by Kacey Shea
“Today’s the day I get signed with a record label.” I whisper the words aloud. They feel damn good so I say them again, louder. All the while my reflection distorts, making my shoulders tiny and my calves appear huge where the mirrored glass is bent just slightly. Hey, that’s what you get for ten bucks. I’m honest enough to admit my vanity requires I have a full mirror in my room. My look is part of my act. It’s how I sell my music. I’m not an idiot. Half the guys who drop tips in my guitar case on Saturday nights at Leo’s are probably doing so just to get a closer look up my mini skirt. Fishnets and combat boots, it’s a combination that drives men wild. Add in my heavy eye makeup and red painted lips—they’ll cough up fives and tens for that shit.
God, I should’ve been a stripper.
Laughter and a real smile escape my lips even though I’m the only one home. My cell rings with the alarm that lets me know there’s no more time for self-reflection. It’s go time. The next hour is spent in a rush as I shower, get beautiful, and warm up my vocals—just in case—in preparation for my meeting at ten. When the alarm goes off again, this time to catch the bus, I give myself one last glance in the mirror.
“Today’s the day.”
Using my fingers, I tap out an anxious beat on the mahogany armchair and match the pace of my bouncing knees. All the while, my eyes follow Amie—a friend from college and hopefully my future agent.
Her footsteps pace back and forth, and back again, eyes closed as my demo plays into the headset covering her ears. Her eyelids lower and focus solely on the manila folder in her perfectly manicured fingertips. God, I wish I knew what she was thinking. My eyes follow the trail she’ll wear into the hardwood if she always works this way.
My music is everything. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. But breaking into a flooded market where women are still largely in the minority, and refusing to do it any other way than my own way . . . Well, that’s posed a large problem for me up until now. I’m hoping our shared past of Calculus 101 will gain me a little more attention than the thirty other agents who’ve listened to my three song album and passed. Honestly, there’s a good chance they never even listened before issuing a big fat rejection.
But I’m no stranger to disapproval. No. I thrive on it. Tell me I can’t do something and I’ll do it, ten times better. I’ve heard all the don’ts and it’s not worth its. I get it. But I don’t care. I want this. I want to make music. But more than that, I want to earn it.
Amie’s steps falter and her gaze snaps to mine after she pulls her smartphone from the desk and presses a button.
“You know this would be so much easier if you’d call in a favor—”
“No.” I shake my chin and purse my lips.
She sucks the bottom corner of her lip into her mouth and holds my stare. “At least, let me name drop—”
“No.” I interrupt again.
“Lex . . .” She groans and slams the folder on her already cluttered desktop before dropping into the chair beside me. “You get that I’m a nobody, right? I’m as green as you here. You sure you want me representing you? I’m not even sure what I can get you, let alone—”
“Wait!” I almost squeal, and I never fucking squeal. I flick my lip ring once with my bubbling elation. “You’ll represent me?”
Amie’s eyes widen as she relaxes into her seat. “This is good. You’re fucking brilliant, but you already know that. Of course I’ll sign you. I’d be a fool to not.”
My cheeks hurt, my smile’s so huge.
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t get excited. This is only the beginning. I’ve got my fucking work cut out for me, you know that?”
“I know, I know.” The grin’s still there. I can feel it but I can’t seem to right my face. “I’m not afraid of hard work. Thank you. Thank you so goddamn much! You won’t regret this.”
“Thank me later.” She pops off the chair in a blink and her heels click over the floorboards as she walks behind her desk. “Okay, I’ll run the standard contract through legal, should only take a couple days, but in the meantime I’m going to get you on the road. That a problem?”
“I’m ready. Tell me where to play and I’m there.”
Amie’s gaze snaps to mine and her lips tug with silent laughter. I don’t understand what’s funny, but that’s okay. I’m a signed—almost—solo rock artist with Off Track Records. They may be a small indie label, but they’re a label.
