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

by Diamond, Jaine

  Danica (the hot twin): Except it will cost you more if I have to redo everything on those grounds.

  Me: You have so little faith in yourself

  Danica (the hot twin): That is not true.

  Me: So its me you have little faith in?

  No reply.

  Me: I have faith in you. You brought me six pennies. Just do your thing

  I could practically hear her sigh.

  Danica (the hot twin): See you next week.

  I smiled to myself.

  The really twisted thing? I was really fucking enjoying bickering with her over bedspread colors and paint samples, like some old married couple. Was an alright way to pass the time.

  At least until I got her naked.

  Because somewhere between her laying out those six pennies for me with that glint of annoyance in her eyes, and right this second, I’d definitely decided I was fucking this chick.

  The front door closed and I assumed emo-boy had hit the road. Then Summer was back in the kitchen, singing Elton John under her breath and making coffee.

  “Who’s the new guy?” I asked without looking up.

  “Don’t start.”

  “Start what?”

  “Ugh. For fuck’s sake, fine. His name’s Jewel. Don’t bust my balls over it.”

  I looked over at her. Thick, dark hair. Blue eyes. Curvy bod. Summer was sexy, smart, talented, and she had a vibe that definitely drew attention. Bottom line, girl could do way fucking better, but hey, she’d heard it all from me before.

  So I just said, “Where the fuck do you find these guys?”

  “They find me.” She shrugged and smiled. “He’s fun.”

  Right.

  “Yeah, he looked like a regular one-man carnival. I give him a week.”

  “It’s already been a week.”

  “Then I give him last night. He won’t hear from you again.”

  She laughed.

  “At least tell me he rocked your world.”

  “My world was… gently caressed.”

  “Jesus. Why do you waste your time?”

  “Why do you waste your time?”

  “With who?”

  “With whatever bimbo you’re chatting with.”

  I shoved my phone away. “What if she’s not a bimbo?”

  “Then tell me about her.”

  “What if she’s not a she?”

  “Then tell me about him.”

  “What if it’s none of your business?”

  “Everything,” she said, making a sweeping gesture to indicate her whole house, “in my home, is my business, hon.”

  “Nice try. Let’s get to work.” I got up and headed over as she opened the bakery box; I’d eaten a few wedges on the way over, but there were a bunch left.

  “What’s this?”

  “Lemon wedges.”

  “Hmm. You know the only empty calories I appreciate are the ones in alcohol form…”

  “Uh-huh. If you don’t want them, I can share them with someone else—”

  Summer smacked my hand away as I reached for the box. “Don’t you dare.” She picked up a wedge and took a bite. “Mmmmm. That’s delicious. Who made these?” She peeked at the label on the box.

  “Local bakery,” I said casually.

  She narrowed her eyes at me as she enjoyed her lemon wedge. “Since when do you pick up bakery treats for me on your way over here?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Share them with your friends. I assume you have company coming.”

  “I always have company coming.”

  “Then let’s get to work while we can.”

  She pointed at the silver tray on the counter. “Phone.”

  I sighed and slipped my phone out of my pocket, turned it to silent and put it on the tray. She put hers on the tray, too.

  “We’re not gangsters,” I informed her as she poured us both a coffee. “We can bring our phones into a meeting.”

  “Nope. Not competing with all the bimbettes on your social media apps. The vortex requires your full attention.”

  * * *

  Two minutes later, I was reclined in the metaphorical vortex. Also known as Summer’s music room and the place where our musical minds met.

  Feet up, lighter out, joint in hand.

  Summer stood before me with a vinyl record held behind her back. It was her turn to pick the album, which was always a crap shoot. Could be terrifying, could be brilliant.

  I lit the joint and took a drag.

  “You ready?” she asked, really milking the moment. “It’s a good one…”

  “Romance me. What year are we talking?”

  “Nineteen ninety-two.”

  “Hmm. Dodgy decade for music.”

  She laughed.

  “Genre? If you say happy hardcore, I’m gonna slit my wrists.”

  “Alternative metal,” she said. “Don’t peek.” She turned and slipped the record out of its sleeve, throwing me a dirty look over her shoulder.

  “Totally can’t see,” I said, closing my eyes as she put the record on the turntable.

  I smiled as the opening of “Land of Sunshine” hit me.

  “Faith No More. Good girl.”

  “Angel Dust,” she said, dropping into her recliner, next to mine.

  “Great album.”

  “I knew you’d approve.”

  “Yeah. This may be the one album we actually agree on across the board…”

  “We agree on a lot of albums. Don’t be a dick.”

  She was right about that.

  She turned it up as I passed her the joint. Summer was a serious audiophile. She had the motherfucking insane Wilson Alexandria XLF speakers, the six-foot towers in sleek white. They’d set her back a quarter-million dollars, which meant that besides her house and her Benz, most of her net worth was sank into these speakers.

  And she still left a house key in an old coffee can under the bushes in her side yard, for her friends.

  One of the reasons I loved Summer.

  She was fucking crazy like that.

