“I wasn’t listening.” She smiled. “Besides, the women in front were just flirting with you.”
She heard his smile before she saw it.
“Sinclair, are you jealous of my fans?”
Amy silently counted the number of days left until she was back in LA.
Chapter 2
Ronan
Oh man, Sinclair was pissed. Even when quiet, he could feel the waves of anger coming off from her on the other side of the van. She had given the van door an extra loud smack when it closed, started the engine, and threw the car into reverse before Ronan had even closed his door. If it wouldn't cost her a multi-million-dollar deal, he was pretty sure she would push him out. Did it have to be her to come to find him? She was head of his security, not his bodyguard.
He cleared his throat.
“Thanks for coming to find me.”
Amy bit off a “You’re welcome” and kept her eyes forward. Ronan would've wanted anyone else from his security team to be the one to find him; he didn't want to give her any more ammunition. He was already rubbed too raw from playing in this town again – especially in this bar.
“I forgot how quiet it gets out here.” He kept his gaze out the window.“You know this place?”
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that.
He didn't need an audience to visit this place. A quick phone call from an old bandmate, and he had found his freedom riding shotgun in an old Ford truck. Now probably wasn't the time to mention how easy it had been to slip away. Not when Sinclair was the one behind the wheel.
“Ronan?”
He hadn’t answered her. He scrambled to come up with an approximate truth.
“I started playing out here.”
Stepping off the stage, Ronan had felt caught in a strange déjà-vu. He was Ronan Cash, a massive rock star. He had just played a sold-out show. But his mind tripped on the memories he had made eight years before when he was Ronan Kowalski, a college drop-out.
“I thought you grew up in the Valley.” She regarded his sideways glance. “I looked you up before I took the job. Don’t get cocky.”
“Moved out there when I was 16.” He harrumphed and buried himself further down into his seat.
The moments paralleled one another in even stranger ways. He could still remember what Di had looked like when he found her waiting for him outside of the bar. Pink-tipped blonde hair, beat-up motorcycle jacket.
Amy was nothing like that. Ronan didn't bother trying to hide his eye roll. She was dressed in all black – other security teams wore colors, he was sure of it – with dark, brooding makeup. She would look right at home at Bar Sinister.
He clicked the radio on – but Amy snapped the volume dial down to zero. She drew her hand away like she had gotten an electric shock.
If he was honest, he didn't want to reminisce too long about Di. He wasn't close enough to a bottle of whiskey to do that.
"You miss me that much?" His voice cut through the quiet.
“Miss isn’t the word I would use.” She tightened her hands on the wheel.Ronan watched her hands. He could usually tell who was a musician in LA – the women who had gorgeous long nails or bright pops of color were just fans. Playing guitar wreaked havoc on your hands. Sinclair's were bare.
"You’re allowed to miss me. I won’t tell.”
“Do you have to be such a pain in the ass right now?” She huffed.Ronan felt a flash of triumph. Trying to get a rise out of her was much more effective than wallowing in his own grief.
“Where do you have to be? We don’t have to be in...” he paused, trying to think of the tour map, “...Boulder until tomorrow night anyway.”
“Some of us have other plans besides being on your tour.” She flicked on her blinker.
This shouldn’t have surprised him. Whenever he came off stage, he always found her working. He would step off the tour bus in a new city and already find her talking with the roadies about lighting set up and house management. Then again, whenever he got off stage, all he wanted to do was go find Di – and well, that wasn't really an option.
He let her simmer. Even though playing at the bar where he and Di first met was hard, it had also recharged him to be so close to fans. Playing to a crowd of 10,000 was an adrenaline hit he couldn't beat, but it also wore him out. He would come off stage with no energy left. Pair that with the non-stop hum of activity from the meet and greets to the seemingly non-stop parties on the buses and he was nearing the end of his rope.
When he was first starting out, the constant activity had been amazing. This was different. This was his first big tour since Di. It was like he was doing everything on autopilot. He had signed the contract without really reading it. When he learned he was going to be the headliner; it had barely made a dent. He should have been thrilled. They were only a third of the way through, and he already felt exhausted.