“You’re my first client! Well, besides the portfolio of nobodies they gave me. You know how fucking cool that is?” A giggle escapes her lips. “I can’t believe I just signed Richie Sa—”
“No.” My excitement fades, the smile completely wiped away with her words, and my gut churns with apprehension. “Don’t do that. No one can know. I’m a nobody. Just add me to your portfolio like the rest of them. I will not use his name and you won’t either. I want it in the contract.”
“Sorry, just the excitement of it all. Of course. We’ll write it in.” She waves dismissively before retrieving another folder from her desk.
“Swear it.”
“Huh?” She blinks and stills at my command.
“I need you to swear you won’t use his name. Ever. I want to earn every bit of this. This is all me. He doesn’t deserve a damn ounce of anything I do, and I don’t want one fucking thing from him.”
She nods and understanding softens her normally sharp features. “I won’t. You’re good enough on your own.”
Her words affirm more than they should and I fight the sentiment that threatens to spill out of the corners of my charcoal lined eyes.
“I believe you have what it takes. That’s why I want you. And we’ll do this your way. Just makes my job a hell of a lot harder.” She chuckles and lifts her chin to the door over my shoulder. “Now, get outta my office so I can start pimpin’ your music.”
I nod with a grin. “Thanks, Amie.”
“No. Thank you. I’ll be in touch when the contracts are ready, but keep your phone close and bags ready. I have a few favors myself I’m gonna see if I can’t cash in on. Once people hear your voice, my job gets a hella lot easier.”
4
Lexi
“Ready? Nervous?” Amie says after she gives our names to the security guard in this pricey Hollywood Hills gated community and follows her GPS until we arrive at the address. She pulls her Prius up the immaculate drive in front of the modern style home.
“I was born ready. Not nervous. Just anxious.” And that’s the truth. I can’t wait to get this over with. Meet this band, Three Ugly Guys, a rock group made up of four musicians who exploded out of Arizona not even eighteen months ago. I did my research because I like to be prepared, and while they’ve had different drummers since hitting success, the band has been rocking for several years.
Oh, and they’re gorgeous. Well, at least the three original members are. But that’s more an irritation than a distraction for me. I know that type. Famous. Good looking. Talented. Rich. They’re guaranteed to have groupies in every city. That’s fine by me. I’ll keep my head down, to myself, but I can’t ignore that it’ll be hard to watch. Women, much like my mother, being used up and played for a moment of pleasure and the false promise of more.
But I’m not here for that. I’m here to make music and share it with the world. And these guys, they picked me to open in all twenty-two shows of their summer tour. It’s insane and amazing and utterly perfect. Less than twenty-four hours after signing with Off Track Records, Amie called me with the news I’m going on tour in four days and she was picking me up to meet the band.
“Let’s go meet these ugly assholes!” I smile at her and pop the door handle to step from the car.
“Don’t, Lexi. Please play nice,” Amie begs as she catches up to me in her designer heels. My combat boots fill me with confidence with each powerful stride.
“I’m nice.” I chuckle to myself.
“No, you’re not. But I love you anyway. Just cut the sarcasm and brutal truth for thirty minutes.
Shove it deep inside. You can do that, right?”
“Oh, can I? Pretty please?” I steeple my hands and bat my lashes.
“Smart ass.” Amie gives a knock at the door and moments later we’re greeted by a woman who must work here.
She’s dressed casually and welcomes us inside with a smile, but nothing about her screams rock star or groupie. No, she’s more soccer mom, or lifer in the suburbs with her khaki capris and blue floral blouse. “You must be with the label. Come on in. The boys are downstairs finishing up practice.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Amie says and I do my best to produce a polite smile while taking in the grandeur of this home. From the outside it’s simplistic and modern, but inside it’s brash and bold. Color and art everywhere. Natural light sneaks through the oversized windows and paints the air with a life-filled energy. My fingers itch for my guitar and notepad and I have to squelch the inspiration that bubbles to explode.
“Follow me this way.” The woman leads us past the open living room, down a hallway, and past several closed doors to a spiral staircase. “Just down here. Go on in. They’ll play all day if you don’t interrupt them.” She laughs with fondness in her tone and turns to leave Amie and myself to find our way. We take the stairs that disappear down into what must be a basement. With the way this home is situated on the hilltop, I wonder just how many stories it has.