  For a few years now, we’d been doing these “vortex” meetings whenever we could. Just the two of us. We’d listen to one album on vinyl, front to back. Analyze. Discuss. These past six months, we’d been doing it monthly.

  Usually, we got baked while we did it, like we did now.

  And usually the rule was no talking while the music was on. We’d discuss afterwards. Summer even took notes.

  This time, she had no notebook in her lap, no pen.

  And somewhere in the middle of the album, she turned the music down a little and started talking.

  “One of the best metal albums of all time. Agree or disagree?”

  “You’re talking,” I said, rolling my head toward her. “That’s against house rules.”

  “Tell me this isn’t one of the best metal albums of all time, and I’ll turn it back up.”

  “I’ll give it top twenty.”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “See? Tell me what you hear.”

  “Besides you talking? Everything. This album is psychotic.”

  “In the best way. Like a fucking carnival on acid, right?”

  “Good way to describe it.”

  We listened some more, and then she turned the music down another notch. “It’s heavy. It’s melodic. It’s all over the fucking place, and it works. The production quality is fantastic. They’ve got heavy keys and sampling, which you know I love. And Mike Patton. Swoon.”

  “You and Mike Patton.”

  “Name me one other metal vocalist who can do what Mike Patton does, technically, and makes you want to listen like that.”

  “Rob Halford. 1984. Defenders of the Faith.” It was my favorite Judas Priest album, and Halford, on that album, was the greatest metal vocalist of all time. If you asked me.

  “You and Rob Halford.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’ll give you Halford. But in my mind, Patton is king.”

  “Uh-huh. Pretty sure Elvis is k
ing.”

  “Well, Elvis never cut an alternative metal album.”

  I snorted. “Jesus, I wish he did.”

  “You know who else is king?” She reached over to grab my lighter and cigarette case from the small table between us. “Ashley Player.”

  “What, the king of metal? I’m not a metal vocalist, babe.”

  “No, but you could be, if you wanted to. Just listen to this gorgeous mess.” We were somewhere in the middle of “A Small Victory” now. “Do you think when these guys were recording this melodic-apocalyptic acid-carnival-freak-show that they gave a flying fuck what ‘genre’ they were in?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Right. So.” She slipped a fresh joint out of my cigarette case—which was stocked full of them, since I was really trying, again, to quit cigarettes. “I think we should push what you do, and I’m not talking about forming a metal band. I’m saying indulge all your influences, all your musical desires, and see how far you can take it. Go fearless, kid. That’s where the magic will be.”

  “We?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You said, I think ‘we’ should push what you do.”

  “Yeah. About that.” She turned the music down even more, then lit the joint. She took a small drag, then handed it over to me. “The Penny Pushers are done, Ash. And you need to get out of this epic funk you’re in.”

  “I’m aware, on both counts.”

  “Good. It’s time to move forward. Let go of the breakups—all of them. Including the one with your band. I know it hurts like hell. I know you love Pepper and Coop and Janner. I also know you sat right in that chair a few months ago and told me you could never play with them again. You still mean that, deep down?”

  “Yeah. I mean it.”

  “So then let go. Move on.” She reached over and laid her hand on my arm. “What you need is a new band, Ashley. Someone to play with, create with, vibe off of and believe in. Someone to be on that magical musical journey with you.”

  “Yeah.” I met her eyes, which were intent on me. “I know it.” I took a deep hit off the joint.

  “And I want to be a part of it.”

  “I know.”

  I’d known, for years, that Summer’s ultimate dream was to become a music producer, and that she wanted to produce for me. We’d talked about it a lot. She’d sampled my voice a lot, too, worked it into her original songs at shows. I knew she was a fan of what I did, in general, just like I was a fan of her.

  But I couldn’t exactly hire a producer to produce an album that hadn’t been written, for a band that didn’t exist.

  “I mean,” she said, “I want to be part of your band.”

  I stared at her, the words not making sense in my head. Too stoned, maybe.

  “Since when?”

  She sighed and gave me an exasperated look as she drew her hand back. “Are you dense? Since always. I’ve been dropping hints on you forever.”

  Yeah. I knew that. But I kinda figured those hints were like the flirting she dropped on me—friendly, entertaining, but essentially meaningless.

  “So?”

  “So, you had a band,” she said. “I dropped hints, you didn’t pick up on them. I let it go. I wasn’t gonna pressure you to cheat on your band with me, or to leave them. I knew you were struggling with the Pushers, trying to make it work. But you’re divorced now. It’s over. I’m moving in, and I’m staking a claim on what’s mine.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Or at least, what I want to be mine,” she amended. “I realize, musically, I’ve never really had any part of you.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

  “I’m not.” She got to her feet and started pacing in front of me a bit. “Look, Ash. We’ve been doing this vortex thing for a long time, for the hell of it. Except for me, it’s more than that. We’ve always talked about music, but we’ve never really made music together. I want that to change. I want to start up a band, with you.”

  Okay. I was definitely high right now, but I was paying attention. Summer was a passionate person, and that passion was often infectious. It was what made her such a great DJ. The life of any party.

  And I knew when she was serious about something, and she was serious about this.

