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

by Layla Valentine

  “Yep, Mr. Three-Time-Oscar-Winner himself,” he said. “And you happened to knock over some very expensive, very ugly statue he had in his living room.”

  “Oh great,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it—you didn’t break it or anything. Not that you’d notice with how the thing looked.”

  “Go on.”

  “You said something about going to ‘party foul prison,’ how you ought to get locked up. Carter said he had a helicopter and just the place in mind.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Probably for the best you called it a night then,” said Stone. “The way you were putting the booze away I was surprised as hell you were still standing.”

  I didn’t even want to think about it. Just the idea of booze was enough to make me want to puke.

  “We don’t have a show tonight, do we?” I asked.

  “Lucky for you, J, we’ve got the day off. Tomorrow we’re back to LA for another show, then a few days’ break, then back on the road.”

  Another leg of the tour, another few months on the road. I couldn’t tell if it was the hangover or what, but I didn’t have it in me.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to get back to the hotel. No bothering me for the rest of the day.”

  “Get that beauty sleep, killer. You’re going to need it.”

  I ended the call and handed the phone back to the still-smiling girl.

  The timing was perfect—the ferry going back to the mainland was pulling up right at that moment. I hurried on board and found a seat in the shade and closed my eyes.

  As Alcatraz faded into the horizon and the ferry cut through the water, I realized how lucky I was. I’d been reckless last night, throwing caution to the wind and acting like a stupid, irresponsible kid. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. I couldn’t drink like a madman and wake up ready to go on stage the next day.

  I’d done plenty to at least attempt to steer my life in the right direction, and now here I was, throwing it all away.

  I knew the reason why, however—Kendra. She’d been all I could think about, and that had been the problem. I’d drank like I had because I wanted to forget. But that was no excuse. I was a grown man and couldn’t deal with my problems by boozing and getting up to God knows what else.

  Today I was waking up in Alcatraz. The next time it happened I might not be as lucky. I might fall asleep and never wake up, my fate being yet another one of those rock stars whose hard-partying lifestyle finally caught up with him.

  I wasn’t going to do it. As I sat on the ferry, my head pounding and my stomach raging, I vowed that last night would be the last time. No girl, no nothing would ever get me to act that way again.

  But then another thought occurred to me. It was all easy to say now, but living like a madman was the lifestyle I’d chosen. This all came with the territory of being a rock star. If I wanted to change my ways, I had to get out and not look back.

  The tours, the partying, the booze and the drugs—they all had to be put behind me.

  That meant I had to talk to Rick. I had to see what I could do to get out of this contract. Two more years of touring would take too much out of me, and who knows what would be left when I was done.

  It wasn’t going to be easy, but it needed to happen. My life might very well depend on it.

  Chapter 18

  Johnny

  Banging sounded out from the hotel room door. As I opened my eyes, I couldn’t tell if it was a normal knock or if the remains of my hangover were making it worse.

  “Who is it?” I called out, my mouth half-muffled by the pillow.

  “It’s me,” came Rick’s voice through the door. “Want to talk to you for a sec.”

  Rick was the last person that I wanted to deal with at that moment. I’d gotten a few hours of solid rest once I’d gotten home from my Alcatraz adventure, but I hardly felt tip-top enough to have yet another conversation about demographics.

  “Come back later,” I called out.

  “Come on, J,” said Rick. “Just want to talk for a few minutes.”

  I wanted to grab the nearest lamp and heave it at the door, hoping that would send the message. But then I remembered what I’d been thinking about on the ferry, about how I needed to get out of all this.

  The sooner I talked to Rick and ripped the Band-Aid off, the better.

  “Fine, fine,” I said. “Hold on a damn sec.”

  I rolled off the bed and onto my feet, grabbing my shirt off the back of a nearby chair and pulling it on. I took a look at myself in the mirror, the stress I’d put my body through last night making me look haggard as hell.

  Finally, when I was ready, I opened the door. Sure enough, there was Rick on the other side, dressed in one of his expensive suits, a tablet in his hands.

  And on the tablet, of course, were pictures of me taken that morning at Alcatraz, the shot in mid-stumble as I left my cell.

  “You want to explain what the hell this is?” he asked, coming into my room and shutting the door behind him.

  “I heard sleeping on hard surfaces was good for the back,” I said as I twisted open a bottle of mineral water.

  “Cute,” he said. “But seriously, why the hell are there pictures of you on freaking Alcatraz looking like you’ve just crawled out from behind a dumpster?”

  “Got up to some shit last night,” I said.

  “No kidding,” he said, shaking his head.

  He turned off the tablet and tossed it onto my bed.

  “Has anything I’ve said gotten through to you?” he asked. “About not acting like such an out-of-control maniac?”

  “You’re talking to the wrong guy if that’s what you’re looking for,” I said.

  “I know, I know,” said Rick. “You’re a bad-boy rock star and all that. I knew it when we signed you. But that phase of your career has to be over, buddy. Parents aren’t going to let teenage girls buy your albums if they think you’re a drug-fueled psycho.”

