Rock 'n' Stroller - A Rockstar's Secret Baby Romance (Baby Surprises Book 4)

by Layla Valentine

  She tossed a couple of bills onto the bar and turned toward the entrance.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said. “See ya!”

  And just like that, I was alone.

  I ordered another beer, figuring the night was about to come to a close. As much as I hated to admit it, I was still frustrated with myself. I’d been planning this caper for the last week, and all I needed to do was slip a business card into Johnny’s hand and tell him that if he wanted to talk about going in a new direction, I was his girl.

  I shook my head as the bartender set down another beer in front of me. Maybe Blaire was right, and that this was the universe’s way of telling me that it wasn’t to be. Maybe I was thinking too big in imagining that an absolute star like Johnny Maxton would be interested in working with my tiny little label.

  Maybe this was my sign to get my head out of the clouds.

  Right as I set my beer down, however, the entrance opened, and a figure clad all in black entered, a hoodie drawn over his head, shrouding his features in darkness. He was tall and built, and made his way to the bar, sitting down five seats from me. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he ordered a whiskey and took a quick sip when it was placed in front of him.

  Then he slipped his thumbs into his hood and drew it back. I gasped when I saw who the man was.

  It was a face I recognized. It was Johnny Maxton himself.

  Chapter 6

  Johnny

  At first, I thought I was seeing things. And it was hard to really get a sense of her out of the corner of my eye. Sure, I could’ve turned my head and given her a long look up and down, answered the question right then and there, but that wasn’t my style.

  But somehow, I knew it was her—it had to be her. That delivery girl, the one I couldn’t get out of my mind even during the show, was almost certainly the girl who was seated only a handful of feet from me.

  It was mainly hard to tell because of how she was dressed. If it was, in fact, her, she’d ditched the baggy browns and baseball cap of her delivery uniform, now dressed in skin-tight black, ripped jeans, a pair of stylish sneakers, and a fitted T-shirt. Her blond hair was now loose over her shoulders, the blond so intense that it seemed to emit its own light.

  If it was her, which I was getting more and more certain it was, then any question of whether or not the girl was a knockout under her uniform was well-answered.

  I killed my whiskey and ordered another. I’d come here by myself to get away from the crowds, to get a little peace and quiet after the show. The rest of the guys wanted to party, but after that little presentation of Rick’s, having fun was the last thing on my mind.

  Until I noticed she was there, that is.

  Finally, I decided I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to know if it was her.

  “Hey,” I said, giving a half-look in her direction.

  “Um, hey,” she said back.

  I couldn’t tell if she was being shy or if she was just annoyed at having her drink disturbed. Either way, I went on.

  “This might sound weird, but I have a little bit of a problem. Mind helping out a stranger?”

  “Sure,” she said, her voice skeptical.

  “I’ve got something I need delivered. But I need it shipped now, like right this second. You don’t happen to know any skilled delivery girls I could get in touch, do you?”

  There was silence, followed by an “umm.”

  I turned my head fully in her direction, and sure enough, it was her.

  “Or you wouldn’t happen to be one, would you?” I asked with a smile. “Money’s not an object.”

  Her fair skin turned a deep shade of red, answering the question of it was her right then and there.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, covering her face with her hand. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  I let out a dry chuckle. “Don’t be.”

  “I am,” she said. “I feel so silly about it.”

  My eyes flicked down to the open seat next to her. “How about this—you make it up to me by having a drink with me and telling me why you did it.”

  A small smile formed on her stunning features. “I-I think I can work with that.”

  “Perfect,” I said, grabbing my drink and moving down to the seat next to hers.

  That smell—lilac and lavender—returned. Damn, it was something else.

  “So spill it, delivery girl,” I said. “You somehow managed to procure a uniform and a fake ID and made your way backstage to see me and give me a package.”

  I chuckled again, remembering what was inside of it when I finally opened it after the show.

  “I’ll treasure those crumpled-up fashion magazine pages until the end of my days,” I said with a grin. “They were really something special.”

  “They were the only magazines I had laying around,” she said. “Plus they were super old. I haven’t read a fashion magazine since college.”

  I raised my palms. “Hey, no judgment here,” I said. “But that’s not answering the question. Did you really go to all that work just to see me for a few seconds?”

  “Why?” she asked. “Flattered?” She flashed me a sly grin.

  “I’m going to hesitantly say ‘yes,’ hoping that you’re not a stalker.”

  “Very gracious of you,” she said, that sexy little smile still on her lips.

  “Still avoiding the question,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. “I had a reason that I wanted to see you. And it wasn’t just to bask in your presence.”

  “Wouldn’t blame you if that were it, though,” I said with a grin of my own.

  “Someone’s cocky,” she said.

  “Comes with the job,” I said.

