The blare of a car horn snapped my wandering mind back into focus as chaos erupted in front of me. A convertible, blasting a popular party anthem and carrying a load of rowdy guys, sped through a red light, right into the path of other traffic. It swerved and managed to avoid hitting anyone directly but clipped a motorcycle. My hairs stood on end as the sharp sound of scraping metal pierced the air. The contact was enough to force the motorcycle onto its side with the driver partially pinned underneath.
Without any conscious thought, my feet propelled me forward. A few other witnesses had gathered and were lifting the motorcycle off of the driver, who was pulling off his helmet.
“Try to stay still,” a man said, encouraging him to lie back down.
“I’m calling for help,” a woman announced.
As the motorcycle was removed, a small pool of blood became visible. A hole in the driver’s jeans spurted in time with his pulse. Shit. My only medical training was from television dramas, but I knew that wasn’t good. Dropping my backpack, I whipped my t-shirt over my head, thankful for the bikini top I’d worn because of my lack of clean bras that morning.
Quickly folding my shirt, I pushed it against the wound with enough pressure to try to control the bleeding. Once settled into place, my gaze shifted. I didn’t see any other injuries, and the driver seemed alert, though a bit dazed. Around fifty years old, he was very fit for his age, with salt-and-pepper hair that matched a short beard.
“What’s your name?” I asked him, trying to keep us both from completely freaking out.
“Grady, but everybody calls me Pops.” His eyes widened as the woman on the phone relayed details to the dispatch operator. She certainly wasn’t sugarcoating it.
“Nice to meet you, Pops. I’m Anna. Help is on the way. Does anything else hurt?”
“Just my leg. How bad is it?”
Cautiously, I glanced down to check on the makeshift bandage. It was stained but not soaked.
“You’ve got a bleeder, but I think it’s under control. Just try to be still and stay calm.” As I spoke, Pops slid off his belt and wrapped it around his upper thigh to create a tourniquet. He had the look of an ex-military man, and I was impressed with his ability to handle himself under the circumstances. To distract myself from the gravity of the situation, I asked about his T-shirt. “You’re a Game of Thrones fan?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, glancing down at his shirt. “Some friends got me hooked.”
“Then I need to ask you a very serious question, Pops.” I waited for his gaze to land back on mine. My heart was pounding, but I was determined to stay calm for Pops. “What do we say to the God of Death?”
A small smile broke free, paired with a look of determination. “Not today.”
“That’s right, Pops. Not today.”
“Thanks, Angel.” Turning his head, he eyed the motorcycle.
“I’m sorry about your bike. The damage looks pretty minor.”
He shrugged. “It’s a rental, but that’s good.”
The asphalt was digging craters into my kneecaps and the muscles in my arms burned, but I was terrified of moving so much as an inch. A bead of sweat trailed down my spine as I remained locked in place.
Thankfully, the whine of sirens started getting louder and flashing lights grew in the distance. More people had gathered to gawk but began moving back as a police car approached. In a flurry of activity, an officer checked in with me before taking charge of the scene to clear a path for the ambulance. EMTs poured out of the vehicle, quickly assessing Pops’ injuries and working to take over. I nearly sagged with relief. Stepping back to give them room, I halted when Pops clutched my hand.
“Don’t leave.” The twitch in his jaw was the only visible sign of pain as they placed him onto a gurney. But his eyes were still tinged with fear. Simply nodding, I strengthened my grip.
“She can ride along if she’s family,” an EMT offered.
“She’s my daughter.”
My breath stalled as I waited for someone to catch the lie. Instead, I was helped into the back of the rig with Pops. Within minutes, we were escorted into the local ER. Pops was wheeled toward the trauma center, but we were stopped just outside the imposing double doors. A nurse blocked me from going any further and offered to update me as soon as possible. Pops was a stranger, but I was haunted by the idea of him being alone.
“I’ll be waiting right here, Pops,” I promised.
