The Replacement War: A Rock Star Rom Com

by Lisa Suzanne

  Floor to ceiling windows showcasing the beautiful Los Angeles skyline fill two of the walls. The space is enormous, and six people sit at a conference table off to one side.

  My jaw drops a little at the sheer level of talent sitting there, and heat rushes up my spine and spills into my neck.

  Mark Ashton, Ethan Fuller, Dax Hunter, Brody Jensen, Adam Wilson, and a woman I don’t know.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever been so nervous in my entire life. It’s not just the musical talent and the careers I’ve admired for years and years.

  It’s the level of ridiculously good looks sitting there. I’ve had a crush on Mark Ashton for as long as I can remember. I had a folder in high school with pictures of him splashed all over it, and I have a vision board at home with just a picture of him in the love quadrant, because I want to end up with someone like him—someone handsome and sexy, but also driven and successful with talents and ambitions in many different areas.

  And being rich wouldn’t hurt.

  Ethan stands. “Lexi Weber,” he says in that telltale voice I immediately recognize. “I’m such a big fan.”

  Mark chuckles beside him at a line I’m sure is thrown at them constantly.

  Pink dots my cheeks as I walk over and shake his hand. “Oh my Gosh, stop it. The five of you and the others in your bands...you’re legends.”

  “That makes me feel old as fuck, but thanks,” Ethan says, and everyone laughs.

  I shake the rest of their hands, and the woman introduces herself as Kylie, MFB’s manager.

  “So a woman bassist?” Kylie asks. “That’s unusual. What made you decide you wanted to play bass?”

  “She can sing, too,” Ethan says, emphasizing sing as if to say I can freaking wail on a song when I want to.

  “Thank you,” I say to Ethan. I turn to Kylie to address her question. “My parents had a piano. When I was too little to reach the pedals, my dad would put me on his lap and my mom would sing beside him. Music was such an important part of my childhood, and my parents had me try just about every instrument at some point. My dad was a high school music teacher, and my mom used to sing at lounges before she had me. I fell in love with the way bass just lights up a song with tempo. I also love to sing, and I have a much easier time singing while I’m playing bass than, say, piano.”

  “Plus nobody else wants to play bass,” Brody says, garnering a laugh from everyone in the room.

  It’s true. The poor bass guitar seems to be the least respected, and so, to rib on myself, I throw out a joke. “What’s the difference between a vacuum and a bass player?”

  “What?” Ethan yells.

  “The vacuum has to be plugged in to suck,” I say with a grin, and I earn a laugh from everyone.

  I feel like I’m walking on a cloud.

  Freaking Mark Ashton is laughing at something I just said.

  How did this become my life today? And how do I make it last forever?

  They ask me a few more questions, and I feel like it’s going well. I’m released to wardrobe, where they outfit me with a different dress, a sexier black and white one. They tell me to keep the boots on, and then they do my hair and make-up.

  I feel gorgeous as I’m ushered to the studio, where they snap some photos and a producer named Ben asks me a bunch of questions and I play a quick solo.

  I’m having the time of my life, and it’s all over too soon.

  My driver, Tony, drops me at the hotel with my room key, and I’m free to do whatever I want until Sunday.

  I head up to my room first. My jaw drops when I walk in.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever stayed in such a nice hotel before. I have a view of Ashmark Records along with several other buildings, and I see mountains in the distance. A large, luxurious bed that looks to be a king size is situated in the middle of the room, and plush chairs are by the window.

  If nothing else, this is going to be a nice, relaxing couple days.

  A little welcome note awaits me on the desk with a bottle of wine.

  Lexi,

  Thank you for auditioning for our band. We look forward to hearing more from you and seeing if you’ll make a good fit. Ethan’s recommendation could not have been stronger. Enjoy the next few days of quiet. Get some rest, enjoy the wine, use the spa, get lit at the hotel bar, and charge it all to the room. It’s on us.

  -Dax, Brody, Adam, and Will

  Wow.

  Use the spa?

  Done.

  I call and book a massage for the morning. I make the appointment for nine—nice and early, but still eleven Nashville time. I’ll get used to the time change.

  Being the responsible girl I am, I set my alarm for eight to ensure I have plenty of time for a shower in the morning before I head to my appointment.

  It’s already seven, and I realize I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since a small salad I shoveled in before I boarded the plane.

  I stare at the bathtub. It’s got whirlpool jets.

  I debate ordering room service.

  I check out the restaurants in the hotel and ultimately opt for the hotel bar. I don’t want to waste my makeover by sitting up in the room, and it’s a place where I can do a little people watching and order whatever food I want from their menu.

  I check the mirror before I head down because you just never know who might be sitting in the hotel bar. My auburn locks flow in pretty waves around my shoulders. The dress the wardrobe people at Ashmark chose for me fits my figure like a glove, and the make-up a professional artist did for me is still in place.

  I don’t just look pretty tonight. I feel pretty.

  And it’s with all that confidence that I stride down toward the hotel bar.

  It’s a Thursday night in Los Angeles, and the bar is more crowded than I would’ve imagined. All the tables are taken, but I spot an open stool at the bar.

