Formatted by E.M. Tippetts Book Designs
Other Books by Selena Laurence
The Hiding From Love Series (New Adult Contemporary Romance)
Hidden (Hiding From Love #1)
Camouflaged (Hiding From Love Novella #0.5)
Concealed (Hiding From Love #2)
Buried (Hiding From Love #3) Coming April, 2014
The Lush Series (Rock Star Contemporary Romance)
A Lush Betrayal (Lush No. 1)
For the Love of A Lush (Lush No. 2) Coming Spring 2014
Lowdown and Lush (Lush No. 3) Coming Summer 2014
A Lush Reunion (Lush No. 4) Coming Fall 2014
The Bittersweet Chronicles (Retro Romance Digital Novellas)
Book One: Carly – Coming Summer 2014
Book Two: Pax – Coming Fall 2014
Sign up for Selena’s Newsletter for information on all new releases
Your brother will be in your heart for a liftetime.
Ritu Ghadouri
Joss
I’M STANDING in the middle of my condo in downtown Portland, sweating. Not a nice, glowing, “you look healthy and vibrant” kind of sweat, but a serious, “I’ve just powerlifted for an hour in an unairconditioned gym” sweat. My hair is damp, I itch all over, and the Nirvana t-shirt I donned thirty minutes ago is soaked.
“Dave,” I growl into the phone when my manager picks up on the other end. “There is no fucking A/C in my apartment. None. It’s got to be a hundred degrees in here, and the place smells like a goddamn locker room.”
“Look, Joss,” —he’s got the placating tone in his voice, he’ll turn downright patronizing in about three minutes— “I’ve called your co-op board five times. I’m really sorry, but they can’t get anyone out there sooner than Friday. Just open the windows. You’ll get used to the noise after a day, and you’re three floors up. They can’t hurt you.”
I run my hand through my long, sticky hair and swear under my breath. How many times have we been over this?
“Daaave, must I repeat myself? There are women. Scores of women. Outside. On the sidewalk. Day. And. Night. They scream, they chant, they sing, and they throw their motherfucking underwear at me. Two of them tried to get into the building by hiding out in the laundry delivery carts yesterday. One tried to scale the side of the building the day before that. With spelunking gear, Dave. Spelunking gear.
“Every single time I fucking get close enough to the windows for them to see me, they scream so loud the neighbors start complaining. Then I have to cover up the tats, put on a button-up, and go kiss ass to that old bat Mrs. Burnstein on the fifth floor so I don’t get kicked out of the damn building. I can not open the fucking windows!” I roar.
I hear Dave sigh, and then in a clipped tone that tells me I’ve hurt his precious feelings, he says, “Fine. I’ll send someone over to work on the A/C without the co-op board’s approval. They’ll be there in the next hour. In the meantime, why don’t you go to the studio early? Mike and Colin are working out some of the licks for She Snake. You can listen in and I’ll have Tammy grab you some lunch. It’s cool over there. At least you’ll be comfortable.”
“Fine. And Dave?”
“Yes, Joss?”
“Get me a goddamn hotel room until this shit is fixed.”
“Yes, Joss.”
TWENTY MINUTES later, I slide into the backseat of a limo, narrowly avoiding the purple satin thong aimed at my head by one of the fans on the sidewalk outside of my building.
“How are you today, Mr. Jamison?” asks my regular driver, Juan. I always request Juan because he knows when to shut the fuck up and when I want to shoot the breeze. He’s a smart guy, although I think he’s probably had a pretty rough life, but he told me he’s got a fiancée and he’s in college part time, so it sounds like he’s got his shit together now.
“You don’t even want to know, Juan. But can I ask you one thing?”
He smiles at me in the rearview mirror.
“Why the hell do those girls think I want their underwear? I mean, why in the world would they think I find that even remotely sexy? Can you imagine if we were to get the hots for some starlet or pop singer and throw our boxers at her every time she came outside? Would she find that sexy?”
Juan is choking now, trying very hard to take my rant seriously but about to explode with laughter.
