by K. K. Allen
It was always a given I’d fall for a rock star. The bad boy type with the raspy vocals who could make an entire sold-out arena swoon. I fell for one, and then he broke my heart when he fell into bed with my best friend. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It wasn’t to anyone else. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t know the importance of shielding my heart like my life depended on it. I know now.
The affair left me with a gaping hole in my heart, aching to be filled. And so I filled it with music. And then my heart was sealed, wrapped up in a tangle of guitar strings, never to be infiltrated again. Have you ever tried flicking a guitar string? Those fuckers are strong.
My bosses were made aware of my situation before I even told them I wanted a new assignment. They had another job lined up for me—by pure coincidence, I’m sure. The job was mine if I wanted it, they said, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. It wasn’t until they sent the contract over and I saw who I would be working for that I thought to rescind my acceptance. But in the end, I signed, desperate to leave my mess of a life in Seattle. And just like that, the job was mine.
I’ve never been on a job interview, though not for a lack of trying. Jobs get offered to me like someone’s being paid off. It’s possible there is a payoff, but I’ll probably never know for sure. I wouldn’t put it past my mother. Ever since her music career slowed down, she’s tried everything to crawl back into my life. As if she knows me at all.
I haven’t seen Destiny Lane in years. Spoken to her, yes, but as infrequently as possible. I don’t want anything she has to offer. She had her chance to be a mother when it mattered, but her music career always came first. My father, Mitch Cassidy, on the other hand—he’s still got it. Still hot in the rock scene. Still touring internationally. Still pressuring me to “use my gifts,” as he calls them.
Not going to happen.
Less than an hour ago, my plane landed in San Diego. Now my driver, who introduces himself as Elmer—like the glue—is waiting for me at the curb to take my bags. As I climb in the back of the company’s gold Jaguar, I take the glass bottle of water from the cup holder and sip down the refreshing fizzy water before finally relaxing into my seat.
I turn down the folding table and place my cell phone on the leather surface, quickly pairing the Bluetooth and thumbing through my playlist. I set it on shuffle and let the rock tunes fill the empty spaces of the car. There’s too much pain in silence. Too many thoughts. Too many disappointments. At least when there’s music, I can keep my mind busy memorizing lyrics and melodies and drown out my reality. My memories of when it all went wrong.
Turning to face the window, I let the sights of the palms swaying against a cloudless blue background lift my mood. Roller bladers are flying down sidewalks, boats fill the harbor, and everyone seems to be smiling. I don’t blame them. If I had to choose a season to live in forever, spring would be it. When everything is bright and alive. And it’s the one time of year people can bask in endless outdoor entertainment without suffering through miserable heat or cold.
Feeling slightly more motivated to take on this new adventure, I face Elmer, who’s now turning down Ash Street, officially in Downtown San Diego territory. “Are we headed to the office or the hotel?” I ask. In the flurry of activity since the moment I signed the contract, I’ve had no time to think straight.
Elmer’s eyes flicker to mine in the rearview mirror. He must deal with uppity celebs all day because he looks surprised I’m acknowledging his existence. “The office for your two o’clock, Miss Cassidy.”
“Thank you, Elmer.”
He nods and his eyes return to the road. I turn back to the window. The always-present flutter of anxiety expands and contracts in my chest, effectively tormenting me. Formalities are not my thing, though I always seem to be surrounded by them. It’s the air of my parents that never seems to leave me. Others think they need to treat me delicately, as if I’m precious glass. It’s annoying, but I’ve given up correcting people to salvage whatever is left of my sanity.
We approach the all-brick exterior of Perform Live, the artist management company where I’ve worked since I was fifteen years old. I started as assistant to the assistant office manager and worked my way up from there. The moment I turned eighteen, the management team sent me to work in their Seattle office. After only a few months, I asked for a road job. I’d always loved the road. It was comfort. And I missed it.
So they started sending me on tours to manage the merch. Handling money came naturally, and I worked closely with the tour managers and road managers for three years before getting my first promotion.
