Looking at the clock above the door, I felt the band around my chest tighten. Lily was on the road, making the two-hundred-mile trip from Dallas. Her mom still hadn’t come around, but Marcus was making an effort. Lily refused his offers to fly her to Dallas on the Tennison’s private jet when she visited. And even though she drove a safe car, and the roads where good, the thought of her bleeding or broken from an accident turned my blood to ice water.
Logan read my expression, his brow furrowing. “Lily’s not back yet?”
I glanced at the clock again. “She’s on her way.”
Sean stood up to grab a beer, nodding toward my phone. “Call her.”
The guys loved Lily almost as much as I did.
“Yeah, I think I will.“ I said, swiping my finger over the screen. My leg bobbed as I waited for her to answer. One ring. Three. The band around my heart loosened when she finally picked up.
“Hey, baby!” I shouted, barely able to hear myself think over the blast of music in the background.
“What are you yelling at, Cam?” she asked, the amusement in her tone evident when she turned down the volume.
The guys sipped their beers, taking in the floorshow. Since girls weren’t allowed in the dressing room any longer, this was the only entertainment they got.
“Nothing.” Raising my brows at them, I put my index finger to my lips. “Where are you?”
She let out a sigh. “We go through this all the time. If I tell you where I’m at, you’re going to start worrying. And if I hit traffic, you’ll be distracted when you go onstage. I’ll be there in a little while. You know I wouldn’t miss tonight.”
Tonight… our four month anniversary. The nerves twisting my gut kicked into overdrive.
“Okay. Be careful.”
“I will.” I was about to hang up when she said, “I love you.”
It never got old. Not the first time she’d said it, and not now.
“I love you too, baby. So damn much.”
“I love you, Lily. So much,” Logan mimicked me in a high-pitched voice, making smacking noises as he leaned toward the phone. He jumped back when I jerked the beer bottle I was holding, spewing suds on his vintage Pearl Jam t-shirt.
“Asshole,” he muttered.
Lily cracked up. “Be nice. I’ll see you soon.”
The call ended, and I looked down at her picture on my phone. She was it for me. Everything. All the things.
Three loud raps on the door brought me back to the present. Moving to the door, Logan looked over his shoulder at me. I raised a brow in warning.
“I know, you big pussy,” he groused, leveling me with a glare as he pulled the door open. “No chicks in the dressing room.”
“Well, I’m in the clear,” Dylan Boothe said as he sauntered in, an easy smile on his face, “since I don’t have a vagina.” He turned and looked at Beckett who was a step behind. “Better wait outside, Becks.”
The room burst into a fit of raucous laughter.
“Very funny, asshat.” Beckett chuckled.
Sean reached into the metal ice bucket, offering the guys a beer. They took the bottles gratefully, surveying the dressing room.
Dylan leaned against the wall. “Sweet setup you guys got here. I wouldn’t mind spending a few weeks at home.”
“I wouldn’t mind selling out a few of those arenas,” Logan retorted. “But we needed a break. Why are you guys in town?”
“Eh, Tori called a meeting.” Dylan shrugged, letting his eyes drift around the dressing room. “She’s announcing a big tour for next year. Big Three, charity events, the whole fucking circus.”
The tour would be major if the Big Three were involved.
“That sounds epic,” I said and, taking a sip of my beer, I glanced at the clock. Again.
“Are y’all touring soon?” Dylan asked, looking confused when my bandmates turned to me.
“What are y’all looking at me for?” I scowled at my bandmates. “I’m not the one that books the tours. And I didn’t fire our manager.”
“Hey!” Logan protested. “I was standing up for your girl, man. Remember?”
He was right. And as I’d predicted, he’d taken all the heat.
“You know, I could talk to Taryn for you,” Dylan offered. “She might be able to solve your management issue. No promises though.”
“Taryn?” Crossing his arms, Logan waited for Dylan to elaborate. “I thought y’all were exclusive with Tori?”
