European Tour (Rocking the Pop Star Book 1)

by L. V. Lewis

  Then again, I had made him wait two years. Too bad his skills turned out to be not worth the wait. I haven’t had another lover since, which is unfortunate—and a situation I am desperately trying to remedy now.

  I’m going on tour in a matter of days and my smoking hot P.A. hasn’t made a move. I’ve flirted all week like a hooker having a fire sale and, despite the bad boy vibe he has going on, he’s been the perfect gentleman. That sucks like a Dyson for me because I’m way overdue for a rebound hookup to show Connor I’ve moved on and I’m not as devastated by his actions as he’d care to think. There is also the matter of my neglected libido. I selected I’m Your Man because I needed a man. Okay?

  “My I.Y.M. guy took me to the AMAs and then treated me to a private party after the after party, if you know what I’m saying…” Alyssa’s voice trails off.

  I brace myself. I have a pretty good idea of what she’s going to say next.

  “In my dealings with them I’ve learned to make my expectations crystal clear upfront. Did you ask for the deluxe package like I told you?”

  I adjust my ear buds so I can hear Alyssa better. “Is that a real thing? Amber made the appointment, and I couldn’t very well stress my interest in their unwritten services with my mother in the room. She would’ve picked up on it pronto. She was already not down with Brody’s looks. If she’d known he sometimes doubles for all intents and purposes as a high-priced escort, she would’ve blown a freaking gasket.”

  “When is your mother going to accept that you’re an adult with adult needs?”

  “When she’s six feet under—and maybe not even then. I can just see her now reaching for me with her cold, bony limbs every time I try to get my freak on.”

  “Yep. I can see it. The undead cockblocker.” Alyssa howls. “So, listen, Sunday is your birthday. You need to serve Brody up some of your birthday cake.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  “It’s known by many names. Nookie, afternoon delight, making whoopee…”

  “I’m well aware of the term in all its variations, girlfriend.”

  I go silent on my end as the primary topic of our conversation enters the room carrying his ever-present iPad. Alyssa goes on with several other terms, but I’m not listening. Brody spots me on the elliptical. His blue eyes light up. I swear, they look like he stole them off a CGI video game. They’re not just bright, they’re vivid. If he looks at me like he’s the slightest bit interested in me being more than just his boss, I’ll have an orgasm where I stand.

  “Gotta go, Alyssa,” I say absentmindedly—anxious to get off the phone to engage in my new favorite pastime: looking into Brody’s eyes. “Duty calls.”

  “Don’t you mean booty calls?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Later.” She ends the call.

  I pull my earbuds out, and let the cords dangle over my shoulders. Brody is staring at me when I look up.

  “What you got?” I’m trying desperately not to look as if I’ve been talking about him…or fantasizing about him all week.

  “First pictures of the tour stage set and props.” Brody thrusts the iPad in front of me. With that move, I get a whiff of his aromatic cologne. The citrus and spicy notes emanating from his skin are enough to make me salivate—Pavlovian style. I take short shallow breaths to avoid making an idiot out of myself with a deep inhale.

  I look at the screen and slow my pedaling considerably to start my cool down. My set designer has pulled out all the stops. The stage looks like a surreal version of Candyland with more mature themes and visuals. It’s not risqué, but strikes a balance between pre-adult and Madonna-esque. Something for all my fans. I love it.

  “Perfect.” I hand the tablet back to him. “You’re riding with me to sound check, right?”

  “Okay.” He smiles as he turns the iPad off. “Meet you out front at 3:30?”

  “Sure.” I stop the elliptical and hop off. I eye my waiting towel on the warming rack against the wall and move to retrieve it.

  Brody turns to leave.

  He’s already near the door. After that call with Alyssa, I’m motivated. I cast off my badge of traditionalism and call out to him, “Do you have plans? Later, I mean.”

  “Later as in after work?”

  I nod.

  A deep wrinkle appears between his eyes, and he seems perplexed by my question, but moves back toward me, a definite sign of interest.

  “Would you like to come back here for dinner?” I ask.

  He cants his head slightly and folds his arms over the iPad, posture relaxed, his biceps flexing as if they’re winking at me. He licks his lips, quickly flashing the pink tip of his tongue. “Is this a working dinner?

  “Would you be disappointed if I said no?”

  “Not in the least.” He smiles. His electric blue eyes smolder wickedly, and my girly parts take note.

  Nope. I don’t think Brody Kent will be at all reluctant to taste my birthday cake.

  Brody arrives, and I answer the door myself. Having sent all my staff home—except Malik, who resides on the property in one of two guest houses, and Della, the cook, because I have no such discernible skill—I don’t have much choice. Anyway, I prefer it this way. Fewer witnesses who’ll tell my mother what I’m up to.

  I’m not egotistical enough to play my own music as the backdrop for an attempted seduction. Instead, I’ve put on a mix of contemporary ballads to set the mood. I’m already there, but this is in case Brody needs a little help.

  Brody’s hair is down tonight and I’m not sure which I like better: the messy man-bun or the blond tendrils touching his broad shoulders.

