Hot Mess: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #1)

by Diamond, Jaine

  I’d heard about Daniella’s wild night at a ski resort with a rock star, right after it happened. I wasn’t there, but she’d told me about it as soon as she got home from that trip. And I knew who Ashley Player was.

  I mean, I’d heard of him, vaguely. I’d heard of his band, the Penny Pushers. But that was about it. I wasn’t even sure what he looked like.

  After Dani told me she’d met him—and made out with him—I Googled the shit out of him, like any sister would.

  Well, I Googled him once. But then his picture came up and he was so… yummy… I may have Googled him again. You know, just to look at him, a few times or a thousand. Like I couldn’t quite trust what I was seeing.

  Like if I just kept clicking, I’d eventually find a photo of him that was unappealing.

  Kind of like I was doing right now.

  Once again, a fruitless search.

  Ashley Player was, as it turned out, beautiful from every imaginable angle. And now I’d verified that fact, in person.

  Not only that… There was just something about him.

  Something you couldn’t quite see in all the photos. Something I’d only felt in his presence. In that look he gave me.

  Yes, he thought I was Daniella. But if I looked past that—and I did—there was something utterly fascinating about him.

  Maybe it was that broken thing I’d thought I’d glimpsed behind his eyes.

  Maybe it was just how vulnerable and mixed up he’d seemed. All drunk and stumbly.

  But, no. It was more than that.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and it wasn’t just because he was gorgeous. Or because he was successful. I knew those things about him before, and I’d barely given him a second thought over the years. I’d been curious, of course, four years ago, when Dani said she met him. But that was all. It was a normal, healthy amount of curiosity. My sister told me the crazy story, I Googled him, I saw pictures of him. I was hit with a pang of You-lucky-bitch envy.

  Then I really didn’t think about it again.

  Over the years, I’d pretty much forgotten.

  But then I ran into him the other night in the rain and he looked me in the eyes… and now I couldn’t let it go… Whatever it was I’d felt when he looked at me.

  I wanted to feel it again.

  Why the hell did my sister get to meet him first?

  She said she didn’t even like him.

  So. Unfair.

  … And there I went, caring again.

  About someone I didn’t even know, because I thought I’d felt something I couldn’t even explain when his eyes met mine.

  Lust, I told myself. You felt lust. It’s a normal thing to feel. Now let it go already.

  I clicked away to my desktop and opened the project I’d been working on yesterday. I was pulling together a proposal for a potential client who was looking to redecorate her home after a divorce. Kind of my bread and butter, unfortunately.

  There were now several of us—both decorators and registered interior designers—at Voilà Interiors, but my employer, my aunt Madeleine, had developed a habit of sticking me with the divorcees. Especially if they were over sixty.

  For one thing, she was protective of me, and sometimes she got weird about me going into mens’ homes alone. She was also overly fond of saying that newly divorced women needed a touch of the “sugar and spice and everything nice”—her words—that I brought into their homes and their lives.

  While that assessment was eye-rolling, it was true that the over-sixty set always seemed to take to me. I preferred to attribute that to the fact that I brought them delicacies from my aunt Mireille’s bakery, but in truth, I knew I was good at my job.

  Ever since my first Barbie DreamHouse, I’d had a talent for decorating interior spaces to fit the people who inhabited them; first my Barbie doll, now my clients. Honestly, I was never really into Barbie, but her DreamHouse? Yes, please.

  My sister had popped Barbie’s head off one day, when she was mad at me, but it didn’t really bother me. I got even. She was always more into Ken, so I popped his head off, too.

  We always had a way of balancing things out. As twins, we pretty much had to for survival. At least, we did back then.

  Nowadays, I didn’t even try to keep up with Daniella’s stunts.

  I left her to do her thing, and she left me to do mine.

  Unless, of course, she disapproved of whatever thing I was doing.

  Then, I’d hear about it. All about it.

  My twin sister was a woman of strong opinions.