Now I do what they do. And I’m damn good at it.
My new position is road manager for Wolf Chapman, rock’s ultimate bad boy and the hottest act out there right now. I’ve seen his type before. Drugs. Sex. Rock ’n’ roll. It’s not just a saying. It’s a way of life, and it’s real.
He won’t last. He got too hot too soon, which, in my experience, only means he’ll stumble and fall—hard. Chances are he won’t get up, at least not back up to the top of the charts where he stands right now. I take this as a challenge. I love a good challenge. I’m just here to do my job, even though everything about Wolf screams for me to run.
Talent.
Sex appeal.
Rocker hair.
Drop dead gorgeous smile.
Body of a seasoned linebacker.
Abs made of steel.
Totally not my type. At least, it shouldn’t be. Because all of that comes in one pretty little package labeled “ego.” The last thing I need after my embarrassing breakup is to be in the presence of another rock star with a massive hard-on for himself.
But I push all that out of my mind as I walk through the company’s main doors and toward the elevator, a familiar feeling of excitement beginning to bubble in my chest.
“Lyric, is that you?” A tan blonde with long legs and a Wolf shirt tucked into her short, red leather skirt enters through the opposite entrance and makes a beeline toward me.
Do I know this chick?
She’s inches from my face when it dawns on me. I smirk before throwing my hands out in delight. “Terese! No shit. You work here?” We do the girly thing and squeal, hug, and rock from side to side before letting each other go.
I know Terese from when Tony, my asshole ex, booked a three-month run in the Vegas hotel where she worked. We spent all our free time together because the ex, of course, was too busy to spend time with me.
“I do,” she says. “Moved from Vegas last August and haven’t looked back. Please tell me you’ll be in promotions with me. Can you imagine how much fun we’ll have?”
I shake my head, still beaming. “Road manager for Wolf.”
Her eyes, bright blue and sparkling from the stream of sunlight behind her, widen in surprise. “Oh, now I’m jealous. What I would give to be on that tour bus…” A sigh wafts into the air as she trails off into dreamland.
I roll my eyes quickly so she can’t see the annoyance and shrug. “Well, I doubt I’ll be on his tour bus, but the tour should be fun. We’ve got a show in San Diego before we leave. You working that one?”
Her face falls. “No. I’m only assigned to small local shows.”
“Then you should hang with me. I’m not working it, just getting familiar with the crew.”
Terese lights up again. “Count me in. How long until you take off for the tour?”
“Two weeks. I’m joining the team late. All the planning has been done, but I guess the last manager didn’t mesh well with Wolf.” I snort.
She winks. “I’m sure you won’t have that same problem.” There’s a flicker of something in her expression, and I know she’s about to ask the dreaded question. But she surprises me. “I always hated Tony. I’m glad you two broke up. He’s an ass for what he did, but it’s for the best.”
I like Terese a whole lot right now, but I don’t have time to respond. The ding of the elevator reminds me I’m headed for a meeting with t
he rock god himself.
“I need to get going,” I say reluctantly. “I’ll call you tonight, okay? We can do dinner.”
I practically run the few steps to the elevator and smash the button, trying to catch the closing door. Score. It reopens and I rush in, stumbling into the nearest figure. My hands reach out to catch my fall—on the chest of one of the elevator’s occupants.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” I say.
The space is filled with leather jackets, heavy cologne, a faint hint of alcohol … and testosterone. Lots of that.
As I try to steady myself, my eyes land on him. All six feet of lean muscle, tan skin, and caramel eyes. Wolf is standing directly in front of me, a smirk on his face as he looks at my hands on his chest. Jesus.
Someone in the background mumbles with a foreign accent, “No worries, love,” but it doesn’t sound sincere and no one else speaks, making the moment even more awkward than it was before.