  The light blue linen shirt paired with darker blue linen trousers accentuate his eyes, making them seem an unreal shade of blue, and I have to swallow a couple of times before I can speak.

  “Hey…you,” I say lamely. I roll my eyes at myself.

  “Hi.” He enters with a smile he doesn’t brandish often enough. His gaze lands on my form without making the obvious sweep most men employ. I’m wearing a black soft knit jumpsuit that plunges in the front and back, sans bra, and he's still respectful. I need to do something to change that. In a hurry.

  He turns and hands me the bottle of wine. “My neighbor is a sommelier at a fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills. He says it’s good.”

  “You haven’t tasted it?”

  “No, I don’t really drink much,” he says.

  “How is it that a former musician just shy of thirty doesn’t drink much?” I motion for him to follow me to the dining room where the table is already set.

  “I try not to ingest anything that makes me lose control anymore,” he murmurs. “I make terrible choices when that happens.”

  “Are you a recovering alcoholic or something?”

  “Or something is about right,” he says cryptically.

  I silently berate myself for asking such a pointed personal question right out the gate. I don’t know if I want to pry into that subject further. Yet. We all have limitations—things we have to be cautious about. Mine is chocolate truffles. Can’t eat only one to save my life. I’ve binged and purged more times than I’m willing to admit on chocolate all for the sake of keeping this svelte size four figure that photographs and videos well. Do I want to admit this to Brody? Not tonight.

  I gesture toward the table and we both take a seat.

  Della enters with a steaming tray of food before we can continue the too-weighty conversation.

  “Dinner is served, Ms. Skylar,” she says with aplomb, and she should be confident. She’s a fantastic cook.

  She arranges the various serving dishes before us. “If there isn’t anything else, bon appétit, and I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Della,” I say.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Armstrong,” Brody says.

  “My mother-in-law might answer to that name if she were still alive, God rest her soul.” She laughs at her own attempt at an often-used joke. “I’m just Della, baby
.”

  “Della,” Brody says with a grin. “I’ll remember that.”

  She leaves discreetly as always through the kitchen door that opens into the cavernous garage.

  Sometimes I wonder why I bought such a big-assed house. My accountant calls it an investment, and that many of the expenditures for its upkeep are tax write-offs. It’s going to be a damned lonely place tonight if my seduction routine with Brody backfires.

  Since Connor’s abrupt departure from my life, I’ve been bereft of male companionship. Malik doesn’t count, because he views me somewhat as a surrogate niece who pays him to keep her safe. My male band and dance team members are either married, have significant others, or are gay. And I work so much, I have little time to meet anyone of the opposite sex the way most women in their twenties do.

  We tuck into Della’s summer salad, rack of lamb, new potatoes and grilled asparagus, and nerves make me feel as if the food is hitting the bottom of my stomach like lead. My body too anxious to digest it.

  Making a small sound of enjoyment upon taking the first bite, Brody eats Della’s cooking like a man who doesn’t get a home-cooked meal very often. I suppose the onus is on me to keep the conversation flowing.

  I take a sip of my water and dive right in. “Do you like your job?”

  He looks up at me, a dribble of salad dressing escaping from his delectable mouth. When he licks his lip to capture it, I’m jealous that I didn’t get a chance to remove it for him.

  He dabs his lips with the napkin. “Yes.”

  I wait for him to expound more, but he moves on to attack his portion of lamb and potatoes. I give him a chance to put a dent in his food, while picking nervously at my own. Adele is saying hello to her lost love through the speakers, and that is the only sound in the room.

  “Is the food okay?” I say after a few minutes of no conversation.

  He takes a sip of his water. “Yes, thank you.”

  Eyeing the bottle of wine Brody brought to the table, I sigh.

  “Would you like me to open it?” he asks.

  “Is it going to be too much of a temptation for you? I wouldn’t want to cause your downward spiral into copious imbibing, which would lead to obvious debauchery, and the consequential shame in its aftermath.” I’m nervous. Nerves always cause ridiculous streams of words to fall out of my mouth. Sometimes they’re nonsensical. Other times, they make perfect song lyrics…if I’d been a country music star instead of a pop singer.

  Brody laughs and wipes his mouth with his napkin again. “What did you just say?”

  Mortified, I cover my face with both hands, careful not to smear the little bit of makeup I’m wearing. I’m flubbing this in more ways than one.

  I remove my hands, and Brody is there invading my personal space, his face just inches from mine. I suck in a deep breath as my heart beats like a woodpecker just took residence in my ribcage. He braces both hands on the back of my chair, and his soft, warm lips brush my cheek.

  “You are adorable.” He straightens and moves away.

  I pout. “That isn’t the adjective I was initially going for.”

  He rummages in a drawer on the sideboard and comes up with a corkscrew. “I’m going to open this wine for you,” he says. “And after just one glass, I expect you’ll find an adjective to modify the specific mood you were going for.”

  The cork comes out with a resounding pop, and he pours me a glass of the dark red liquid. “For the record, I’m always up for copious debauchery served up with a little bit of shame.” I press my thighs together, licking my lips to ensure I’m not drooling. Brody Kent’s got serious game. “I’ll pass on the imbibing, though.” He smiles in that devastating way he does, and my panties are soaked.