“Do me a favor, Angel.” He quickly passed me his wallet, keys, and phone.
“Of course.”
“Call Jaxon.”
Chapter 2
Jaxon
Was there anything better than live music? Not if you asked me. Music, in general, was a vital part of life, providing nourishment for the mind and soul. It inspired. It motivated. It was healing. It was therapeutic. And live music harnessed all of that power and multiplied it by a hundred.
Not that I needed the incentive of live music to want to escape the oversized conference room infested with reporters. But, honestly, being forced to watch the lit stage and swaying fans from a distant window was almost cruel. I checked the time on my phone and gritted my teeth. I’d lost count of the number of interviews I’d given today, but this was the last. Hallelujah.
Being the lead singer for Detrimental left far too many people feeling entitled to a piece of me or hell-bent on twisting anything I said into a sensational headline. It was maddening, to say the least. The worst part? No matter how much I wanted to stand up, tell them all to go to hell, and storm out, I had to grin and bear it.
“Any comment about the break-up with Krissy?”
It was the same question I’d dodged a hundred times. I glanced at the reporter’s ID tag. “Not today, Paul. But give me your info. You’ll be the first one I call.”
The sarcasm was clearly lost on him as he passed me a business card to add to the collection in my back pocket. His final questions stretched out, my knee bouncing and my eyes wandering back to the window the entire time. And the moment the interview was over, I couldn’t move fast enough. Practically sprinting down the hallway and two flights of stairs, I shoved open the door to fill my lungs with the rich, night air. Then I heard it.
The distant rumble of drums and the scream of a guitar filled the night air, luring me across the festival grounds. I flashed my laminated pass at security and entered the backstage area of the outdoor venue. Following the signs, I hiked towards the hospitality tent behind the main stage. Various staff and performers lingering along the way offered a courtesy head nod in greeting and then carried on with their business.
The late spring air was warm with enough of a breeze to make the tent comfortable. A sea of tables and chairs filled the space, but most were empty at this hour. Dinner had long passed, as my stomach reminded me. I easily located my bandmates and sank into a vacant seat.
“Damn, man. Did you just get finished?” Eli asked. I simply nodded. “How long was that junket?”
“Five fucking hours.”
He whistled sympathetically and reached over to pat me on the shoulder. There wasn’t anything more to say. Publicity shit never failed to put me in a bad mood, but today’s horror show of lying, manipulative vultures had resulted in a killer headache and a mood so foul I didn’t even want my own company.
“Here.” Derek slid a plastic cup in front of me. “You need this more than me.”
“Thanks. What is it?” Not that it mattered. Anything to help peel off a layer of my contempt was welcome.
“Jack and Coke.”
“Did you eat?” Callie asked. “The food trucks are still open.”
“I’ll get something in a minute. Did you bring my bag?”
I drained half the cup as she passed a plastic grocery bag to me. “Thanks, sis.”
Under normal circumstances, I liked interacting with our fans. But with my current mood and the hope of enjoying the show without disruption, I needed to blend in. Plus, it would be completely disrespectful to draw any attention awa
y from the band on stage. Working quickly, I tucked my shaggy hair under a skull cap and covered my tattoos with a light jacket. The recent break in our tour also meant a thick layer of scruff covered my face. Fake glasses completed my meager but effective efforts to conceal my identity.
“Twenty minutes,” Shawn announced, spurring everyone into action.
We walked towards the general admission gate, proceeding down the long row of vendor stalls. Everything from food and drinks to band merchandise and festival souvenirs was available. Hell, you could even have your hair braided or get an airbrushed tattoo.
A bright red taco truck caught my attention as Shawn gave a distracted wave and wandered towards a merchandise booth. Paper maps of Vendor Row filled a box mounted to a light pole, and we grabbed a few as we passed. Callie started reading off names as I got in line for dinner, the spicy scented air taunting my tastebuds.
“No way! How did I miss the frozen custard truck earlier?”