  Then he took a breath and put his hands on his hips.

  “And believe it or not, bud, I worry about you. It’d break my damn heart if I woke up to news of you wrapping your car around a telephone pole or something equally terrible.”

  I couldn’t tell if this meant that he’d be upset because that would mean the golden-egg-laying goose was gone, or if he’d be upset for actual, human reasons. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “You got one more show in LA for this leg of the tour,” he said. “Then you’ll be back home, and you can take the time to chill out or whatever it is you guys do when you’re not on the road. Then after that, we’ve got the Midwest, then the East Coast, then we’re off to Europe.”

  I thought about the tour ahead, months and months more on the road. I thought about the temptation for drinking and drugs and everything else that came with that kind of life.

  And I didn’t want it.

  There was the music, sure—that would never get old. But the rest of it…it was exhausting even to think about.

  It was time to tell Rick what I’d had on my mind.

  “I can’t do it,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said blithely. “I know you’re tired, J. But we’ve only got a month of shows in the Midwest before you get your next few days off.”

  He wasn’t getting it.

  “No,” I said. “I can’t do it anymore. Any of it. The touring, the endless shit on the road, the…making music I don’t give a damn about.”

  Rick regarded me curiously as if I’d just started randomly speaking Chinese.

  “Sorry,” he said. “What?”

  “I want out. I want out of the contract.”

  He put his hands back on his hips and cocked his head to the side.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked. “Are you screwing with me here?”

  “No joke,” I said. “I want to be done with this, with Redemption.”

  “You know the contract we’re talking about here,” he said. “
It’s not simply a matter of ‘being done with it,’ right? You realize what you’re going to lose out on, what the band’s going to lose out on?”

  “I know,” I said. “But I think we can work something out. I know some good lawyers, maybe they can figure out something.”

  I raised my palms.

  “Not saying I want to have a legal fight,” I said. “But…I just can’t do this anymore. That’s all there is to it. Part of being an artist is knowing when you have to be done, knowing when your art has to take a new direction. And this is one of those times.”

  Rick let out a long sigh before stepping over to the windows and throwing open the curtains. The room filled with late afternoon light, and I let out a cry of pain as my eyes adjusted.

  He laughed. “Turning into a damn vampire.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  Rick plopped down into a nearby chair and took a seat.

  “I’ve been in this game for a while, J,” he said. “And I know what an artist looks like when he’s about at the end of his creative rope. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see it written all over your face.”

  I said nothing, letting him go on.

  “It’s my job to wring every last bit of creative juice from my talent, but there gets to be a point where the juice just isn’t worth the squeeze. Don’t get me wrong—you’re still putting out some amazing stuff, and I think you’ve got plenty more in you. But I’ve been seeing it for a while on your face, that you’re about at your limit.”

  “I’ve tried to ignore it,” I said. “But after last night…I don’t know. I feel like I’m at the beginning of a downward spiral.”

  “It’s a bad scene,” said Rick. “And you’re lucky you’ve got the presence of mind to know when you’ve hit that point.”

  He stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and turned to the window, the lights of San Francisco spreading out into the distance.

  “But at the same time, Johnny, you signed a contract. I know there’s a certain artistic temperament that you guys have, but this is the real world. You can’t just come and go as you please, especially when you’ve put your name on the dotted line. So, here’s what I’m thinking—we finish this tour.”

  The words hit me like a punch in the gut. But I let him go on.

  “We finish this tour, and you give it your all. You play each show like it’s your last, like you’re never going to be able to play your music again. I want each and every last audience walking out of those stadiums stunned, like they’ve just seen something that they know was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.”

  He raised a finger.

  “And this is every show. Then when you’re not playing, you keep your shit together. That means no partying, no drugs, no nothing. Take up crocheting and enjoy it with a nice glass of cabernet next to a fireplace for all I care, but no more wild-man shit.”

  I couldn’t tell if it was the hangover or what, but that actually sounded like a pretty okay evening.

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Then…when these six months are up, that’s that. We call it a tour once you’re done with Europe, and then we cut you loose. We’ll take a cut of all your sales and royalties from here on out, of course, but we won’t send you out with nothing—you’ll have more than enough cash to retire early if that’s what you want.”

  “Not sure about retiring, but no more stadium tours for a while, that’s for damn sure,” I said.

  “Then there it is,” he said. “Call up some lawyers and have them meet with my guys from the label. We can get something worked out and in writing.”

  “That’d…that’d be great, Rick.”

  “But think about what you’d be leaving behind,” he said. “I know it’s crazy, but these tours are what most bands dream of playing. And if you stuck with Redemption, we could take you to the next level. Maybe even give you a little more creative control.”

  I knew that I was ready to be done with Redemption. But I gave Rick a little nod, one that said “I’ll think about it.”

