Hard Rock Deceit: A Rock Star Romance

by Athena Wright

  Everything clicked.

  Platinum blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. Tall and straight-backed, with an almost regal expression.

  Without all the leather, black mesh, torn ripped jeans and eyeliner, it wasn't immediately obvious. But I could see it now.

  My heart went into overdrive.

  This man was August Summers. Drummer, composer, producer, and reputed musical genius. The founding member of hit rock group Darkest Days.

  This was a man who filled stadiums full of screaming fans, who turned every album he touched into gold.

  I took a shallow breath, trying to suppress the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I couldn't make myself speak, afraid my voice would give away my mental state.

  August examined me closely, his eyes narrowed, searching. I don't know what he saw, but he seemed satisfied.

  "Darkest Days has a new album out," he continued. "We're going on tour to promote it. Your job will be to follow the band around for a few months taking photos."

  My black rimmed glasses slid down my nose.

  Going on tour. With a rock band. That wasn't something normal people did. Only people with connections, or people already established in the entertainment industry, got those jobs. It was unfathomable someone like me would get an offer like this.

  "If you agree, you'll need to pack a suitcase tonight," he said. "We're leaving tomorrow."

  Pack a suitcase. Leaving tomorrow. Not to mention, I’d just signed an NDA.

  August watched me silently. I pushed my hair back, tucking it behind my ears. My mom always told me to get my hair out of my face.

  This man saw passion in my art. He wanted to teach me.

  "Okay. Yes." The words hung heavy in the air. "I'll do it."

  The world went fuzzy for a moment.

  What had I just done?

  He nodded once, pleased. "A car will pick you up at your place tomorrow morning."

  He opened the limo door, gesturing for me to step out first, then followed. I tried not to trip over myself. Ashford watched us through the gallery windows.

  August stuck his hand out, offering me a handshake. "I'm sure it will be a pleasure to work with you, Cassie. You're a very talented woman."

  I gingerly placed my hand in his.

  Sparks shot through my body the moment our skin touched. His hand was warm and large, enveloping mine like a sensual embrace.

  I stared at our joined hands for a moment too long. I tried to pull back with a start, not wanting to embarrass myself. He held on for a brief second, not letting go. My heart jumped as I met his eyes.

  Maybe I should have felt excited at that touch. Maybe any other girl would have. And I did feel excited, a bit. But another part of me felt overwhelmed. Disorientated. I was out of my depths with this.

  He let go. I pulled back my still tingling hand and hid it behind my back.

  "You should think about it," August said as he slipped back into the limo.

  I fought to make my voice work. "Think about what?"

  August gave me one last look, his blue eyes sharp. "What you were feeling when you took that photograph."

  Chapter Two

  The parking lot was filled with people rushing about, clipboards, boxes, or equipment in their hands. Three enormous buses, which I had to assume were tour buses for the band and crew, towered over me.

  I gripped the handle of my rolling purple suitcase tight. Nerves turned my palms clammy. I didn't know where to go, or who to even ask. All the busy people had harried expressions on their faces. I couldn't make myself interrupt them.

  I'd been picked up by another limo that morning and unceremoniously dropped off without further instruction. I was being thrown into the deep end.

  "So, did you?"

  I recognized that voice. August, still as achingly handsome as the night before at the art gallery, stood behind me.

  "Did I what?" I asked.

  His lips tilted up into the slightest of smiles. "Think about it."

  Oh. The photo. My feelings when I took it.

  "I can't remember," I said.

  "If you do remember, I'd like to know."

  Such an odd thing to say. Such an odd thing to care about. Did it matter, how I'd felt?

  A bead of sweat rolled down my back.

  I hadn't stopped thinking about him all night. August Summers. Thinking about what he'd said, thinking about the curve of his lips as he said it.

  He'd called my photo passionate.

  Whenever I'd recalled his low, husky tones, shivers went through my spine.

  This was unlike me. I'd never reacted this way before. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say, nothing had ever caused me to feel this way before. The whole situation was entirely unfamiliar to me. Not just because I would be working with a rock star. It was because I would be working with a man who caused butterflies to nearly spew out of my stomach.

  Was this how I was going to react around him the entire time? I didn't know if I would survive.

  "It's good to see you here this morning, Cassie."

  The sound of my name falling from such perfect lips had those butterflies acting up again.

  "I'm glad you showed up," August continued. "I wasn't sure you would."

  "Afraid I'd back out?"

  "Some would. Being on tour isn't the easiest or most glamorous of jobs."

  "Touring with a rock band sounds pretty glamorous to me."

  "Tell me that again in a few weeks."

  That was anything but reassuring. Had I made a terrible mistake?

  "As the band's official photographer, you'll be always on the clock and we're on the road constantly as we tour," he continued. "Is that okay with you?"

  "Isn't it a little too late to ask?"

  "It's never too late for you to say no. But I have a feeling you'll say yes."

  He had an assertive way of speaking. Not arrogant exactly. More like self-assured, as if he was used to people giving him what he wanted without needing to ask.

  I had a feeling I'd be saying yes to a lot of things when it came to this man.