  What I’d learned from her, though? It was astonishing how quickly people would look past Barbie’s missing head if you knew how to accessorize properly.

  Daniella had always had a flair for fashion, and I’d started making jewelry when we were kids. There was a time we thought we’d go into business together, but by the age of sixteen, we knew that would never work.

  So I went to work for my favorite aunt instead.

  For the past five years, my day job had been making my clients’ homes reflect their inner desires. But not necessarily their inner reality. This was probably my greatest skill: making everything in sight look beautiful, put-together. Even if things were a mess under the surface.

  I excelled at this in my personal life, too. For example, right now.

  Here I was, looking all put-together in my pale blue bodycon dress and sexy-yet-professional heels, sitting in my gorgeous office. I definitely looked like a woman who had her shit together.

  And all I could think about was some rock star my sister had met and made out with, then ghosted, four years ago.

  And it was kinda killing me.

  It bothered me, way more than it probably should, that she’d blown him off. It bothered me that she’d met him first. It bothered me that he thought I was her.

  Actually, a whole lot of things about the situation bothered me.

  I wanted Daniella to somehow own up to what she’d done. To feel bad about it, maybe. To apologize? If not to him, to me. Which was ridiculous, I knew.

  But I still wanted it.

  I wanted her to say something like, Danica, I’m sorry I was so nasty to that man, and I’m sorry you’ve gotten caught up in it. I was wrong. I should learn to treat men better, especially when they’re beautiful rock stars who seem perfectly nice and a little broken. And I’m sorry he thought you were me, because clearly, I’m an asshole.

  But I didn’t know how to make her do that. I didn’t even know how to make her care—or how to believe her that she didn’t care.

  I didn’t even know how to make myself not care.

  I also didn’t know how to manage my so-called friendship with my ex-boyfriend. Yes, we were still friendly, just like I’d told Dani. But he had been overstepping lines. Pushing boundaries.

  Calling me too much. Showing up unannounced.

  Asking me to pick up flowers for the new girl he was seeing, because he had a hot date with her and he didn’t “have enough time.”

  Who does that?

  And who actually goes and gets the damn flowers?

  Did it make me the better person because I’d done that for him… or did it just make me a fool?

  I didn’t even care. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to know how to tell him to stop and have him actually hear me… without having to be mean about it.

  Like Dani said, I needed to set clear boundaries.

  But drawing lines had never really been my strong suit. Hence, buying roses for my ex—and delivering them to him—for his “hot date.” In the rain. On a Saturday night.

  Absurd. I knew that.

  But then again… if I hadn’t stopped for those roses, I wouldn’t have run into Ashley Player.

  And he never would’ve given me that look.

  The look that was meant for my sister.

  Ugh.

  I was so irritated with both of them. My ex-boyfriend for asking me to pick up flowers for his new girlfriend in the first place, knowi
ng full well I’d have a hard time saying no, and my sister for the whole Ashley Player thing.

  I didn’t even realize I’d clicked over to his Wikipedia page until I discovered I was reading it. I’d bookmarked it after running into him the other night.

  Totally gross.

  Not cool in any way.

  And yet here I was, stalking him again…

  My sister and I had a rule about men, obviously. You know, the Cardinal Rule. The same rule any sane sisters had. That being, we didn’t get involved with a guy the other one had been involved with first. Ever.

  Thou Shalt Not Ever Do That To Thy Sister.

  Girl code.

  Sacred.

  You just didn’t mess with that shit.

  And yet here I was, messing.

  My creepy, pervy obsession just kept sucking me back into an internet black hole. You know, the one you fell into “accidentally” while you were supposed to be sending a work-related email, somehow ending up deep in a Google search, then sliding down a YouTube wormhole into oblivion.

  And you just couldn’t find your way back out.

  His Wikipedia page alone told me a lot about him.

