Gauge: Rockstar Romance (The ProVokaTiv Series Book 1)

by Cara Nelson

  “It almost seems like it could be a different country here, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Agreed.”

  ‘So, how do you know this area as well as you do, Gauge?”

  “I’ve been here before,” he said.

  “Oh, on tour?”

  “No.”

  I rolled my eyes. Why did he make everything so damn hard at sometimes? It wasn’t like I was asking him about something intimate or really personal. At least I didn’t think he was. “When, then?”

  “When I was a kid my grandma took me here on a vacation.”

  “Did you appreciate it?”

  “No,” he said plainly. “I was nine or ten, maybe, and I thought it was boring as hell. I appreciate it more now, though.”

  “That’s pretty special. My grandparents weren’t the vacationing sort, so I never did anything like that with them. I did love going out to their farm, though, and running around when I was a kid.”

  “A farm?”

  “Don’t be so judgmental. Farms are great.”

  “Plan on owning one someday?”

  “Never,” I said.

  “Did you milk a cow?”

  I laughed. “Not all farms have cows, you know. And to answer your question, no, I didn’t.”

  “All city.”It was only two words but I felt like he was judging me by liking the city.

  “I was born in the city. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He shrugged.

  I kept talking. His mood was hard to keep up with. Casual one second, and that darkness coming through the next. “I like the access but Minneapolis is pretty tame; it’s no LA or NYC.”

  “Ever been there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lots of musicians around there. You should appreciate that, I’d imagine. A lot of great talent comes out of the cities, and there’s some awesome recording studios there, too. ”

  “We cut our first album there.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. ” I lied. I did know that but wanted him to talk. I wanted to listen.

  “Now you do. All sorts of riveting information for your story, huh?”

  “We have a different idea of riveting, Gauge.”

  For the remainder of our lunch we talked as casually as I would with Jessie or Trinity. I was a bit preoccupied with trying to figure out how to weave my way into a place with him where he’d talk freely to me. That was usually easy for me to do with anyone—work related or not. Then there was this chemistry we seemed to have, fleeting and sparking. You didn’t have to know exactly what it was to know it was there.

  “I have to go,” Gauge said suddenly.

  “Okay,” I said. It was like a switch had flipped in him. He was slightly OCD, I decided.

  “Time to get ready for the show,” he added.

  Of course! I should have thought of that. “Are you coming back to the hotel now?”

  “Yeah, I want to get to the concert as early as I can.”

  The bill was paid and Gauge got a taxi to take us back to the hotel. I noticed that he saw some people pointing at him and he knew he’d been spotted. It either made him uncomfortable to be spotted by fans or he liked to run into them on his terms. He would have had to be an idiot to not think that through on his journey to fame. He wasn’t an idiot, so I decided he liked everything on his terms.

  By the time we got back to our hotel at 4 PM, I had built up so much intrigue with Gauge in my mind. I’d loved the day and I dug it that he didn’t feel like he had to talk, talk, talk, and try to be interesting. It was an odd thought for a journalist, but just as they say, pictures are worth a thousand words—something I dispute—silence is sometimes worth a thousand words, too, or at least a page’s worth of content in my mind for my story.

  “I had a really great day,” I said.

  “I had fun, too. See you later. ”

  “Later.” I watched him walk over to the elevator in long strides, my gaze lingering on his ass as he moved. Once the doors of the elevator closed, I let my guard down and sunk into the large, wing backed chair in the lobby. I realized that I was playing a game: acting as if I only wanted to be around him for the story I was going to write, when in reality, I wanted to get to know more about Gauge.

  Chapter Five:

  Outsmarting the Hunter

  Hunter Martinez knocking on my door. I was excited to dive into this interview. Probing his mind would be a joy because of his forthright nature. It was a journalist’s dream, just as a neuroscientist would love probing into the brilliant mind of Albert Einstein. I’d requested my room for the interview because I wanted to ensure we had some privacy. I could control that here more than I could in his room.

  With recorder on, I sat down on the couch, legs crossed and leaned back, too ready to have a conversation with this guy. I felt like he was more of a joke than he was a compelling interviewee, but if I did my job right, I’d uncover more.

  “Now I expect to be taken seriously. Don’t try to take my clothes off unless you take your clothes off first,” he said to me, sitting down and leaning back on the couch in my suite, legs wide open giving me a panoramic of his crotch. His jeans were so tight that I chuckled, thinking that they were his natural birth control.

  “I don’t think you have to worry; I like my men to leave a bit more to the imagination,” I said, staring right at his crotch. That was what he wanted, right?

  “You seem to get a real high off being bold and making people awkward. Always been that way?”

  “Never have shied away from getting what I want; going for what I want to do.”

  “Seems like an odd friendship, you and Gauge and Simon, when you put it that way. What made you all able to stand each other?”

  “I wasn’t always friendly with those two; my upbringing was a bit rougher than theirs.”

  “How’d you get to be friends, then?”

