by Jess Bentley
Still, I can’t help but think that Chelsea Garten is the key to my career’s resuscitation. Her sweet melodies are still in my ears days later. Though that might be because I keep rewatching the YouTube video of our performance. Our little encore banter, the flirtatiousness in her eyes, and I know it’s all just for show. I know the way she sizes me up in that video is for the audience’s benefit, but it still makes my cock hard every time I watch it.
This is fucked. I know I can’t just sit at home pining over something that’s never going to happen again. Whatever magic happened that night was a one-time thing and I just need to accept it. But a junkie can never quit at one hit and I need more. More of her. More of us.
I growl at the screen and toss the phone across the couch, raking my hand over my face like I can erase her memory as easily as cleaning a whiteboard. It’s useless and I know it is.
Just to taunt me the phone starts vibrating, and I lunge across the couch to snatch it up. I don’t know what I’m hoping for, but it isn’t Merrill, even though that’s what I get.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to make sure I don’t sound as messed up as I feel.
“Hey there, rockstar,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
I groan. He only uses that name when he’s got a proposition for me. There’s been some interest in a new tour with all this press, but every time I ask him if anything’s coming of it, he brushes me off again and tells me to let him worry about that. It’s infuriating, but I know he’s damn good at his job and if I pester him too much I’ll just get in the way.
“What’ve you got for me, Mer?”
“I hope you haven’t already gotten me a birthday present, because this is going to warrant some serious gratitude,” he says, still grinning on the other end.
“You already know I think you’re the best damn manager in the world, so it’s not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Why don’t you stop taunting me and spill it?”
“All business today, then? Fine,” he grumbles and I almost feel guilty. Almost. He is still keeping me from watching the video again.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Merrill,” I groan.
“So, you know how the record label has been pushing for you to get a new album out and to set some tour dates?”
“I haven’t been living under a rock. Yeah, I know.” Could he just get to the point already?
“Well, you’re not the only one who’s had a bit of a lull lately.”
“O…kay?”
“I’m talking about your songbird. Miss Chelsea Garten. You’re both signed with Pelican.”
It’s like he’s speaking another language and I can’t understand any of the words he’s saying even though I know I should be able to. “What?”
“The label wants the two of you to do an album together, and maybe a short tour. It could be what you both need to reinvigorate your careers.”
“Are you serious?” I hear my voice and it almost sounds angry, but that’s not how I’m feeling. “That’s what you’ve been working on all week?”
He chuckles on the other end. “I told you to let me worry about it, kid. Now are you in or not?”
“Hell yes, I’m in.” I don’t even have a chance to think about it before I’m answering. The chance to see Chelsea again? To sing with her again? Absolutely I’m in. And knowing that we’ll be spending long hours together alone in the studio, with her wide smiles and tantalizing curves doesn’t hurt my enthusiasm one bit.
“Great, I’ll let them know.” He hangs up without another word, and I just stare at the phone for a minute. Not even a “goodbye, call you later with updates”? He must really be eager to move on this deal. I am too. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t I be? Getting to spend time with Chelsea, making beautiful music and putting smiles on those kids’ faces…
That thought has me punching my screen to call him back immediately.
“You can’t change your mind,” he says as soon as he answers.
“No. I’m not trying to. But make sure the label gives a cut of the profits to Wish Givers.”
“Oh! Oh… That’s good. That’s a good angle. All right, done.” And he’s hung up on me again. If he wasn’t practically a father to me, I’d be annoyed as hell at how rude that is, but he’s Merrill and it’s nearly impossible for me to get legitimately angry at him. He’s been with me through too much shit.
For the first time in days, I’m grinning ear to ear, thinking about the coming days with Chelsea. I’d nearly resigned myself to never seeing her again, but now that there’s the promise of working with her, I’ve got a spring in my step and an excitement that can’t be extinguished. I head off to the shower, stripping down on my way there. I’ve been doing practically nothing but moping and watching YouTube the last few days, and I’ve neglected my hygiene. A good scrub will do wonders—besides, I don’t want to stink when I get to see Chelsea again.
I’m practically giddy with the thought, and I’m not the only one. Thinking about spending time with her has got my cock twitching, and my balls tightening with the memory of her blue eyes dancing with joy. The way her body swayed in time with the music…
I groan, letting the hot water wash over me, down my back, but it’s not even close to distracting me. My hand finds my cock automatically, imagining her soft lips parting and enveloping my length, those eyes looking up at me while her mouth is stuffed with my hard cock. God, the things I’d do to that tight little body the first chance I get.
I hear her soft voice in my mind, begging me to fuck her, to make her come, and that does it. My balls seize up and I explode, imagining her begging, “Fuck me, Ian.”
I slump against the wall, almost embarrassed about how quickly fantasizing about Chelsea made me come so hard. But what can I expect? It’s been over three years since the last girl I slept with. It was on that failed return tour, when nothing was going well and I just wanted a warm body in my bed to make me feel better. But she didn’t. None of them ever did. A long string of unfulfilling relationships—if you could even call them that—and one-night stands left me feeling like I’d be better off alone.
