Rick hadn’t wasted any time in uttering my least favorite word in the world—demographic. Everything came down to demographics for him. In his mind, our audience, our fans, weren’t made up of individuals to whom our music spoke, but separate categories, all itching to be marketed to.
And I hated it.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Cole.
“Can we get to it?” asked Stone. “I need to get my head right for the show.”
“Sure, sure,” said Rick. “This won’t take long.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I said, my eyes focused on the tips of my black sneakers.
“Cute,” said Rick. “Anyway, I’ll get into it.”
Rick took the duffel bag he’d had slung over his shoulder and set it down on the table in the middle of the room.
“Boys,” he said, unzipping the duffel and reaching inside of it. “I’m pleased as hell to present to you the next line of merch!”
He triumphantly pulled out a T-shirt with our logo on it, a picture of all the guys in the band below. And the word “Memphisto” was written in glitter. I looked closer and saw that there was something…off about our faces. They looked polished and rosy-cheeked, like weird dolls.
“The hell’s going on here?” I asked, leaning forward and tapping on the shirt.
“Yeah,” said Stone, looking at where my finger was pointed. “We look like anime characters or some shit.”
Rick set the shirt down and put his hands on his hips like some conquering hero. “You guys heard of K-Pop?”
“Like Korean pop stars?” asked Stone.
“Like Korean pop stars,” I confirmed.
My stomach tightened. I had a feeling what Rick had in mind, and I didn’t like it one bit.
“If I asked you which demographic had the most disposable income, who would you guess?” He paused, a smile still on his face.
“Wait,” I asked. “Is this a rhetorical question or a real one?”
“Real one,” he said. “Go on.”
“Single men?” asked Cole.
“Nope,” said Rick. “Ultra-fans aside, men actually barely spend money if they can help it. Try again.”
“How about single moms?” asked Stone, a sly smile on his face. “Like hot, hot single moms.”
“Wrong again,” said Rick. “That money goes right to their kids.”
Rick turned his attention to me, waiting for my answer.
“How about we just pretend I gave a wrong answer so we can get to the point?” I asked.
Marcus shot me a hard look, then spoke. “What about teenage girls? Like you were talking about?”
Rick made a “snap and point” gesture at Marcus.
“Bingo,” he said. “Right on the damn money.”
“Teenage girls?” asked Cole. “Seriously?”
“Yep,” said Rick. “No one’s got more cash to spend than middle and high school girls still living at home. Between part-time jobs and daddy’s money, they have cash to burn.”
Then he picked up the shirt and held it up again.
“And that’s why we’re going to target the hell out of them.”
“You serious?” I asked.
“Serious as it gets,” said Rick. “And here’s where this little makeover comes into play.”
He then pulled out a large tablet, swiped it on, and set it on the table. The screen was filled with a Korean boy band performing on stage, all of them dolled up like pretty boys in coordinated suits as they performed to a screaming crowd of girls.
“Who are these clowns?” I asked.
“These ‘clowns’ are Luv Syndrome Devil, and they’re the biggest male K-Pop band in Korea right now.”
“The look like they’re wearing makeup,” I said.
“That’s because they are,” said Rick. “And they’re going to be your style inspirations going forward.”
Whoa, whoa—hold the phone. I reached forward and flicked off the screen.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “You want Memphisto to dress up in cute suits and wear makeup and get our hair done up like a bunch of dolls?”
“No fucking way,” said Stone.
“It was kind of catchy…” said Cole, a thoughtful look on his face.
“Let the man speak,” said Marcus, still standing in the back of the room.
“Thanks, Marcus,” said Rick. “Now hear me out—I’m not saying you guys are going to ape them totally. You’re just going to be ‘inspired’ by them.”
“I’d love it if you got to the part where you actually explained what the hell you mean by that,” I said.
“What I mean is: you guys go into your usual song-writing seclusion for your next album. And when you come back, bam, new look, new sound, new everything. Instead of ratty T-shirts and jeans, we do some sharp black suits—picked out and coordinated by Redemption’s design team, of course.”
My stomach tightened, but Rick wasn’t finished.
“And the lyrics,” he said. “We soften them up. Less singing about more…aggressive sexual things, and more about love, more about having crushes and liking girls from afar.”
“You kidding?” I asked. “Singing lame shit about mooning over girls from across the room?”
“Yeah,” said Stone. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about us, but we’re not exactly the timid type when it comes to women.”
“Believe me,” said Rick. “I know. But this is just lyrics—you can go through as many damn groupies as you want. Anyway, and your sounds going to be…softer. Less aggressive, less scary. More melodic and catchy.”
“Wait,” I said. “You want to turn us into a freaking pop band?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” said Rick. “Think of it as Memphisto’s take on a pop band. You’ll still have guitars and drums and riffs, but just a little…well, cuter.”
I stood up.
“‘Cute’ is the last thing I want with my music,” I said. “And you’d better give me a good reason not to throw your ass out right now for even suggesting I fuck with my music to make you more money.”