  “We already know we have chemistry, personally,” she went on. “And we both have talent. We both have a fan base. We can pool our talents. Make something fresh and exciting. You know I love being a DJ, but this isn’t my forever dream. There’s an expiry date on it, and it’s approaching, fast.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. I was a pianist first, and honestly, I miss it. I don’t want to play fifth billing at festivals and host parties for my famous friends for the rest of my life. It’s been good to me, really good, but I want more. You know I want to compose more. You know I want to play more keys. Sing more. Produce. And you know I can rock.”

  Was that what this was about?

  Faith No More… proving to me she could rock? That she was down with heavy alternative shit, like the kind of stuff she knew I wanted to play?

  “I know you can rock, Summer.”

  “All the work I did with Elle on her solo album,” she said, still pleading her case, “and the songs I got to work on with Dirty on their last album, were the most fun I ever had, musically. You know I can sing. I’m no Ashley Player, but I’ve been doing more vocal training. You know I can bring piano to it, synth, all the electronic sounds we could ever dream of fucking around with. So let’s do it, and let’s make it big. Like a big live show, with massive sound, that goes beyond mere rock ’n’ roll. We could bring in some huge talent. People like you and me, who just need the right fusion.”

  “Like a supergroup?”

  “Exactly like a supergroup,” she said, sparking off the idea. “Fuck, yes. A supergroup.”

  “It’s not a bad idea.”

  “Of course it’s not.” She stood in front of me with her hands on her hips. “I came up with it.”

  I sighed. Every time I even thought about putting a new band together, the idea just exhausted me. My heart really wasn’t in it. Not like it should’ve been.

  I loved music.

  What I didn’t love was managing interpersonal drama, which I’d had to do—or try to do—in every band I’d ever been in. For some reason, my bandmates had always turned to me to fix their issues, even when I couldn’t.

  Maybe we’d never had the right management, so it just fell to me, the frontman, instead. But all that told me was that my bandmates had worse problems than I did. That comparatively, I was the solid one.

  Kinda frightening.

  The idea of forming a band with someone who wasn’t a fucking mess… Someone like Summer?

  It was a tempting offer.

  “I’m really not looking forward to putting a band together from the ground up,” I admitted, slowly, thinking it through. “You know that by now. I keep having these nightmares of playing in some shitty nightclub, trying to sing ‘Smooth Criminal.’”

  “Michael Jackson?”

  “Yeah. Alien Ant Farm.”

  “Huh?”

  “You never heard that heavy cover they did of ‘Smooth Criminal’?”

  “Damn. I don’t think so.”

  “My version is just like that, in the dreams. But I have these backup singers behind me that I can’t see, who are singing it perfectly, and I can’t sing it for shit, and the mic keeps cutting out and the band keeps fucking up and I keep losing my place, and I get booed offstage.”

  Summer snickered. “That would so never happen to you.”

  I took a long drag off the joint and squinted at her. “DJ Summer… I never knew you were such a fan.”

  “Shit, yes, you did.” She waved for the joint I’d been hogging and I passed it over. “It’s a good idea, Ash. What did you think you’d be doing, seriously? Putting an ad in the paper and auditioning for garage bands? Get your head out of your ass, sweetheart. You’re Ashl
ey Player.”

  “Not sure I know what that means anymore.”

  “Bullshit. You know exactly what it means. And I know what it means to be Summer Sorenson, and it’s not just being a DJ. I’m a musician first and foremost. And I’m going to be a star. It’s my destiny.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

  If anyone had that kind of destiny, it was the woman standing in front of me right now.

  She smiled at me. “And besides, all those fucking years of classical piano lessons need to count for something.”

  I snorted. “Do they?”

  “Hey, my parents spent a lot of money on those lessons. They had big dreams. And they will love you if you let me play keys with you.”

  “They already love me.”

  “No, my mom loves you. My dad thinks you’re a slut.” She actually said that to me with a straight face, then took a little puff off the joint.

  “If only he’d seen his baby girl this morning,” I said, “in the arms of—what was it? Gemstone?”

  “Jewel.” She handed the joint back over. “And don’t you dare tell my dad about Jewel.” She rolled her eyes. “You know I’m a daddy’s girl. This is not a surprise.”

  “Okay. So tell me who else is in this supergroup, daddy’s girl.” I rested my head back and sighed. “Tell me you poached Dylan and I’m in.”

  “Obviously, I did not poach Dylan Cope. He’s firmly entrenched in Dirty and no one’s taking him away from that band. Besides, Elle would never forgive me, and you know I couldn’t live with that.”

  “Lightweight. You gotta grow a thicker skin if you’re gonna make it in the rock ’n’ roll game, baby.”

  “Said the dude who’s been moping around all year because his band fell apart.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Anyway,” she said sharply, “I really don’t think you should have more than one ex in this band.”

  I felt the smile fading from my face. “Dylan’s not my ex.” I took a drag of sweet smoke. Faith No More’s instrumental cover of “Midnight Cowboy” was playing softly; felt like it’d been playing a really long time.

  Shit, was I high.