The bass beat calls us through the open doors of another living room that includes a small kitchen and into a roomy, state-of-the-art control booth that showcases a mostly soundproof practice space visible through glass windows almost as wide as the room itself.
Amie grips the volume nob, slides it forward and the control room fills with music.
They’re good. Sure. But they aren’t rock gods by any means. Their music is in that style that’s just rock enough to make the diehards happy, but still trendy so they’ll make top forty stations. It’s smart for marketing purposes and I don’t begrudge them their success. I’m chasing my own dream and these four have given me a direct ticket to the spotlight. It’s mine for the taking. My time to shine, and show the world what Lexi Marx is made of.
“God damn, he’s incredible.” Amie whispers when the lead singer breaks into a guitar solo. Her lips transform to that smile girls wear when they see someone they’d follow into a bathroom and fuck. She might think she’s admiring his talent, but she’s been seduced by the charisma, the power, and the confidence that comes from fame. I don’t blame her, but the entire exchange sickens me. He isn’t special. None of them are. They’re exactly like every other man in the world.
Just another asshole with a guitar.
“Don’t you think, Lexi?” She bumps my shoulder and the movement grabs the attention of those beyond the glass that separates us. The front man, Trent Donavan, flips his long hair from his face and meets my gaze. His eyes are predatory, a deep, gorgeous green, and they cut through my bullshit well-knit perfected exterior. Well, fuck him. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows in silent challenge.
He moves to the microphone and his lips move against the corded metal in an almost illicit manner. Amie curses under her breath and I get it, I do. He oozes sex, attraction, lust. Except his magic doesn’t work on me. He’s too much like my bastard of a father.
I purse my lips and shrug, expecting it will fuck with his mojo. Instead, his lips pull into an ear-to-ear smile and his deep, raspy laughter comes through the speakers before he delves back into the refrain. He never once drops his gaze from mine and there’s no way in hell I’ll look away first. If anything I’m stubborn as hell, so we remain in this juvenile standoff and battle of wills.
The song ends and he raises his brow, giving a nod before turning away from the mic and toward the band. They all set their instruments down, albeit leisurely, so Amie and I wait a good fifteen minutes before they finally emerge from their practice room.
“Amie Biers. Off Track Records. Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand to each of the guys. To an outsider she appears professional and unaffected by their close proximity. But we used to hit the frat parties from time to time, so I know she’d rather be jumping their bones. She does good though, and maintains a contained front. “Let me introduce you to Lexi Marx.”
Sean Willis steps forward first. “Nice to meet you, Lexi. I’m Sean.”
“Hey, Sean. Nice to meet you as well. Sick bass solo in that last song,” I say and his cheeks pull with a smile.
I shake hands with Austin Jones, whose eyes linger at my breasts longer than socially acceptable. I’d be pissed if I had higher expectations.
“Lexi. Everyone calls me Iz.” The drummer, so much older than the rest of the band, squints and tilts his head to the right. “Do I know you, honey?” And the moment he says the words I’m transported back to a memory I’d like to forget. Thirteen years old. Last visit with my dad. No. Don’t think about it. Shit, shit, shit! I’ve met this guy before . . .
“I don’t think so. I have a familiar look,” I say sweetly, shake his hand, and submit myself to the scrutiny of their hotshot lead singer. I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He steps forward, his frame so much larger than mine, and wraps my hand inside his massive one. Seriously, this guy’s like a giant in comparison to my five-two. He tilts his head, eyes meeting mine again as though he knows me. “You do look really familiar.”
“Maybe you’re a fan of my music?” I quip and I can almost hear Amie groan.
He chuckles, all throaty, and it scatters goosebumps over my arms. I try to pull my hand back but he’s got one hell of a grip. “No, that’s not it. I can’t stand the way chicks sing.”