“Calm down, Johnny,” said Marcus.
Rick didn’t seem bothered as I glared at him.
“You don’t have to like it,” he said. “But if you want to stay at Redemption, with all the money and fame that comes with it, this is what’s on the agenda.”
He gestured to the bag. “Take a look at the merch. I think you might actually come to like the new Memphisto. And I’ll tell you right now, you stick with me, and I’ll make you the biggest band in the world.”
I continued to burn holes into him with my eyes, silence hanging in the air. Before anyone could say anything else, however, the stage manager popped his head into the room.
“Time to rock, boys,” he said.
“Just think about it, Johnny. I know you’ll come around.”
I hated to admit it, but he had me by the balls. If I told him to fuck off, giving him precise instructions on where to stick that bag of merch, it’d put our relationship with Redemption in jeopardy.
That might’ve been fine with me, but I didn’t want to screw the rest of the band. I was the front man, sure, but we made a vow years ago to all be in this together.
“Come on, J,” said Stone, clapping his hand down on my shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
I gave Rick one more hard look before turning and heading out of the room with the guys.
I did my best to get my head in the game as we made our way down the long hallway that led to the stage. But I wasn’t able to get too far before a voice called out to me.
“Yo, Johnny!”
I turned to see the face of Paul, one of our veteran roadies.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Got some delivery chick here,” he said. “Says she’s got an urgent delivery for you.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Right now?”
“Yep,” he said. “Says it has to be hand-delivered.”
“This can’t wai
t until after the show?”
“That’s what I said, but she made a stink about needing to make other deliveries. Said you just have to sign for it.”
“Fine, whatever,” I said.
“Cool, wait here.”
It was one damn distraction after another. Paul headed down the hall and returned with someone in tow.
Someone that drew my eyes instantly.
She was a woman, dressed in the baggy brown outfit of one of the delivery companies. But even in this frumpy get-up, I could tell she had curves for days. She could’ve been wearing a trash bag and still not been able to hide a body like that.
She and Paul approached, and from under the brim of her cap, she looked up at me with emerald-green eyes. Her nose was small and pert, and her lips were full, red, and made for kissing. Her skin was fair and flawless, and an adorable little smirk tugged up the corner of one side of her mouth, her expression making her look like she was up to something sneaky.
“Hey there,” she said, her voice low and sultry.
“Hey,” I said right back. “Got something for me?”
She was close enough now that I could smell the scent of lilacs and lavender. It was like the sweetest drug.
“Sure do,” she said, handing me the package.
Before she showed up, I was all ready to sign and have Paul get her out of my face as fast as possible. But now that she was here, I felt something, a strange, instant attraction that made me forget about everything else, even the fact that I was about to perform for thousands of people.
There was something about this girl—something I couldn’t ignore. Something that made me want her more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life.
“Just need your signature…here,” she said, holding out a clipboard with a piece of paper attached.
I glanced down, noticing that even her hands were perfect.
“Sure,” I said, barely able to speak.
I scrawled out my name on the paper and handed it back.
Then she flicked her gorgeous green eyes up to me.
“And there’s something else I wanted to talk about with you, Mr. Maxton,” she said. “That is if you have a minute.”
“I’ve got more than a minute, for a woman like you,” I said, totally under this girl’s spell.
It was strange; I’d always been able to be cool around women no matter how beautiful. But there was something about her, something like nothing else.
Then I felt a hard clap on my shoulder. I turned to see that it was Stone.
“Come on, dude!” he said. “We got on stage, and you weren’t with us! What the hell—they’re all screaming for you.”
“All right,” Paul said. “Come on.”
He led the girl away from me, our eyes locked on one another as Paul took her away and Stone dragged me to the stage.
Then she was out of my sight and gone.
I didn’t want her to go, but I couldn’t linger on the thought for too long. I had a show to put on.
Chapter 5
Kendra
I hated to admit it, but the thrill of a face-to-face meeting with Johnny freaking Maxton left me in a giddy high that I couldn’t shake. If I’d died right then and there in the hallway backstage, the roadie’s hand on my shoulder, I would’ve gone into the next life a happy girl.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Head of security told me to make sure you got escorted back up front.”
“Sure, sure,” I said.
As he led me back to the main entrance of the stadium, my high faded as I realized that the whole point of my scheme had been to slip Johnny my card and make a quick pitch. But between us getting pulled apart and the rush of seeing possibly the most gorgeous man alive up close and in person, I hadn’t managed to do it.
“Shit,” I hissed under my breath as the roadie opened the double doors leading away from backstage.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
Then he gave me a soft shove through the doors and shut them hard behind me. With a heavy, metal “clang,” the doors shut and signified the end of my little plan.
I’d met Johnny, sure, but nothing had come from it other than the autograph I had on my pretend document. It’d have to do.
I shook my head and tried to put it all behind me. I was still here and ready to see the show. After a quick trip to the bathroom to slip out of my baggy uniform and get down to the more fitting clothes I had on underneath, I shoved the uniform into my shoulder bag and got ready to rock.
