I coughed a little.
Ryan looked down at me sympathetically. “I hope you don’t have to pass any drug tests anytime soon, ‘cause you’re probably going to be getting a contact high if you hang out around us.”
I smiled hesitantly. “I’ll be alright.”
We turned the corner into the main part of the penthouse, and there they were: the other two members of Bigger, the hottest up-and-coming band in the world. They sat in the middle of a nest of amps and cords, sort of like a messier version of Ryan’s basement.
Killian Lee was exactly the same as every photograph of him I’d ever seen: black pants, black long-sleeve shirt, black suit vest, black shoes. His black trench coat was folded over the back of his wooden chair. His black, bushy hair was pulled into a ponytail, he wore little round-lensed sunglasses, and there was a lit joint dangling out of his mouth.
He also had an electric guitar in his lap. Just like in Derek’s story of that night at the 40 Watt, his fingers were dancing over the strings – but it was unplugged, so all I could hear were little metallic pings. He was slumped back, totally relaxed, his face plastered with a blessed-out smile… but his hands worked like they were connected to someone else’s body, strumming and plucking, sometimes slowly, sometimes lightning fast. Even when he would take the joint out of his mouth with his right hand, the left would continue fingering chords on the strings.
Beside him was a full drum kit complete with bass, snares, cymbals – and Riley Wojtalik (pronounced Voy-TAL-ick, according to Wikipedia). She was a tiny little thing, with a thin frame and wiry arms. She could have been a ninth-grade girl by her height and weight.
But I haven’t seen many ninth graders with mohawks.
It was dyed black with platinum blonde streaks, and stood up two feet from her head. Apparently she changed her hair color as often as most women change their bras, because I’d seen pictures of her with dozens of different variations: red and black, yellow and orange, completely blue, all colors of the rainbow at once, purple and pink, a dozen different shades of green.
The funny thing was, besides dying it and spiking it, she didn’t keep up the rest of the hairstyle too well. She currently sported a soft brown fuzz over the rest of her skull, like she couldn’t be bothered to shave it.
Her face was very pretty – or could have been, if she’d tried. She had a slender little nose, big brown eyes, porcelain skin, delicate cheekbones and perfect, tiny lips – but all you could focus on were the raccoon eyes from mascara and eyeliner she hadn’t removed the night before. Maybe the last couple of nights.
She wore scuffed, black leather pants, clunky Doc Martens, and a dirty, smudged wifebeater with no bra. Not that she needed one, since she was basically flat-chested. She twirled drumsticks in her nicotine-stained fingers. On her wrists she wore black leather cuffs with studs. Tattoos of skulls and demons and naked girls marched up and down her arms. Around her neck was a cheap metal necklace – the kind with little balls, like the pull-switch on a ceiling fan. Several keys dangled from it like ugly pendants. She had a nose ring, a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and about eleven studs in each ear.
And right as I walked into view, she stopped whatever she was saying to Killian, looked me up and down like a horny construction worker, and wolf-whistled.
“Hell yeah – that’s what I’m talkin’ about! What’d ya bring me there, Ryan? Momma likee!”
I might have forgotten to mention this, but Riley Wojtalik was a lesbian.
She was quite open and very aggressive about it. The stories of her hitting on female fans and taking them back to her room for the night were legion. Gay, bi, straight, didn’t matter. Riley was an equal opportunity horndog.
And apparently she was trying to make me her next conquest.
Oh shit…
I edged behind Ryan as protection.
“Simmer down,” Derek said as he walked past her to the bar.
“Yeah, be nice, Riley,” Ryan admonished her.
“Ohhhh, I’ll be nice,” the little drummer girl leered. “I’ll be nice to her allllll night long.”
EW.
“Riley, Killian… this is Kaitlyn Reynolds,” Ryan announced.
As soon as he said it, the room went quiet. As in dead silent. Even Killian’s fingers froze on the guitar strings.
Riley’s jaw dropped open. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Really?” the guitarist said, looking over at Derek.
