Rockstars F#*k Harder

by Penny Wylder

  “I do have a suggestion, Drew,” I begin, because this one has been percolating in the back of my mind for a while. “How would you feel about recording your concerts?”

  “Already do. I like to be able to go back to listen for issues. Helps me improve the sound.”

  “No, I don’t mean simple sound check recordings, but real studio quality stuff.” I’m pretty sure my enthusiasm leaks through in spite of my efforts to keep my tone even, but I’ve seen a few bands make this move and it’s always a good one. It gives fans that feeling of access, of inclusion, and the profits all go directly to the band so it’s lucrative. This is the type of initiative that’ll help me make a name for myself, so I’m really hoping Drew will get on board.

  “To what end?” He leans back, face blank. He sounds skeptical.

  “We put them up on your site for fans to buy at a reasonable cost. We provide studio grade recordings of each concert, bring in a team to record tracks for all the instruments and vocals and do some minimal editing for quality. Fans love it, and the profit margin is exceptional.” Talking business is helping to cool me off between my thighs, thank fucking goodness.

  “I’m not worried about the margin.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I make enough on the shows. But you think it’s something fans are looking for?”

  “Absolutely. It’s good for fan morale, good for your image. Win all around.”

  “Alright.” His nod is slow and speculative. “Alright, yeah, set it up, we’ll try it. If it doesn’t fly in a few shows, we can always nix it.”

  “Exactly,” I respond, stifling the urge to smile. “But trust me, that won’t happen.”

  “That a bet?” He winks at me, and it resets the heat in my belly. “Because I can think of a few things to ask for.”

  “It’s a promise,” I respond around my dry mouth. If I can’t match his confidence, this is over before it really began. “I think you’ll find that I'm capable of managing all aspects of your affairs.”

  “All aspects?” His smirk widens, eyebrows rising. I don’t want it to ruffle me, but what can I say? I have a thing for talented sex machines. Who doesn't?

  “I can handle anything,” I say flatly.

  “You should be careful with that kind of claim,” he says airily, smile never wavering. “You can’t plan for everything. Gotta be able to handle the huge things, even when you aren’t expecting them."

  There’s no mistaking what he’s insinuating. It takes everything I have not to drop my eyes and see if he's still sporting a heart-stopping hard-on. I switch gears. “I think I should get going. You've got a show to finish prepping for.”

  He hooks his fingers in his belt. "I hope you enjoy watching it as much as you enjoyed seeing me at sound check."

  My lungs seize. On heavy legs I stand and walk towards the exit of his dressing room. The entire time I know he's watching me, smiling at me, thinking about me . . .

  But worst of all?

  He's sensed a weakness in me that I never expected. Drew saw it in my face, how I was eating him up. Fantasizing about him.

  I wanted our first interaction to set the tone of our relationship. I think it did.

  Just not the way I wanted it to.

  Chapter 3

  Lucy

  We’re in Dallas, and I've set up an interview with a local morning show. It's a call in, standard for a tour, but Drew's supposed to be in contact by 7:30 for the 8 AM slot and he's not picking up his phone. Not even the hotel landline. Usually, he’s relatively punctual whatever first impression I may have had about his tardiness our first meeting, and he's pretty good about responding to texts if nothing else.

  Color me genuinely concerned.

  I knock on the suite door a few times without response, so with a slight sigh, I use the extra key card that has been gifted to me for emergencies. It's 7:40 and the producer at the radio station is frantic. Seems like an emergency to me.

  The suite living room is dead quiet so I make my way to the bedroom, knocking on the door softly. When there's no answer, I knock again, and this time there's a light groan.

  Drew doesn't have a reputation for drugs and I haven't seen him partake, so maybe he's hung over?

  Well, we don't have time for coddling. I fling open the door with a loud crash and look for my absentee client, and oh yes, there he is.