  “Anyway,” she said, her smile fading and her eyes drifting back down to her drink.

  I could tell she was a little embarrassed, so I decided to take things back to basics.

  “How about this,” I said. “You’ve got me at a bit of a disadvantage.”

  “Oh?” she asked, looking back at me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “I suppose you’re right about that,” she said.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Kendra Peters.”

  I took it and gave it a slow shake. Her skin was warm and soft as silk.

  “Johnny Maxton,” I said. “Now, we know for sure that you’re not a delivery girl. If that’s not your game, what is?”

  “You heard of Avalon Records?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “We’re a local label, based here in Seattle. And we’re kind of small operation, only a handful of people on the payroll.”

  “And you’re one of them?” I asked.

  “You could say that,” she said. “I’m the owner.”

  I raised my eyebrows, impressed. “That right?”

  She smiled. “That’s right,” she said.

  “Got any bands I’d know about?”

  “Hmm,” she said, looking away and tapping her chin with her fingertip. “You know Doom Gaze?”

  “Nope.”

  “The Peace Walkers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Bloodborne?”

  This one sounded familiar.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know them—they’ve come up on my music app shuffle a few times. Hard as hell, good sound.”

  She smiled again. “They’re amazing,” she said. “And I think they have what it takes to really make it.”

  “I bet you say that about all the bands you’ve got,” I said.

  “You bet I do,” she said, her shyness gone and her voice full of confidence. “I wouldn’t sign them if I didn’t think they were amazing.”

  “Exactly how a label owner should be,” I said. “But if the rest of bands you’ve got are like Bloodborne, then you’ve got some pretty heavy stuff. Not exactly the easiest, chart-friendly stuff to put out there.”

  “If I cared about pop music, I’d
be down in LA working for one of those soulless labels like Redemption.”

  Then her eyes went wide as she realized what she’d said.

  “No offense,” she said.

  “None taken.”

  Part of me wanted to get into my issues with that particular outfit, but I decided not to. Though I’d have been lying if I’d said that something about this girl didn’t make me feel very open.

  “When I started Avalon, I wanted to have a label that didn’t put restrictions on my acts. I want them to make the music they want, to let artists just be artists.”

  Damn, that sounded nice.

  “And how’s that going for you so far?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” she said. “Sure, we’re still small. And it’s a ton of work. But it’s worth it. And I’ve got an ear for good music. I just know that before too long one of my bands is going to make it big.”

  “Good attitude,” I said. “I hope that’s the case.”

  I took a sip of my drink and looked forward, my eyes on the racks of bottles behind the bar. Listening to Kendra talk about “artists being artists” had put me back to when I was younger, back before Memphisto was even formed. Back when I didn’t even know what the word “demographics” meant.

  “I bet you’re thinking about all the reasons why I might not make it,” she said. “I bet you’ve been around long enough to see all sorts of flame-outs in the music industry.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not it at all.”

  I didn’t know if it was the whiskey, or her, or both, but I was about ready to get into what was on my mind.

  “Then let’s hear it,” she said. “I may not be a good delivery girl, but I can be a pretty good listener.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “You’re just making me nostalgic, is all.”

  She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been in this game for a while now,” I said. “Started out playing acoustic songs at coffee shops when I was still in high school. And when I wrote my songs, I wrote whatever came to mind.”

  “Or to heart,” she said.

  I nodded, allowing myself a small smile.

  “I like that,” I said. “Better way of putting it. Anyway, I didn’t even think that there was a different way to do it. Sure, when I met the rest of the guys and formed the band, I learned all about collaborative songwriting and how to work with other musicians—”

  “Manage other egos…” she said, trailing off.

  “Yup,” I said. “But never did I think I’d have to worry about writing songs for anyone but myself.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And that’s different now?”

  “Redemption,” I said. “The label. They want me to take the band in a new direction.”

  I could tell she was now very, very curious.

  “Why? I mean, you guys are selling out stadiums. I’d say the direction you’re in now is working out pretty damn good.”

  Music to my ears.

  “And I love all your stuff, not to sound like a fangirl,” she said.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” I said. “That we were bigger than I’d ever thought we’d be. But our manager wants us to go in a more, uh, mainstream direction.”

  “How mainstream are we talking here?” she asked.

  “Better that I just show you,” I said.

  I took out my phone, opened the video app, and typed “Luv Syndrome Devil” into the search bar.

  I set the phone down on the bar, catchy pop tunes pouring out as the Korean guys, all of them looking like they were still in high school, sang and danced their hearts out.

  “Oh, Luv Syndrome Devil,” she said, pointing at the screen. “They’re huge! But they’re about as far away from your sound as I can imagine.”

