Screw Up (Hard Rock Roots Book 10)

by C. M. Stunich

  Treyjan Charell.

  I went to his concert, got drunk, and woke up married to a rockstar.

  What the hell am I supposed to do about that?

  Screw Up

  Screw Up © C.M. Stunich 2017

  Biker Rockstar Billionaire CEO Alpha Excerpt © Caitlin Stunich 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.

  www.cmstunich.com, www.sarianroyal.com

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Optimus Princeps" Font © Manfred Klein

  "El&Font Gohtic!" Font © Jerome Delage

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  this book is dedicated to the music.

  it's always about the music.

  Sign up for an exclusive first look at the hottest new releases, contests, and exclusives from bestselling author C.M. Stunich and get *three free* eBooks as a thank you!

  “Hard Rock Roots” Reading Order:

  Book #1: Real Ugly (free!)

  Book #2: Get Bent (only 99 cents!)

  Book #3: Tough Luck

  Book #4: Bad Day

  Book #5: Born Wrong

  Book #6: Dead Serious

  Book #7: Doll Face

  Book #8: Heart Broke

  Book #9: Get Hitched

  Book #10: Screw Up (Treyjan's book)

  Book #11: Three Some (Kash's book)

  ALSO AVAILABLE: Hard Rock Roots Box Set #1 (Books 1–5 plus three short stories including a prequel!)

  There are demons hiding in every shadow, lurking in every corner. Their mouths are open and hungry, their eyes nothing but pits. Back here, buried behind this curtain, I'm safe. As soon as I set foot out there, I'm nothing but a snack.

  “Don't be such a bitch,” Turner Campbell says, slapping a hand on my shoulder and tossing me a stupid shit-eating grin that I've been trying to imitate for, like, years. He's been my best friend for forever, but half of me also kind of hates him. I think I'm maybe jealous or whatever?

  I light a cigarette and narrow my eyes at him. Stupid fucker.

  “How am I being a bitch?” I snap back, waving my smoke around and poisoning the air with gray-white smoke. Who cares? Anti-smoking laws be damned: it smells like a fucking ashtray back here anyway. Mixed with the skunk-y scent of pot and the stale tang of old beer, backstage smells like home. Of course, I like, grew up in a trailer full of garbage with a crackhead dad, so my view of home versus everyone else's is a little screwed up.

  “You're shaking in your fucking boots,” Turner says, brown eyes sparkling as he simultaneously shoves me aside, steals my cigarette, and takes my place at the crack in the curtain. Standing back here, it feels like our band, Indecency, is still small potatoes, like we play shows in dumpy little joints in L.A. and pray our ticket sales cover the cost of gas.

  Heh.

  But fuck that.

  That ain't us anymore.

  Indecency isn't just more famous than Jesus; we're like gods.

  “Been too long since we've done a real show,” he says, tossing a smirk in my direction. I cross my arms over my chest and watch him smoke the stolen cigarette. I'd make fun of him for wearing such a tight shirt and jeans he literally bought from the women's department, buuuuut, man, I'm wearin' em, too. “You look like you're about to piss your damn pants.”

  “Bro, if you keep up on me like that, I'll pull these things down and piss all over you,” I say, shoving up from the wall as Turner's raucous laughter follows along behind me. I curl my tattooed hands into fists and seriously consider putting one in his face. Me and him, we fight to relieve stress. It's just kind of what we do, our thing or whatever. I swear to god though, he's gotten so much worse since he married the lead singer of another band, this rock goddess named Naomi Knox. He's so smug in love with that chick that he saunters around like his shit don't stink.

  “Don't let him get to you,” our drummer, Ronnie McGuire, says, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. He smiles at me, flashing silver fillings. I think the expression's supposed to make me feel included or some shit, but he is also married—to another drummer. Like to like, I guess. But if I have to put up with these smug assholes parading their lovesick bullshit all over the place I'm gonna puke.