  “Get some rest,” he said, as he headed to the door. “Because I’m serious as a damn heart attack about you nailing the hell out of these last shows. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said. “And thanks, Rick.”

  He pursed his lips, nodded, then headed out the door.

  I felt as though a weight had fallen from my shoulders. Sure, I’d have to break it to the guys, and sure, I still had six more months ahead of me, but now I had a light at the end of the tunnel.

  And maybe even Kendra waiting for me at the end, too.

  Chapter 19

  Kendra

  September

  Bloodborne was bringing it as always.

  Standing in the back of the small club, capacity no more than a hundred or so, Bloodborne let loose with their signature sound of scorching, lightning-fast riffs and growling, sinister vocals.

  It was always a trip to see them play—if I’d only heard their music, I would’ve thought that they were hulking demons sent from the underworld to rock, but instead they were skinny, almost endearingly dweeby college-aged guys.

  But damn, did they know how to rock. The crowd was transfixed, not sure if to mosh or if to keep their eyes locked onto the band to make sure that they didn’t miss a second of the performance.

  I sipped my drink, watching the band both as a fan and with the watchful eye of a manager. I had a feeling Bloodborne was going to be huge, and I wanted to make sure that they were at the top of their game.

  With a massive, distorted chord, the song ended, and I turned back to the bar.

  “You want another?” the bartender asked.

  “Sure,” I said before draining the last bit of my drink with a sip from my straw.

  “What was that, just pineapple juice?”

  “Just pineapple juice,” I said.

  He smirked.

  “Sure you don’t want me to throw some booze in there for you?”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  Normally I would’ve taken him up on his offer—booze and live music usually went together like chocolate and peanut butter. But for the last few weeks, I hadn’t craved alcohol at all. No particular reason; it just hadn’t sounded good to me. I figured it was my body telling me something, maybe that I was about to come down with a bug so I ought to take it easy.

  So, I eased up on the booze. But I didn’t take it easy as far as work. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’d thrown myself into my work over the last few weeks, putting every last bit of energy I had into Avalon.

  And it was paying off. I’d found a few new bands around town that looked like promising additions to the lineup, and this show tonight was Bloodborne’s first stop in a tour down the West Coast. And once they hit LA, they’d be opening for The Pulse—a major rock band that seemed on the verge of stardom.

  I wasn’t sleeping much, and I barely had time for anything else, but I was killing it. With some more work and a little luck, I might have Bloodborne headlining in a year or so, maybe one of my newer bands opening for them.

  The bartender handed me my drink as Bloodborne went into their final song of the night. It was melodic, yet hard as hell, but now without a traditional pop structure. I had high hopes that this track would blow up the streaming sites and really put them on the map.

  Something occurred to me as they went into the soaring, booming chorus:

  The song sure sounded a hell of a lot like Memphisto.

  It wasn’t near enough to sound like a rip-off or anything, but the more I listened, the more I could pick up on a definite influence. It was easy to imagine Johnny Maxton on stage, his hands wrapped around the mic as he wailed out the words in that gorgeous, powerful voice.

  And then I was thinking about Johnny. Damn it.

  As much as I hadn’t wanted to admit it, Johnny was part of the reason I’d been so eager to throw myself into my work. I’d spent the day after he’d left without a word pining over him, but I had too much t
o do to be thinking about him. We’d had our fun, and that was that.

  Like we’d told each other, our time together would be nothing more than a nice memory.

  It sounded so simple at the time, but that didn’t mean it ended up being easy. Work was the only thing that had been effective in not getting me to sit around like some mooning teen, watching his videos and interviews over and over online. Still, I found myself wondering if the feelings I’d had for him were ever going to go away.

  Or if I even wanted them to.

  “Hey, girl!”

  I turned to see Blaire striding toward me with her usual big smile on her face.

  “Hey!” I exclaimed, setting down my drink and throwing my arms around her.

  “So loud,” she shouted over the music.

  “Loud but good,” I yelled back.

  “If you say so,” she said.

  Hard rock wasn’t exactly Blaire’s thing. Sure, she’d go gaga over Johnny Maxton like the rest of us, but she was more of an indie girl at heart.

  The song ended and applause filled the air, the loudest being mine, of course.

  I waved and got the lead signer’s attention, gesturing toward backstage, letting him know without words that I’d meet him back in the green room in a little bit. He gave me a thumbs-up before turning his attention to the equipment along with the rest of the band.

  “So,” said Blaire as the house lights and music came back on. “How was it?”

  “Amazing,” I said. “These guys are going to really be something special, just you wait.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that,” she said. “All this heavy guitar stuff sounds the same to me. Except for Memphisto, that is.”

  I good-naturedly crinkled my brow and wagged my finger at her.

  “Now, what did I tell you about bringing them up,” I said.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “I still can’t believe it, though—you actually hooked up with Johnny freaking Maxton.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Come on, keep it down,” I said. “And it was over a month ago—the shock should be wearing off for you by now.”