Playing in such a small place, though… that had felt different. He had lulled the audience in more with each chorus, their phones nowhere to be seen because of Jeff’s rule: pay attention to the show. . At least, that was the reason he gave. Ronan suspected it had more to do with giving him a modicum of privacy. The bar was sacred to him. He had enough money to send a lawyer after any journalist who started looking closer at why he loved this bar so much.
Playing there tonight had reminded him that he wasn't just a name on a poster or a breathing rock 'n' roll machine. He was still the college drop-out who loved Pink Floyd and The Clash. He was the same guy who would love to put the guitar down and have a wife and kids. Well, he had been. He wasn’t sure anymore.
It seemed like it was getting harder and harder to make space for the guy behind Ronan Cash, the rock star.
"How did you get there?" Amy's voice cut through.
"So, we're talking now?" He glanced over at her.
She kept her eyes on the road. Without a response from her, his comment flailed between them.
"I hitched a ride. A friend of mine was at the show tonight."
"I need names.” She nodded once. “If you disappear, I have to know where you could go."
Something bristled inside of him. She clearly wasn't interested in his safety; she was interested in protecting the crown jewels, the way a Rottweiler would outside of The Tower of London.
“Your job will be safe. They’ll just get some other rocktar to fill my shoes.” When she stayed quiet, he added, “But he won’t be as handsome as I am.”
Ronan’s whole look had been picked out by some stylist before he left Los Angeles. She had chopped his hair to Kurt Cobain length and given him fitted white shirts, Docs, and slim-cut black jeans.Thank Christ he liked working out. It was the only way he was staying sane on the road.
The longer he sat in the van, the more energy he could feel draining out of his body. Di's memory lurked in the back of his mind. He had been dreading this tour date since the beginning.
Only problem? No one knew. The execs at the label didn't know. His band had no clue. Even he hadn’t known how hard this tour would hit him until he walked through the door.
Night wrapped around the van, lulling him into his memories. He could still remember what it had been like the first time he had walked into the bar eight years ago. His hands had shaken when he nearly dropped the mic. That had been a sign of how the rest of the night would go. He got a blaring amount of feedback on the mic and fucked up the first few chords of the song he had rehearsed hundreds of times. It was, to put it mildly, a swan-dive into a disaster. Ronan still made those mistakes all the time now – but he no longer had to prove that he deserved a seat at the table.
That first night, he had slunk off stage, throwing himself onto one of the stools.
A woman slid onto the stool next to him. "As a fellow guitar player, it's my duty to save you from drowning in cheap beer."
He had peered over at her. Her blond hair was piled high with streaks of pink peeking out. She cast him a playful smile.
Ronan was usually happy to flirt wit
h an attractive woman. Then again, his ego wasn't usually sinking faster by the minute. Christ, he left college to do this?
"Don't try to make me feel better," he had muttered.
"Wouldn't dream of it," she responded, pushing her stool closer. She moved so assuredly. He heard her flag the bartender. A moment later, she placed a glass of water next to him along with a tumbler of a dark brown liquid. "Scotch is pretty touch-and-go. Whiskey okay?"
He had nodded. She kept her eyes on the stage and let him nurse his whiskey silently. Ronan remembered thinking it was both odd and sweet that she had done that. She stayed next to him for at least ten minutes before she piped up.
"See that guy? He accidentally knocked over an entire table of beers his second week here." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "But you didn't hear that from me."
Ronan recognized what she was trying to do. He didn't have it in him to pin on a cheery smile.
"I'm Di," she added.
"Ronan." He took a swallow of whiskey. "Well, Ronan, I'm going to pop outside. I hope you come back." When she stepped off the stool, she came to eye level. She had a slash of hot pink lipstick and an old The Doors shirt on, tied and knotted on top of a pair of leather pants. He groaned internally. He was a sucker for a musician in leather pants – but he couldn't force himself to turn on the charm.