  “Yeah, baby, don't let him get to you,” Turner says with a pouty mouth, grabbing me around the neck with one arm and planting a sloppy disgusting-as-fuck kiss on my cheek. “Don't worry—Turner will protect you from the big, bad rock crowd.”

  “Get the fuck away from me,” I growl, pushing him away and pausing as a roar comes from the crowd, tearing the curtain apart in front of me, I see a fight's broken out near the mosh pit, two guys throwing swings at each other as everyone near them scrambles to get out of the way. Eh, that's just par for the course.

  I drop the curtain back in place.

  “Just another fight,” I say as I tuck my fingers in my pockets and act like seeing my friend Jesse making out with some roadie dude isn't totally weird. I mean, it's not like I care that he's gay or whatever, but after years of seeing him chase women, having him come out all of a sudden was a bit of a shock. Still getting used to the idea of him letting dudes put their dicks up his ass. “They better not start any of that shit when we're onstage, or I'm kicking some serious ass.”

  “Oh, please,” Turner says, rolling his eyes at me and getting out another cigarette. Back in the day, we'd be getting ready for a show by shooting up, popping pills, smoking dust. But now? Ronnie and Turner are all like, domestic or whatever—they're straightedge now. Puh-frigging-lease. “If something goes down, we both know I'll have to take care of it.”

  I flick my tongue against my teeth, throw up a one-fingered salute and grab the neck of my guitar.

  Turner might be on vocals, but I'm the lead guitarist—I set the fucking rhythm.

  The old pickup truck smells like cigarettes, mud, and the two old black Labrador retrievers that live with my friend Gloria and her dad. Already, my pale pink cashmere sweater is covered in little black hairs.

  So much for our glamorous trip to Los Angeles. Any guys we meet are likely to—quite literally—smell the country bumpkin all over us.

  Not that I'm looking for guys tonight. Because I'm not. I'm not.

  “Are you sure this outfit's … appropriate?” I ask as the truck rumbles and sputters into the parking lot of the Bloodstain—yes, the Bloodstain, as if that's at all an appealing name for a music venue. I squeeze the edges of my cardigan over my breasts and feel so self-conscious suddenly that my stomach twists into knots and leaps for my throat. It sits there, right beside my rapidly beating heart.

  “Are you kidding? You look so fucking hot, Netty,” Gloria says as she meanders down the packed rows looking for a place to park. Looking at her, I wish I'd taken up the offer of a dress—something slinky and black and tight. Something with rhinestones. Something with leather.

  I think I must be the most naive twenty-five year old in the state of California.

  “Everyone else is wearing black, like they're on their way to a funeral.”

  Behind me, the twins—no, not identical ones—snicker and Kella, older by all of two minutes, leans over the back of the seat to play with my ponytail.

  “You look cute, like Susie Q or something,” she says and then everyone laughs, clearly at my expense.
If this trip—planned and paid for by Gloria—wasn't serving as her bachelorette party, I'd be passing on the concert and spending the next two hours sitting in the car.

  “I look like a fifties housewife,” I say with a start, realizing my below-the-knee skirt, black pumps, and white cami aren't exactly going to cut the mustard at this place. I feel like we're entering a whole other world as we pull into a lucky space near the front, directly under a broken streetlamp.

  That so does not bode well.

  I groan and lean my head back against the seat. I wasn't going to say anything, but I sort of thought the other four girls in the bridal party looked like—and I'm saying with a little tongue in cheek—whores, for lack of a better term. I mean, like they quite literally take money for sex.

  Sitting here lookin at the crowd streaming in through the front doors, I realize that I am the one who's going to stand out in a bad way.

  “Shit,” I murmur and the other ladies in the car exchange glances. It's not often that they hear me curse. Or see me drink, smoke, or otherwise party. I'm not a prude or anything; I just like hanging out at home watching Netflix with my cat.

  Okay.

  Wow.

  That sounded really, really bad, didn't it?

  I reach up and tear my hair from its ponytail, shaking it out and ruffling it with my fingers as the twins cheer and their older sister, Asha, passes a can of beer over the back of the seat.