“The one and only,” Derek confirmed.
“SERIOUSLY? This is her,” Riley said in a disbelieving voice, like You’re kidding, right?
What the hell are they acting so surprised for?
While all this was going on, I wanted Derek near me. Ryan was nice, but I wanted Derek.
I looked over at him at the bar and caught his eye, but all he did was smirk at me like, You want it to be professional? Well, let’s keep it professional, then.
I scowled at him.
Fine.
Asshole.
I looked up at Ryan. “Why does everybody keep saying that?”
“What, being surprised about who you are?”
“Yeah.”
Killian chuckled as his fingers started dancing over the strings again. “You’re kind of famous around these parts, luv.”
He sounded like a young Paul McCartney, if Paul McCartney were really, really stoned.
“…wwwwhy?” I asked with trepidation.
“Do you really have to ask that question?” Derek said, in a deliberate echo of our conversation down in the bar.
I shot him another look. He just grinned, knowing he’d gotten my goat.
“Wow, you know how to pick ‘em, D,” Riley said. “Great rack, but dumb as fuck.”
God, she was worse than a construction worker.
I frowned.
Wait – how DO they all know who I –
I closed my eyes. I could have slapped my forehead when I realized it.
The songs. Of course… the songs.
I turned back to Derek. “You told them who you were writing about?”
Riley burst out laughing. “He didn’t have to tell us anything – it was ‘Kaitlyn this, Kaitlyn that’ the whole fuckin’ first album. Your name was in every other goddamn verse. We had to hold a band meeting and strong-arm him into changing the lyrics.” She cocked her head and looked me up and down as though judging livestock. “From the way you were all gone on her, D, I thought she was Miss America and Miss December all wrapped up into one. She ain’t all that… but I’d still hit it,” she added, as though she’d be doing me a favor.
I slipped behind Ryan a little bit more.
“You’re not making a very good first impression, Riley,” he scolded her.
“The fuck do I care what kind of impression I make?”
“Nowhere to go but up,” Killian said genially as he took a drag on his joint.
“Yeah – exactly! Nowhere to go but up. Hey, Blondie!”
Is she talking to me?
I was the only blonde in the room, if you didn’t count half of Riley’s mohawk.
“…uh… what?”
“You into chicks?” she asked eagerly.
“…nnnnno.”
“Aaaah, we can fix that,” she said, and waved her hand like it was no big deal. “After one night of me goin’ down on you – ”
EW.
At that exact moment, Miles suddenly reappeared from another room, or wherever he’d been hiding for the last few minutes. “Christ, Riley, can’t you keep it in your pants for at least five goddamn minutes?”
“No, I can’t. Hey, Blondie, did Miles give you the boot speech?”
Before I could answer, she turned to the manager. “Hey, Miles, didja? Didja give her the boot speech?”
“Piss off, Riley.”
“Ha haaaa – you did! ‘Ah’ve gah a shuvell in me boot.’ What else ya got in your boot, Miles?”
“What didn’t you understand about ‘piss off’?”
“‘Av
ya got a pint in your boot?” Riley prattled away in a hilariously bad English accent. “‘Av ya got a guv’nor in your boot?”
“You’re not even making sense – not that you ever do. Oy, and you – ” Miles snapped his fingers at Derek behind the bar. “What the fuck did I tell you? No more drinking before the show!”
In answer, Derek very deliberately picked up his glass of amber liquid and took a long swig, never breaking eye contact with Miles the entire time.
“That’s right, keep it up, you stupid sod,” Miles lectured. “Go an’ piss yourself onstage, for all I care.”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” Riley snorted. “Hey, D, throw me some Jack!”
“Don’t – ” Miles warned, but Derek picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and lobbed it underhanded into the air.
I freaked out. I totally expected it to crash to the floor and shatter in a million pieces and a tidal wave of whiskey –
But Riley caught it expertly, like it was a move they’d practiced many times before.