“Come on,” Derek sighed but led her away with a smile. “Catch you guys later.”
As I waited, I cracked my neck to release some of the tension that had built during the press junket. “Check that map for a massage booth. I’m tense as fuck.”
“Because you need to fuck,” Lance said. “A big, juicy O would loosen you right up. And in this case, hand-squeezed is not better.”
“Sex is your answer for everything,” I pointed out.
“True. In my defense, it works. Give me five minutes. I’ll find you a nice Florida girl who will make you forget all about your time in Press Purgatory.” The line moved up as he pointed to a group of women getting fresh lemonade at the next truck. “How about one of them?”
“Are you my pimp now? No, thanks.”
“Your loss. I’m going in.” Left on our own, Eli and I watched him work. Within two minutes, he had each arm around a different girl as they all walked away.
“The boy’s got skills,” Eli laughed.
With my order in hand, Eli and I took a seat at a nearby picnic table. As I inhaled my food, Lance’s words echoed in my head. Yes, it had been months since I’d gotten laid. Being a rock star sounded like the coolest gig on the planet, but it also came with a lot of responsibility. And very little privacy. So I tended to be much more discriminating while Lance happily hooked up with any random acquaintance or groupie.
“It has been a while,” I admitted, gathering my trash and tossing it into the bin as we resumed our walk to the show.
In our early days, I had my share of groupies, but that had quickly grown old. I’d felt a little guilty just using them to get off, but they were willing and available. Then I realized that they were just using me too. All they cared about was being able to tell their friends that they had fucked a rock star. Since then, I began preferring a more personal connection with a woman I slept with. Or at least knowing she wanted me, not a claim to fame.
“We both know how hard it is to date while we’re on the road. A groupie or a weekend fling, if you can meet someone, are the only options for scratching the itch.”
“The last weekender I had ended up selling pictures to TMZ. Now I’m stuck between adding to the media frenzy or getting a woman to sign an NDA. Kinda kills the mood.”
We found an open spot near the back of the crowd and settled in. The final band was scheduled to start any minute, and anticipation hummed in the air as “Don’t Threaten Me with a Good Time” was piped through the sound system. Though we had all-access passes, I loved the freedom and anonymity that came with being lost in the crowd. The experience was like no other. The only thing better was being the one on stage.
“Do you ever miss this?” I turned toward Eli, my best friend and Detrimental’s bass player, noting that he had also made some adjustments to his usual appearance. Decked out in board shorts, a souvenir t-shirt, and his long hair tucked under a baseball cap, he passed for a typical tourist as his head rocked to the beat.
“Do I miss being on a festival tour?” His disbelief was apparent.
“Yeah. We had so much fun back then.”
Eli scrutinized me, possibly looking for signs of insanity. “Fun? We lived in a van and only showered once a week.”
I cringed, conceding that point. Still, something about the night had me feeling nostalgic for the early days. “Okay, that part wasn’t fun. But we were free from all of the bullshit. The music was our focus.”
“All of the bullshit has made us rich and successful. But I hear you, man. You deal with a lot more of it than the rest of us.”
The acknowledgment was appreciated but made me long for the simpler days before Bianca, our publicist, had singled me out, given my image a shit-tastic overhaul, and turned me into a media puppet. The rest of the guys tried to get more involved, but Bianca kept them firmly in the shadows. And kept me in the spotlight.
“Bianca’s been hinting at a solo project.” Part of me wondered if that was her endgame all along.
“What do you think about that?”
It was such a predictable question coming from Eli, the diplomat and nurturer of the group.
“Fuck. No.” I shook my head in disgust. “I’m not doing anything without you guys and wanted you to hear it from me in case there are rumors.”
“Alright. We’ve got your back.”
Those simple words were the reason we were all still together. Friends since high school, we had always looked out for one another. Though each of us had come into Detrimental with a different background and motivation, we were a bonded unit. And I refused to let Bianca ruin that.