  Like the fact that his band, the Penny Pushers, had just broken up. He had a famous best friend—Dylan Cope, drummer for the band Dirty. He had a few semi-famous ex-girlfriends—the most famous of which was DJ Summer, a very cool local DJ whose shows I’d been to a few times.

  He lived here, in Vancouver.

  His mother was deceased.

  And he was bisexual.

  Or so the internet told me.

  He had at least nineteen tattoos—there was an itemized, though incomplete, list—including almost-full sleeves on both arms.

  And along with his left eyebrow, his tongue, and his ears, his dick was pierced.

  Some serious fans had put a lot of time into this.

  Of course, I’d done a little searching on the side to verify these Wiki-facts, but they seemed accurate. Who could tell for sure with the internet, though?

  What I did know for sure?

  He was ridiculously talented—I’d now listened to all three of the Penny Pushers’ albums, and holy hell, his voice. All gritty and rough… and fucking beautiful. Not only was he their lead singer, but he played lead guitar, and he’d written most of the Penny Pushers’ songs. Including my favorite, “Gasoline,” which totally rocked.

  He was overwhelmingly good-looking.

  He was definitely famous, though maybe not overwhelmingly so. Like according to some fan sites I’d poked through, he could still be spotted on the streets of Vancouver, doing such regular-person things as buying groceries.

  And he came up to me the other night in the rain.

  Well, he came up to Daniella.

  I knew he was super drunk. I could smell the booze on him.

  He thought I was my sister… And yet, I just couldn’t get his face out of my head.

  That broken look.

  Those eyes.

  “Danica!” Jolie burst through my office door, and I jumped. She shut the door behind herself and choked out one word. “Unicorn.”

  “What?” I watched her bang on her chest with her fist, not like she was actually choking, but like she was trying to restart her heart or something. “It sounded like you said unicorn.”

  “Uni-corn,” my cousin wheezed. “Out there. In here. In the…” She gestured wildly toward my office window.

  And there stood Ashley Player.

  In our office.

  I gawked at him—like I was looking at my laptop screen or something, instead of right through my window into the reception area.

  It was him.

  In the flesh.

  I ducked slightly; a reflex.

  But he wasn’t looking at me. He was standing in front of Jolie’s desk, with his back to it, looking out the front windows onto the street.

  Holy shit.

  “Tell me that’s not some lucky bitch’s unicorn,” Jolie said, hiding beside the window as she peeked out at him.

  And now I understood.

  Jolie had this ranking system for men. At the very top of the male food chain, according to her, was the elusive and majestic unicorn. The possibly unattainable magic-man, that every girl, if she was so lucky, might cross paths with once in her life.

  I peeked at Ashley Player.

  Unicorn, indeed…

  Then I shook it off. What were we, twelve?

  I closed my laptop and stood up. My knees actually quivered a bit. “That’s Ashley Player,” I informed her, my voice wavering. I cleared my throat.

  “Dear God,” Jolie squeaked, “is he a client?” I was pretty sure she hadn’t blinked yet, like she was afraid to wash away the image of him that was scorched onto her eyeballs.

  “Actually, he’s a rock star,” I said, and Jolie looked at me like her brain had exploded.

  “Okay, my brain just exploded. You better deal with this before Madeleine gets in.”

  “You do realize it’s your job to greet people when they walk into the office…?” I prompted.

  “Madeleine’s gonna eat him up,” she warned me, “and she always gets the best ones, which is really not fair. She’s too old to get the best ones. And I did greet him. He asked for you.”

  “Jolie…” I begged, as she opened the door.

  “Unicorn,” she wheeze-whispered, and before I could utter chickenshit, she was gone. Vanished, out my door and up the hall, probably to hide out in the kitchen or a closet—as far away as she could get from Ashley Player without leaving the building.

  I groaned inwardly.

  This was the problem with working with family members. You couldn’t really fire them.

  Of course, I was currently hiding behind a door. Jolie wasn’t the only chickenshit in the house.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I forced myself to step into the open doorway—to find Ashley Player staring at me.

