Bad Boy Redemption (Bad Boy Rock Star #3)

by Candy J. Starr

  Bad Boy Redemption

  (Bad Boy Rock Star, #3)

  by

  Candy J. Starr

  Copyright Candy J. Starr 2014

  All rights reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  The cheers going up, the whooping and screaming, eardrum blasting noise wasn’t for the headlining band. It wasn’t even for the second support. That lung-fuelled anarchy, rocking the room to the very foundations was for my band—Storm. The guys I managed. Every single person in that huge, sold-out venue cried out for one more song, one more moment, a chance to wring out the last drops of magic as though clinging to a lover in the morning light.

  This was what fame felt like: rapturous, loud and hungry.

  The guys had just done the last song of their set, the reverberations still ringing from the cymbals on Spud’s drum kit, when the tour promoter gestured for them to stay on stage. When you’re the opening band, the first ones up on stage, normally you get to play to a bunch of bored faces of the diehard fans there to mark their territory for the headliner. Most people are still circling around the car park. No one cares about the opening act.

  But since this tour started a few short weeks ago, Storm’s star had blasted through the skies. Through word of mouth and careful promotion, their fame had risen, not in a nice steady curve, but exponentially.

  As the band travelled from town to town, the number of punters waiting when the doors opened increased and the proportion of bodies in the crowd wearing Storm T-shirts grew larger. Those people sang along with the guys, knowing all the words and even calling out their favourites. Of course, there were no actual hits to scream out because Storm hadn’t even released a song as yet, just a few demo CDs they’d sold at their concerts and some songs available online for download. Angie had told me that downloads had been going nuts. Not viral, but as close to viral as you could get without actually being viral, is what she’d said.

  And we were about to hit the next level. Right after this gig finished—well, maybe after some time for partying and unwinding—they would hit the studio to record their first album, the ink still wet on the contract they’d signed.

  Back when I’d found out the only asset I had in this world was a crappy management company with a few has-beens and a surly, disagreeable rock band on their roster, I’d never dreamed we’d get this far. I’d wanted to get rid of that company as quickly as possible and get some fast cash.

  With all the buzz from this tour, the deal I’d struck for the guys had more zeroes than they’d ever thought they’d see and a lot more creative freedom. Those label people who’d not even answered my calls wooed me like a superstar, taking me to dinners and cocktail parties just to put their offers forward. One of them had booked out suites at a fancy hotel for the guys for this final leg of the tour. Another had sent a crate of booze. And one had sent a massive bouquet of flowers.

  “Knob jockeys,” Spud had said. “Flowers. Pfft. You can’t eat them, you can’t snort them and you can’t screw them. Who the hell would want some sissy flowers?”

  That was Spud for you, though I could see his point for once.

  I leaned on a crate at the side of the stage, wishing I had Angie beside me. She’d been with me since the start of this adventure. I’d probably have been living in the gutter if it weren’t for her pushing me in the right direction and taking over all the promotion. But Angie and her mates were busy filming this gig. Her first fully professional job she’d been offered, because the Monkey Bride team had been so impressed with her efforts with filming at the beginning of the tour.

  Jack Colt swaggered off stage. Jack: he never walked; he always swaggered. He’d been a god on stage. His voice had sent shivers through my body from the time he started singing and his hips had moved in a way that made me glow with the knowledge that I’d be the one in his bed tonight. I felt sorry for every other woman in the crowd because they’d just be imagining that it was Jack Colt humping them while I had the real thing.

  His sweat-soaked T-shirt clung to his body, defining every bump of his chest and, boy, did that man have some nice bumps. His hair stuck to his face where he’d thrown water over his head to cool himself down and his bottom lip pouted. He locked eye contact with me and my heart pounded louder than the screams of the crowd.

  “What are you doing?” yelled the tour promoter. “Get back out there.”

  “Hold on a moment,” Jack snapped.

  He swept me into his arms, crushing my body against his. His mouth hit mine and my body writhed as emotions swirled through me, lifting me up to my toes. I savoured his bourbon-soaked lips. He kissed me hard, as though searching for something that would give him the energy to go back out there. He must have found it because he pulled away as quickly as he’d started. He ripped off his shirt and sprung back on stage. The roar of the crowd intensified.

  “I’m going to have to watch these guys,” said a voice in my ear. I turned to see Bastian, the leader singer of Monkey Bride, standing beside me. “They’re going to steal the final night right out from under me.”

  Behind him, the members of the second support glared at the stage with a mixture of envy and hatred. This extra stage time meant their set would be cut short. They’d had their chance on this tour, but they’d not been able to step up to the plate. The adoration they thought they’d receive had crashed before it even reached them and settled on Storm. Sure, they could keep working at it, but every band has a moment where they can either prove they have the chops to move to the next level or settle for playing to a small group of regulars until they get too old and too tired to keep trying.