There’d been a few other offers in the years since I decided celibacy and sobriety were a package deal, but I politely declined each of them. Even Kandy Florin, the reporter writing the latest piece about my new image and fight for success. I could’ve slept with her to make sure the story would be flattering, but that seemed like a thing the old Ian would do. Thankfully, she shrugged it off and never mentioned it again—it would have been beyond awkward for her to be angry at me while she’s been following me around for the last few weeks. Not to mention how likely it would have been to sour our working relationship when I didn’t call her the next morning.
There’s always the possibility that she’ll still eviscerate me in her article, but she seems professional and pleasant enough, so I don’t think it’ll be much of an issue. Besides, I’ve got bigger things to worry about—like how I’m going to avoid sleeping with Chelsea.
Ha. I know I should avoid it. Like I said, celibacy and sobriety go hand in hand for me. Casual sex just flares up old itches for drinking and doping and that is not what my new image needs.
But I’m not sure that sex with Chelsea Garten could be “casual.” She doesn’t seem the type. I’ve Googled her pretty extensively and she’s got the perfect good girl, clean-nose image that the record label’s wanting. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole collaboration is their attempt to get her reputation to rub off on me.
Not that I mind for even a second the thought of Chelsea rubbing anything on me. But I shove that thought aside before my cock can spring to attention again. I need to be able to keep things professional and jerking it to the thought of Chelsea spread out naked underneath me isn’t going to help that mission one bit.
So instead of indulging in more fantasy, I finish washing up and get out of the shower, forcing thoughts of a naked and panting Chelsea from my mind. It’s not even a guarante
e that she’ll agree to this thing. While hanging out with her can only do good things for my reputation, for her hanging out with me will do the opposite. But maybe she’s looking to edge up her image some. A guy can hope, right?
I’m toweling off my hair when I hear the phone buzzing from the living room. I practically run for it, leaving wet footprints in my wake, fighting not to slip on the hardwood as my dick swings free and I round a corner. I get to it just in time, and it’s Merrill again.
“What’s the news?” I answer.
“The record label’s on board with the charity angle.”
“And Chelsea?”
“She’s in—” I pump a fist in the air before I hear the hesitation in his voice and suddenly the victorious feeling drains out of me.
“But?”
“She wants all the profits to go to the foundation.”
“Okay, so?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure you’d still want to do it,” he says. Merrill’s never been a huge fan of doing anything for free. And I get it. But my career’s made us both rich enough to not really need to worry about that anymore. I can afford to do some work for a good cause without anything in return. So can he.
“Of course I do. Make it happen, Merrill. I need to work with that girl.”
He sighs and I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking this is the old Ian talking, just trying to get into her pants at whatever the cost. Maybe he’s not entirely wrong, but he’s not really right, either. This is about Chelsea and how much I’m attracted to her, sure. But it’s also about the way we make music together. Without any practice or even ever meeting each other before, we left everyone speechless. Just imagine what we could do with some studio time. And that’s not to mention how much I want to help out the Wish Givers. If you ask me, this seems like a great deal all around and I’m gonna have a hard time mustering up any sympathy for Merrill not being able to buy another Ferrari.
“All right. I’ll get everything worked out and book some studio time. You two should probably get together ahead of time to work out the song list… Maybe write a new song? That would be great publicity. Is Friday too soon for you to be in the studio?”
Normally, yeah, that would be crazy. He wants me to get together with this girl I don’t even know, come up with enough tracks for an album, and write a new song all in… three days? Yeah, that’s insane and I should tell him so. But I know that being in the studio on Friday means I’ll be with Chelsea on Friday and that’s all I need to know.
“Not soon enough, but that’ll work.”
Merrill clucks his tongue at me and I can just imagine him on the other end of the phone shaking his head in dismay. “Don’t go getting ahead of yourself, Ian. This is all to give you a better, cleaner image. Don’t forget that.”
“I know, I know,” I sigh. “Trust me, I know. I’m not going to screw this up, I promise.”
“I know what you get like with a pretty girl…”
“That hasn’t been me in years,” I argue, but the fight’s not really in my voice and he knows it.
“And that’s all I’m reminding you of. Chelsea Garten isn’t some groupie that’s going to fling herself at you. She’s a consummate professional and a freaking Grammy nominee, so keep it in your pants, could you?”
I know he’s serious and wants me to be also, but I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, Merrill. I got it. All business. I’ll be a good boy.”
“You better,” he growls. “I’ve spent too much time trying to make this happen to watch you piss it down the drain to get your rocks off.”
“All right, all right. I got it, I swear.” He’s not normally so forceful, so I know he means business. There’s a time and a place to tease Merrill and this isn’t it.
“Once I’ve talked it over with Rosa, I’ll send you her number and the two of you can work out when you want to practice and all of that.”
I’m so grateful that this isn’t a video chat; Merrill would be able to see my huge grin and probably be annoyed by it. “Sounds good,” I manage to say as evenly as possible, even though I’m damn near bouncing off the walls. I did not expect this day to go so well, and for the first time in a long, long time, I’ve got something to look forward to.