  Brody helps me load the dishwasher so Della won’t come back to a dirty kitchen in the morning. I have no earthly idea how to progress from dinner to a more adult dessert, so I’m hoping against hope he will initiate something. Why do I have to be such a damn traditional woman?

  We have adjourned to the living room on the non-office side of the house and are sharing random information about ourselves. Brody’s had so many excruciatingly painful life experiences. Is it any wonder he turned his back on a career he loved for one that leaves so much to be desired? I wonder if I should Google him? He’s been so loath to discuss anything remotely related to when he was in the rock band and performing that I’ve steered clear of those questions, but he seems happy to answer others.

  “So you left home at fifteen?” I ask when the conversation lulls.

  “If you could call it that. My parents died in a car accident when I was eight. My grandparents hated rock and roll for religious reasons, but it was my passion. I couldn’t fathom a life without it at the time.”

  “Have you reconciled with them, now that you’ve given it up?”

  “No. My grandmother died shortly after I left. My grandfather remained angry with me until the day Alzheimer’s checked him out. He died last summer. I visited him at the nursing home, but he was so ravaged by the disease he didn’t know who I was.” A shadow mars his perfect features.

  Another heavy subject. Way to go, Sky.

  At this rate, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to segue into sex, but I’m not sure I’m bitter about it. Yes, he scores about a fifteen on the attractiveness scale. There’s a raw masculinity about him that shines through despite the rough-edged, former rock star image he projects. But…more important than that, Brody is fascinating. I want to know everything about him.

  “Well, at least you attempted reconciliation. Your heart was in the right place. I would disown my mother in a heartbeat if she tried to separate me from my music.”

  “You write most of your own songs?”

  “I do, because honestly, I feel like I’m the only one who knows what I can perform and make my fans believe it.”

  “How did you manage to get such creative control from your behemoth of a record company?”

  “I threatened to walk. Well, actually, my mother threatened to pull us out. I was so young, I didn’t understand how gargantuan my brand had become. My mother is a barracuda of a businesswoman, and consistently great at identifying new trends. There’s no one whose opinions I respect more in the industry. She learned everything from my father.”

  “Where is he, by the way?”

  “He lives in Japan. They divorced when I was ten. My father wanted my mother and me to return to his home when my television show ended, but then my singing career took off. He gave her an ultimatum, which my mother laughed at. I was making all the money she’d ever need. We took her maiden name after he left.”

  Brody's eyes widen in surprise. “How did that make you feel?”

  “Someone’s paid attention in therapy,” I say with a laugh. “You trying to psychoanalyze me, Mr. Kent?”

  “Not if I can help it.” That panty-wetting grin sprouts on his face again and I’m seconds away from hopping astride his narrow hips, devouring his delicious lips, and dry-humping him like a shameless rock star groupie.

  The doorbell rings.

  I frown, annoyed at the interruption. “Wonder who that could be? I’m not expecting anyone, and the gate guard would contact Malik before sending anyone through.”

  Brody stands along with me. “I’ll go with you to the door, if that’s alright with you.”

  “Sure, come along.” I like that he does such unexpectedly chivalrous things. “Hope you won’t have to use any of your MMA skills to protect my honor and/or my property.”

  He scrunches his face up playfully as he walks with me to the door. “You always default to the worst-case scenario.”

  “You know, you’re right.” I’ve been in this business a long time, and have heard of so many stars being stalked, maimed, or killed. I like to err on the side of caution. Malik doesn’t make it any better. He believes every other fan could be a possible psycho nutjob.

  Laughing, I swing the door open to find a grim-faced Malik standing there.


  Worried, I stop laughing quickly. “Is everything okay?”

  “Can I speak to you a minute?”

  I step back to let him in. Brody follows suit.

  “Alone,” Malik says with a hard edge. I’ve only seen him look like this once, when a fan cornered me in the ladies room after a nightclub appearance.

  Brody nods and backs away. “I’ll just go back into the office. I’ll get my iPad and go over some details for soundcheck tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  He turns on his heel and disappears down the hallway.

  Malik and I re-enter the living room, and I offer him a drink.

  “No thanks, Sky.” He closes the double doors.

  “What’s all this cloak and dagger stuff?”

  “Your mother is on her way over here.”

  “Why?” My voice usually only raises an octave that quickly when I’m singing. I’ve got a bad feeling.

  “She had me do an additional background check on your boy here.”

  “Brody?”

  “Yeah. And something isn’t ringing very clear about this guy.”

  I sit absentmindedly on the sofa. My heart is somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. I didn’t want to believe Brody might have a hidden agenda, because he is so secretive about his rocker past. If Malik’s unsolicited background check has found some dirt to confirm my nagging suspicions, I might’ve dodged an enormous bullet. “What is it that you think you’ve uncovered, Malik?”

  “The timeline is off. Birth records reveal he was born in Downers Grove, Illinois. There are elementary and middle school records, then his high school records end around tenth grade. Other than a GED and a few odd jobs at restaurants in his late teens, there are no adult employment records until he went to work for I.Y.M., Inc. in April last year. He has a pretty hefty bank account for someone with that history.”