  “Are you finally ready to have a drink?” she says, raising her blonde brows at me in question. According to Gloria, pre-drinking is required because the—and I quote—drinks inside the venue will totally bankrupt her. Why pay ten bucks for a mix drink when I can drink a Pabst that cost me fifty cents at the grocery store? Again, her words, not mine. “I'm telling you—you'll have a hell of a lot more fun if you're buzzed.”

  I take the can in my fingers, pop the top to cheers and let peer pressure move me into taking my first drink in over six months. The last time I had any alcohol, it was at my twenty-fifth birthday party. I drank an entire pitcher of sangria because Asha told me there wasn't any booze in it—and I so couldn't taste it. I ended up spending most of the night in the bathroom of a nightclub, curled over a toilet and puking my guts out.

  When I finish the can, I crush it and toss it onto the floor like everyone else is doing.

  “That's my girl,” Gloria says as I slip out of the pink cardigan and untuck my shirt from my skirt. It's not much of a difference, but it helps. “If I'd known you were going to change your mind, I would've brought extra clothes. Here.” Gloria pauses and takes the white skull and crossbones barrette from her hair, leaning over and pinning a hunk of my honey-brown locks back. She grins at me, grabs her Here Comes the Effing Bride headband and plunks it onto her head. “Ready?” she asks, but I'm already reaching for another drink.

  Ready doesn't even begin to cover what I'm feeling.

  That is to say, like a lamb heading into a den of wolves.

  I drink three more cans before heading inside.

  If I'd known I was going to meet a devil in tight jeans and eyeliner, a man who would woo, ruin, and save me all at once, I've have downed a dozen more.

  The crowd is thick and heavy and sweaty, pressed up on all sides of me as I struggle to keep the drink in my plastic cup from spilling all over the place.

  “That cost me ten-fifty, so you better drink it!” Gloria says, pointing at me as Asha holds her drink and she pulls her tank top over her head right there in the middle of the crowd. I'm not trying to judge or anything, but … okay, I am so being judge-y. I toss my drink back as Gloria changes into her new band t-shirt, the word Indecency scrawled across it in aggressive red letters that look like blood spatters. What is it with the rock world and blood? Blood isn't sexy. I should know all about that.

  I finish my drink in a surprisingly short period of time, blinking stupidly at the cup as the audience murmurs and mingles, waiting for the first act to take the stage in this crowded, dank old warehouse building. We're in a part of town that all the tourist websites warned a million times over that out-of-towners should stay away from and yet, there's a sense of camaraderie in the air, this sense of togetherness that the black and the leather and the chains didn't exactly lead me to suspect.

  Or maybe I'm just starting to get drunk?

  “Here,” Gloria says, holding her tank top out and shaking it around. “Put that on. I bought this shirt so you could wear mine.”

  “Thanks,” I say cautiously, looking at the blank sleeveless shirt with the fishnet down the center. I pull it on over my white cami and notice the twins rolling their eyes at me. Sorry, but I put on a cute little pink and peach butterfly patterned bra on underneath and I'm not showing it off for the whole world to see.

  I feel a little better wearing it, like maybe I don't stand out quite so much. That's one of the things I'm really, really good at—not standing out. After the whole thing with my dad and … well, let's just say that I learned that attention is not always a good thing. I'd rather have none than have any negativity turned my way.

  As I sip the drink in my hand—it tastes so much worse than the sangria—the lights dim and the people around me … they go completely insane. I'm not really in 'the know' when it comes to these sorts of events, but I guess some mega-famous band posted on all their social media accounts that they'd be playing a pop-up show here tonight. Fortunately for us, we already had tickets. Whatever was still available at the time of posting is long gone and there's already a massive crowd forming outside the gated area where the bands keep their buses. I guess they're groupies or something? I have no idea. I wouldn't exactly classify myself as 'cool'. I listen to Justin Bieber in secret (also with my cat).