“You arseholes – ” Miles shouted.
“That’s the other thing in the boot!” Riley exclaimed, as though she’d just now remembered it. She lapsed back into her British accent: “‘Av you got an arsehole in your boot?’”
“Hey Riley, you’re a millionaire now,” Derek said. “Why don’t you drink better shit than Jack Daniels?’
“Cuz I’m not a pussy like you,” she retorted, right before she started guzzling straight from the bottle.
“It’s like working with animals,” Miles fumed.
“At least they’re housebroken,” Killian offered.
“Barely. And you,” Miles snapped at Killian, “do you know how much it’s going to cost to steam-clean this room? It smells like a goddamn Rastafarian convention in here.”
Killian shrugged. “Apparently I’m a millionaire now, if Derek’s to be believed.”
“I am,” Derek called out.
“I think I can pay for it, then,” Killian said philosophically.
“Hey Blondie – ya got a nice ‘boot,’” Riley catcalled as she twirled her drumsticks in her hands.
“…uh… thanks…”
“Derek, you ever tap that boot?”
“Not yet,” he said as he took another sip of his drink.
“Not EVER,” I snapped, and glared at him again.
Derek gave me a self-satisfied little grin. Like, Just wait.
“Oooooh, drama,” Riley hooted. “Hey Blondie – you ever take it in the boot?”
Oh God.
Ryan looked down at me. “So… welcome.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
6
Ryan turned back to the other two band members. “Kaitlyn’s here to interview us for Rolling Stone.”
Again Killian’s fingers froze on the guitar, and he looked at Derek for confirmation. “What, she’s the one?”
Derek nodded.
“She’s the one you’re breaking your famous embargo for?”
“Yup.”
The guitarist shook his head in wonder and went back to playing. “This just gets curiouser and curiouser…”
“Waaaait a minute,” Riley scowled. “How is it that the same chick you mooned over is the one who – ohhhhhhh. You couldn’t seal the deal back in the day, so you thought you’d bring her here and dangle that big exclusive in front of her so you can getchoo some, huh?”
Actually, that had been my working theory, too… although I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.
Neither would Derek, because he flipped her the bird.
Riley threw a drumstick at him. Just whipped her arm back and sent it pinwheeling through the air.
I let out a little scream.
Derek sidestepped out of the way just in time, and the drumstick clanked! against the row of bottles behind him.
“JESUS!” Miles shouted.
“Yeah, respect the booze, Riley,” Derek said, completely unfazed, like flying drumsticks happened all the time.
“Shut up or I’ll shove the next one up your ass.” Riley turned back to me. “So, Blondie, what do you wanna ask me first? How I like my women? Cuz I like ‘em like you.”
“…that wasn’t on my list, no.”
“What is on your list?” Ryan asked.
“Um… uh…”
I actually hadn’t gotten that far yet.
I’d been too preoccupied with seeing Derek for the first time in four years to actually think of any questions.
Riley shook her head. “Woooow. You really must wanna tap that ass, D, cuz she sucks at being a reporter.”
“Journalist,” I corrected.
“Well, you suck at that, too,” she assured me cheerily.
“No time for chitchat, we have sound check in an hour.” Miles clapped his hands. “Let’s go, let’s go! Limo’s waiting for us downstairs!”
Killian stood up and took his guitar. Riley followed him. Derek snagged a bottle from the bar and headed for the door.
“I need to go get my stuff first,” I protested.
“Then you get to the concert on your own,” Miles snapped.
“But – ”
Ryan saved the day. “What do you need?”
“I left my tape recorder in my bag, which is in my room. I hope.”
Since I hadn’t even been to my room yet.
He reached over by a laptop computer and grabbed something. When he handed it to me, I saw that it looked like a digital recorder with a fat, wide microphone at the top. ZOOM was printed across the front, above a control panel of tiny buttons.
“Here, take this. There’s a flash card in it – there should be, like, 24 hours of recording time on it.”
“Don’t you need it?”
