlemen where they need to be?”

  “Hmm, good luck with that,” Clarke says as he eases back against the cushion, relaxing a smidge more. I’m glad to see the two of us are at least making some progress. “You need to divide and conquer, get the guys alone where they can’t bolt, and make them start talking. That’s our biggest problem. None of us actually talk to each other anymore, even though we’re forced to share a small space on the bus most of the time.”

  “Okay, who should I start with?” I ask.

  “Ford, then Bennett,” he says with a nod to the sleeping man. “Save Davis for last because he’s gonna be the most difficult. If he knows the others are talking to you and that you’re making improvements, he’ll eventually cave.”

  “Okay, great,” I state with a smile, thankful that he’s being helpful. “Where can I find Ford?”

  “Well, after we get off stage, he likes to…get off, as you witnessed, and then he always gets high.”

  “He uses drugs?” I ask with a wince.

  “No, he gets high,” Clarke says, using his index finger to point up to the ceiling. “The ladder is on the far left side of the stage.”

  “He likes heights, huh?” I ask with a frown because I absolutely hate them.

  “At least he won’t be able to run from you up there,” he replies with a small grin.

  “Very true,” I agree as I get to my feet. “Do me a favor? Try and wake up Mr. Hale,” I say, gesturing with my thumb over at Bennett.

  “I’ll try my best,” Clarke agrees.

  Chapter 3

  Ford

  From the top of the rafters of the coliseum, the people below look like ants as they run around, cleaning up and taking down the stage. I don’t think of them as insignificant. No, that’s how I feel. For whatever reason, it’s nice to see how normal people live, what happens after we leave the spotlight and life goes on for the employees. I bet they couldn’t give two shits about Malus or me and are only glad when the last note of our set fades, so they can do their jobs and go home.

  Lighting up a smoke, I take a long pull and then blow it out as I attempt to quiet my mind. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t work now, just like it hasn’t for the last few years. Ever since we started touring, there’s chaos in my head, and never a moment of peace. I need the peace to write. And apparently, if I don’t write soon, all four of us could be flipping burgers rather than touring and playing the music we were once passionate about.

  Muttered feminine curses draw my attention over to the left side of the rafters where the narrow ladder leads down to the ground. Her perfectly-styled blonde hair, not a single one out of place, appears first as her lips continue to move, talking to herself until she finally looks up and sees me staring at her.

  “Oh, hi,” she says.

  “What the hell are you doing up here?” I ask.

  “Ah, well, I wanted a chance to talk to you and, um, here you are,” she says, as she crawls along the wooden board in her suit slowly, rather than risk trying to walk. Eventually, when she’s about three feet away from me, she eases into a sitting position with her legs hanging like mine over the edge. “Oh, whoa, that’s…we’re really…high,” she says as she jerks back from her glance down.

  “Not a fan of heights?” I ask.

  “God, no.”

  “So then why come up here? You could’ve talked to me when I got down.”

  “You would’ve walked away. Again,” she responds. And I can’t deny that’s true.

  “Okay, you got me. What do you want?” I ask. Hearing her out is the least I can do since she’s suffering from her fear of heights just to talk to me.

  “I have some news,” she starts. “Tonight’s the end of the tour.”

  “How?” I ask in surprise. “We’ve still got”—I do the math in my head as I think over the upcoming appearances—“thirty-two more shows.”

  “Not anymore,” she says. “Clarke said he needs things to slow down and to stop moving,
so he can work on some new songs with you.”

  I snicker at that. “Right, because that’s all that it’ll take for us to pull our shit together.”

  “Hey, it can’t hurt, right?” she asks. “What do you think it’ll take?”

  “Fuck if I know,” I grumble as I look away from her and back down at the cleanup crew.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” she says. Hell, when my eyes cut over to look at her, I can’t even remember her name. I was a little preoccupied with my dick sliding down a warm, wet throat when she came to the door and introduced herself. And sure, my first thought was that the uptight blonde was smoking hot, and that I would love to fuck her pretty mouth. The pink flush on her cheeks, those red painted lips that are so shiny and full, making it hard to think of anything except for her giving great head when you first see her. But then a second later, I noticed the formal suit and her squared shoulders that made it clear she’s all business and doesn’t get on her knees for just any man.

  “Who are you again?” I ask, taking another puff on my smoke.

  “Tessa Graham,” she says, reaching out her hand to me. Switching my smoke to my left hand, I take her soft, smooth one in my own. It’s so small I bet my cock would look enormous with her fingers wrapped around it. As if sensing my dirty thoughts, Tessa jerks her hand away from my grip and goes on to tell me, “The, ah, the record label has authorized me to give you guys whatever you need to write another album, one that will smash your previous record on the charts.”

  “Whatever we need?” I repeat, knowing that can’t be true. There are always things you can’t have, no matter how much money is in your bank account, not that I have a lot sitting in mine now. It’s slowly dwindling down, which is more than a little concerning.

  “Within reason,” she amends as expected.

  The thing I want most is to write songs again. Not for money or for fame but because it’s what I used to love to do, putting my heart on paper and then playing it in songs for other people to hear and relate to. It’s therapeutic. But lately, my heart feels like it’s running on empty. The fame and money were great, but as they start to fade, it’s becoming obvious that they didn’t leave me with anything substantial. There’s nothing that makes me want to jump out of bed each morning, nothing that makes me feel how I used to about writing and playing music with my three best friends. Hell, I’m not even sure if the four of us are still friends, or if we’re just forced to stay together for our tour.