  “Well, I had a choice to make. Either apologize to Simon for smacking him alongside the head during recess in fourth grade, or else be suspended for two days. Didn’t want to be at home with my old man for two days. Went with the apology instead.”

  “Not a good home life?”

  “Not really, but it taught me a lot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you don’t speak up for what you want, nobody’s going to just hand it over.”

  “Is that why you’re so vocal now?”

  “It works for me.”

  “Even when you get yourself into a situation like you did in Prague after the comments about the video.”

  “Ah, the video,” he said. He smiled at me, and I could see that he loved thinking about that video. I’d watched it for research, racking up one of about 800,000 hits, and it was absolutely freaky. He was with two women and they were getting their groove on. One was Asian and had a remarkable similarity to Trinity, and the other was a tall, leggy redhead. She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she was a natural redhead—top to bottom. The rest of it was a blur of spanking, commands, a whip, and some gadget that looked like it was from a sci-fi film.

  “You didn’t regret saying, ‘those girls taught me more about biology than old Mrs. Cranz did in high school’?”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “Your teacher wasn’t too pleased.”

  “That’s because she’s my mom’s friend. It gave her the lucrative fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “So you were helping her fulfill a wish, too?” I asked this with a very sarcastic tone, and Hunter soaked it up. He nodded. It was time to change my approach.

  “Did your dad abuse you?”

  The smile left his face and he stared at me for a moment. When he finally spoke, he said, “He was known to knock me around a bit.”

  “How about verbally?”

  “I’ve yet to meet a bastard who abuses someone physically and not emotionally, too.”

  “You’d said he taught you a lot. Tell me where those lessons led you, Hunter.”

  “It got me intereste
d in music,” he said. “I took some guitar lessons after school through a Boys & Girls Club program. I had kind of a knack for it, and that stuck.”

  “Is that why you support that organization to this day?”

  “Definitely, but don’t tell anyone. I prefer the obnoxious persona compared to people thinking I’m a sensitive guy, because I’m not. That’s not me.”

  “It’s really not there or you avoid it?”

  “It’s just not necessary; I can’t say I avoid it. The outspoken club is a rather lonely one, because some people make an attempt at speaking out and then turn into pussies the second they get some backlash. I don’t back down.”

  “Unless you’re going to get suspended from school. Then you do,” I said.

  Hunter looked at me. I was keeping a straight face. He slowly broke out into a smile and said, “You’re a smart ass. That’s a good thing for your job, I suppose. So, tell me more about you?”

  “Not in a million years. It’s irrelevant, not interesting.”

  “Which makes me believe that it is.”

  I liked to have a good time and talk with all sorts of people, but not when I was conducting an official interview. Was it where I’d get my best information? God, no; however, I wanted it to show that I was the one in control here, not Hunter. I slid one of my legs under the other and angled my body toward him, showing that I was opening up. Body language and journalism go hand in hand when you were trying to get into someone’s head.

  “It’s been suggested that you’re a control freak. Talk about that,” I said.

  “Control freak? I don’t recall hearing that,” Hunter said. “I guess it’s apt. Being in control makes me feel good.”

  “How?”

  “I can dictate what’s happening better, and I like that. Have you ever looked at a situation and wanted to change the tide of how it was going so badly that it was distracting?”

  I nodded. This conversation was on the verge of giving me that type of feeling.

  “Well,” Hunter continued, “I don’t do well with that, at all. Never have, and never plan on it, either. I think it’s one of my strengths.”

  “It never trips you up?”

  “Well, I can’t say never, but overall, it works.”

  “Talk about when you became friends with Simon and Gauge.”

  “It was a high school musical. We were all in it, Grease, the only one that our school ever did that wasn’t Broadway classical. Well anyway, we all worked on the music and found out that we didn’t sound half bad together. It kind of grew from there.”

  “You have a really great voice, don’t you?”

  “It’s fair.”

  “It’s said that it’s better than Gauge’s. Ever wish you were the lead singer?”

  “No.” He answered too fast, and I knew that he was not being completely truthful.

  “Not even when Gauge had a little collapse and was letting you guys down?”

  “Well, maybe. It’s all good now, though. It’s a sweet deal, and someday I’ll cut my own tracks. That’ll take care of that desire.”

  “Is there a break in sight after this tour? You guys have been going strong for a few years. Nobody would deny that you’re overdue.”

  “I don’t think that far out.” Again, I knew he wasn’t being truthful. That, in and of itself, told me something important about Hunter Martinez. He allowed people to think they knew him because of his outspoken personality, but there was a lot more internal dialogue going on than external. I was glad to suspect that, too, because it made him seem less shallow.

  The next two hours went by quickly, and I had decent enough background information and basics. Follow-up interviews would be better because I’d have some research done on the hunches I had. It excited me to think that I’d get to dive into some investigation.

  “Well, I don’t have anything else right now,” I said. “Any questions?”

  Hunter reached down, pulled up the pant leg on his jeans, and pulled out a small silver flask. I guess his jeans weren’t as glued on as I’d thought they were.

