Rock Into Me

by Susan Arden

  Backstage, Alana could hear the screeching of chair legs and the shuffling feet of the crowd making their way upstairs. “What are you doing?” Christy asked, hooking her arm with Alana’s and tugging her. “Come on. Time for a drink. I’m going to talk business with the owner.”

  Walking arm in arm, they ascended the backstage stairs and came out into the crowded bar area on the main floor. The stranger was talking with two older men, both dressed in suits among a room filled with hipsters, university students, and a few rockers of questionable age.

  Alana moved to the far side of the main bar, smiling at the compliments they received along the way. She and Christy stopped at the fringe of where Billy, Hank, and Carl were holding court. A few groupies were giggling, and there were a couple of familiar faces, people they’d met over the last few days of playing and doing radio spots.

  Carl patted two seats next to him. “Right here, girls.”

  “This ought to be rich.” Christy narrowed her eyes at the two women leaning over Billy. “Well, two can play this game.”

  Alana watched Christy bat her eyelashes at a couple of local DJs sitting on the other side of her. Smiling and adjusting her dress to better display her assets, Christy twirled a lock of her jet-black hair. “So, boys, what’d ya think of the show?”

  “You all need to consider Bonnaroo. We can get you in if you agree to come by the station and do a couple of shows. Play a couple of songs.”

  Christy laughed. “Jam and kibitz with your listeners. Sounds fun.”

  Nonchalantly, Alana let her gaze take a trip to the other side of the room. Lansing, or whatever his name was, lounged cool as a cucumber except for his mercurial eyes that immediately met hers. Once again, it was a game of who would look away first. Within a few seconds, her cheeks broiled uncomfortably. She forfeited by breaking eye contact and zoned back into the conversation with the DJs.

  Christy played with a swizzle stick. “We’d have to speak with our manager. But I think something can be arranged.”

  “What are you promising now?” Billy’s booming voice descended upon them. His large hands gripped Christy by the shoulders and he planted a kiss on her neck. She arched, smiling coquettishly over her shoulder.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Billy shook hands with the DJs. He cocked his head toward the door. “There’s a mobile station outside. Pretty impressive.”

  Oh, no. The wheels in Christy’s head were turning. Alana jumped into the conversation before her friend had an opportunity to say something they’d all regret. A live broadcast wasn’t in their best interest tonight. Drinking and performing on the fly was a no-no. “We’ll stop by tomorrow. Where will you be broadcasting from?” Alana asked, squeezing Christy’s thigh.

  Without thinking, she let her gaze drift across the room and caught sight of Lansing. A young woman stood next to him, apparently hanging on his every word. Feminine instinct jabbed her to stop staring but she ignored the recommendation, scrutinizing the way the girl wound her hand along Lansing’s shoulder.

  At that point she’d seen enough, and smiled brightly into the DJ’s face. “We adore your station. Super smooth, and you guys are so witty with the one-liners.” No doubt these DJs had heard that a gazillion times from every indie band.

  “Consider the admiration mutual,” the DJ returned. “So I can expect to see you soon?”

  Alana peered across the room as Lansing laughed into the woman’s face. What a difference a smile could make. He was drop-dead handsome. Her stomach twisted and she stopped trying to flirt with the DJ. “We just need to clear a date.”

  “The sooner the better. Tomorrow or the next day. My slot is from two to six for the afternoon ride home. Great exposure. Alana, I think Orion is going to hit big. With the right traction. I can help you. You’ve got this incredible sound…” His gaze dropped down the front of her dress. “And the looks.”

  “We appreciate the support.” She had to turn the direction of the conversation.

  She had to close him down before he got his hopes up. At all costs, stay clear of industry personnel. She’d been there - done that before - made that mistake. It had ended horribly, almost costing the band their future. Alana had learned fast that business and pleasure were awful bedmates.

