Brooklyn Rockstar (Kendall Family #1)

by Jennifer Ann

  When the middle aged woman behind him scowls our way, I raise an eyebrow and shrug. “He’s off his meds.”

  Shaking her head, the woman turns away. The others listening have lost interest in our conversation by now as well. I inhale a breath of relief.

  “I think you missed your calling as a motivational speaker,” I say in a low voice, shaking my head. There hasn't been much in the past few years Lorezno wasn’t able to talk me into doing, including snorting Adderall off a stripper’s tits alongside Danny. I normally don’t do the drugs thing other than an occasional joint, but that night we were celebrating the band’s first number one hit and a bunch of fraternity idiots offered the stuff. I was feeling on top of the world to begin with, so it didn’t take much convincing. Not that Danny ever let me say no to anything anyway.

  Lorenzo claps me on the shoulder. “Listen. Quit making excuses and do it. Show the world what you’re made of. You can start by rocking the shit outta that little corner bar tomorrow night. It’s an exclusive thing—the place will be packed and literally crawling with woman wanting a piece of you. I made sure they stacked the guest list.”

  “How exactly is a room full of chicks going to help my career?”

  “Are you kidding me? Listen. They’ll be all over themselves just to get a look at you. It’s good press. And if you don’t want any of that pussy, you could do me a solid and send a few my way. If I don’t get laid soon, my balls are going to be as blue as that chick’s hair.” He gestures toward a woman with dark blue streaks in her dirty blond hair and a toddler in her lap.

  Chuckling behind my hand, I look down at my feet. “That would be a travesty,” I concede. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The rest of the ride to the interview Lorenzo wouldn’t let me back out of, we’re both quiet as I’m lost in my thoughts of going solo and Lorenzo’s likely fantasizing how I’m going to making good on his suggestion. We arrive ten minutes late to the swanky hotel in the heart of downtown Manhattan. With my hat stuffed in my back pocket, I’m easily recognizable to the young manager waiting in the lobby. She’s a dark shade of red when she leads us to the penthouse.

  “Ms. Porter wanted me to tell you she’s running just a few minutes late,” the woman tells us. “Make yourselves at home and please let us know if there's anything we can do for you.”

  The long living room smells of sandalwood and is completely stark white—from the walls to the floor and the furniture—with the exception of puke-yellow pillows on a pair of matching armchairs that face a couch on the other side of a glass coffee table. I walk over to the wall of windows and take in the impressive skyline. It’s a clear day with blue skies and only a few white clouds floating around, allowing a view all the way to the harbor.

  No matter how many times I go into this fucking city, I’m never quite at home and always feel like a fish out of the pond when seeing the tall buildings and never-ending swarm of people. I’m just a kid from Brooklyn Heights who grew up a few blocks from where Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys once lived. I idolized the man most my life, knowing every angle of his story and vowing I’d learn from his early mistakes of being a bad boy partier if I ever made it big. When he died a little over a year after I finally got the chance to meet him, it gutted me.

  “Impressive, right?” a feminine voice asks behind me.

  Lorenzo and I watch as a long-legged beauty strides into the room wearing a tight skirt and flowing blouse that reveals the inside curves of her breasts. Wearing some of the highest heels I’ve ever seen, she still manages to cross the distance between us with grace and ease. Despite having washed out blond hair with dark roots, she’s both professional and sexy as shit. The type Danny would totally be all over.

  I normally loathe these goddamned interviews, but this could be one of few I actually enjoy. I can’t wait to make her lose that tough exterior and tremble at the knees.

  Emerald eyes sparking to life, she smiles and offers me her hand. “Gwen Porter. I’m a big fan.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Lorenzo says with a snicker.

  Nudging him in the side, I accept her slender hand, taking a minute to drink in the generous curves of her fit body. Even though I guess her to be in her mid 30s, she obviously takes good care of herself and works hard to look good. So more my type than the skinny model with fake tits. Plus the older women usually like to fuck dirty.

