by Mia McAdams
She winks at me. “I’m sure you won’t have that same problem.” There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, and I know she’s about to ask the dreaded question. Then she surprises me. “I always hated Tony. I’m glad you two broke up. He’s an ass for what he did, but it’s for the best.”
I like Terese a whole lot right about now, but I don’t have time to respond. The ding of the elevator reminds me I’m headed for a meeting with the rock god himself. “I need to get going. I’ll call you this week, okay? We can do dinner.”
I practically run the few steps to the elevator and smash my finger on the button, trying to catch the closing door. Score. It opens, and when I enter, I immediately regret rushing as I stumble into the nearest figure. My hands reach out to catch my fall. “I’m so sorry,” I say, not sure who to speak to. The space is filled with leather jackets, heavy cologne, a faint hint of alcohol . . . and testosterone. Lots of that.
And then my eyes land on him. All six feet of lean muscle, tan skin, and caramel eyes. Wolf is standing directly in front of me, a smirk on his face as he looks at my hands on his chest. Shit.
Someone in the background mumbles with an indiscernible accent, “No worries, love,” but it doesn’t sound sincere, and no one else speaks, making the moment more awkward than it was before.
I remove my burning hands with a shake and turn to face the closing door, hoping to hide the heat rushing up my neck. It’s strange how the presence of a rock star changes the energy in a room. What was once stale, boring air is now electrified and magnetic. I want to face him again to get a good look at him.
Spinning toward him, I plant a smile on my face and meet his stare. “Mr. Wolf, I should introduce myself. I’m Lyric Cassidy, road manager for your upcoming tour.”
His smirk has faded, and a crease now appears between his eyes. His reaction is confusing since the unappealing wrinkle is all I get. It seems to be a power move. I’ve seen Wolf a million times in magazines, on TV, on billboards, and T-shirts everywhere. Hell, I’ve spent my life surrounded by rock stars. If this guy thinks he’s going to intimidate me, he’s wrong. Very wrong.
“Nice to meet you . . . Lyric.” He releases my name with a flick of his tongue. My eyes are on his mouth now. Such a beautiful mouth. Slightly parted and lifted at the corners. Just enough to know he’s enjoying himself.
I steal a glimpse of the tongue that just held my name. It’s gliding across his teeth in one slow sweep. As my eyes track the movement, I have to swallow against the roll of my stomach. Holy hell.
That's all it takes for me to know I’m in a knee-deep shit-pile of trouble. His voice is low and raspy, too. It’s a tone that strikes me below the waist and reverberates with every syllable spoken.
I look around at the chuckling bystanders, who are obviously amused by our exchange. I’m assuming the entourage surrounding Wolf includes his band and manager. They’ve surely seen the way women react to him, and they think I’m one of them. I can’t wait to prove them wrong.
My eyes move back to the man with the accent. He wears a suit jacket and jeans, ready for business. “You must be Lionel.”
His eyes light up with mischief and a hint of annoyance. “You would be correct.” His accent is thick. British. Or Australian. I can never tell the difference.
I don’t think he’s my biggest fan. It doesn’t surprise me being that I’m a female in a typically male role. Now I just want to irritate him.
“Should I call you Lion for short? Or are animal names reserved for your boss here?”
I smile at my own joke as laughter erupts from the people all around—except for the one who stands before me. Peering up at Wolf curiously, I’m surprised to see a smile slowly forming on his lips. “He goes by Crawley. No nicknames needed,” Wolf’s penetrating voice responds.
All right. So the rock god can take a joke. That’s good.
By the time we’ve made it to the top floor, I’ve concluded that Lionel Crawley, the band's manager, is British, and I’ve introduced myself to the entire band, too. I almost forgot their keyboard player was a girl. A girl who is into same-sex offerings only. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
We exit the elevator into the lobby of the executive floor, which hasn’t changed much since I was last here. The walls are bright red with orange accents and black trim. The Perform Live logo, 3-D against the back wall of the room, screams importance.