  Women had gotten the rap on being vindictive, but Mark, her last boyfriend, was an artisan in backstabbing. He had made it his personal mission to trash Orion’s reputation, going out of his way to pulverize their music during his radio shows. Unmercifully. Mark had claimed his sudden dislike of Orion was not personal. How coincidental, then, that his tirade had started the day after they broke up. Only recently had his distressing comments dwindled - possibly the result of his hook-up with the singer from Spirit Chaser. Alana wished Mark the-hell-well as long as he stopped tormenting her band because of a bruised ego.

  “It goes both ways.” The DJ grinned, his gaze slowly sliding down her body again.

  She had to work fast or this would fizzle into a misunderstanding. They needed the station to play their promo materials. “I promise, I’ll contact you. Do you have a card? I’ve a migraine. Allergies or something.”

  Christy chimed in. That was their code for HELP! “Your head is still hurting? We need to get you back to the hotel. One drink, and then we’ll split.” Christy turned to the DJ. “You know how it is. Traveling, and on the road.”

  The DJ nodded, handing over a card. He smiled. “I suffer from springtime allergies. It’s a bitch. Especially in this part of the world. Try the twelve-hour antihistamines. They work the best.” He rose from his seat and squeezed her shoulder. “And call me when you feel better.”

  “I will, Todd. I promise.” She hated this part of the gig. So many sensitive toes and she was a novice, learning how to avoid stomping on them little by little. “I’m so ready for that drink,” Alana whispered to Christy

  Waving a pool cue, Carl yelled out, “Hey, man, you gonna talk shit all night, or shoot?”

  Christy let go of Billy after Carl stalked away toward the other side of the bar. A game of billiards was about to get going. This was how they worked the crowd. Everyone had a part. The fans loved to hover and, luckily, the guys were totally into the social scene. Not too many women ventured up to Alana and Christy tonight. Few and far between.

  “You’re getting mighty smooth, there. I might have to up my game as promo queen.”

  Alana slapped the counter. “Shut. Up. You still have Harvey to contend with.”

  “I’m totally on my game with him. Not a care there.”

  A blond bartender wearing a skin-tight t-shirt approached them. “You’ve got a slamming set of pipes. Both of you,” he said. “What you will have? It’s on the house.”

  Christy smiled up into his face, clearly toying with him. “Handsome, what’s the house specialty?”

  “For you, sweet thing…” He stared across the bar, sizing Christy up. “Blow Job comes to mind.”

  Alana wasn’t in the mood to flirt or witness anything of the kind. She rapped her knuckles on the bar. “I’ll have a Mind Eraser. Make it a double.”

  “Make that two,” Christy said, chewing on a stir stick. “How about a rain check on the blow job?”

  The bartender snorted. “You’re dangerous. Aren’t you, sugar?”

  “Nothing you can’t handle.” They both watched him toss and flip a bottle of vodka, pouring the drinks in front of them. He squeezed fresh lime, scenting the air with a bright citrus aroma.

  Alana cleared her throat. “I’ll have this drink, and then I’m going back to the hotel. I’m bushed. Unless you need me to stay, in case the owner thinks he can collect on what you were flaunting in his face earlier.”

  “I can handle Harvey with my eyes closed. Don’t you worry - or maybe you should.” Christy peered past her shoulder. “Your perturbed stranger is watching you.”

  “No more waffling. Tell me straight. Just who is Lansing?” Alana gazed down at the smooth surface of the bar in order to keep her gaze
from shifting across the room. She traced an imaginary pattern along the wooden surface. Inhaling, she looked up to meet Christy’s stare. “That’s what you said his name was?”

  “Enjoy,” the bartender said. “Bottoms up, ladies. And here.” He put a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne in front of them.

  Christy was the first to react. “Harvey’s doing?” She wore a Cheshire cat-grin a mile wide.

  “Not even close. It’s anonymous. From an admirer. That’s all you get, besides the pleasure of a bottle of our finest. Dom Perignon 1990.” Alana stared as the flute glasses were set in front of them. “Anything else?” the bartender asked.

  “I think we’re set…for now.” Christy picked up her glass, winking at the bartender.