Dylan took a sip of his beer. “Taryn handles the talent. She took care of Damaged… before… you know… the thing.” As much as we were rocked by the tragedy, it paled in comparison to what Dylan and Beckett felt. They were at ground zero. Part of Rhenn Grayson’s posse. Childhood best friends. Leveraged had toured with Damaged since the beginning.
“And Taryn’s always managed us,” Beckett added. “Since she’s my girl.”
“Was your girl,” Dylan said quietly, drawing a scowl from Beckett.
I bit down a smile. I didn’t have a beef with Beckett personally, but we were rivals when it came to the music. He did most of the writing and arranging, the same way I did for Caged. And the boy could shred a guitar.
“Anyway.” Dropping his bottle in the metal trashcan, Dylan turned to Logan. “I’ll talk to Taryn about y’all. She’s got a lot going on right now. If you guys aren’t in a big rush, signing with Twin Souls is worth the wait.”
We all nodded when Dylan’s gaze swept the room to get our buy in. Signing with Twin Souls was definitely worth the wait. But I wasn’t holding my breath. We weren’t going to get saddled with some junior manager, even if it was at the most sought-after management company in the country. Tori was notorious for turning down any band that directly competed with the Big Three.
Logan patted Dylan on the back “Thanks, man. We’d really appreciate the good word.”
“No problem.” He motioned to Beckett, who pushed to his feet. “We’ll let y’all get ready. Think of this as an audition.” He pulled open the door. “I might record a little something- something to show Taryn.”
Lifting my chin to them, I smiled nervously. The other guys did the same.
Logan’s laugh died the minute he closed the door.
“We can’t suck,” he said as he leaned against the wall, his face losing a little color. “We absolutely can’t suck.”
The door creaked open, and my heart jumped into my throat.
“You never suck, Logan,” Lily said, patting him on the arm as she walked toward me.
All the tension left my body when I heard her voice. Time slowed down, and everything inside me stilled at her kiss.
“Hey, you,” I breathed, easing her onto my lap.
Christian groaned. “That’s our cue,” he said, smiling at us as he headed for the door.
“See you after the show, Lily,” Sean said, following Christian into the hall.
“No screwing on the couch. We all have to use it,” Logan said with a snort as he pulled the door closed behind him. It popped open a second later, and he peeked his head inside. “Glad you’re here, darlin’.”
“Thanks,” I said, waggling my brows.
He scowled at me when Lily cracked up. And then he was gone. And there was only her. My mouth claimed hers as I eased her onto her back on the sofa. When my hand slid to her breast, tugging at her bra, Lily tipped her head back.
“What’s your hurry?” she cooed.
It was probably then, when she’d stilled my heart with that phrase the first time we were together, that I fell in love with her. Or maybe it was before. Like I said in the song I wrote her—In a time before time, you were mine. And it was true. She’d always been mine. We were fated to find each other.
“No hurry, baby.” I pressed my forehead to hers. “Although, I was hoping for a little action before the show.”
Grinding my hips against hers, I slid my tongue along her bottom lip.
“Later.” She shoved at my chest. “You’ve got a show to do. And
from what I gather, it’s really important.”
Nodding, I sat up. There was only one thing more important. But given Dylan and Beckett’s presence, all my plans might fall by the wayside if everyone decided to go out after the gig.
Do it now.
Lily got up to grab a drink from the fridge, while I fumbled to get the small box out of my pocket.
“You want something?” she asked, and when I didn’t answer she turned to me. “Shiner, or—?”
Her mouth fell open when she found me on one knee. “I do want something. I want you, Lily. I know it’s only been four months. But four seems to work for us. And I don’t care if you want a long engagement and a big wedding. Or if you want to run to the courthouse tomorrow and just get it over with, I want to marry you.”
Catching her around the waist when she wobbled, I pulled her against me and searched her face. There was no crinkle on her brow. No clouds to mar the perfect blue in her eyes. No hesitation.