I remove my hands from Wolf’s chest and turn to face the closing door, hoping to hide the heat rushing up my neck. It’s strange how the presence of a rock star changes the energy in a room. What was once stale, boring air is now electrified and magnetic. I want to face him again to get a good look at him and attempt to recover from that disastrous first impression.
Spinning toward him, I plant a smile on my face and meet his stare. “Mr. Wolf, I should introduce myself. I’m Lyric Cassidy, road manager for your upcoming tour.”
His smirk fades and is replaced by a crease between his eyes. He stands silently. Is this some kind of power move? I’ve seen Wolf a million times in magazines, on TV, on billboards, and on T-shirts everywhere. Hell, I’ve spent my life surrounded by rock stars. If this guy thinks he’s going to intimidate me, he’s wrong. Very wrong.
“Nice to meet you … Lyric.” He releases my name with rasp in his voice and a flick of his tongue. My eyes are on his mouth now. Such a beautiful mouth. Slightly parted and lifted at the corners. Just enough for me to know he’s enjoying himself.
I steal a glimpse of the tongue that just held my name. It’s gliding across his teeth in one slow sweep. As my eyes track the movement, I have to swallow against the roll of my stomach. Holy hell.
That's all it takes for me to know I’m in a knee-deep shit pile of trouble.
I look around at the chuckling bystanders, who are obviously amused by our exchange. I’m assuming the entourage surrounding Wolf includes his band and manager. They’ve surely seen the way women react to their frontman, and they think I’m one of them. I can’t wait to prove them wrong.
My eyes move back to the man with the accent. He wears a suit jacket and jeans, ready for business. “You must be Lionel.”
His eyes light up with mischief and a hint of annoyance. “You would be correct.” His accent is thick. British. Or Australian. I can never tell the difference.
I don’t think he’s my biggest fan. It doesn’t surprise me considering I’m a female in a typically male role. Now I just want to irritate him.
“Should I call you Lion for short? Or are animal names reserved for your boss here?”
I smile at my own joke as laughter erupts from the people all around—except one. Peering back at Wolf curiously, I’m stunned to see a smile slowly forming on his lips.
“He goes by Crawley. No nicknames needed,” Wolf says, his tone striking me below the waist and reverberating through me with every syllable.
All right. So the rock god can take a joke. That’s good.
By the time we’ve made it to the top floor, I’ve concluded that Lionel Crawley, the band's manager, is British, and I’ve introduced myself to the entire band too. I almost forgot their keyboard player was a girl.
We exit the elevator into the lobby of the executive floor, which hasn’t changed much since I was last here. The walls are bright red with orange accents and black trim. The Perform Live logo, 3D against the back wall of the room, screams importance.
We’re greeted by the receptionist and guided to the very last room at the end of the hall with a spectacular view of the bay. As everyone takes their seats, I gravitate toward the window, taking it all in. It’s funny—open air heights terrify me. But this, standing behind a pane of glass that protects me from the fall… This, I can handle.
I can’t wait to get out on the road. It’s views like this, and emotion-filled rock tunes like what’s streaming in from the conference room speakers, that give me an itch that can only be scratched by the rush of life on the road. Seeing a different city every day, bunking it on the bus until we can’t hold out anymore and need a night of hotel room luxury, watching the stage setup, hearing the excitement of the crowd, and driving away from the venue with our veins still pumping with adrenaline.
It’s all a beast buzzing inside of me. Energizing me. Driving life through my every aching bone. Beating down the walls of my chest. I’m always craving for more of it all. More sights. More sounds. The rush of the mob, fans crushing each other to get where I am. To get closer to the band.
That crazy adrenaline that comes with being on the road. Yeah, it makes up for the shitty beds and the lack of closet space.
“You stare as if you’ve never experienced it.”
Wolf’s husky voice tears through my thoughts and brings me back to the conference room. I jump and look to my right where Wolf approaches without making eye contact, his arm nearly brushing against mine.
I swallow against my throbbing pulse. “What?” I understand his question; my answer is just taking a bit longer to form after the vibrations from his nearness took over my body.