  “It’s always good to meet my fans.” I brush my thumb over the back of her hand and grin when I see her slightly tremble. “This is my manager, Lorenzo Marchetta.”

  “Ah, Mr. Marchetta,” she says in a notably annoyed tone. “I believe we spoke on the phone.”

  “That we did,” he says, taking her hand the moment I release it. “I should’ve guessed by that voice you’d be a vision of beauty.”

  With a gracious laugh, Gwen quickly reclaims her hand as if worried she just contracted an STD. “I was hoping I could have some privacy with Mr. Walker. Do you mind waiting down in the lobby, Mr. Marchetta?”

  “I’ll wait in the hallway if you promise to call me Lorenzo,” he answers with a playful wink. He catches my gaze and chuckles. “You good?”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I seem to be in capable hands.”

  He shrugs. “Okay then. Miss Porter, it was a pleasure. I hope to see more of you around. You have my number if you need…anything.” Throwing the reporter a toothy smile, he shuts the door behind him.

  Gwen motions to the fluffy couch that reminds me of my sister’s yippy mutts. “Sit down and relax, Mr. Walker. Let’s get to know each other a little better.”

  Plopping down on the couch, I stretch my arms out and wonder how much the furniture alone set the hotel back. I’m sickened by the way the rich like to blow their wads on material things. When I got my first big check, I vowed never to let physical possessions take over my life. For the most part I’ve made good on my promise, instead spoiling my mom and sister since that kind of thing makes them happy.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. “Coffee? A water?”

  I drum my fingers against the back of the couch, wishing I had taken something to help me relax. “Is it too early for whiskey?”

  “Sorry to say I didn't think to request any,” she answers with a small shake of her head. “Would you like me to have room service deliver a bottle? From what I understood, you’re more of a tequila man.”

  Christ, I haven’t drank tequila since my days of partying with Danny. Instead of setting her straight, I flash my sexiest smile. “I can be whatever kind of man you’d like, but I think I’m good for now.”

  As I sit back with my legs spread apart, she settles one cushion away, crossing her deliciously toned legs. She alternates between playing with a curly strand of hair on her shoulder and tugging on the hem of her skirt while clearing her throat. I’ve seen something like it a million times. It’s the female equivalent to a hard-on, though I’m quite sure their experience isn’t quite as painful, but more like an itch they’re unable to scratch. That’s what a chick once told me, anyway.

  Toying with women until they’re squirming for relief is one of those things that’ll never grow old. I wish I knew how many of them stuck their fingers inside themselves after our encounters. “I’m sure you know the drill, but if there’s anything you want off the record, just let me know, and it’ll stay between us.” After setting a small digital recorder on the glass table, she folds her manicured hands over her knees.

  I toss her a slow wink. “Oh, I’ll let you know.”

  Her lips bend with one of the whitest smiles I’ve seen. “I’ve been following your success closely, Mr. Walker.”

  “Call me Charlie.”

  “Charlie. You’ve had quite the eventful career so far. Thrashtag has collaborated with some of the biggest acts in the business and opened for Gringer on their world tour. Your first album recently went platinum, having sold over one point three million copies. That’s almost unheard of in today’s digital world. Then
your bandmate Danny Hogril disappeared, postponing your first headlining tour indefinitely. Now you’re working on a solo album that critics and fans alike anticipate to blow away the charts. Do you feel going it alone is the best path for your career, or are you still hopeful the band will one day reunite?”

  Stomach suddenly feeling uneasy, I stiffen and clench my teeth. Is she asking whether or not I hope we find Danny? Does she think I’m some kind of goddamned masochist? How am I expected to feel inspired with this kind of bullshit riding on my shoulders?

  “I don’t know where you’re getting your intel, Gwen, but it's impossible for anyone to speculate on the album when less than a dozen people have actually heard it. I’m still rewriting some of the songs.” When I feel my anger rearing its ugly head, I take a deep breath. “Play your cards right and maybe there’ll be a bonus track about a sexy reporter with bright green eyes.”

  She uncrosses her legs before crossing them in the other direction. Her eyes latch onto mine, filled with lust. “You’re very charming, Charlie. You wouldn’t be flirting with me, would you?”