We’re greeted by the receptionist and guided to the very last room at the end of the hall with a spectacular view of the Bay. As everyone takes their seats, I gravitate toward the window, taking it all in. It’s funny. Open air heights terrify me. But this, staring behind a pane of glass protecting me, no matter how high up, I can handle.
I can’t wait to get out on the road. It’s views like this, and music like what’s streaming in from the conference room speakers, that give me an itch that can only be scratched by the rush of life on the road. Visiting different towns daily, bunking it on the bus until we can’t hold out anymore and need a night of luxury in a hotel room, watching the stage setup, hearing the excitement of the crowd, and driving away from the venue with our veins still pumping with adrenaline.
It’s all a beast inside me. Energizing me. Buzzing and driving life through my every aching bone. Beating down the walls of my chest. I’m always aching for more of it all. More sights. More sounds. The rush of the mob; fans crushing each other to get where I am. To get closer to the band.
That crazy adrenaline that comes with being on the road. Yeah. It makes up for the shitty beds and the lack of closet space.
“You stare as if you’ve never experienced it.”
I jump at Wolf’s intruding voice. “What?”
I understand the question; my answer is just taking a bit longer to form after the vibrations from his nearness took over my body. He chuckles. “Have you explored the city before? I could show you around. Maybe after dinner?”
My head snaps toward him, and I'm ready to unleash. The moment dinner is mentioned, I have a flashback to my ex, Tony, and how that relationship all started with an innocent dinner. Hell no.
I’m prepared with a comeback. I was honestly expecting it to take a little longer than five minutes, but it appears I’ve underestimated him. “You and I”—I point my finger first in his direction and then mine—“are not going to dinner together. There will be no sightseeing trips or accidental drunken encounters. I am your road manager. I coordinate travel, ensure your merchandise is stocked, confirm the venues are prepared to keep you happy, manage the books, and keep you organized. Is that clear? Dinner. Is. Not. Happening.”
Wolf surprises me by shrugging his shoulders and stepping back. He’s laughing and that only pisses me off more. “Okay, okay. For the record, I wasn’t asking you out. You’re not my type.”
I’ll be honest. I never would have imagined those words coming out of his mouth. They leave a little sting behind since he’s obviously talking about my looks. He knows nothing about me.
I’m still blushing as he continues. “Seeing as you’re the road manager, I thought you'd be joining us.” He waves a hand around the room. “All of us.”
Luckily, no one is witness to my embarrassment, too engrossed in their own conversations. “We’re going out for a bite after the meeting, but feel free to sit this one out. And the offer to show you the city was me being nice because we’ll be here for two weeks and I got the impression you’re no stranger to enjoying life in small spurts or through a high-rise window. You look like you need some fun. Forgive me for misreading it.” He walks away, but I hear what he says next. “Or for getting it completely right.”
Wolf
Lyric hates musicians. That much is obvious from her eager refusal of my sightseeing offer—but why such hostility? It’s true, my reputation precedes me. That’s no reason for her to immediately throw judgment. Not that I’ll prove her wrong. I’ll probably prove her right. It’s what I do. And I meant what I said. She’s not my type. She might loo
k the part—small, curvy frame, generous tits, perfect complexion, plump lips—but the fire in her chameleon eyes tells me she’s familiar with my type, as she deems it. We’re oil and water. I’m a sex-driven rocker, and she’s a victim of it all. As much as I hate that she has a preconceived notion of me, she isn’t completely off. She’s been burned. It’s written in the depths of her expression and I’ve seen it a dozen times before. Lyric Cassidy is a relationship girl. A hopeful romantic. Any man to replace her last will need to prove to her that he’s nothing like her ex.
I won’t be her hero.
This is where I bow out. I may not be quite the asshole she’s already pegged me for, but I don’t do relationships. Or the chase. But sightseeing is harmless. Sort of. Maybe I should have suggested the trip during the afternoon. That’s safer. Heaven knows I don’t fuck with the lights on. It’s more convenient that way since the women I screw throw themselves all over me the moment I step off the stage. I want the pussy, but I don’t care about the faces. I’ll forget them anyway.
It’s not like I’m proud of it. Sex is an addiction, much like alcohol, drugs, gambling. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t gamble often. I drink with the rest of them, but that’s not my addiction.