He chuckles. “Have you ever explored the city? I could show you around. Maybe after dinner?”
My head snaps toward him, and I'm ready to unleash. The moment dinner is mentioned, I have a flashback to Tony and how that relationship all started with an innocent dinner and far too much wine. Hell no.
Fortunately, I’m prepared with a comeback. I knew this was coming, but I honestly expected it to take a little longer than five minutes. It appears I’ve underestimated him.
“You and I”—I point my finger first at his chest and then at mine—“are not going to dinner together. There will be no sightseeing trips or accidental drunken encounters. I am your road manager. I coordinate travel, keep your merchandise stocked, coordinate with the venues, manage the books, and keep you organized. Is that clear? Dinner. Is. Not. Happening.”
Wolf surprises me by shrugging his shoulders and stepping back. He’s laughing, and that only pisses me off more. “Okay, okay.” He throws his hands up. “For the record, I wasn’t asking you out. You’re not my type.”
I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect those words to come out of his mouth. They sting a little since he’s obviously talking about my looks. He knows nothing about me.
I’m still blushing as he continues. “Seeing as you’re the road manager, I thought you'd be joining us.” He waves a hand around the room. “All of us.”
Luckily, everyone is too engrossed in their own conversations to witness my humiliation. “We’re going out for a bite after the meeting, but feel free to sit this one out. And the offer to show you the city was me being nice because we’ll be here for two weeks. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I got the impression you’re no stranger to enjoying life through a high-rise window. You look like you need some fun.”
Well, don’t I feel like a complete fool? I narrow my eyes, needing to redeem myself somehow. Wolf will not get the better of me. I open my mouth to respond but he’s already backing up, telling me he’s over the conversation.
“Forgive me for misreading the situation,” he says plainly. But as he walks away, I hear what he says under his breath. “Or for getting it completely right.”
Chapter Two
Wolf
Lyric hates musicians. That much is obvious from her eager refusal of my sightseeing offer. But why such hostility?
It’s true, my reputation precedes me. That’s no reason for her to immediately throw j
udgment. Not that I’ll prove her wrong. In fact, I’ll probably prove her right. It’s what I do.
Lyric’s reaction earlier tells me she’s surprised by my disinterest. It’s pleasing to know I’ve already gotten under her skin, but that wouldn’t be enough to get her in my bed. Not that I’d go there. I meant what I said. She’s not my type. She might look the part—small, curvy frame; long, wavy brown hair; generous tits; perfect ass; plump lips—but the fire in her eyes tells me she’s familiar with guys like me, and she knows I’m a perfect fit for whatever description she’s conjured up in that pretty head of hers. She doesn’t have to say it. It was written plainly in her overreactions and assumptions.
It doesn’t matter. Lyric and I are morning and night. I’m a sex-driven rocker, and she likes to play the victim of it all. See, I can judge her too.
Still, as much as I hate that she has a preconceived notion of me, she isn’t completely off. She’s been burned. It’s written in the depths of her expression and I’ve seen it a dozen times before. Lyric Cassidy is a relationship girl. A hopeless romantic. Any man to replace her last will need to prove to her that he’s nothing like her ex.
Tony Rain from Salvation Road. I’ve never liked the guy. It doesn’t help that he’s spent the last three weeks at the top of the charts—below me, at number two. I let out a laugh, knowing that must drive him fucking nuts. And now his girl is on my tour. Lucky for them both, I’m not the hero type.
This is where I make myself clear and bow out. Lyric is officially off limits. I may not be quite the asshole she’s already pegged me for, but I don’t do relationships. Or the chase. Women like Lyric seek the chase. They think the chase equals trust. The chase isn’t for me. And I really don’t care if she trusts me. I don’t have that kind of time, and no chick is worth waiting for when there’s a line outside my dressing room. A woman tells me no, I move onto another one who says yes. It’s as easy as that—but let’s face it: women rarely tell me no.