  I don’t offer anything more than a suggestive smirk.

  Again, she clears her throat and shifts her hips. The ragged beats of her heart flutter on the hollow curve of her slender neck. “There’s a rumor going around that you recently added another tattoo to your collection. Anything you want to share with your fans? We could include it in today’s photo shoot.”

  My hand rubs at the word “trust” inked over my heart, safely hidden beneath my shirt. Eventually the world will see it, but I won’t ever be able to share its meaning with anyone. The only person who knows why I felt a need to redefine the word is dead. Why is it so hard to find a tattoo parlor where the other customers don’t open their big fucking mouths to the press?

  “Are you asking me to take my clothes off so you can inspect my body?” I tease, pushing the rolled sleeves of my button-down shirt higher to expose more of my biceps. “Who’s flirting now?”

  As she studies the drawings on my forearm, her tongue appears to wet her glossy lips. It reminds me of the hashtag #lickCharlie that Lorenzo claims nearly broke the internet after my shirtless pictures appeared in GQ. What is it with chicks wanting to lick ink? Do they think it’s flavored?

  When our eyes meet, I can sense just how badly she wants to straddle me. By now she must be dripping wet. As if to confirm my thoughts, her pupils widen. “You haven’t been linked with one woman in quite some time. Have you given up on dating?”

  Yet another million dollar question that I won’t answer for anyone. I scoot forward on the sofa, smirking. I’m done with this bullshit interview.

  “Are you married, Gwen?”

  “No,” she answers with a tight laugh.

  I slide closer until our knees are only inches away. “Boyfriend?”

  “Dating on and off.” Eyes burning even brighter, her fingers hook the diamond pendant hanging from her neck. A bead of sweat pricks along her hairline. Having developed a sixth sense for this kind of thing, I can fucking smell just how turned on she’s become.

  Snagging the recorder from the table, I press the STOP button and wave it in front of her. “Here’s the deal. I don’t do these kinds of interviews in penthouses, surrounded by thousand dollar pillows with billion dollar views. If you want something to write about, come watch me perform at Leona’s in Brooklyn Heights tomorrow night. I’ll personally make sure you have the best seat in the house. We can talk after my gig when I’m still on a performance high. It’s the best mood you’ll catch me in.”

  Flashing the grin I know to drive women wild, I touch her bare calf and drag my fingers down to her ankle, caressing the skin around it. Eyes wide as saucers, she shutters and makes a small noise of pleasure deep in her throat.

  “Wear these shoes,” I whisper into her ear.

  I pause, reveling in the way she flounders against my hand when it moves up toward her skirt. Her breaths are heavy and tight. She’s so fucking close that it would only take a slip of my finger. Older women are always more in touch with their bodies—literally—and that much easier to get off. It’s part of the reason Danny always preferred his women to be over 30.

  She braces herself against my chest. “I’m old enough to be your goddamn mother.”

  “Doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about doing things to this body,” I answer, dragging my fingertips back down to her knees. “Show up tomorrow and I promise to give you an unforgettable show.”

  Unable to speak, Gwen hums in understanding. She slaps her hand around my wrist, begging it to climb higher. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  “What exactly do you want, Gwen?” I tease.

  “I want you to make me come,” she whispers in a strained voice. “Please, Charlie.”

  The way she purrs, it’s almost impossible to hold off any longer. As much as I want to bend her over the couch right now and fuck her senseless, however, there wouldn’t be any fun in that. It’s all about the pursuit and anticipation.

  She digs her fingers into my thigh with a pleading look. “It would most definitely be off the record.”

  There’s a brisk knock at the door and she reluctantly releases me. Her face is stone cold as she attempts to straighten herself out. “That must be my photographer. She’s early.”

  Knowing she’s in no state to answer the door, I move across the room and do it myself. Two middle aged women carrying equipment openly swoon as they introduce themselves, then hurry over to Gwen. Lorenzo saunters in behind them, studying the still blushing reporter with narrowed eyes.