  It’s on the end, next to where the waitstaff rings in orders and waits for drinks so they can deliver them to their tables.

  On the other side sits a man with a black t-shirt covering broad shoulders. I walk up and stand there for a second, unsure of what to do. He’s glued to his phone, and I don’t want to take his wife’s chair or anything.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask.

  No response.

  He’s still scrolling his phone, lost in his own little world. I see some tattoos on his arms as they rest on the bar.

  “Excuse me,” I try again. I tap that broad shoulder, a little electric spark stinging my finger.

  He blows out a sigh before he turns toward me with narrowed eyes. When his golden-chocolate irises meet my brown ones, though, they soften into something completely different. Surprise, maybe.

  And a little bit of...heat.

  Or maybe I’m just imagining it. The California sun is already getting to me.

  My eyes fall on full lips and a square jaw lined with stubble. He has fairly short, thick hair that’s messy and stylish all at once, and he just might be the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on in my entire life.

  And so completely and totally not my type.

  Not that it matters.

  “Yeah?” he asks, his voice deep and rich and goodness gracious I freaking love Los Angeles.

  His dark eyes dip to my cleavage for a half a second, almost an involuntary act, and just as involuntarily, I find myself jutting out my breasts just a little, a habit to make them appear bigger.

  I’m not, like, totally innocent all the time.

  “Is this seat taken?” I repeat.

  He turns a little and kicks it back with his foot. My eyes fall to his Motley Crue shirt.

  “Is now,” he says, nodding toward it as if to tell me to take a seat.

  He sets his phone down while I slide into the chair, unsure of what to say next because I’m suddenly nervous as sin, and thankfully I’m saved by the bartender, who nods at me and raises his brows in the universal sign that asks what are you having?

  “A Long Island iced tea, please,” I
say.

  The bartender nods. “ID?”

  I pull my license out of my purse to show him that I’m old enough to drink at twenty-five, and he slinks away. It’s that moment when I smell him, and it overwhelms my senses. It’s a clean, soapy scent mixed with something I can only describe as sexy man.

  “Long Island?” he asks. “You here to get fucked up?”

  I laugh. “Just enough to take the edge off.” Truth be told, I’m not much of a drinker. I ordered a Long Island because it sounded cool. I’ve never had one and I have no idea what’s even in it.

  I’ll have the occasional glass of wine as long as it tastes more like fruit punch than wine, and I’ll put down a margarita or two every now and again...but alcohol tends to affect my voice, and I prefer to keep it strong.

  “What are you having?” I ask.

  “Miller Lite,” he says. He drains what’s left in his glass and holds it up when the bartender glances over.

  I wrinkle my nose, and Motley Crue chuckles. “Is that a little country twang I hear?”

  I smile. “Sure is. I’m visiting from Nashville.” I don’t say more than that. I signed a nondisclosure agreement, and he’s a stranger.

  “I’m Gage,” he says. “Visiting from Vegas.”

  “Lexi,” I say, and I stick out my hand to shake his.

  His grip is firm and when I glance down at where our hands connect, I see long fingers and strong forearms. The kind with veins in them, which tells me he works with his hands. Or he works out. Either way, it’s sexy.

  “So Lexi from Nashville,” he says. “Who are you here visiting?”

  “Just some friends,” I say, hedging. “You?”

  “I’m here for work,” he says.

  “What line of work are you in?” I ask, even though I know the question will be returned and I’m not sure how to answer it.

  “Sales,” he says vaguely. “You?”

  “I’m a make-up artist.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and I suppose it’s not totally a lie. I do my own make-up every day, and most of the time it’s a lot of work. But it’s one of the few areas I know well enough if he starts asking me questions. “You a big Motley Crue fan?”

  He glances down at his shirt and chuckles. “You could say that. Are you?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m more of a country girl, but I can appreciate a successful band when I see one.”

  “Why am I not surprised that you’re a country girl?” he asks.

  The bartender drops off my Long Island and Gage’s beer.

  He holds his glass up in a toast. “To getting fucked up,” he says.

  “To taking the edge off,” I insist as I clink my glass to his.

  He laughs while I tip back the drink, and jeez Louise I had no idea Long Islands were so dang strong. I make a face as fire burns down my chest.

  “Like it?” he asks.

  “Delish,” I say.

  “Have you ever had one?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five. You?”

  “Twenty-seven, and I’ve had plenty of Long Islands.” He squints a little as if he’s recalling some memory. “I think I was fourteen when I had my first.”

  “Fourteen?” My voice is a tad louder than I mean for it to be as I express my surprise at that.

  He shrugs. “Not much to do in the desert when you’re a teenager. When did you have your first drink?” He narrows his eyes toward my glass. “Is it tonight? Oh my God, it’s tonight, isn’t it?”

  I purse my lips and roll my eyes. “No, it’s not tonight. I was a sophomore in college.”

  “You escaped your entire freshman year without a drink?” Now his voice is a tad louder than it should be as he expresses his own surprise.

  I lift a shoulder. “I’m stubborn, all right? I stood my ground hard.”

  “What was the drink that popped your liquor cherry?” he asks.