  I laughed as the band began their encore song. At that moment, it did seem like Storm had the world at their feet. They were headed for the top and they were indestructible.

  Chapter 2

  The recording studio smelt like a teenage boy’s bedroom. It kind of looked like it, too—well a bedroom with a ton of techie looking stuff sitting around. I’d expected it to be glamorous, what with the money we were spending on the place, but it was pretty damn manky. It wasn’t that much better than the space the guys used for rehearsals.

  Of course, the guys went straight to look at the techie sound panel. I had no idea what all those buttons and slidie things were for but it sure impressed the band. They stood around it moaning and panting, like a circle jerk of nerdiness, practically shooting their loads over the tech. No wonder this studio had that smell.

  “This looks nice,” I said, figuring I should make my presence felt.

  “Why are you even here, Hannah?” asked Spud. “You have no idea what any of this equipment is. You should just leave this to us guys.”

  I glared at him until he looked away. Seriously, by now I should not have to justify my being around the band to him. Would it kill him to give me a tiny bit of respect?

  “I’m here to meet the producer. There is more to this than just turning up and playing some music. We need to know the financials. Recording time is big money.”

  “But the label are paying for it, so what does it matter?” he said, like a whiny bitch.

  “They’re fronting the money. YOU are paying for it. You get nothing for free. The advance comes out of your royalties until it’s paid off—then you g
et to keep the cash. So the less we spend here, the sooner you make money.”

  I’d already told him this a few times, but he didn’t seem to get the point. Personally, I’d have loved to go with the cheapest recording option available, but Jack had stepped in and explained logics to me. Well, firstly he’d talked a lot of music stuff that meant little to me, but then he’d tried to put it in terms I’d understand.

  “It’s like if you bought a pair of cheap shoes,” he’d said. “They’ll look tacky and won’t last long. If you bought expensive shoes, they’d last longer and look cool. Even if they cost more, you get more bang for your buck.”

  “Hey, I’m not some bimbo who needs everything explained to her in terms of shoes, you know. I get you. You’re talking about getting a higher return on investment,” I’d replied.

  “Yes, that.”

  “You really think spending more on the recording will mean more sales? Can people tell? Like the general person in the street?”

  He sighed. “They might not be able to pinpoint what they are actually listening to, but there’s a sound I want to achieve on this recording. I know what I want and I need someone who can get that sound. It’s like when you go to the hairdresser—”

  Then I’d thrown a cushion at him. “I get it. Enough of the talking down to me.”

  “Okay, but Tucker Griffin is the guy I want producing this.”

  So we’d booked the producer he’d wanted and the studio he’d wanted. But I wanted to make sure this guy knew we weren’t prepared to blow out the costs. Just because Jack was my boyfriend, didn’t mean my manager side would indulge him. Someone had to make the hard decisions and treat this band like a business.

  Tucker turned up late, mumbling something about a song he’d been listening to. He didn’t greet anyone or even look at us. He wore a suit that looked like he’d been wearing it since the 70s and had long hair tied back in a ponytail.

  We sat down and Jack explained his ideas for the recording. Tucker nodded along. I thought maybe he should be making notes or something, but what did I know? He made some suggestions that I didn’t really get, but Jack seemed really excited. Then Eric asked him questions. It was getting really boring and I almost nodded off to sleep because it made no sense to me.

  Finally, they were done.

  “So how much is this going to cost?” To me, that was the most important thing. I had spreadsheets to fill out and calculations to do. I wanted to make sure the guys had enough money to live on when this was finished.

  Tucker shrugged.

  “Well you must have some idea of how long it’ll take to record.”

  He stood up and stretched. “It’s art. You can’t put a timeframe on it.”

  “It’s art paid for with money. You can put a money frame on it. We just need a ballpark figure.”

  He didn’t answer but turned to Jack to ask him more questions. I think he even rolled his eyes.

  “Wait a minute, you didn’t answer me. I’m the one holding the purse strings. If you can pay your rent with shrugs and eye rolls that’s fine by me, but we deal with human money here.”

  This time he definitely rolled his eyes at the guys.

  “It takes as long as it takes.”

  “Is that going to be one week, two weeks? How long does it normally take?”

  He sighed and dusted off his arms as though this talk of money was making him grimy.

  “If your boys here play okay and we don’t need too many takes, it might be done in two weeks. Then maybe a day or two back in the studio to tweak it later. Of course, it helps if we don’t have an overly anxious manager breathing down our necks. That usually puts a dampener on things.”

  I’m pretty sure he winked at the guys when he said that. Tucker was a jerk. He and Spud would get on just fine, I could tell. They’d probably form a Let’s Annoy Hannah club together.

  I had a shitload of stuff to get done after this and I obviously wasn’t going to get an answer from Tucker that made any more sense than that.

  “So, can I have a progress report after the first week?”

  He was about to give me some jerk response but I gave him my don’t fuck with me glare and he nodded.