  "I'm okay with traveling. I've already graduated from college. I'm trying to make a go of it as a photographer. Aside from selling a few pieces here and there, I haven't had much work in the industry. If I want to make a living as an artist, this is an good first step."

  "Being hired as a paid photographer lends you credibility," he agreed. "Much more credible then unpaid internships that offer experience instead of money. And much more lucrative than selling to stock photo websites for pennies."

  August seemed to really get it. It was hard for artists to make ends meet without getting day jobs. Although he was rich and famous now, he must have had his own hardships.

  "Whenever I imagined working as a photographer, I dreamed up scenarios of being flown to foreign countries to take photos for prestigious magazines," I said.

  "It's not National Geographic," he replied, "but I hope this will be just as… interesting."

  That pause, the way his eyes glinted when he said the word interesting, made me wonder what I was getting myself into.

  "Was it difficult for you, at first?" I asked. "Having to travel all the time, I mean."

  August tilted his head, as if surprised I'd asked.

  "Yes and no. It's always exciting at first. New cities, new experiences. But you start to miss your own bed after a while."

  I was going to be away from home for a few months. Everything had happened so fast. Less than twenty four hours ago I'd been firmly set on my post-graduation life, looking into part-time jobs and trying to arrange photography gigs.

  I'd never been away from home for longer than a week or two on vacation. Now I was going to be traveling across the country for months at a time.

  A small pang of pre-homesickness hit me.

  "It'll be okay," August said. "You'll be so busy with work, you won't have time to feel homesick."

  "You don't need to worry about me."

  He smiled faintly. "It
's my job to worry."

  August placed a reassuring hand on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. That small gesture of comfort warmed my heart, just as the touch of his skin made my belly tighten.

  "This place can get a little crazy on day one of the tour," he told me. "I'll show you where you'll be working."

  He led me to one of the buses. Stepping inside, my breath was taken away. The whole thing looked like a condo inside. Living room with leather sofas, a kitchen with a sink and fridge, and a real office with a desk and swivel chair at the back. It looked way too posh to be for the roadies or crew.

  "This is the band's tour bus, isn't it?" My nerves began to act up again. "I'm on the same bus as the band?"

  "You are. Your job will be to take candid photos of the entire tour, not just of the concerts."

  August walked me through the living room and nodded to the back.

  "That's the sleeping area," August said. "We've got a handful of bunkbeds and a small private bedroom in the back. It gets a little cramped with all five of us, but we make do."

  All five.

  I'd been so distracted by August, by the effect he had on me, that I'd almost forgotten about the rest of the band.

  I was working with Darkest Days. Hit rock band, winners of multiple industry awards, reputed to have changed the face of modern rock music itself. Each of them was distinctly talented in his own right, near geniuses when it came to music.

  They were also just a bunch of twenty something guys. I envisioned piles of used, smelly socks and a dirty, messy bathroom.

  "I have to sleep on a bus with a bunch of boys?"

  August looked amused as my nose scrunched up in distaste.

  "No. Most of the time the band stays in hotels. I want the guys to be in top shape when we perform. Sleeping on a tour bus night after night is hard on the body."

  I took it all in. Expensive accommodations, traveling with celebrities, an ungodly sum of money for a few months work.

  I turned to August. "What's the catch?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Catch?"

  "This is too good to be true. There must be something terrible I'm missing. Have you run off every other photographer in the industry? Am I the only one stupid enough to say yes? Are the rest of the guys assholes?"

  The hesitation in his expression was worrying. A commotion from outside the tour bus interrupted August before he could answer.

  "Assholes?" A voice said from outside the bus.

  "Only some of us," said a second, oddly similar, voice.

  Two heads peeked into the bus, brown hair sticking up in soft tufts. These were the twin guitarists, Ian and Damon Drake. I looked between them. Their faces were uncannily identical. One of them wore a black band shirt with the words Dangerous Noise on it. The other wore a graphic tee with the words Rock Stars Have More Fun in a bold font across the chest.

  "You bringing a girl on tour?" Graphic Tee asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "You said no girls allowed," Band T-shirt accused. "If you're bringing her, I'm bringing Hope."

  "No way," the first replied. He tugged his brother into a headlock. "I've finally rescued you from her clutches. We're going to have a proper tour with raging bus parties and hoards of hot groupies. That means no girlfriends."

  "I'm not going to bang other girls while my girlfriend sits at home waiting for me." The other squirmed out of his brother's grip. "I'm not a cheating dick."

  "I'll have to have enough fun for the two of us, then." His twin looked smug.

  "This is Cassie Blake, our tour photographer. We'll be sharing our tour bus with her. Cassie, this is Ian," August gestured to Band T-shirt, "And this is Damon." He nodded to Graphic Tee.

  "I know," I said. “I mean, I know you’re The Twins.”

  A slow grin crossed Damon's face.

  "You know us already, huh? You a fan?"

  He sidled up next to me and tweaked at a strand of my hair.

  "If you are, you won't be by the end of this tour." Ian laughed and slapped his brother's hand away. "Close proximity tends to ruin the hero worship."