Chapter 4
Chelsea
“We’re all set!” Rosa exclaims cheerfully through the phone. “It’s a done deal!”
Silence hangs in the air. It’s almost oppressive with how long it lingers.
“Chelsea? Did you hear me? They’ve agreed to donate all the proceeds to the foundation.”
“Seriously?” I’m more than a little dumbfounded. When Rosa called me to tell me about her idea to have Ian Monroe and me work together on an album and a tour… Well, I was torn. Part of me really wanted to work with him. Almost couldn’t wait to. But the other part, the more sensible part, the part that remembers Eric telling us all he was clean only for us to be burying him two weeks later… That part really doesn’t want to work with Ian Monroe, or really have anything to do with him at all.
So I’d decided to throw up a little roadblock. Instead of a portion of the profits going to charity, I demanded that every cent be donated. I didn’t expect Ian—or the record label, if I’m being honest—to agree to it. And now here we were. A done deal.
“Yeah! Why don’t you sound excited? You love helping out Wish Givers. This could generate a lot of money for them.”
“I’m just… surprised is all. I didn’t think they’d go for it.”
“Well they did! We’ve got studio time booked for you two on Friday—”
“Friday? So soon?”
“That’s not going to be a problem, is it? The video of you two has gone viral, so we want to move on this as quickly as possible.”
“No, no. That’ll be fine. I’ll make it work.” After all, it’s for the kids. For kids like Mariah that need something to give them hope. I can’t let them down. I still can’t believe it’s happening. I know Ian’s been trying to repair his bad-boy image, but it’s still a shock that he’s such a decent guy, agreeing to do the album without any compensation—and without any hesitation, judging by how fast Rosa called me back. It doesn’t really fit in with the image of an addict in my head.
Eric was always hard up for money. He spent every spare cent on drugs, and when all his money was gone, he’d come to me, wanting more. If I didn’t give it to him, he’d find it another way—normally by stealing. My sweet, honest little brother turned into a lying, scheming, criminal because of his addiction. I know it’s enough to turn anyone into a monster. And it’s not a problem that goes away. Whatever Ian tells his fans and the press, I don’t believe he’s not still addicted. It just doesn’t work like that. But a guy with a drug problem would probably care a little more about getting paid.
So I don’t know.
But it doesn’t matter. Not really. I’ll work with Ian Monroe, I’ll sing some songs in the studio with him and put on a good show for the handful of tour dates we’ll have, but I’m not getting involved with him. No matter how attractive he is or how much his voice makes me weak in the knees, Ian Monroe is trouble and he’s off-limits.
I’m still repeating that to myself, over and over again like a mantra, when my phone rings again. I expect it to be Rosa with more “exciting’ details, but I frown when I don’t recognize the number. Anxiety hits me fast and hard—did a crazy stalker fan somehow get my number again? I’ve been through a dozen numbers in the past couple years because of problems like that. And I learned my lesson about answering numbers I don’t know. But something makes me answer anyway. If nothing else, I can vent some frustration at this creep.
“Hello?”
“Chelsea?”
I don’t have to ask who it is. I recognize his sultry, growling voice immediately by the shiver it sends straight to my toes. “Ian?”
“Oh good, I wasn’t sure you’d answer a strange number.”
“I normally don’t.”
“Today must be my luc
ky day then.”
You have no idea. I want to be annoyed with him, but I don’t really have any reason to be. Being attracted to him and knowing he’s wrong for me isn’t really anything that’s his fault. That’s all my problem and I need to suck it up and stay professional.
“Anyway, I’m glad I got a hold of you. I don’t know if your manager told you, but we’re supposed to be in the studio on Friday—”
“Of course she told me,” I snap, jumping to Rosa’s defense. What kind of manager would bury the lede that badly?
“Okay, cool,” he says without missing a beat. He doesn’t sound annoyed with my callous tone at all, and I almost wish that he were. At least if he were also a jerk, I wouldn’t feel so bad. But hearing his genuine enthusiasm makes me feel like I just tried to kick a puppy. I take a deep breath and remind myself to mind my manners. This is work. He’s done nothing to warrant my anger; he’s not Eric, and he’s not the reason Eric’s dead. I am. That’s on me. Being angry at Ian won’t fix it or make me feel better about it, even if it seems like it should.
“Anyway, Merrill said the label wants us to try and write a new song or two and I was thinking we should get together to run through some lyrics and stuff. I’ve got a few songs I’ve never recorded that could be turned into duets and you’ve probably got some stuff, too I assume.”
It’s just work, I tell myself again. Be polite.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff in old notebooks that could work, but we can just look at it on Friday.”
He pauses, and I can tell by the way he doesn’t answer for a beat that he disagrees and is trying to say so tactfully. I don’t even know this guy, I just know this business.
“The last time I tried to write a song with booked studio time, I never heard the end of it. Besides, it’ll all go much smoother if we get together and work on harmonies and shit beforehand. We got lucky at the show that everything worked out, but I don’t really want to count on luck when I’m recording an album.”