For now, the record label had control over our music, our image, and how publicity was handled. However, our contract was coming up for renewal and we were no longer the same doe-eyed kids, desperate for a record deal. No longer a risky investment, we were an asset with proven success and millions of fans around the world. It was time to use that to our advantage and make some changes to the way things were done. But not tonight.
The canned music came to a halt and the crowd went wild. Stage lights flashed against the darkened sky as a pulsing bass rhythm and the familiar scent of weed filled the air.
Borrowing Trouble took the stage, belting out song after song of in-your-face rock madness. They hadn’t achieved the same level of success as Detrimental, but it wouldn’t be much longer. They were cool guys with a lot of talent and took their music seriously. Because of that, I looked forward to them joining us next week on our tour.
Closing my eyes, I let go of the day’s stress and allowed the music to work its magic.
All too soon, the show was over and we were fighting our way through the thick crowd to get back to the rental van in the VIP lot. Our tour bus was parked in the campground area reserved for performers, but we had booked a house on the beach for the weekend. Performing was my favorite part of being a rock star, though there were definite hardships to life on the road. Given the choice, I would pick an actual bed over a bunk any day of the week.
Wondering where everyone else had ended up and how long they would be, I sent out a group text.
Me: Heading to the van with Eli. Status check.
We had developed certain band rules over the years. One was that everyone must check in to be accounted for. It prevented anyone from getting left behind. Yeah, that had happened once.
As expected, responses started coming in almost immediately.
Shawn: Be there in 5 with some cool merch to show you guys
Derek: On my way with Callie
Lance: BJ in progress. Can’t rush perfection. I’ll be coming in hot ;)
“Aw, hell.” I laughed along with Eli, who had also seen the text. I tossed my hat and glasses into the van and raked my fingers through my hair.
“Looks like we’ll be here a few minutes,” he agreed, removing his own hat.
Those three texts summed up the rest of our band perfectly. Shawn, our drummer, was the businessman, always on the lookout for ways to better our brand to make us more money. While Sh
awn was the brains of the band, Derek was the brawn. He played rhythm guitar and, as the oldest of the group, was naturally protective of everyone. Lance, our lead guitarist as well as Derek’s younger brother, was a bit of an attention whore. As a social media junkie, he handled all of that for the band.
My sister, Callie, could usually be found hanging with the band as well. She had been our personal assistant but had also taken over as our booking agent. Hiring a new assistant had been a nightmare, leaving Callie to juggle the extra workload for now and making her an even more vital part of the team.
With time to kill, I scrolled through my other notifications until one caught my attention.
“Did Pops call you?” I asked, noting the recently missed calls. Grady Popovitch, known as Pops, was our tour manager and had become like a favorite uncle to all of us.
Eli checked his phone and shook his head. “No, why?”
“I have three missed calls from him.”
“That’s weird.” Pops was not a man for small talk and always preferred texting.
“What’s weird?” Shawn asked, joining us at the van. I popped the back hatch for him to place a box inside.
“Three missed calls from Pops,” Eli explained.
“No way,” Shawn argued, but I showed him the proof. “Wasn’t he meeting up with some old friends from The Blitzed Tour? Maybe he got drunk and butt-dialed you.”
“Who got drunk and butt-dialed you?” Derek asked as he and Callie arrived.
“Pops,” Eli answered and filled them in.
It rarely happened, but when Pops got drunk, he was very entertaining. A devilish grin broke free as I started dialing.
“Put it on speaker,” Derek suggested.
Everyone huddled around me as the call connected. After the second ring, a woman answered.
“Hello? Is this Jaxon?” The back of my neck began to tingle, along with other places I chose to ignore. Her voice was sweet and feminine, but she sounded much too young for Pops, immediately putting my guard up.
Suspicion clouded my thoughts, and I tightened my grip on the phone. “Who the fuck are you? And why do you have Pops’ phone?”
Changing the Key: A Detrimental Rock Star Romance (Book 1) Page 2