  She took another glance at the screen. “Or, uh, your look. No offense, but you guys aren’t exactly in high school anymore.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s totally insane. I don’t know exactly what our manager has in mind, but it’s going to totally wreck our sound. Says he wants us to be catchier and shit.”

  I killed the rest of my whiskey and ordered another. Kendra ordered another beer for herself.

  “It’s like these jackasses have no idea how music works.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “They think that they can make one band so big that they appeal to everyone. But when you appeal to everyone, you appeal to—”

  “No one,” we both said at the same time.

  She smiled, and I allowed myself one too.

  “Damn,” I said. “You really get it. You a musician too?”

  “Nope,” she said. “My parents are. They’re no one famous, just two people who’re insanely talented. I didn’t get their skill as players, but I got the music bug all right. I can appreciate the art, even if I don’t make it myself.”

  “And that’s why you’re in the game you are now. You really get it.”

  “I like to think so,” she said.

  I raised my glass. “Then let’s have a cheers. To art, in its most un-fucked-with form.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said.

  We tapped the rims of our glasses, and the night was on.

  Chapter 7

  Kendra

  I had all the opportunity in the world. The words were on the tip of my tongue. Hell, the business cards were in my purse. And with his talk about how unhappy he was with his label, it was almost like he was crying out for someone, anyone to offer him precisely the thing that I had in mind.

  But I didn’t do it. I was having too much fun with Johnny to bring business into the equation. It would’ve been like bumping into some perfect guy in line at the grocery store, making an instant connection, then ruining it by telling him about some great investment opportunity.

  Though in this case, the perfect guy wasn’t just anyone—it was one of the biggest rock stars in the world. I found myself continually glancing around the bar to see if anyone had noticed who was sitting only a few feet away from them. But no one seemed to notice.

  “Check out this one,” said Johnny, swiping through the video app on his phone and bringing up another K-Pop video, this one featuring all girls.

  We’d been watching videos on his phone for the last half-hour, laughing at the over-the-top—but somewhat charming—performances.

  “Ohhh,” I said, scooting close to him and getting a better look at the screen—not to mention taking advantage of the chance to close the distance between us. “They all look very peppy.”

  “They’re called ‘Lion Tiger Kiss,’” he said.

  “How do they come up with the names for these groups?” I asked.

  “Probably close their eyes, open a dictionary to three random pages, and point,” he said.

  I chuckled. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  He pressed play, and the girls did their thing.

  The performance was on a massive stage, intricately lit with green, purple, and red lights. The girls sang some upbeat, peppy number as they danced around in coordinated outfits composed of short-shorts and belly shirts.

  “What do you think the odds are that they’re lip-synching?” he asked, flicking his icy-blue eyes over to me for a second.

  “About a million percent,” I said.

  He let out a snort of a laugh as we turned our attention back to the screen. I tried to pay attention to the poppy display, but all I could think about was how I was sitting close enough to feel the heat from Johnny’s body and to smell his gorgeous, musky scent. Not to mention the fact that our knees were touching below the bar.

  He hit pause, stopping on a close-up of a girl mid-song.

  “That’s about all of that I can take,” he said. “There’s some craft there—don’t get me wrong—but it’s like the music equivalent of melting candy bars and shooting them into your veins.”

  “And I heard they pick these girls out from masses of teenagers and swap them out as soon as they hit their mid-twenties, then just
pretend it was the same girl the whole time.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “Something else I gotta worry about.”

  “That’s right,” I said with a smile. “You might show up backstage one day and meet your twenty-one-year-old replacement.”

  He laughed. “I’d kick his ass. Besides, I think I’m looking pretty okay for someone who’s turning into an old man.” He was grinning.

  I laughed. “Old man? You’re what, thirty?”

  “Thirty-one,” he said. “Old enough that I’m starting to actually think about it.”

  “You’re fine,” I said. “Think of how many of those huge rock bands from the sixties are still performing.”

  “True,” he said. “But I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of being a geriatric still shimmying around the stage in a pair of leather pants.”

  “As long as the crowds are still there,” I said. “There are certainly worse fates for a musician.”

  “True, true,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

  I couldn’t get over the effect Johnny had on me. I’d known that I was attracted to him from the videos and pictures that I’d seen, but sitting here next to him was something else entirely. He was gorgeous and charming and funny, and the tipsier I got, the more I found myself thinking about what he’d look like naked.

  Very, very good, I bet, if those thick biceps were any indication.

  Not to say I wasn’t having fun with him there at the bar. Despite being a major celebrity and me having all the reasons in the world to be nervous around him, he was easy and effortless to talk to. It was a connection that couldn’t simply be explained by the booze.

  Johnny turned off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. As he did, I glanced around the bar, still confused as to how no one had come up to ask him for his autograph.

  “This might sound weird,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s unusual how you haven’t been recognized?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I’ve got this down to a science by this point.”