by Remy, Cate
My Fake Rockstar Boyfriend
A Rock and Rogues Novel
Clean Rockstar Romance
Written by
Cate Remy
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, dialogue, incidents, and places either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
My Fake Rockstar Boyfriend. Copyright 2019 by Cate Remy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be resold, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Piracy is illegal. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Note From The Author
About the Author
Chapter One
Atlanta, Georgia
Tracy Jordan adjusted her camera equipment backstage at Rocky’s Live Concert Hall. She had fifteen minutes until the next music act came on stage and she needed to prepare pronto.
Too bad people around her made it hard to do her job. She peeked out from the curtain to see at least two hundred tipsy, impatient concert goers. The venue smelled of booze, nachos, and the comingling scents of perfume and hairspray.
Stage crew rushed around her, setting up for the next band. It was supposed to be a big header tonight for the modest concert venue. Deacon Wonder, the big famous rock band, would be there. That meant she could make some extra cash if her photos were good enough. With rent overdue, student loans, and her aunt’s medical bills to manage, she could use all the money that came her way.
“The band’s here,” someone from the crew announced. They worked faster. Then two guys in skinny jeans and gel-spiked hair came from the side of the backstage entrance. Tracy guessed they were with the band.
“Hey,” said the lead crewman. “You’re on soon. Where’s your singer?”
The guy with blond spiked hair answered. “Deacon said he’ll be here in a second. He ran into traffic.”
Uh-oh. If the lead singer wasn’t here yet, the crowd could get antsier and rowdy. And she had to go out there to stand on the photographer’s platform. Tracy turned her camera on. The batteries were low. She reached in her bag to get the spare one that was fully charged.
At that moment, a tall man in well-fitting jeans and a grey t-shirt rushed on to the back part of the stage. He had one of those long, skinny cans of soda in one hand and a rolling suitcase in the other. He moved with it so fast the thing sounded like it was being pulled down a runway and getting ready for takeoff.
“Deacon, you made it,” said the other bandmate with brown spiked hair. “Barely, but you made it.”
“Traffic on the highway was crazy. Should’ve had the company send a driver for me.” The lead singer of the band and its namesake strode forward with his rolling suitcase. He got close to Tracy and without warning or even so much as asking, used a well-muscled bicep to deposit the suitcase near her feet. “I’m here. We can get started.”
Oh, boy. Tracy stared at the leather luggage with its fancy Italian logo on the front. This guy was full of himself. She pretended he wasn’t there while she worked on changing out the camera battery.
“Hey, you. Purple Converse sneakers.”
She raised her eyes to see that Deacon’s handsome face was turned her way and he was addressing her. “I have a name. It isn’t Purple Converse Sneakers. It’s Tracy.”
He paused in the space of a beat, as though he weren’t prepared for her particular response. “Hold this, Tracy.” He thrust his energy drink in front of her face. She stared at the sweaty can in disbelief.
“You want me to what?”
“Hold it.” He spoke slowly and succinctly, as though she didn’t understand English. His dark eyebrows drew together when he narrowed his hazel-brown eyes. “You’re part of the stage crew, right?”
“No...” Could he not see how the workers backstage all wore black shirts labeled STAGE CREW? Didn’t he notice the camera in her hand and put it together that she was there to take pictures, not hold his neon-labeled energy drink? “I’m not stage crew. I’m the photographer.” Tracy considered giving him another piece of her mind, but thought of her job. The last thing she needed was to get the boot from her boss because some cocky musician thought the camera girl with the afro and glasses was being difficult. She swallowed her pride and reached for his drink. She held it between her thumb and index finger. “Since you’re about to go on and don’t have time to do it yourself, I’ll set this down somewhere.”
“Watch my suitcase, too.” He went to join the band while they waited to be announced on stage.
What an entitled, selfish...Tracy cut her thoughts off before they could make her angrier. Her job was to take pictures of the band. She’d be done in another hour. No sense getting mad at a spoiled rocker’s request.
The carbonation in the energy drink made fizzy popping noises as she set it on the floor next to her feet. Her old college roommate would be fainting right about now. She remembered how the roommate listened to the band nonstop. Because of her, Tracy learned Deacon Wonder produced albums that reached triple platinum.
She hadn’t heard much about the band once she graduated, though. If Deacon and his band were playing at Rocky’s, a mid-level venue, things must not be going so well for them these days.
Not like Deacon’s attitude helped. She tested the camera to make sure she was able to capture the entire band through her lens. Meanwhile, Deacon paced across the stage, checking cords and amps and following after the sound check guys. “Are we good? We’re about to be on in seven minutes.”
She heard the crowd buzzing behind the curtain. They were ready for the band and she was ready to get her job done so she could go home.