  “Shot?” he asked, extending his arm toward me.

  “What is it?”

  “Patrón.”

  “Sure, what the hell,” I said.

  I took the flask, unscrewed the top, and took a big swig, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth when I was done. “Smooth but I like the gold better. A bit more bite, don’t you think?”

  “You’re okay, Brynn,” he said, shaking his head in appreciation.

  “So when do I get to read what you’ve written?”

  “When the magazine comes out,” I said.

  “What if it sucks?”

  “I have no doubts that I’ll hear about it,” I replied. I liked it that he was curious about it. It showed that it mattered.

  I turned the recorder off and we talked for a few more minutes. He was more willing to talk like a guy who didn’t thrive on stirring the pot. It was good to remember. Next time we talked, I’d hide the recorder, make him less aware it was there.

  “Well, it’s been real, but I’ve gotta fly,” Hunter said. He got up. I followed suit and walked him to the door.

  He went to the left. I looked to the right and saw a shirtless man walking down the hallway toward me. It was Gauge. I think a bit of drool slid out of my mouth like dew in the morning would slide off a petal in the sunlight. At least I hoped it looked that pretty, a girl’s got to wish. He didn’t see me because he was wiping the sweat off his face with his t-shirt. His work-out shorts hung lower on his hips, revealing one answer: he was a boxer guy. I thought he might be those boxer briefs, but I was wrong. There you had it—journalism at its finest.

  I shut the door and looked at the clock. It was already 8 PM. I took a shower and decided to try and get to sleep early, since we were leaving at 6AM. We were in Atlanta, but would head to Dallas in the morning. From there, it would be Europe. That’s what I was really excited for. What an amazing way to experience the continent for the first time.

  Blink. My eyes focused on the clock, hoping I was reading it wrong. I’d been tossing and turning, not able to fall asleep and it was midnight now. I should have just gotten up and started writing, but I didn’t feel like it. It was a sad reality; I was horny with no guy by my side to relieve it. My mind, however, was playing a hot, steamy porno, starring Gauge and me. I hadn’t been able to shake that visual of him walking down the hall. It definitely felt intentional, like he knew I’d see him and remember it. Then there were those tattoos. I wanted to explore them up close.

  Lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling, my fingers began to roam my body, pretending that the hands that were giving me pleasure were Gauge’s and not my own. A half hour passed by until my body trembled in luxurious release. I was finally exhausted and rolled over and slept soundly until the 5 AM wake-up call came.

  Chapter Six:

  Clubbing and Curious

  A month had already passed by, and I had tons of information stored in my tablet and also in my mind. It was nice to have some time to formulate this entire thing and not have to be committed to a certain style of story. As long as it sold, I was given carte blanche as to how it was laid out. I had a lot of ideas. If there was a rock journalism Pulitzer, I would definitely be nominated for it by the time all was said and done.

  I stared out at the streets below from the eighth floor of my hotel room, which was quite small. I was in Milan, and it looked amazing. Off to the right I could see the canals that went through the city and they looked so tranquil. Umbrellas lined each side and I presumed that there must be wonderful sidewalk café’s nearby and lovers speaking romantically under those umbrellas, touching each other softly and the sounds of their laughter traveling down the canal in a whimsical way. Then there were the towering buildings, so nostalgic and demanding of attention—places like The Duamo, which was so impressive in the daylight but from pictures I’d seen, equally impressive at night when it was lit up, making it a visual draw even
in the darkest hours. Milan was stunning; beautiful people and beautiful scenery, to be certain.

  I thought about how this place was part of Trinity’s career goals. She lived and died by the belief that if a model didn’t get to Milan, they hadn’t done much at all. She was twenty-two, like me, but unlike me she was past her prime for achieving her goals. I loved it that she didn’t surrender to the desire, though. I could imagine her down there, strutting her stuff with Jessie and me clapping and cheering, saying, “That’s right. We’re her dearest friends.”

  An involuntary sigh escaped my lips. I was feeling a bit homesick and missing everyone. Life was busy, but I was gaining an entirely new perspective of what life on the road was like. It was one thing to know it was different and to hear about the differences, but to actually experience it put it all into stronger perspective. My story would be better for it.

  Then there was Gauge. I’d given up pretending that I wasn’t attracted to him, because I was. There was a lot about him that I didn’t know, but I wanted to know him better—off the record.

  I heard a gentle tap at the door of the room and walked over, staring through the peephole to see who it was. I smiled as I looked and saw inviting, full lips. I puckered up and pretended to kiss them before opening the door and showing a smile—not my come hither lips.

  “Got any plans?” Gauge asked. He was leaning against the door frame. I stared at his bicep, which was bulging and made his tribal tattoo seem to move like water in a river.

  “No.”

  “Great. I’m on the list for Alcatraz. Interested?”

  “I’ll pass on a going to prison with you,” I said. I sounded serious but broke out into a smile right away. Gauge looking at me with an expression that definitely stated ‘are you serious?’ “I’m just kidding,” I said.