  Oh Jesus. I sucked in a breath.

  He did resemble a unicorn. Metaphorically speaking.

  All stunning and special.

  I had this weird urge to grab him and drag him around town, show him to all my friends, so I could say Look! He’s real!

  He also looked all kinds of out of place in Madeleine’s office. The reception area was bright, glossy and white, with blush-pink and pale-yellow details.

  He was dressed entirely in black.

  Vans skate shoes, tight, ripped jeans, and a T-shirt that clung very nicely to his hard chest, with nothing on it but two words: Fuck Steady. His short black hair was edgy and sexy. The tattoos all over his sculpted arms featured a topless mermaid, with long white-blonde hair just covering her nipples, and arm bands on his biceps that read Fuck Bitches / Get Money.

  I’d already seen them in detail, online.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  Then I dipped back into my office to collect myself, shutting the door. Well, I freaked out a bit. Then I collected myself.

  Fucking Daniella.

  This was all her fault.

  She’d insisted to me that she wasn’t interested in seeing him again. She’d made that pretty clear to him, too… I’d thought. In my books, she’d been perfectly nasty to him, and yet, for whatever reason, he wanted to see her again.

  And now I was all caught up in the middle of it—which, unfortunately, I had been before, way too many times, as Dani’s twin.

  Once again, here I was, forced to deal with the repercussions of my sister’s actions.

  But I pulled my shit together. Jolie was right. I could not just hide out in my office and leave him to Madeleine. Very bad idea. Cringe worthy.

  So I took a breath and opened the door.

  “Hi.” I breezed into the reception area and looked him directly in his crazy-blue eyes, starting over. “How can I help you?”

  His eyebrows kind of twitched together. He looked me over, but not like he was checking me out. More like I was acting like a weirdo.

  Of course, if
I really was my sister, I was acting like a weirdo.

  However, I wasn’t Daniella Vola. And I needed to set him straight about that, fast.

  I could do it nicely, though.

  “Um, why don’t you come into my office?” I suggested, before he could respond. Then I turned to lead him inside. No point doing this out here where someone might overhear. I’d heard a couple of my co-workers come in while I was web-stalking him; only a matter of time before someone wandered out of their office in search of coffee or Jolie, and found him standing here. A lost unicorn, abandoned at reception.

  He followed me inside and said, “Thanks,” when I forced myself to meet his eyes again.

  I closed the door behind him.

  “I’m Ashley,” he said, before I could figure out what to say. His blue eyes had locked on mine, and I couldn’t have looked away if I’d been on fire. Then he gave me a slight smile, as if to say, But you knew that already.

  “Hi,” I repeated stupidly.

  His gaze dropped to my lips. “We met in Alaska…”

  “Uh…”

  “And you schooled me about roses the other night.” His gaze drifted down my fitted dress.

  “Right.”

  “I, uh, went by that grocery store a couple times trying to find you, so, full disclosure…” His eyes met mine again. “I was hoping to run into you again.”

  Oh, God...

  “I hope it’s okay that I came by,” he went on. And holy shit… his voice was beyond sexy. Distracting. I had a hard time just following what he was saying. “… had no other way to reach you. I saw you yesterday, walking in here, and then I took a look at the company website. There was a photo of you with some other women, so I figured you worked here.” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “Jesus. I just heard myself. Was that creepy as shit?”

  “Um. No. It’s fine…”

  “Honestly, I thought maybe I’d come in here with some made-up interest in interior design, but then I realized that was stupid. I just wanted to talk to you. I, uh, thought we could talk.” His dark eyebrows drew together, doing that James Dean thing, and I couldn’t take it.

  “Right,” I said, awkwardly. “Sure. Um, my name is Danica.”

  “Danica…” he repeated.

  “Yes. Um, Dani. But most people don’t really call me that. It’s kinda more my sister’s name…”