“Right . . .” I manage to contain my sarcasm and I’m proud of myself for holding back the eye roll. I pop my eyes open and nod while still meeting his stare. Another yank of my arm and he still doesn’t let go but raises his brow in amusement. Fucking rock stars. I gasp and force a burst of excitement onto my face. “Oh, I know! Maybe from the porn I did?”
“Fuck!” Someone groans and it’s so difficult not to laugh. Trent’s eyes widen with alarm and what could almost be construed as respectful admiration. Not exactly the reaction I was going for, but it’s still funny as hell. I finally have my hand back and sneak a glance at each of the guys. Austin narrows his gaze and I’d place money on the fact he’s trying to recall every porn clip he’s ever jacked off to in hopes that my face rings a bell. Sean can barely meet my gaze, and the old guy, Iz, a roadie from back in my dad’s day, leers like the washed up bastard he really is. Good. Let him lust after someone who could be his child. That’s better than him making the connection.
“Fucking with you.” I raise one eyebrow and grin with one flick of my lip ring.
“Oh.” Austin’s disappointment falls with his concentration.
Trent’s lips curl up with humor, and I exhale the relief that no one knows who I really am.
“Hey, wait a sec! You’re Richie Sands’ daughter!” Iz shouts with a clap of his hands.
Shit.
“Fuck! That’s it!” Trent appraises me with that look of respect that I can’t stand. I glance at Amie but she won’t meet my eyes. Fucking hell. She better not have said a word.
“Shit. Your dad is a rock legend,” Sean whispers reverently.
“So I’ve heard.” Now I really do roll my eyes.
“Fuck, that’s awesome. Do we get to meet him?” Austin bounces on the balls of his feet.
“I have no clue.” I flip my lip ring again and try to catch Amie’s eyes. I can’t deal with this.
“Won’t he come see you on tour?” Austin says and when I exhale a deep breath to glare in his direction my eyes catch Trent’s inquisitive stare. He tips his head and I have to look away because the way he stares, it’s as if he can see more than I want, more than I’m willing to give, and it’s completely disarming.
“Lexi and her father are estranged.” Amie commands their attention. “We won’t be mentioning her relationship to him on this tour. It’s
actually in her contract with Off Track Records, and since you’re clients of our label, that agreement extends to all of you. Your manager will be providing you with NDAs to sign before the tour starts, but it’s best if we stop name dropping now. If not, you’ll be held liable for damages.”
Austin raises his hands. “Whoa, no need to threaten lawsuits.” I hate the tension that fills this space. Way to make a first impression. If it weren’t for that roadie, I’d have been in the clear.
Amie smiles, softer this time. “Not a threat, Mr. Jones. Merely informing you of what’s at stake.”
“But won’t that be sort of impossible to enforce?” Trent speaks up. “Like it took us less than fifteen minutes to place her. You don’t think the press will jump all over that story once they make the connection?”
God, I hope not.
“I actually don’t get mistaken for his daughter. Ever. Mostly, I’m confused with another famous performer, which is even more fucking annoying.” I’m rambling, but that’s just to mask how this conversation is filling my gut with dread.
“Oh fuck, now that I can see.” Trent nods, a gleam of humor in his eyes.
Shit, now why did I say that? I grit my teeth and step closer to the cocky front man. “Say it,” I dare him. “Fucking say it and see what happens.” I can’t help the temper I have. The one that flares when being teased by a guy. It’s been a part of my DNA for as long as I can remember. Someone else may back down, but I step forward, fists ready and waiting to swing. Trent’s smirk is so fucking arrogant that I want nothing more than to swipe it right off his famous face.
He steps closer, as though he can tell he’s getting under my skin, and lifts his long fingers to grab a lock of my hair. He lets it slide between them. “You know, if you wore a black wig you’d look just like—”
Danika, the next twenty-something pop princess. He doesn’t even have to speak the name and I see red. I fucking hate when people say I look like her. Maybe because she’s so pop and I’m not. Maybe because I don’t want to be seen as a cheap knockoff or copycat. Either way, I don’t take a moment to think before I grab the front of Trent’s tight ass jeans.