  I really hoped they’d get this recording done quickly, not just because of the money, but because I really didn’t like this guy.

  Chapter 3

  I met Angie at the usual cafe for lunch. They’d redecorated, taking out the hanging macramé baskets of plants and the bleached pine tables, going instead for a sparse, industrial look. It made the place even louder and more echoey than usual.

  “We should think about getting an office,” I said to her.

  “Can we afford it?”

  I had to work out the numbers and check out office rents but I thought we could. My main worry was that we’d end up committing to something long-term and the band’s success wouldn’t last. You never know if it’s going to last. Still, this cafe got more and more annoying every time we came here. Surely half these kids should’ve been in school getting an education, instead of out sipping lattes with their friends. In the meantime we could at least start looking for other options. Maybe a quieter cafe?

  Angie and I had nutted out our social media plan leading up to the album launch over a gutful of coffees and plates of French toast.

  “We wouldn’t get French toast at an office,” Angie said. “But I guess we could get a coffee machine.”

  “We’d definitely get a coffee machine. That’s essential.”

  Angie ran her finger over her plate, getting the final traces of maple syrup. “What’s up? You seem a bit down. You should be all glowing and perky. You have the rock star boyfriend and you have the perfect job. Everything is going well. Close to perfect. Have you had another fight with Jack?” Angie sucked the syrup off her finger.

  “Surprisingly, no. It’s nothing to do with him. Well not directly. My dad rang this morning. Get this—he forbade me to date Jack. Forbade me. He told me it was wrong on all levels, and to run from him as fast as I could. He sounded pretty adamant about it, like it was a matter of life and death. What the hell does it matter to him, anyway?”

  “Your dad is a dick,” Angie replied. “I mean, he’d have known about you and Jack for ages.”

  “Apparently not. Apparently he’d only just put two and two together. Seems he was too busy trying to come up with dodgy plans to think that much about my life.”

  Angie poured some more syrup on to the plate and wiped her finger in it again.

  “Do you want another plate of French toast?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I just want the syrup. But hey, your dad is really, really against your thing with Jack, right?”

  “Hell yeah. He was even questioning me about our sex life. Eww, gross. It was weird, even for him.”

  Her eyes widened and she scrunched up her mouth. She had some crazy shit going on there with her facial expressions. “Has Jack ever mentioned his father? I mean, this is crazy but do you think… I mean… who is Jack’s father?”

  “No! No! Don’t even finish that sentence. No way. That is so vile.”

  My stomach churned as I thought about the facts. Jack had said his father was rich. And that he didn’t know his father, just his father’s lawyer. And it seemed his father’s lawyer was also Dad’s lawyer—Frank, because I’d caught him at Jack’s place one morning arguing with Jack.

  But no. It couldn’t be. My ovaries shrivelled up inside me at that possibility.

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, these things that seem like weird coincidences, maybe they aren’t. Maybe your dad signed Storm up to his management company for a reason. Maybe the lawyer thing is for a reason. Maybe the fact that you are both stubborn fools is for a reason.”

  “Hey, enough of that stubborn fools business. We look nothing alike.”

  “Yeah, Jack looks like his mother.” Angie searched my face until I turned away. She was freaking me out a bit. “You both do that weird thing with
your mouths though… and you have similar eyelashes.”

  “Shut up, Angie. Just shut up.” I pulled the plate away from her and signalled for the waitress to clear the table.

  “Mmm, you have been using condoms, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, of course.” As if I would be stupid enough not to, with Jack’s history.

  “Good, because not only is there a possibility he has knob rot, there is a possibility he is related to you and you could have weirdo inbred babies.”

  I shook my head to get that image out of my mind. “We need a plan. We need to find out what is happening.”

  “Have you found out anything working for Frank?”

  “No. Which kinda defeats the purpose of me working there. It’s not like I want a part-time job filing legal papers. It’s not even like I have time for it.” I’d taken the part-time job at Frank’s office when he’d offered it to me, to learn more about Jack’s history. It’s not like Jack’d ever tell me anything himself. I’d tried snooping around, but I’d found nothing at all relating to either Jack or my dad. There was a filing cabinet in Frank’s office that he kept locked but I’d not been able to get anywhere near it. I bet if I got into those files, I’d find something out for sure.

  Angie was looking at me in a way that made my flesh crawl. The whole idea seemed so crazy and farfetched that I couldn’t believe it. Did stuff like that even happen outside of soap operas? But, if there were even the tiniest chance of it being true, it made me want to vomit.

  Chapter 4

  The smell of pizza hit me as I walked into the apartment. Day old, reheated pizza but pizza nevertheless.

  “Hey, babes.” Jack flung his arms around my neck, locking his fingers behind my head. As he moved in to kiss me, I pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Have I done something?”

  “No, of course not. Everything is fine.” But I couldn’t look at him. Not in the same way. “We need to talk. I mean, really talk.”