She peered into the camera lens and saw it was a little fuzzy. It needed to be cleaned with one of the microfiber wipes in her bag. She stepped back and heard something fall over, following by a loud hiss. She looked down at her feet and saw she kicked Deacon’s energy drink over. Fizzy cherry red foam spilled from the can and pooled around his suitcase. “Oh, no.”
He heard the spill, turned her way and made his eyes big. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Sorry. It was an accident.” Tracy picked up the can.
“That’s a five thousand dollar suitcase made of Italian leather.”
“I’ll go get napkins.” She left her station and raced further back behind stage to loop around to the concession hall of the venue.
She skirted and squeezed past people standing around to get to the bar. She flagged the bartender down. He came over to her end of the counter, surprised.
“Shouldn’t you be by the stage working?”
“I need an energy drink. Something red and cherry flavored.”
The bartender threw his towel over his shoulder before he bent down underneath the counter. He opened a small fridge door and took out two cans with bright colored letters. “Which brand?”
“I have no clue.” She ya
nked napkins from the dispenser on the counter while attempting to recall the appearance of the can Deacon waved in her face. “Got anything with neon lightning bolts?”
“You want one of those?” He took the two cans away and reached into the refrigerator to pull out another one that looked exactly like the one Deacon had. “Better go easy on it. This stuff is pretty potent.”
“It’s not for me. How much?”
“Eight bucks.”
“For an energy drink?” Her stunned inquiry was so loud other people turned.
“I said it was powerful stuff. It doesn’t come cheap.”
Tracy fished out a five and three ones to give him. “Sorry. I don’t have money for a tip.”
She took the tall can away and headed towards the stage again. She went in the back and found Deacon tying his shoe lace. A private security guard got in front of her. “Can I help you?” He folded his big arms across his barrel chest.
She pulled a lanyard from beneath her shirt collar and showed him the badge she wore with the venue’s name on it. “I work here. I went to get him another drink.”
Deacon got to his feet. “I got this, Charlie.” He plucked the drink from Tracy’s hand. She watched, mouth parted in shock, as he gulped the contents of the sixteen ounce can down in less than ten seconds. “Nice and cold. Thanks.” He handed the can back to her before running out on stage. The curtain open and closed, letting her catch a glimpse of the audience. They roared in applause.
If only they knew how rude he was. Tracy crushed the can and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket. Then she mopped up the spilled drink, took her equipment, and went out of another side of the stage to go onto the photographer’s platform near the audience.
“Hello, Atlanta,” Deacon shouted into the mic. The crowd hollered back at him. “It’s good to be back.”
Tracy got her camera operational while he worked the crowd. He introduced his bass guitar player Nick and the drummer Luka. By the time Luka set the first beat, she was ready to begin filming.
Deacon launched into a song called Your Lips, a hit Tracy heard often during college homecoming dances. The crowd clapped and sang along. She zoomed in to record Deacon. He saw her camera on him and gave a wink.
Please. Tracy would have rolled her eyes if she didn’t have to keep them focused on filming.
He put most of his attention towards her camera, strutting back and forth in front of it. He danced a little to the music, his tall, athletic body keeping to the beat. She noticed several tattoos on his right upper arm. She focused the lens on his face. The stage lighting played in the angles of his jawline. His eyes had a naughty glint. The man knew he looked good, and wasn’t afraid to let everyone else know it, too.
He reached the middle of the song and held a power note. A group of teenage girls behind Tracy screamed so loud their voices competed with his over the speakers. They kept waving to get his attention. They tried to climb on Tracy’s platform to get closer, but the security guard quickly moved in to block their path.
Tracy wished she had worn earplugs to drown out the fan girls screaming. Of course, Deacon wasn’t making it any easier. Across the other end of the stage, a couple of older women reached out their hands and strained for him to touch their fingertips.
All of this went on for the next hour. He showed no signs of stopping as he danced, flirted and hit all of the notes to make the crowd dance and sing. Tracy didn’t know exactly how much caffeine and sugar was in that energy drink, but it had to be near heart attack levels to keep his energy going so high.
Eventually, the band played the last song of the night. She used the time to take down her camera equipment. Her job was to get the best and most rousing footage to give to the concert venue, which would then pass it on to the band’s manager. She got off the platform, passed by the concession stand, and went up the stairs to go to her supervisor’s office.
Clay, her boss, watched the concert from a monitor affixed to the wall. He waved when he saw her come through the open door. “Good music tonight, huh?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? Deacon Wonder is a big-time band. Granted, they haven’t had a hit or made a new album in years, but they’re the biggest draw we’ve ever had in this place.”
Tracy put her camera’s memory drive on the desk. “Let me know if this needs editing.”
Clay gave her an exasperated look before he plugged the drive into his laptop computer. “Let me guess. You’re not a Deacon Wonder fan?”