“Of c-course I’ll marry you. I love you, Cameron.”
Before she could say another word, my mouth was on hers, swallowing her giggles and the moans that followed.
The cheers from the audience began to shake the walls. That was my cue. The opening act was finished. Time for the main event.
THE END…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Jayne Frost, author of the Sixth Street Bands Romance Series, grew up in California with a dream of moving to Seattle to become a rock star. When the grunge thing didn’t work out (she never even made it to the Washington border) Jayne set her sights on Austin, Texas. After quickly becoming immersed in the Sixth Street Music scene...and discovering she couldn’t actually sing, Jayne decided to do the next best thing—write kick ass romances about hot rock stars and the women who steal their hearts.Want to join the tour and become a Frost VIP? Check out Jayne’s reader group on Facebook to receive exclusive content, giveaway opportunities, or sign up to join the ARC team and receive advanced reader copies of her latest books!
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OTHER BOOKS BY JAYNE FROST
* * *
Thank you for reading, GONE FOR YOU!
Find more of my books exclusively on your favorite platform! Including the rest of the Sixth Street Bands standalones!
Fall With Me
Missing From Me
Lost For You
Down To You
Another Sky
MILLION DOLLAR MUSICIAN
RB HILLIARD
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
“THE GREATEST MAN THAT EVER LIVED”
Sander
“What nationality are you? No, wait. Let me guess. Irish? No, maybe Scottish. The last name James sounds more Scottish than Irish. Oooh, this highlighter goes well with your skin coloring. Don’t you agree? Though, you could use a little more concealer under your eyes. I have just the thing to wash away that tired look.”
While Rosie, or maybe it was Rachel, searched for concealer, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t just look tired, I looked old. I was old. Thirty-four years of hard living stared back at me. Years that I could never get back, no matter how hard I tried. Believe me, I’d tried.
“Here we are,” the stylist called out. With concealer in one hand and brush in the other, she spun around and immediately launched into another makeup monologue. The Sander of younger years would have had his dick in her mouth by now. He would have fucked her into silence. Of course, he would have also been high. Then again, the Sander of younger years was always high. Getting laid while high, inebriated, or speeding my brains out was once a way of life. It was action without thought, feeling without emotion. It was complete and total mindless pleasure. God, how I missed it. Sober Sander couldn’t get his dick hard for this woman if she paid him. The image of Jack Nicholson flashed through my head. The one of him smiling like he’d just popped a handful of amphetamines and was seconds away from losing his shit. I could picture him swinging that axe while screaming, “No drugs or alcohol makes Sander a dull boy!” at the top of his lungs. Jack hit the nail on the head. I was everything I swore I’d never be, everything I hated. I was beyond dull. I was washed up, old, and irrelevant.
“Time to go Mr. James!” security called from the other side of the door. Rosie Rachel looked disappointed.
I stood up, muttered “Thanks,” and walked out the door. Sorry, Rosie Rachel, no dick for you today. Cheers erupted as I made my way down the trailer steps and onto the tarmac. I gave an obligatory wave, and as directed to do earlier in the week by upper management, I forced my lips into a grimace-like smile. Fuck management.
“How are you today, Mr. James?” a voice beside me spoke. Glancing sideways, I noted the uniform. My gaze drifted to a gun belt, before traveling up to a badge glistening on the uniform shirt, and ultimately landing on a chiseled-jaw, stern-lipped face. Hmmm, back in the day, Rosie Rachel wouldn’t have been the only one to get fucked. Mr. Strong Jaw, here, would have been the perfect book end to a sensational, Sander sandwich.
“Dull boy!” Jack screamed inside my head.
“No shit,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” Officer Chisel-Jaw questioned, a look of concern on his pretty boy face.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Tim, sir,” he responded. His voice sounded both deep and authoritative. Here was a man who took his job seriously . . . a man who probably liked what he was doing. Lucky fellow. I paused in front of the studio doors and waited for him to open them.