  I stop sipping the drink and just throw it all back hoping my usual clumsawkwardy (that's my made-up word for a healthy mix of clumsiness and awkwardness—and yes, I'm also so uncool that I make-up words) doesn't show itself in the center of such an intimidating crowd.

  Yet another drink comes my way via Kella and her dangly skull earrings. This time, when I take a sip, it doesn't taste so bad. A few more sips and it actually tastes kind of … good? I raise a hand to my mouth and shout at the top of my lungs with the rest of the crowd, inadvertently screaming in the bride-to-be's ear.

  Fantastic.

  I finish my newest drink as a man onstage—wearing a suit and tie, mind you his hands and neck are covered in tattoos—introduces his band Beauty in Lies with a quaint British accent, all of the fucks interspersed through his words making me giggle.

  Giggle?

  Oh, hell no.

  Netty Forester does not giggle.

  Deciding to take my notes from the twins, I start pumping my fist in the air and bouncing with the crowd, trying not to let the dark haze in the air disturb me. The dual scents of cigarette smoke and pot hang heavy over the room like smog (we are in L.A. after all so the simile works). Just beneath that, there's a decent mixture of alcohol and body odor. But as of right now, I'm feeling really good, all warm and loose and excited. I should get drunk more often!

  Even though I've never heard the song that's playing before in my life, I mouth the words 'peas and carrots' over and over again because I heard once that that phrase makes it look like you really know the lyrics. All around me, people in leather boots and … is that a cape? that's definitely a cape I see over there … dance and thrash and throw themselves at the stage like animals, clawing to get a piece of the glittering sex that's for sale onstage.

  By the time the second band of the night—some Southern/blues rock group called Pistols and Violets—takes the stage, I've had three more drinks and am beyond drunk and on my way to smashed and the crowd is now less than human. It's a gloriously violent scene around me, this frothing hotbed of emotion that makes all the empty spaces inside of me ache, ache, ache.

  Sometimes, curling up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a purring tuxedo cat makes the whole world feel safe and happy. Sometimes … I get so lonely th
at I hurt.

  A fight breaks out near the stage as two guys manage to fight their way over the metal security fence and scramble up toward the lead singer. He actually manages to drop one of them with a well-placed punch to the gut before the guy throws one of his own; the bouncers grab the other. To his credit, the man with the sultry Southern accent never stops singing.

  “Are these things always so violent?” I scream at Gloria … just as the song ends and there's a brief moment of almost-silence. Several people around me laugh as I shuffle my sensible black flats on the rough concrete floor and wait for the stage to go dark.

  “It's time; it's time; it's time,” she's saying over and over and over again, biting her lower lip so hard it bleeds. I cringe as she reaches into her shirt and adjusts her monstrous boobs (if they were real, I wouldn't make fun of her but they're implants so it's fair game). “I think I'm gonna pee myself,” she says as there's a noticeable push forward from the crowd.

  I find myself being shoved and pushed and jostled away from my girlfriends as the individual people in the crowd start to melt together into this monstrous rock 'n' roll fueled blob.

  Lights flash and black and red confetti bits blasts over the crowd, falling like rain into my tousled hair as I feel my body get crushed between the clump of people in front of me and the ones behind. I can barely even breathe. Still, the swishy feeling in my head makes everything seem okay, maybe even good, more like great.

  Even though I only know about Indecency from the headlines—the band's actually more famous for the murder mystery plots surrounding their members than they are their music—I shout until my throat feels raw.

  “Fuck yeah, LOS ANGELES!” a man screams through the mic, and I swear to god that the crowd devolves into one big raving lunatic, pebbling my skin with goose bumps, making my mouth go dry. That camaraderie I felt before is still there, but there's also this wild bite of danger in the air, like a wolf clacking its teeth, getting ready to bloody its mouth at the kill. I think we're supposed to feel like part of the pack out here instead of the prey, but … “My name is Turner Campbell, this is Indecency, and we're going to shred your FUCKING FACES OFF!”