  "Who said anything about hero worship?" I said. "You guys are just in the media everywhere."

  "And what exactly do trash mags say about us, anyway?" Damon asked, green eyes sparkling.

  "Notorious partiers. Cocky playboys. Think you're god's gift to women."

  Ian looked chagrinned but his twin laughed.

  "Can't deny the truth," Damon said. He gave me a lecherous grin. "I can show you personally if you'd like."

  I blanched, taking a step back.

  "No thanks," I said hastily.

  "Ouch, shot down." Damon faked a blow to his chest.

  "No flirting with the photographer," August said.

  "Why, you calling dibs?" Damon asked with an arched eyebrow.

  August ignored his question.

  "Where are the others?" he asked instead, no doubt referring to their lead singer and bassist.

  "They dropped off their stuff earlier," Ian said. "They're already at the concert hall. We're heading over there now."

  "We'll be right behind you," August said.

  The twins piled their bags on a handful of other suitcases tossed haphazardly in a corner. Before they left, Damon threw me one last parting wink. August picked up my suitcase and tucked it away carefully.

  "We've got a concert here tonight, then we're onto the bus for a couple hours drive," he told me. "We'll stay in a hotel and play again the next night. I'll email you the schedule. It can get confusing."

  "You waited until the last possible minute to hire me, didn't you? What if I'd said no?"

  I couldn't place his expression, that slight tilt of his lips combined with a piercing stare.

  "If you'd said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else," he said. "You're the only one I wanted."

  I blinked behind my glasses, taken back.

  "Why?" I asked.

  He examined me closely, a slow, thorough sweep of his eyes. The heat in that look sent my heart pounding. His eyes pinned me down. I couldn't breathe.

  "Like I told you before. There's something about the way you take photos. Something unique. Something rare."

  I remembered his words from the gallery.

  "You mean passion?"

  "Yes. I want to see that reflected in the photos you take on our tour."

  I didn't even know how I'd done it in the first place. I didn't have much experience with passion.

  August said he thought the desire was unintentional.

  Of course it had been. I took pictures of buildings, graffiti, street photography.

  "I know you say you see something in my photographs. I have no idea how I did it. I don't know how to replicate that."

  "You're overthinking it. There's something inside you, inside every artist, that longs to find meaning in the world. That wants to express their thoughts and emotions. Just tap into that part of yourself."

  "Which part?" I asked, frustrated.

  "The part that feels passion. Desire."

  "I don't know if I've ever felt those things," I said quietly.

  "Everyone desires something."

  "Not me." I shrugged helplessly and cast my eyes down. "I think maybe that part of me is broken."

  I didn't know why I was telling him this. I'd never told a single person anything of the sort. Maybe I just needed to warn him I had no idea how to do what he wanted.

  "Broken?"

  That husky voice was barely a whisper. He took my hand, turning my palm face up. He pressed the pad of his middle finger against mine.

  Slowly, he ran that finger down, along my palm and toward my wrist. My whole body shivered at the slow drag of skin against skin. I inhaled sharply.

  He kept his finger on my inner wrist. My pulse point pounded wildly against his fingertips.

  The sound of boisterous laughing outside the bus startled me. August let go out of my hand.

  "I knew I didn't choose the wrong person," he said.


  My head swam. Every nerve ending in my body tingled in the aftermath of that touch.

  August wanted me to use my passion. Until I'd met him, I'd never felt anything close to what I'd just felt.

  My hands trembled.

  I wasn't sure if it was from excitement or fear.

  Chapter Three

  Although I liked their music, I'd never seen Darkest Days perform live. I preferred listening to music by myself, without the press of a sweaty, screaming audience. August told me to follow him backstage, where I could watch the concert away from rabid fans.

  He handed me a lanyard with a VIP pass hanging from the clip. I put it around my neck along with my DSLR camera. My hands shook as I took it from him.

  The moment we entered the concert hall August's tone turned brisk, his stride lengthening. It was as if a switch had been flipped. He acted like nothing had happened between us.

  "You're going to want to take photos from every angle, and that includes the pit. But we don't expect you to officially start work until tomorrow. Tonight you should experience the concert through the eyes of a fan, not through a camera lens. Hopefully it will spark some ideas."

  The backstage area was even busier than the tour bus parking lot had been. I stuck next to August, following close behind him, like a duckling following its mother. Even with my VIP pass, I was afraid I'd get lost or kicked out by the hulking bodyguards placed at every entrance.

  I certainly didn't look like I belonged backstage at a rock concert, with my leggings and over-sized shirt. Aside from the event staff in their all-black outfits, the rest could have been rock stars themselves. Leather, mesh, and wildly colored hair were the predominant styles.

  "Is everyone back here in a band?" I asked August.

  "We've got an opening act." August pointed to a corner where a group of guys with guitars in their hands stood waiting. "But some of them are fans with VIP passes or friends and family."

  I took a quick glance around, but no else seemed to be dressed as casually as me. I tugged at the sleeve of my shirt, rubbing at the seam.

  August gave me an inquisitive look.

  "Are you feeling out of place?"

  "Just a bit," I admitted. "Concerts aren't really my thing."