  The man is stark naked, sprawled on the massive bed alone fast asleep. From the eyeful I've just gotten, he looks as good out of clothes as in them, information I was definitely better off not knowing. And he’s huge, exactly where it counts.

  That’s going to haunt my dreams later. We really, really don't have time for this.

  Knocking on the wall next to me loudly, eyes pointedly turned to the window, I call out, “Wake up already!”

  Another groan. I check my phone. 7:45 and four missed calls from the station. Crap.

  A manager’s gotta do what a manager’s gotta do.

  I turn around and march to the bed, eyes scanning up his body as I go. He's got a lean, tattooed body that has women around the world swooning. He's shifted from when I caught a glimpse a minute ago—a sliver of blanket covers his hard cock. Barely.

  My eyes eventually find his face, and while I'm expecting, at worst, his head to have shifted under his pillow, what I find has my hands flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp of horror.

  Drew is awake and smirking at me, the bastard. He’s watching me check him out.

  “Like what you see?” His smirk widens and I grab the pillow from under his head roughly to toss at his crotch before looking pointedly at the wall behind him.

  "Of course not," I snap. It comes out a little shaky and I hope he doesn't notice. The bed springs squeak behind me. I'm facing a wall and I think that's better than seeing him naked, but at the same time, I'm trapped.

  There's a hot, totally exposed rock star behind me. Before I can decide if it's better to stand my ground or make a run for the door, his voice brushes over my ear. It's low and hot and it promises so many things just in its tone. "Liar."

  Shivering, I scrunch my eyes shut. Calm down. Don't play his games. "We don't have time for this."

  "Time for what?" he chuckles. "Because I know for a fact I could bend your tight little ass over right here and make you come in three minutes or less."

  His cockiness pisses me off, but I'm more angry with how my stomach tightens—my pussy giving a sympathetic throb. His shadow touches my shoulder seconds before his hand does. He whispers, "We'd get along better if you let me help you relax. I can tell when someone needs a good fucking."

  Two things happen; my clit swells, and I spin around, determined to stand my ground. Drew is grinning at me, so close I can see the heat deep in his eyes. There's nothing but air between me and his bare, thick and delicious looking cock.

  Don't look at it, I beg myself.

  But I do.

  And he sees.

  His nostrils flare, like he's realized I want him. That this might happen.

  “No,” I say firmly, embarrassment coming out as anger. In this case, No means a few things: No, we can't fuck. No, I'm not going to suck you off, either, even if you probably taste amazing.

  I focus hard, leveling my glare onto his face and pushing forward with the main reason I'm here, a No that makes sense. I need something to make sense, because lusting after Drew sure doesn't. “You need to call the station. They've been trying to get in touch for half an hour.”

  Scratching at his hair, the chemistry evaporates between us. “I told you I wasn’t doing it.”

  I want to scream as my eyes scan the room and I notice he's unplugged the hotel phone from the wall.

  “What's your problem?” My voice is even, but only just.

  “You're my problem.” He says it so sharply that I step backwards. He's acting like this is about more than just me being his manager. Again, I peek at his naked body. It's a relief—and it hurts—when he snatches up some clothes and begins to change.

  “Yo
u're supposed to be promoting your album,” I grit out. “That means interviews.”

  “Bullshit. The only reason to make an album is to tour, and we’re sold out at every venue.”

  “You're doing the interview,” I say. It's a struggle not to scream my frustration. “If you don't, you'll gain a reputation as a flake, and as your manager, I'd strongly advise against that.”

  “Fine, whatever, now get out.” He shows me his broad back. “And next time, fucking knock.”

  Mentioning that I did actually knock won’t change the fact I’d barged in on him sleeping naked in the first place. Really though, what choice did I have? There are less than ten minutes left until the interview—there hadn’t been time to keep knocking and hope he woke up before it was too late.

  I slam the door behind me, shouting through the wood. “They’ve tried to call you half a dozen times, so if you redial the last missed call on your phone that isn’t me, you should be golden. And now would be good.”