“Have a nice day, Tim,” I said as I strolled past him and into purgatory.
“You, too, sir,” he called after me.
“There you are!” Jayne exclaimed. “I was about to come and retrieve you myself.” Jayne was one of the few reasons I hadn’t quit yet. Not only was she a damn good producer, but she was an equally good person. She pushed for more, yet not too far. She knew when to cut her losses.
“Good morning, Jayne. Let me guess, there have been some complaints.”
“You’re showing favoritism again, Sander.” Jayne didn’t beat around the bush. I respected that about her. She was right. I was showing favoritism, but for a good reason. We were down to the final four contestants, two of which were on my team. One of the four was going home this week. That left three. With Christmas a mere seven days away, I had approximately two weeks before the New Year’s Eve finale to prepare for a win. I was showing favoritism because only one of my finalists was talented enough to win. That being said, it wasn’t up to me, but to America, and as we all knew, America could be one fickle bitch.
A little over two years ago, my world came crashing down around me. If I was being honest, which was a rare thing, my downfall started well before that. It started the day I chose drugs over music. From there it cascaded into an epic downward spiral until I hit rock-fucking-bottom. I’d had it all—the band, the fans, the fame, and love. Most of all, I had that thing called self-respect. My first attempt at getting sober was forced by our manager, Frank, when he found me passed out in a puddle of my own vomit and not breathing. That was the morning after my then- girlfriend and the band’s road manager, Olivia, walked out on me. Off to rehab I went. My sobriety lasted all of a week.
My second stint in rehab occurred after I got filmed snorting coke off a groupie’s tits while getting pounded in the ass by our drummer, Gio. Somehow, Frank managed to squelch the video before it hit the internet. He also sent me back to rehab with
the intention of sobering the gay out of me. I wasn’t gay. I wasn’t exactly straight, either. My tendencies leaned more towards pussy, but I didn’t mind an occasional cock every now and again. That time, I spent a month in rehab. Surprisingly, sobriety stuck. Too bad nothing else had. I may no longer be the lead singer for one of the world’s best rock bands, but I was stone-cold sober and had been for the past two years.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, sorry, Jayne. We both know that Wynne can sing circles around the other three contestants, including Bueller.”
“His name is Ferris and he’s quite good,” she scolded as we made our way down the hallway in the direction of the judges’ lounge.
“He is good, but he’s not good enough to win a million dollars and a recording contract. For that matter, neither is Michelle or Travis. None of them can hold a candle to Wynne and you know it.”
“Maybe so, but that’s not for you to decide.”
Pausing in front of the lounge doors, I gave her my very candid opinion. “It should be.”
She sighed. “I know you feel cheated.”
I felt more than cheated. Try downright pissed off. The network was paying me eight-hundred-thousand dollars a show to be a dick like Simon Cowell, yet cool like Adam Levine. With Blake Shelton, Kelly Clarkson, and Alicia Keys as my co-judges, I might be able to pull that off. Instead, they’d given me Steffi the book critic, Talia the washed-up ballet dancer, and March the wanna be music producer. “Bring the show to life. Make it something special and we’ll give you a five-year contract,” they’d said. “Not only that, but we’ll let you pick the winner and will back your solo career.” Solo career? What solo career? For that matter, what career period? I had no career. All I had was burned bridges. In the three months we’d been filming, I’d more than delivered. I’d made Million Dollar Musician the best rated reality show of the season. Was I getting the final say? Hell no. America was. As for the five-year contract, I was still waiting. It seemed as if all I did was wait and the monotony was starting to get to me. Every day was the same. Wake up, take a shower, eat something, wait for the dreaded limo to arrive, wait for makeup, wait for the other judges to get their heads out of their asses, wait, wait, wait. All while fighting the urge to take a drink or pop a pill. That urge dogged me wherever I went and only subsided when she was near; Wynne Benfield—my muse, my inspiration . . . my obsession.
Rock Star Romance Ultimate: Volume 1 Page 69