Sex is what I want. What I crave. What I need. Especially after exiting the rush of the stage lights and the screams, the heat of a woman wrapped around my cock is the only release that satisfies me. Bare breasts in my mouth. Smooth skin beneath my fingertips. Making her moan as I fill her with my adrenaline. Pounding. Over and over until my name explodes from her lips because she can’t remember anything else.
Fuck. Why am I thinking about sex? I’m giving myself a boner in a conference room ninety percent filled with dudes.
Because of her. She’s glaring at me from across the conference table, still flushed with embarrassment. Maybe she doesn’t hate all musicians, but she’s clearly pegged me as her enemy. That’s fine.
Her reaction earlier tells me she’s surprised by my disinterest. It’s pleasing to know I’ve already gotten under her skin, but it wouldn’t be enough to get her in my bed. Not that I’d go there. Lyric seems like a tough chick. And when a girl like that gets burned, they lose trust and make every guy after suffer for it. They seek the chase. They think the chase equals trust. The chase isn’t for me. And I really don’t care if she trusts me. I don’t have that kind of time, and no girl is worth waiting for when there’s a line outside my dressing room. A girl tells me no, I move onto another one who says yes. It’s as easy as that, and let’s face it, no girl tells me no.
Challenges don’t make me fall in love. Nothing will ever make me fall in love. There’s too much risk in that little four-letter word. Words like that have no place in my world. It’s probably a good thing Lyric made herself clear. Sooner or later, I would've come on to her. Riddled heart aside, she’s hot. I’m especially enamored with those pouty lips of hers . . . I’d let her wrap those lips around me. With a fiery personality like that, I’m certain she'd know how to handle every inch. Not to mention, we’ll be sharing the same tour bus for over three months—more if I choose to keep her for the next tour since her contract states she’s mine for up to three tours. That’s nine months of staying away.
The more I think about not getting inside Lyric, the harder it is to concentrate on what Doug, our tour director, is saying.
He’ll be managing things from the office, so it will just be Miss Cassidy and her blaze of fire who accompanies us. I’d like to say with confidence that Lyric was the best fit for the job, but the tour company didn’t give me many options this time around and I can’t help but question if she’ll be a fit.
I don’t doubt her skills. I checked up on those and the tour company had nothing but great things to say about her. She seems capable, strong, and according to the additional information I found, knows the business as well as the rest of us. Maybe even better. Fuck, Mitch Cassidy is one of my idols. But none of it changes the fact that I’ve never worked with a chick road manager before. Hours are long. She’ll be surrounded by dudes, for the most part. There’s a lot of male ass to kiss. A lot of schmoozing. And she’ll have to deal with Crawley. I’m not sure if Crawley has a thing against female road managers or Lyric in general, but he’s not a fan. Then again, Crawley has a stick up his ass about pretty much everything.
“We’ve got a local crew handling the San Diego show in a couple weeks. Lyric, feel free to attend as a guest that night. Follow me around. Get to know your merch crew. Hang backstage. Hell, just enjoy the show and have a good time. It will be a long three months before you get a real break.”
I can’t help but smirk in her direction. I’d like to know the last time she enjoyed something. And honestly, I’m considering what my wager will be when the guys and I make bets at how long she’ll last on the tour. The road isn’t for everyone. It’s for practically no one, but the rush of the acoustics on stage is worth it.
“Where to for dinner, Wolf?” My bandmate, Stryder, approaches me after the meeting. He’s one to go with the flow, looking for others to make the decisions because he’s happy if everyone else is happy.
“Prado,” I answer immediately. I’ve been thinking about dinner since we scarfed down fast food burgers and fries at lunch. The only thing I hate about traveling is rushing through meals. Food excites me, and Prado is the perfect venue for our night. I look over at Crawley and give him the eye. He’s on it, finding the number and making sure we have a room reserved.
To my surprise, Lyric tags along. She has a company driver, and she’s entering the backseat with someone else. A cute blonde in a skirt and a Wolf tee. Good. If I can’t hit on Lyric, then maybe I’ll hit on her friend. It’s usually a good sign when they’re wearing my face between their tits.