  I hear muttered curses. But shortly after, I hear the beginning of a one-sided call and, satisfied, I leave his suite.

  Probably, he’s going to be a dick about this later, but I am only looking out for his best interests. I silently wonder how Colin would have handled this. The months I’d interned for him had been when Drew was in hiding writing his first solo album, so I never really saw any of their interactions apart from overhearing one side of the occasional phone call.

  I wished I could have seen him with Colin, could have witnessed for myself how his ex-manager had coerced or coaxed or pleaded his way into compliance. Maybe Colin would know the secret Avery handling techniques that would yield results. Then again, if Colin were around to ask, I wouldn’t be here.

  I sometimes get the sense Drew resents me for that, for taking his place. Not me, exactly—

  he knows he needs a manager. I know they were close, and I really don’t think Drew is taking his death well, but there’s also not much I can do about that aside from small gestures and trying to make life as easy as possible for him career wise.

  And the last part I’ve done pretty well, if I do say so myself. Though maybe Drew hasn't even noticed.

  The fact that he hasn’t fired me is a good sign.

  It doesn’t take me long to walk back to my own small suite in the same hotel and order up some breakfast. I go with a crab cake eggs benedict because it sounds good and I deserve it—I’ve just gone above and beyond the call by yanking his ass out of bed for an interview. I throw in a mimosa for good measure because I can already tell it’s going to be that kind of day.

  I click on the suite radio to tune into the interview. It’s begun, but just, and I want to make sure Drew isn’t going to put his foot in his mouth in a way I’ll have to clean up after later.

  “—some say this album isn’t up to your usual standards. What would you say to those detractors?”

  What? This was supposed to be a fluff interview. Furious, I’m already reaching for my phone to call the station manager.

  Drew's voice is a purr. “I’d say they need to pay more attention. I’d say they’re stuck in the past. They all expect more Fever Dream, more of that sound, but I’m not the same person I was back then, and you evolve or die in this industry. This album is more a reflection of me, of who I am, than any I’ve done before. I’m proud of it.”

  I frown. This isn’t what I had expected at all. It’s a thoughtful answer, a good answer. The type of answer likely to endear him to fans and to intrigue outsiders enough to give him a listen. Maybe I don’t need to call just yet.

  “Are you saying this is your best album, then?”

  “People have this constant need to compare, but I think it’s a waste of time. Enjoy things for what they are. You can like the Fever Dream stuff and the stuff now. It doesn’t have to be a choice.”

  “Well, Drew, we played some of the old stuff leading up to this interview. We’ll be playing a few tracks from your latest album a little later, so I guess we’ll let the fans decide. But new music aside, how is life for Drew Avery these days?”

  I listen on as Drew talks about the tour and his music writing and what it’s like to travel so much, avoiding discussing his personal life as always. He manages to sound confident and witty without coming off as cocky, just like he always does when he’s at his best, and I breathe a sigh.

  Avery can be very charming when he feels like it. Sitting there, listening to him talk, I'm lulled by his warm voice. It makes me think of soft cloth and strong arms.

  It makes me think of seeing him nearly naked this morning.

  Burning red, I nearly knock my mimosa off the breakfast cart. With a deep inhale, I chug the drink down. I want it to erase the dirty thoughts. It doesn't.

  Don't think about him like that! But it's there, solid in my mind like age old concrete. Drew has a sizzling body, there's no wonder women fall for him. It's almost a relief when the interview ends and I can be free of his luxurious voice.

  The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. While immediate action hadn’t been required, I do have to call and remind the station manager that if the local talent can’t stick to the script, they won’t be booking interviews. For as well as Drew had handled it, I refuse to be undermined since it’s my job to make sure he knows what to expect.

  I’m in a pretty good mood as I arrive at the new venue, this time a large local concert hall that seats twenty thousand. Drew doesn’t love the bigger venues, but he could fill a stadium.