“Really, someone needs to explain to these girls that, just because their underwear has brighter colors and less fabric than mine, does not mean it’s sexier. And especially not when it’s thrown at my face. Fuck.” I lean an elbow on the window ledge of the car door and run my hand through my blond hair, now damp from the shower I took to get the sweat off. It falls back into my face, and I wonder for the umpteenth time today about shaving my head. Dave says that the female fans would freak. I’m not sure I give a shit.
Having listened quietly to my tales of thong woes, Juan gives up the fight as we come to a slowdown at an intersection leading to an onramp for I-5. He starts guffawing so hard I think tears are streaming down his face. I smile morosely from the backseat. I wonder if I’ve ever laughed with that kind of abandon. If I have, it certainly wasn’t any time in the last year.
When he’s finally able to form sentences again, Juan asks if I want to stop off anywhere before we go to the studio. I think hard for a minute about going by a liquor store and grabbing a bottle of tequila to help me cope with the next eight or nine hours with my band mates, but I decide I ought to tough it out. Mike’s bound to be loaded, and Colin’s always stoned. Walsh will be—Well, he’ll be Walsh. So, maybe I should be sober. Seems like someone should be sober, and these days, more often than not, that someone is me.
Mel
I’VE BEEN sitting at this coffee shop nearly half the day waiting to see him. I know he’ll show eventually, but at this rate, I won’t sleep for the next week with all the caffeine I’ve consumed.
I’m sure he thinks he’s solved his little problem with me. Seduce the co-ed, screw the co-ed, dump the co-ed. Yeah, and I fell right into it. I cannot believe how stupid I was. I thought that, at twenty-four, I was past making dumbass errors like that. But no. As my sister Tammy always says, “Dumb has no age limit, Mel.” Well, I’ll never admit this one to her. She’ll have my ass in a sling if she finds out I risked my future career on some forty-year-old Lothario who picks a different grad student to play around with every semester.
Tammy paid for my MFA degree. Mom and Dad would have if they could, but we grew up in the blue-collar part of Portland, Oregon. Our dad works for a paving contractor, and Mom is the secretary at the elementary school. We had a nice childhood, but there was never anything extra. No fancy ballet classes or soccer teams. And definitely no out-of-state graduate school.
Tammy went to community college and got an Associate’s degree in business. She did retail management at places like Forever 21 and Hollister until her fiancé’s band got big enough to hire her to help manage them. Now she sort of plays slave girl to them all day, making sure they get where they’re supposed to be and have what they need. It sure as hell isn’t a job I’d want, but they pay her really well, so she said I was going to school and I was going to make use of my artistic talent. I didn’t argue.
The door to the coffee shop dings and I look up as Professor Marin walks in. Asshole. I knew he’d show up here if I waited long enough.
Before he has a chance to see me, I stride over. “Excuse me? Professor Marin? May I have a word with you?”
His head swivels toward me, and the gracious smile on his face falters for a quick moment before it’s replaced by one that clearly includes gritted teeth and a very tense jaw.
“Melanie. Lovely to see you. What are you doing here?”
; “Well, Professor, I have a few things I need to speak with you about. Can we sit for a moment?”
His eyes dart around the room. I can tell he’s looking to see who might notice us, and if there’s a way for him to get out of here.
I lean in closer and say under my breath, “Sit and talk to me or I’ll scream my fucking head off.”
He cringes, at both my language and my threat. As we walk over to a table in the most remote corner of the shop, he stops smiling and all pretense of politeness slides away like a snake across dry sand.
“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this, Mel?” he asks coldly.
“A legitimate grade, that’s what,” I whisper-scream at him.
“You have a legitimate grade. It may not be the grade you’d hoped for, but I assure you, that C is every bit as legitimate as anyone else’s A or B.”
“You jerk.” I’m pretty good at saying these things in such a low voice and with such a monotonous tone you’d think I’d merely commented on the weather. For a minute I wonder if it’s a skill I could use in in a job. Probably not. “You gave me that C to deflect from the fact we were sleeping together. You thought if you gave me the lowest grade in the class no one would ever suspect you were spending your nights making me play naughty schoolgirl in my garage apartment. I want the grade I earned, Tim.”