Prado is in Balboa Park, within the walls of Historic House of Hospitality, a beautiful white castle-like structure with a private room reserved for us. Good thing because it’s about to get rowdy. The moment we sit down, we order a round of shots and a dozen bottles of wine. I toss back a shot and am handed another one immediately. My crew knows what I like.
As I’m perusing the menu, the girls walk in and they’re welcomed enthusiastically. They’re outnumbered. Not my favorite ratio. I try not to look up, but Lyric’s laugh reels me in. It’s an infectious sound.
She’s standing there with her blonde friend and my drummer, Derrick. They’re all laughing, and for a moment I wonder if I misjudged her. Everything in her demeanor is light and fun, the complete opposite of how she acted back in that conference room.
Damn. I kind of like watching her laugh. Maybe I dismissed her too soon.
She must sense me staring because her eyes dart to mine faster than I’m able to look away, and now I’m frozen. It’s too bad she didn’t want that sightseeing trip. I wouldn’t mind spending a day gazing into those hot-as-fuck eyes while I showed her how many ways I could make her come.
“Wolf, get your ass over here,” Derrick calls.
Our stare down is interrupted as I’m called over to the circle they’ve formed. I step around the table so I’m standing directly in front of Lyric while Derrick introduces me to her friend. Terese, he calls her. I shake her hand and compliment her shirt. It’s far nicer than complimenting her rack, which is frankly my favorite part. She giggles, as I knew she would. I grin.
A long-stemmed waitress carrying a tray of shots walks by. We all take one. “To a kick-ass tour and the hotties we’ve yet to bone!” screams Hedge from the other side of the room. He’s holding his drink in the air, waiting for the rest of us to join in.
Hedge is probably the rowdiest of us all and a ladies’ man for certain. He’s worse than I am, but he’s also a kickass bass player, so he can do what he wants. He’s known for his hair, a thick, curly mess that billows three inches from his head.
“I don’t know about you all, but I need to get some grub in me before I pass out,” I say, holding up my empty shot glass.
“Good idea,” Lyric re
sponds.
The boisterous chatter continues through appetizers and dinner and into dessert. When the boys decide to get a taxi to the nearest club, I surprise myself by refusing. I’m going to save the partying for the tour. No need to get into any trouble before we even leave town.
We’re on the curb when the boys and Terese find their taxi and hop in. I think Derrick has a thing for her, which is fine. Her exaggerated responses to everyone were friction to my nerves anyway, and my focus kept shifting to Lyric’s smile all night.
Since when do I pay more attention to a smile than body parts?
Since Lyric.
I’m not oblivious to Lyric staring at me now, her hand on the open door of her company-provided ride. We’re the only two left. There’s a slight chill in the air, but it feels good, especially after being stuffed among the other sausages in our private dining room.
“You need a lift somewhere, rock star?”
As tempting as the offer is, I’ve had enough trouble keeping my thoughts of Lyric pure all night. I’ll blame the alcohol, and the fact that I’m fucking horny. It’s been a few weeks. That’s a lifetime for my cock. I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to hide my bulge in such close proximity. I could probably come just by saying her name again.
Besides, I’ve got Rex, my bodyguard, at the ready. I pull my hoodie over my head and place shades over my eyes. I’m such a cliché.
“Nah, I think I’ll go sightseeing. Alone.”
She’s smirking. “Suit yourself.” Her eyes dart behind me to Rex. “Looks like you have a companion though.” Then she winks.
She fucking winked at me. Maybe I should hop into her car. Teach her a few lessons on how to handle that tongue of hers. I contain my own grin to just a tug at one corner of my mouth.
As her car pulls away, I cross the street and take the path through the park toward the main street. Rex stays several yards behind me, giving me as much space as possible. He’s a good guy. Ex-MMA fighter. Always ready to take someone out. Never fucks around with the girls, even though they try. Grunts more than he speaks, but he’s completely focused on the job. Protecting me from the crazies. Keeping the paparazzi from getting too close.