  “Please tell me you didn’t fuck her,” he whispers, clapping me on the back. “One screw up a day is more than I can handle.”

  “Nah. But she’s coming to the show tomorrow.”

  As I watch Gwen and her staff busily prepare for the photo shoot, I sink against the wall and take a deep breath. If Danny were here he’d tell me everything’s going to be okay and I’m going to rock that bar tomorrow night. I just wish he was going to be there to back me up.

  Chapter 4

  EVELYN

  From the minute we’re both awake, Sharlo bends over backwards to give me a memorable day. A private car takes us over to Manhattan, where she insists on giving me a crash course of the biggest sites in the city. By mid-afternoon we’ve walked through Times Square, taken a ferry past the Statue of Liberty, visited the observation deck on the Empire State Building, strolled through Central Park, and ate dirty water dogs from a street vendor before grabbing a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery. It’s everything I could hope to see my first day in the city.

  We’re both giddy by the time we’re back in the apartment, stoked for our night out with Charlie Walker. Though I didn’t share all the details of what I was doing when I watched his music video, I did let her know I was impressed by what I saw.

  After trying on nearly every outfit I’ve packed, we agree on a white, loose-fitting tank top with a cut-out back and a pair of torn capris with my gladiator sandals. Since Sharlo worked for a short time as a makeup artist and I don’t own much beyond a tube of mascara, I allow her to dote on me until I become someone I hardly recognize while still somehow appearing natural. The smoky look she gave my eyes is sexy as hell and makes them look bigger while the dark freckles that normally make me appear exceptionally young somehow enhance my features with a bit of bronzer.

  After I straighten my hair, she braids my bangs away from my face and clips them into place with bobby pins, then loans me a pair of silver dangling earrings. Between the braid and her expert makeup job, I look trendier than ever. People won't be able to tell I spent half my life driving tractors covered in dirt.

  By the time Sharlo’s ready to go, having changed into a flowing skirt and sleeveless lacy top with a high collar, hair teased into a loose ballerina bun, it’s as if we’ve been friends our whole lives. We link arms and chat excitedly on the five-block stroll to the bar as I take in the sights of my new neighborhood.

  Leona�
��s, the trendy corner bar where Sharlo used her connections to score me a waitressing job, is already packed when we arrive even though it’s still an hour before the show. We have a hard time making our way through the crowd to the mahogany bar in back, stacked three-deep with customers waiting to put in an order. If it’s always like this on Friday nights, at least I can expect big tips in my future.

  While Sharlo orders margaritas, I take a look around. Ceiling covered in pounded metal and old vinyl records covering the walls among pictures of notable rockstars who apparently have played here in the past, there’s a rustic vibe to the place that already makes me feel at home. The way the bar seems to be built around a respectably large stage, I would expect it draws a big crowd on a regular basis. My stomach flips excitedly, knowing I’ll be surrounded by live music—one of my favorite pastimes.

  Oddly enough, there seems to be four times as many women as men, and they’ve all clearly dressed to impress in tight skirts, low-cut tops, and killer heels. Suddenly very conscious of my wardrobe choice, I touch my hair and adjust my bra straps beneath my top. I may even be tempted to leave if it weren’t for Sharlo’s equally individual style.

  Margaritas in either hand, my roommate appears with a mouth-watering hot man at her side. Early 30s, black blazer, shirt unbuttoned to a deeply tanned chest, bulky everywhere with muscle. My eyes don’t stray from him when Sharlo hands me my drink.

  “Evelyn Kendall, meet your new employer, Nolan Zimmerman.”

  Nolan’s dark eyes spark with interest when they meet my gaze. Just under six feet tall with spiky black hair and a well-groomed beard, he towers over me in both height and size. I know I shouldn’t have impure thoughts about my new boss, but the way he carries himself, broad shoulders relaxed, easygoing smile, hand casually extended, there’s no denying he’s gorgeous. The type to look damn good wearing a tailored suit and expensive watch, like he was born to run a business. The type who knows what he wants out of life and isn’t going to back down until it’s his.