  “Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. Wasn’t that everybody’s first drink?”

  He laughs. “Every chick I know, yeah.”

  “And the boys?” I ask.

  “I found a bottle of amaretto on the top shelf of my aunt’s pantry when I was twelve. Got wasted, slept with my head on a toilet seat, and never drank amaretto again.”

  “Even to this day?” I ask.

  He nods and chugs a few sips of his beer down.

  “We’re changing that tonight,” I announce. I take a sip of my Long Island.

  His brows dip down, and the way his face scrunches a bit is adorable and sexy all at once.

  I raise my hand to wave the bartender over, and when he comes, he raises his brows.

  “Two godfathers, please,” I say.

  He nods, and I can’t help but wonder why I got two. It’s not like I’m going to chase a Long Island with the amaretto and whisky concoction.

  “A godfather, huh? I don’t even know what that is.”

  I laugh. “My grandfather used to drink them all the time.”

  He picks up his phone to research what it is. “Amaretto and a good scotch whisky over ice,” he reads, and I nod. He chuckles as his eyes edge back over to me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re hitting on me.”

  My jaw drops with indignation. “What?” I gasp.

  “You’re buying me a drink, and you got yourself one, too. And it’s a strong drink at that, which tells me now you’re trying to get me fucked up along with you.” He leans in a little closer and lowers his voice to a husky rumble, causing my heart to thump and my tummy to do a flip. “You know what happens when two strangers meet in a hotel bar and get fucked up together?”

  A rush of something—maybe fear, maybe anticipation, maybe desire, or maybe all three—races through my chest. “What?” I whisper, my eyes locked on his.

  He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

  The heat behind his words is enough to cause my thighs to clench together.

  I take another sip of my Long Island in a futile attempt to cool myself down.

  Unfortunately, it has the exact opposite of its intended effect.

  Not only am I starting to get drunk with a stranger, but I’m starting to get drunk with a very hot stranger in a place I’m unfamiliar with.

  This probably isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but sometimes life is more fun when we’re stupid.

  CHAPTER 10: GAGE

  This woman is going to be the end of me.

  She’s so...different from the women I’m used to. She’s young and a little innocent and maybe even a little naïve, and I find myself wanting to be the guy who takes care of her, who introduces her to the dark side, who makes her come like she’s never come in her life and who makes her laugh, because fuck if that smile doesn’t speak directly to my dick.

  This girl...the way she shuddered when I murmured that we should find out what might happen if we get drunk together made my dick pulse with need.

  She’s a gorgeous girl, fresh and pretty without trying too hard.

  The girls I know back home—they’re not like that. They wear too much make-up and show too much skin and use too much hairspray.

  That was never a problem for me.

  Hell, I use too much make-up and hairspray myself half the time, too.

  But this is my chance at reinvention.

  Starting with a lie about my career is probably not the best way to go about this, but let’s call a spade a spade. This isn’t likely to go past tonight, maybe tomorrow. At the latest, Sunday morning before I have to check out.

  Why can’t we have a little fun in the meantime?

  She might have plans, but she’ll cancel them when I charm her panties off.

  That’s my goal, anyway.

  Sales isn’t a total lie. I’m selling myself to the band because even though my meeting with them today lasted a mere eight minutes, I’ll do just about anything to win.

  Once I’m a household name like the rest of those g
uys, women like the one here next to me will do anything to be with me—which is really just an added benefit to sliding into my dream career as if out of nowhere.

  God, I want this.

  A week ago, I didn’t even know this opportunity existed.

  Funny how life can throw changes at you at a lightning pace and change everything in the blink of an eye.

  The bartender slides our new drinks in front of us, and she holds up her glass. “To taking the edge off,” she says, and she giggles—a sure sign that she’s already feeling the effects of her Long Island.

  “To getting fucked up,” I say, picking up the second glass and touching it against hers.

  Our fingers brush when I pull my glass back, and her dark eyes widen just slightly—so slightly I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t studying her.

  I take a sip and wince at the taste. She laughs.

  “You like this shit?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says, and she winces as she tries another sip. “It’s the only amaretto drink I’ve ever heard of.”

  “So first a Long Island, which has tequila, rum, vodka, gin, and triple sec, and then this amaretto and scotch? I think you’re doing more than taking the edge off.” I lean in close again while I talk because I saw the way her pupils dilated with lust and her chest heaved with anticipation the last time I did it.

  “You think so, huh?” she asks. She gulps down a bigger sip of the Long Island. “I guess we’ll see.”

  It doesn’t take long. Once about two-thirds of her Long Island is gone, she starts to slur. “I haven’t had dinner. Have you?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m starving,” she admits, and getting a little food on top of all that liquor is probably a good idea. “Barkeep!” she yells.

  I laugh as I shake my head. “That’s not how you get a bartender’s attention, but that might be the funniest thing I’ve heard all night.”

  “Then you do it, macho man.”

  I wait to make eye contact with the bartender before I flag him over. “Can we get some menus?”

  He nods and returns with them a minute later.

  I’ll eat pretty much anything, so I settle on the first thing I spot on the menu.

  She peruses the menu like this is some life-changing decision.