I can almost see the steam coming out of his ears now. No one, and I mean no one, challenges the great Professor Marin this way. He is the Deacon T. Walker Professor of Fine Arts Photography, the most prestigious position the College of Fine Arts has to offer, and he never lets anyone forget it.
“Miss DiLorenzo,” he grits out as his sleazy, sexually harassing eyes slide left and then right. “I’m terribly sorry you’re unhappy with your grade. However, I can’t change it, and more than that, I won’t. You’ve received the grade you earned. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Wait. What?” I’ve lost the ability to do the whisper-yell thing. I think I’m just yelling now. “I’ve been through two straight years of courses for this degree. Most of those were in photography. I’ve never received anything below an A minus. I never received anything below an A from you until the final portfolio. You’re seriously going to say, after a Bachelor’s degree with all A’s and B’s and two years of graduate work with all A’s, my final portfolio was a C? No one will ever believe that.”
“Keep your voice down,” he snarls while yet again scanning the room. “You’re lucky you’re getting out of this program at all, considering your behavior at the moment.” Disdain drips from his lips like syrup off a stack of pancakes. “You’re a little fool. I’ve been playing this game a lot longer than you and I’m a lot better at it. Don’t challenge me on this, Melanie. You won’t win.” He sits back, crosses his arms, and glares at me.
I take a deep breath, noticing how it shakes as I release it. I don’t think I’ve ever been this mad in my life. It doesn’t feel good.
“I was set to receive the Eddie Adams Award for Photojournalism. That C ruined my chance. I’ve worked for The Eddie for six years. I earned that damn award, and I’m not about to let you, your giant ego, and your little prick take it away.” I’m trembling and my cheeks burn as I lean down with my hand on the table so I’m level with his face. I see his eyes go wide for a moment when he takes in my expression. “I’ll see you in the Dean’s office, Professor, or I’ll see you in Hell. Either way, you haven’t heard the last of me.”
Joss
COLIN WAVES to me from the studio as I walk into the soundbooth-cum-lounge with its glass wall that adjoins the room Mike and Colin are in. Lush’s album Your Air went gold two weeks ago and is well on the way to platinum. We’ve been a decently successful band for the last three years, playing openers for guys like Kings of Leon and Arctic Monkeys. But this is our breakout album, and the title track is selling nearly 200,000 copies a day. You’d think this would be a dream come true for me. I’ve worked at nothing but being a successful rock star since I was sixteen years old, when Mike and Walsh and I started fucking around with music in my mom’s old garage.
But for some reason, the last year or so, when it started looking like this day was coming, I lost the drive. I lost that compulsion to be this almighty rock god. The girls, the press, the money—none of it means shit to me anymore. And while no one else has any idea why that might be, I know. I know exactly what it is that’s killed my soul.
As if on cue, in she walks: Tammy DiLorenzo, band Girl Friday, five feet eight inches of smooth olive skin, sleek dark hair, and breasts that would bring even a gay guy to his knees. And right alongside her is Walsh, our drummer, recovering alcoholic, my best friend since second grade, and Tammy’s boyfriend since we were fourteen.
Yes, that’s right. I fucked my best friend’s girl, and everything but my self-respect and my soul survived.
Walsh and I were best buds all the time we were growing up. He was the fun guy, the one who met all the other kids, started all the neighborhood football games, and always knew the exciting things to do. I was the serious one, the sad kid without a dad. I hated that about myself. I hated not being light or sunny or optimistic. My hair may be blond, but my soul is dark, like cold night air when it rolls in off the ocean. My songs and my lyrics are always about the losses, the heartbreaks, the futility of shit. That’s me—the brooding, damaged rock star. I’m a fucking cliché.
“Well, well, well,” says Walsh. “Our sainted leader has beaten me here. Whassup, bro? You got insomnia or something?”
I’m known for my odd sleeping habits. They usually mean I don’t come in to work until three or four p.m. But sleep of any sort is impossible in the pit of hellfire that is my apartment right now.