  “Cheers,” Alana whispered. The scratchiness in her throat tickled worse. The alcohol scalded the back of her throat and she banged her glass down on the bar. She coughed, fully expecting to see orange flames exit her mouth.

  “Good evening, ladies,” a deep British voice carried over Alana’s shoulder. The power and resonance continued. “I was looking for your manager. I was under the impression he would be here tonight.”

  Alana sucked in a mouthful of air and turned, looking at a shiny button of an expensive white shirt, and then immediately her gaze bolted upward, meeting Lansing’s eyes. The area around her blurred in that time standing still kind of moment.

  Her chest tightened, and the sensation of burning amplified in her throat. She remained speechless, staring at him, captivated by his good looks. Up close he was even more appealing, with his angular features. So far no one in Nashville--okay, fine, no one--on the East Coast appeared that delectable.

  His gaze swept over her face, trailing downward over her body in an indolent manner, lingering on places besides her eyes, and she prayed that something sensible would come to her. The heat inside her body became hotter under his blatant perusal.

  Christy, never at a loss for words, didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, really. And why would that be, Mr. Lansing?”

  His lips tightened, and his jaw muscle twitched a couple of times as he contemplated Christy. When he turned his attention back to Alana she noticed in the bar lighting that his eyes weren’t dark at all. They were a rich shade of sapphire blue, and she’d need an ice pick to undo the freezing look he gave them both. “I had an appointment with Tyler.”

  “He had an emergency. Family,” Christy retorted.

  “Pity. He called me. Not the other way around. I don’t intend on rescheduling.”

  With Lansing’s annoyed disposition, Alana’s mind was finally allowed a reprieve, back to the world of intelligent thinking. She dove into the conversation. “I wasn’t under the impression you’d done anything this evening beyond sulk.” Alana couldn’t hold back. Not with his indignant tone and attitude. “So I guess you’re free to leave. Jolly good, wouldn’t you say?”

  The hairs all over her body went on full alert. Predator sirens were going on left and right. She didn’t give a rat’s ass. Who in the world had such an ego coupled with such a sour attitude?

  His expression devoured her entirely. His gaze lingered on a point in the middle of her chest, and she bet he wasn’t considering where she’d purchased the dress. When he spoke, his idle, visual tracing of her skin burned a path up to her eyes, causing her cheeks to flame hotter.

  “You…” he held her eyes, speaking as though for only her ears, “I’d save that voice, if I were you, young lady. Not many moons left for you on stage if you keep this up.”

  Alana could feel her eyes widen, and her fingers curled into talons, ready to rake across his smug face. She counted to five, tempering her rebuttal. The numbers flew faster than in her usual countdown “Mr. Lansing, is it? I don’t know who you are, or what stick you’ve got thrust up your backside, but - I get it. Our music isn’t your cup of tea. Eh, mate?”

  Chapter Two

  Panting and staring daggers into Jonathan’s face, Alana St. James was a bona fide spitfire. A she-devil who’d gone from captivating his senses to bewitching him in less than five minutes.

  The video segment of Orion he’d reviewed before coming out tonight had done her little justice. The piece of footage her manager had sent over was a bloody piece of work. Amateurish, and he’d not have given it a second look if Baxter, his partner, hadn’t called him, citing a huge favor that was owed

  Baxter promised Jon they’d be even if he did him this one turn. Hell, he’d thank him tomorrow. The vocalist of Orion was one-in-a-million. Nothing he could do about the group’s dickhead manager. He abhorred being dodged by the likes of second-rate operators such as Tyler.

  Jon studied Alana’s movements. The nuances of her gestures were tantalizing, right down to how she held up her fingers. He almost said something else along the lines of a wanker, just to see her spew one more line. It was her molten passion that blazed and caught him. She was priceless, telling him her thoughts. He gave her credit for not kissing up to him like every other performer he’d come across in the last few years.

  He couldn’t resist, and mirrored her insouciant manner. “Not the way you’re hitting those high notes. The alto range was meant to be sung, not screeched, sweetheart.”