Anticipation built in me by the second as I made my way to my seat. I’d seen Memphisto plenty of times before, but it was always a treat. The guys knew how to rock like no one else, and each time they managed to blow away my expectations.
The guys were already on stage, only Johnny missing. But soon he stepped out, his fist raised in the air as the crowd went wild, the cheers so loud I worried my eardrums might explode. He grabbed his signature ivory-white guitar and slung it over his broad, muscular shoulders.
“You all ready?” he called out.
More insane cheering.
Johnny plunged his hand over the strings, a deafening, distorted chord blasting from the speakers. Then he went into the complex, melodic riff for “Sure Enough,” one of their earliest hits.
And from that moment until the second encore, I was in rock heaven. Johnny could play and sing like no one else, his voice capable of shifting from a gorgeous, melodic tenor to a fierce, metal growl at a second’s notice. And his guitar work was like nothing else. He played crushing riffs, intricate lead lines, and soaring solos with the same effortless ease.
He was a one-of-a-kind master, and I needed to make him mine.
When the show was over, I stood there in a daze. Between the meeting and the show, I was in the middle of a major sensory overload. Only the vibration of my phone in my pocket snapped me out of it. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the screen. It was a text from Blaire.
“Well?” it read.
“Long story,” I sent back.
It really wasn’t, but getting into it over text was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Let’s talk about it over drinks,” she responded. “I’m over at McHale’s. First round’s on me!”
A drink to calm down sounded perfect. And McHale’s was a quiet little dive only a few blocks away from the stadium.
I took another few moments to gather myself before taking off, weaving through the packed crowds, most of their faces suggesting that they were in a similar daze.
I left my car in the parking lot—I wasn’t even sure why I’d bothered to drive since my apartment was downtown, only a few blocks from here. But I stopped by it to drop off the uniform and pay for overnight parking in the event I had few too many with Blaire.
The walk was just what I’d needed after the show. Between the din of downtown and the cool of the late summer air, I came down from my high in a very pleasant way. By the time I arrived at the little Irish pub, I was ready for a few drinks.
I stepped into the low-lit bar and scanned the place. Only a handful of people were there, a mix of blue-collar men and younger hipster types. All were sipping their cheap beers and talking under the punk music playing on the speakers. Occasionally, the clack of pool balls cut through the air.
Seated at the bar dressed in skin-tight jeans, some white sneakers, and a crop-top shirt was Blaire. Her eyes lit up as I approached.
“There’s the secret agent herself,” she said as she patted the top of the barstool next to her.
I slid onto it as Blaire poured me a beer.
“Come on, babe,” she said. “Let’s hear all about it.”
“Not much to say, actually,” I said.
“Are you serious?” she asked as she grabbed onto the edge of the bar. “You met Johnny freaking Maxton, and there isn’t much to say?”
“The mission was a failure,” I said, shaking my head.
“Then start from the top.”
I went into the whole thing, starting with the trouble getting backstage and ending with me meeting Johnny and failing to give him my name, my card, or any other way of getting in touch.
“So you blew it,” she said. “It was a long shot anyway. What did you expect—that you’d give him your card and he’d leave some million-dollar contract right then and there?”
“I imagined at least telling him who I was and putting the idea out there that someone was interested in giving him the chance to make the music he used to. Even if he laughed and told me to screw off, I would’ve known I’d tried.”
“Oh well,” she said. “If it didn’t happen, maybe it wasn’t meant to be. The universe has a way of giving us what we need, you know.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I said. “Another is that a professional business woman like myself got cold feet like some starry-eyed kid.”
“Was he that hot in person?” Blaire asked.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “I wasn’t ready for it. I mean, I knew he was stunning going into it, but being only a few feet from him…”
“Details,” she said. “Now.”
“He had this magnetism, this pull to him. The man just oozes charisma. Between that and those blue eyes and those muscles and those tattoos…damn.”
I was getting turned on just thinking about him.
“I can only imagine. And you have his autograph,” she said. “So there’s that.”
I let out a laugh. “Yeah, I can add it to my scrapbook.”
“What about the rest of the show?”
“Amazing, of course. Best I’ve ever seen.”
“Well,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
I did, giving her all the details and going through the set list. Over the next hour and a few more beers, we swapped stories about Memphisto, reminiscing about all the times we’d seen them and other bands since we were barely out of college.
By the time we finished our second pitcher, I was nice and tipsy.
“Okay, babe,” said Blaire, taking some cash out of her wallet. “I think it’s time for this girl to get home.”
“You serious?” I asked. “I thought we were just getting going?”
“I’d love to stay, but I have an absolutely gross amount of work to do tomorrow. Not to mention the last train is going to leave in—” She checked her watch, her eyes going wide. “Fifteen freaking minutes. Okay, gotta leave now.”
Rock 'n' Stroller - A Rockstar's Secret Baby Romance (Baby Surprises Book 4) Page 3