“A/C’s still broken,” I grunt at him as I take the sandwich and soda Tammy hands me, working not to look at her.
“Damn, Joss. I guess that’s what you get for trying to become a property owner in some swanky, high-security building. You should just rent-a-mansion like Tam and I do.”
I take a big bite out of the BLT so I can’t respond to his idiocy. The house he and Tammy are leasing is 10,000 square feet of gilded trash. There are chandeliers in every room, black satin walls in the bedroom, metallic gold ceilings in the living room, and a fireplace so enormous you can stand up in it. Basically what the family from the Honey Boo Boo TV show would live in if they won the lottery. Tammy’s got better taste than that, but she’ll give Walsh whatever he wants if he’ll stay away from the bottle, and he has no taste whatsoever.
Mike and Colin have spotted the food Tammy brought and come out of the sound booth, wrestling with each other like a couple of overgrown puppies. “Munchies!” hollers Colin as he puts Mike in a headlock and gives him a noogie.
“Christ, you two,” I mumble. “Give it a rest. We’re twenty-seven goddamn years old.”
“Who pissed in your Wheaties, glamour boy?” asks Mike, a hard glint coming into his eye. I was right—he’s drunk. And that means it’s going to be a long night. He’s a mean drunk, and these days a jealous one as well. He’s made it no secret that he feels my role as lead singer has overshadowed his as lead guitarist, and that’s pissing him off to no end. He’s taken to calling me names like a ten-year-old and denigrating both my vocals and my songwriting, even though the success of Your Air—which I wrote and sang—should dispel those accusations pretty handily.
I couldn’t give a shit what Mike thinks of me, but I’m tired of the constant friction, and one of these days I’m not going to be so taciturn. When that happens, we’re going balls to the wall, Mike and me.
“Mike, dude, take it down a notch,” says Walsh, ever the happy-go-lucky peacemaker.
“Whatever,” Mike mumbles around his ham and cheese. He pulls a flask out of his back jeans pocket and splashes some booze into his soda.
“And you might want to take it easy on that stuff too when we haven’t even started the work day yet,” Walsh adds, pulling Tammy in for a quick kiss on the cheek as she sits down
next to him on the sofa.
My stomach flips at the soft look that crosses her face when he kisses her. The sandwich turns to sawdust in my mouth and I take a big swig of soda to wash it down. She loves him, she’s always loved him, and I know I was a huge mistake in her book. She was in mine as well, but only because she belongs to Walsh, not because of her. I would give anything to have what she and Walsh have, but I know I never will—and certainly not with her. I think she regrets that night, not just because she regrets betraying Walsh, but because she regrets me. I can’t decide if that hurts me or infuriates me more.
“What the fuck, Walsh?” says Mike as he leans against the wall, chewing his food. “You so high and mighty now you have to preach sobriety everywhere you go? Unlike you, my friend, I can handle my substances. I’m not an alcoholic, and I’m over twenty-one, so I can drink whenever the hell I want.”
Walsh shakes his head and looks at Mike patiently. “Hey, you may be able to handle your shit better than me, but when you can’t make it through a single recording session without being loaded, you’ve got a problem, man.”
With the impeccable timing to go along with his impeccable grooming, our manager, Dave Keller, walks in. Today he’s in business casual—a pair of designer jeans, a pressed short-sleeved Polo shirt, and loafers with no socks. He looks like a chump, but the fact is, as shitty as I treat him, he’s a good guy and he’s taken our career exactly where we asked him to. It’s not his fault I changed my mind somewhere along the road.
“Fellas,” Dave says as he scans the small room that overlooks Recording Studio B, suddenly famous as the site where Your Air was recorded. “Glad you’re all here.” Everyone grunts and nods at him as we continue stuffing our faces—or drowning our livers, as the case may be. “I’ve got some news I think you’re going to like.”
“Lemme guess.” Mike puts his hand in the air and jumps up and down in an imitation of a little kid. “Congress wants to pass a law requiring everyone to bow to Joss, and all families have to donate their eighteen-year-old daughters for one night to become his pleasure slaves.”
A Lush Betrayal Page 1