  Her green eyes flashed fury and for a second his business checklist dimmed as he contemplated her full lips, her glowing skin, and then allowed himself to consider - yet one more time - the way her breasts jiggled and the peaks of her nipples thrust against the front of her dress.

  His cock twitched approval of her perfectly-formed mounds. He’d wager his eyeteeth her tits would be firm and yielding in his hands, responsive to his mouth, and the type he could slide his dick between and fuck.

  Exhaling, she locked her gaze with his. “Really, I think you’ve said enough for one evening.” She stared defiantly back at him, her lips slightly parted.

  He imagined putting that smart, pink mouth to good use. She was his kind of woman. The type that would fight him tooth and nail in an office across a desk and fuck his brains out, or let him take her as many ways as he wanted until Sunday. This type of woman spelled trouble, from the way she blatantly spoke her mind to the way she sauntered across the stage. At every turn, she all but dared him to do something and had him almost crawling out of his skin.

  Well, Jesus, he’d love to do something, beginning with her, naked on her lovely back, with her astonishing legs spread wide open.

  “Your manager signed a contract, Ms. St. James. On your behalf, as is the custom around here. From this moment until the end of next week…you’re mine. You won’t so much as blink without my permission. And you certainly won’t be performing unless I give my approval. Starting tonight, you’ll be coming with me.”

  “What? Why would I need to do that?” Alana slid off the bar stool with catlike agility and stood in front of him, an angry kitten ready to unsheathe her claws, and the temptation to thwart her was irresistible.

  “I don’t trust you to get yourself to bed at a reasonable time. Tomorrow, training starts at six a.m. Say farewell to your friends, it’s time to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she spat in a fierce whisper, her rebellious green eyes spewing sparks.

  “Then you’ll be in default of said agreement. I promise, I’ll take you and Orion to court, and I’ll win. These clauses are very specific, and the courts in Nashville are well-versed in relevant case law. I’ve already provided Tyler with the initial payment and he cashed the check. Family emergency,” he snorted, “I think not. I imagine he’s off on some hiatus tonight, having the time of his meager life.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she snapped.

  He removed the fully-executed contract from his pocket that Baxter had the agent sign, and handed it over to her. “Standard. Unbreakable once the check has been cashed.”

  She took the contract, reading downward, and then flipped to the next page. “Mother Mary,” she murmured.

  These types of bands were usually a dime a dozen. Not A
lana St. James. She had moxie, and by the time he finished with her, she’d be a headlining act. The band was inconsequential. Whoever she decided to employ, they’d be the background. He studied her, fascinated by her spirit. The high-octane energy pouring from her invigorated him. The hairs over his body reacted as though an electric current was on the loose. Her intensity charmed audiences and dazzled fans. It wasn’t often he got this roiling sensation deep in his bones.

  Alana provoked something in him. Something he wanted to explore again and again while she screamed his name. It had been a long time since he became this aroused by talking with a woman. But this wasn’t exactly talking. Christ, it was more like sparring.

  Biting her luscious bottom lip, she lifted her eyes to him and handed the contract back. “How long have you been trolling Orion? Here. Take it.”

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked. Judging from the look on her face, she had about a hundred questions, and a few choice comments that commenced with, ‘Fuck you.’ A chuckle brewed in his chest, but he wisely withheld displaying unsportsmanlike conduct at having won this hand. “It’s either you come with me, or I put a collective injunction on your band’s ability to perform in this town.”

  “What would that do? You can’t just snap your fingers and shut us down.”

  “And who do you think the venues, radio stations, and record companies will listen to when it’s on the wire that you’ve defaulted on an executed contract? You, or Lansing Records?”

  Christy tugged on Alana’s slender arm. Alana was such a feisty kitten with her fresh mouth. He had no illusions, she was every bit a handful. He nodded in approval when the woman—what was her name? Christy—spoke . “Mr. Lansing, give us a girl-moment.”