  I hardly see Avery before the show starts, which is for the best since from the grin he levels my way when I offer him a brief greeting, he’s still getting off on our interaction this morning.

  Sliding into the shadows backstage, I gather myself. It's not easier on my nerves since watching him work is breathtaking.

  In painted on denim and a tank top, he struts and belts and strums, emotion raw in his voice. Drew owns the stage. I'm absorbed. There aren’t many things I can afford to lose myself to, but I'm helpless while looking his way and it's liberating.

  Letting Drew’s music take over is safe, a guilty pleasure I can afford as long as I keep the line between us firmly professional, and I’ve been very careful to do just that. But as I watch his throat straining, his torso twisting with power and fire and an energy that could stop a train . . . I ask myself why I'm so entranced.

  And I ask myself if I'm not being as careful as I think I am.

  Because the tension between us is starting to splinter, and our time together has been so short. When we're alone, the air crackles and I nearly buckle to his confident aura. I need to stay away. I know distance is smart.

  That means I shouldn't go to his dressing room after the show.

  But I do.

  Because sometimes—sometimes—I make stupid decisions.

  When I walk into his dressing room, I'm stunned. It's full of groupies. There are two women practically draped over Drew, and several more are huddled around, waiting for an opening to get closer. They’re just talking, flirting really, one girl giggling as the other strokes his shoulder, each sitting on either arm of the plush stationary chair he inhabits. The girls are attentive, eager to be near the great rock star.

  I can't help it, I'm pissed.

  All of them are young, somewhere in their twenties, and dressed to kill in short, slinky dresses and stilettos. And too much lipstick. Way too much lipstick. They make me feel both under and overdressed in my short black business skirt and silk blouse. I grit my teeth. Why am I letting this get to me?

  It’s not like groupies bother me, not really. They’re fans and fans are money, and if fawning over a rock star makes them happy, who am I to judge? Hell, if sleeping with a rock star boosts their self-image, it seems like an equal exchange to me.

  My only problem with groupies is that they make things chaotic. I prefer to regulate the when and the where when I'm holding the reigns. That's why early on, I suggested that groupies not be allowed in the inner sanctuaries backstage be
cause they’re a distraction. I told Drew that if he must engage, he can do it in the outer areas and, when it suits him, take it outside the venue.

  I haven’t seen him do more than talk to those lucky fans with backstage passes since, so finding this group here is a surprise and not a pleasant one.

  I shouldn’t care.

  I really, really care.

  “I didn’t realize I was interrupting a private party,” I mutter. “If you’re too busy to pay attention to your career, I’ll just be going.”

  Drew looks up and meets my gaze. There’s a wicked darkness on his tongue. “Feel free to join the party, it’s just getting started.”

  The women around him titter at that, and it’s so fake.

  “Oh, Drew, such a bad boy,” one next to him says with a light slap to the arm. “You should play nice.”

  “Thought I was playing nice.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “Aren’t I?” He looks around to the crowd he’s gathered, who laugh and affirm his niceness.

  “They leave or I do,” I speak over the noise. I’m furious and it’s stupid, so stupid. I’m just his manager, but I hate the thought of him—of him—

  I expect him to dismiss me, for us to hash things out in the morning. Drew never does what I expect.

  His face is stone. Firmly, he nudges the women off of him as he stands. He's tall enough to overshadow me and I get the crazy idea his head might touch the ceiling any second. “Well, you heard the lady,” he growls. “Time to go.”

  The glares leveled my way as the groupies leave could probably melt steel if intensity was matched with heat.

  But it isn’t them that I fear.

  I'm alone again with the man who keeps breaking me down. The rock star king himself—my teenage fantasy and first real crush.

  As Drew whirls on me, the fire in his eyes tells me that tonight, I may just burn.

  Chapter 4

  Drew

  No one has ever pushed my buttons like Lucy. No one has ever had the gall to tell me to kick people out of my dressing room. Why did little miss perfect tits and ass think she could?