Nope, and especially not after her encounter with the lead singer himself. “Just not my type of music.”
Clay went through the thumbnails and watched a minute of the band playing on stage. “These pictures and your videos look good, though. I’ll pass these along to the band’s manager tonight.” He made a copy of her files before returning the drive to her. Then he sniffed the air. “What’s that smell? It’s like a thousand berries exploded.”
Tracy glanced at her feet and realized she had splashed Deacon’s energy drink on the toes of her sneakers. “Whoops. Must have stepped in a soft drink on the way up here.”
“See you on Monday for Open Mic Night.”
“See you Monday, Clay.” Tracy took her equipment and left the office.
She went outside and took a route around the concert venue to go to the employee parking lot behind the building. There, she sighted a large van, along with Deacon and the rest of the band loading their equipment into the back. He turned her way. She stopped walking. His gaze went right through her before he focused on the band again and shouted orders at them, all the while slurping down yet another fizzy drink.
Tracy made a face and kept going. Deacon Wonder. Some name. There was nothing amazing or wondrous about him or his bad manners. She hoped she never had to photograph him again.
DEACON WOKE UP LATE the next morning in his house to the sound of his cell phone alarm blaring. He opened one eye and rolled over to hit the snooze button. A notice flashed on the cell phone screen. Meeting in 45 mins – Record Exec
Crud.
He shot out of bed and hosed down in the shower. Then he threw on a pair of clean jeans and t-shirt. He thought twice about his wardrobe choices when he considered the person he was meeting. The exec would be in a suit. He opted for a button down shirt instead of the t-shirt.
He combed his damp hair and raced to the living room downstairs. Where did he leave his favorite pair of shoes? He must have kicked them off somewhere close by when he got home last night.
He found them in the hall closet. The housekeeper must have snuck in extra early this morning and picked up after him. He got his shoes and grabbed the car keys on the console table.
Outside, Deacon turned on the radio as he started the engine of the Alfa Romeo. He groaned as his favorite alternative rock station had the DJs talking instead of playing music.
“So Deacon Wonder played last night at Rocky’s here in the ATL,” a male DJ’s snarky voice filled the speakers. “I was there, and I have to say, I wasn’t that impressed.”
He grunted as he drove the car down the street. He continued listening as the DJ’s co-host snickered.
“Wow, tell us how you really feel, Bob.”
“I’m serious. The band just isn’t what it used to be. Remember their song One Night For The Road?”
“Of course. It only went triple platinum.”
“They haven’t come out with anything since,” Bob’s critique continued. “You know what I think it is, Jim? Their lead singer’s still lovesick.”
“Lovesick?” Jim spoke in the form of a question, but it was obvious he used the tone to play along. “Doesn’t the guy change girlfriends like you and I change socks?”
“He hasn’t since he broke up with his last girlfriend. You know, the one who’s in the goth metal band now.”
“You’re thinking of Rita Rox,” Jim supplied.
“That’s her name. A real heartbreaker. He got drunk and jumped off a hotel balcony into a pool
after they broke up.”
Deacon gritted his teeth. Over a year later, and the media still wouldn’t let the incident go.
The DJs chuckled. Bob concluded the segment. “I would’ve enjoyed the concert last night if they had a new hit. Deacon Wonder, if you’re listening to this, record some fresh songs already.”
He switched off the radio, wishing he had listened to a news station instead. Now he was at Peachtree Records. He parked his car in the employee lot and speed-walked to get inside the building. His manager and attorney Ash was waiting for him in the lobby. “It’s about time you got here. You could lose your record deal for being late.”
“I overslept after last night’s concert.” He regretted chugging that extra energy drink. It kept him wired past two in the morning.
“No excuse. Jackson Barnes isn’t going to see it as his problem.”
Deacon hadn’t met the new executive of Peachtree Records. His band signed with the company when it was under the former guy. Apparently, the new one was a relative of the executive who passed away. “Let’s stop wasting time out here talking and go see him.”
Seconds later, they got off the elevator and entering the executive suite. The assistant at the front desk announced their arrival. “Jackson, Deacon and his manager are here to see you.”
Deacon walked into the clean, orderly space of Jackson’s office. The polished furniture had a subtle gleam. A man with graying blond hair and blue eyes, who appeared to be in his late forties, stood up from his desk to greet them. “Welcome.” He shook their hands. “Have a seat. We have a lot to talk about.”
Deacon took the chair to the right of the desk. He glanced at a framed photograph on the desk. It appeared to be a family picture of Jackson, his wife, and daughter. The wife and young girl were African American. Deacon couldn’t help but notice how happy they all looked. “Nice picture.”
Jackson touched the frame and smiled at it. “Thanks. This was taken last Christmas. We just had a baby.”
“Congrats.” Something about the photograph made Deacon feel positive.