“I’ve got plenty just lying around.”
“‘Just lying around’?”
“We record practice on them in case somebody comes up with something great. Plus, when inspiration strikes, I always want to have something around to record it.”
“Okay…”
“Press that button there… see the red blinking light? That means you’re on standby. Hit it again and you get a continuous red light, which means you’re recording. Then just hit that button to stop recording.”
“Thanks,” I said gratefully.
“Teach her to do her fuckin’ job in the limo!” Miles said, herding everyone towards the door. “Let’s go, let’s go! Right!”
7
The elevator ride down was gross. Killian reeked of weed, Derek smelled like bourbon, and Riley just stank.
I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
“God, it’s like ridin’ the underground in Paris in the summertime,” Miles muttered.
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.
“Buncha Frogs without any deodorant, and they still smelled better’n you lot. Come on, out, out!” he yelled as the elevator door dinged open.
The walk through the lobby was fairly uneventful, but once we got out front, there were twenty paparazzi waiting, flashes going off. Derek smiled winningly for the cameras and hoisted up his bottle of scotch; Riley stuck out her tongue a là Miley Cyrus and flipped them off. Ryan, Killian, and Miles just ignored them.
The photographers probably got plenty of shots of me in the background, goggling at them like I had never seen a camera before.
Inside the black stretch limo, seating order was Killian, Derek, and me. Ryan sat opposite and facing me, and next to him were Riley and then Miles.
As I sat next to Derek, I was distinctly aware of his thigh pressing against mine. I was getting a little turned on being right next to him – and it was pissing me off.
Derek turned to me as the limo drove off. “So – having fun yet?”
“It’s interesting,” I admitted.
“Aaaah, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” He turned to the other members of the band. “Set list – anybody got any requests?”
Rya
n – who was sitting across from me – pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket. “I’m assuming we’re keeping our own stuff in the same order?”
“Fine by me,” Derek said.
“Fine,” Killian agreed.
“I wanna do ‘Moby Dick!’” Riley shouted.
“NO,” Derek said.
I looked bewildered.
Ryan smiled. “We do our own songs in the same order every night, but every third song we throw in a cover. ‘Moby Dick’ is a Zeppelin tune that’s basically one big drum solo.”
“And everybody fuckin’ hates it,” Derek said.
“No they don’t!” Riley complained.
“Everybody except you. NO.”
“My sisters are going to be there tonight – can we do something for them?” Ryan asked. “Maybe some Katy Perry?”
“Your sisters are here in LA?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I flew my family in, they all went to Disneyland and then they’re coming to see the show,” Ryan grinned, then turned to Derek. “So keep the antics on the clean side, okay?”
“I’ll try. How ‘bout ‘Roar’?”
“Cool,” Ryan nodded, and wrote it down. “I’ll put it after… ‘If There’s A Next Time.’”
“Fine,” Killian agreed.
“In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!” Riley shouted.
I looked at Ryan.
“Another epic drum solo,” he explained.
“NO,” Derek snapped.
They went back and forth, suggesting songs, with Derek clearly in control of the final selection. In the end, they settled on about seven songs, and let Riley have ‘Hot For Teacher’ by Van Halen.
“We have to give her one big drum solo song per show or she’s impossible to live with,” Ryan said.
“Don’t you start in on me, Ry,” she threatened, and leapt up and gave him a good-natured noogie. He laughed and pushed her away.
“I know how you two formed the band,” I said to Ryan and Derek, then looked over at Killian. “And I’ve heard the story about how they met you. Was it true?”
“More or less,” he smiled as his fingers plinked over his guitar strings.
“But… how did you join the band?” I asked Riley.
“They promised me they’d give me a really hot blonde from Rolling Stone,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
Derek kicked her. Riley kicked him back, and within seconds it had turned into them trying to stomp each other as fast as they could, boots flailing at each other across the short interior of the limo.
Rock All Night (The Rock Star's Seduction #2) Page 3