"Don't be a stranger." She flashed him a smile.
He maintained his whiskey – much easier to do when wallowing – and finally had felt good enough to head home.
The brisk cool air had slapped him as soon as he walked outside. His eyes scanned the clusters of people chatting around outdoor heaters. All wore dark hats or had their hoods up.
"Ronan!" Di’s voice cut through the din. She had made camp at the edge of the group. A large wine barrel served as their high-top. He joined their group with a half-wave. "You decided to join the land of the living."
But Di wasn't here anymore. Her memory vanished. Without it, Ronan felt the yawning grief beneath it. They hadn't had enough time. Towards the end, Di had joked, "Aren't you glad you screwed up that night?"
The van rolled down the dirt road back toward the stadium. It dipped and bounced through the dirt potholes. The stadium lights were still on, drowning out the night surrounding it. Ronan covered his eyes.
The tour bus gleamed under all the stadium lights. Home sweet home. Amy slid the van into park and turned the engine off.
"You pull another disappearing act," she started, "and I will put a full detail on you."
Ronan couldn't think of a snarky enough answer. In response, he huffed and popped the door open.
The roadies welcomed him with a few echoes. Once the bus was fully packed, they all crowded around the bus's small kitchen table – sticky with a long-ago spilled beer – and pulled out a deck of cards. Whoever lost had to drive the van behind the bus for the night. Loud jeers quickly cut through the quiet.
Ronan didn't bother playing. He went to the back of the bus – being a rock star sometimes had its perks – and slid the door closed. The jeering dropped to a muffle. The carpet was plush under his feet. His guitars glinted under the overhead lights next to a vinyl of his latest album.
He dropped on the bed and pulled open the side drawer, where a photo of him and Di sat in a frame.
I went back to the place we first met. I made history right tonight by playing the song the right way. Somehow my security managed to track me down.
If she were here, she would be curled up on the bed next to him, her laughter rumbling against his chest at the thought of a security detail.
He thought back to his pain-in-the-ass security. Sinclair.
Despite what a thorn in his side his very capable head of security was, he could hear Di's laugh from deep within his memories at the thought of how this night had gone. He could imagine Di liking Sinclair. Wasn't that a mindfuck? He was beginning to wonder if he could like her, too.
Chapter 3
Amy
The morning light turned the sky a bluish gray by the time they pulled into their next stop. Amy watched the cars pass along with the signs. According to the latest one, they were somewhere in Utah.
She poured a cup of coffee and stirred in creamer as she listened to the rest of the staff getting up, with the occasional slink of the bunk curtains and the fumbling steps of people wandering to the kitchen or the bathroom. Even after living on a bus for over a month, the constant rumbling and the occasional squealing of the air brakes still pulled her out of sleep.
In those moments – looking up at her narrow ceiling, listening to the snuffling of the bandmates beneath her – she longed for her LA apartment. It overlooked lemon and avocado trees and a small patch of yard. With the windows open, it smelled like sunshine. Unlike the bus, she reflected, where her space smelled like burnt coffee and microwave pizza.
Ronan stepped out of the bedroom in the back of the bus.
"You good?" she asked.
He gave a noncommittal grunt and moved towards the half-empty coffee pot.“Where are we?” He yawned.
"Salt Lake City, Utah." She was his security, not his personal assistant–no matter how much he made her feel otherwise. “It's May 12th, in case you were wondering.”
The glass jar of sugar clattered against the counter. When he went to pick it up, it dropped again. Finally, Ronan slammed it down as if to shut down all conversation.
Standing there in a pair of faded sweatpants and an old UCLA sweatshirt, he looked… normal. Okay, still outrageously good-looking, but normal for LA standards. He was toned in that lazy surfer way with lean muscles. He kept his hair just long enough to look daring. He had a movie-star smile -- which he flashed whenever they needed to move through a crowd -- and cheekbones most actresses would murder for.
Amy had seen him with pounds of hair product and a cocky smile–but standing next to her, his hair looked soft to the touch, his face rumpled with sleep.
Sarah, Amy’s second in command, plopped down at the table next to her. She shot him a sunny smile and wave. Amy could've sworn she saw him soften.
Within a few minutes, the tiny kitchen echoed with the clatter of mugs and the slap of the coffee pot hitting the hot plate.
"Alright guys, bring it around," Amy said. "New venue for us." She pulled up the Salt Lake City Rock Hall site. "We're here for two nights."
A few cheers echoed around the table. Two-day stops were rare. They promised a night at a hotel – a real bed! – as well as a night off between the shows to relax.
"Ricky, I'll touch base with you about tech set up when we’re done here. Pretty sure we've got a meet and greet for both days. Though we could've fit it into one," she added.
"Too bad for you, princess. We're doing two." Ronan shot her a cocky smile.She forced every muscle in her face to stay put, even though all she wanted to do was slap that look off his face.
They spent the next part of the hour walking through logistics. She could hear Ronan's loud huffs from over her shoulder whenever he disagreed with her. Amy kept her gaze forward.
The floor bounced with him as he paced back and forth as she talked.
"Dude, you wanna sit?" One of the lighting techs asked.
"I want to get this meeting over with," Ronan snapped.
Once the bus pulled into the parking lot, he all but jumped out.
"Can you just… keep an eye on him?" Amy looked at Sarah.
They quickly followed him out. For the first time all morning, Amy took a deep breath.
Soon, the whole machine started up again. Time sped up as Amy fell in step with the rest of the team. Tables screeched on the floor as merch – t-shirts, posters, CDs, and pieces of vinyl – got piled high. Lighting rigs rose above the stage, bathing it in an array of different colors.
Amy reviewed the security set up – cameras, entry/exits, capacity – before returning to the merch table. She peeked inside the sliced open cardboard boxes, wondering what the record label had sent along.
Her fi
rst love was selling merch. No one had rules and expectations for selling t-shirts and vinyl. There was no one waiting with a cardigan and a bob cut insisting she should smile. The musicians performed with their smiles and jokes; Amy could snarl and streak her eyes with thick eyeliner. No one gave her a long side glance when her tattoos were on display.
She had managed to convince the owner of a dive bar in West Hollywood to let her work the table during one of the festivals, despite the fact she was dressed more for Venice Beach. That first night, she had worn a long maxi dress with a jean jacket – an outfit that would have been right at home in Culver City, but had her sticking out like an untuned guitar at that dive bar. She was surrounded by dyed hair, wild eyeliner, and screaming fans within an hour. She remembered how loud that first concert was. When the drums did the 3-2-1 count, the electric guitar unleashed a tsunami of sound. She longed to see shades of neon in her own hair. What would it be like to defy expectations?
The more shows Amy worked, the smarter she got. By the next event, she had swapped out her dress for a ripped band t-shirt from behind the merch table and a pair of black cutoffs.
The Doc Martens came after one too many beers spilled on her flip-flopped feet. She now knew to pack an extra set of earplugs in case her first pair got lost in a jacket pocket. She ditched a purse by the third show she had worked, opting instead to shove her phone, a credit card, and her ID in the sleeve of her leather jacket.
After two years of working shows, she had her outfit down pat: leather jacket (which could handle said beer spillage and sweat), ponytail (better that she kept her hair out of her face so she could keep her hands free), phone, and cards went in her front pocket (harder to get them swiped). When she called home, her mom would ask when she would finish this “little adventure” of hers. When she was with Brian, it had been easier to fend her off.
As the lights dropped in the Salt Lake City Rock Hall, the crowd swelled with a collective scream of excitement. The glow of phone screens lit up the crowd. Instead of keeping her eyes on the stage, Amy watched for the ducked head swigging from a flask or the furtive glance of someone about to dip a hand into a back pocket – either their own or someone else's.
Till There Was You: Rock Star Enemies To Lovers Romance Page 2