Provoke

by Rachel Van Dyken

  I busted out laughing as the doorbell rang again. “Hold your ass, man.”

  I jerked open the door and nearly died when Drew Amhurst, Adrenaline’s front man and all-around A-list rock star stood there, sunglasses low on his nose, and both hands on his ass, smirking. “Like this, bro? Or am I doing it wrong?”

  I grinned. “Did we just become best friends?”

  “I’d shake your hand but you told me to hold my ass.”

  “Brothers don’t shake hands.” It totally slipped from my mouth. Before I knew what was happening, Drew charged me, pulled me in for a tight hug, kissed both my cheeks like we were Italian or something, and then set me down.

  “Brothers hug.”

  A side-splitting laugh erupted before I could stop it. I’d only chatted with Drew once when his tour made its way through Portland. He gave me backstage passes since he was a fan of my channel, but that was the extent of our relationship.

  “So, any reason my fairy godmother decided to just randomly stop at my apartment? Or were you just out wandering the streets in leather pants, trying to see how many prostitutes offered you drugs out of confusion?”

  “Off the drugs.” He walked farther into my house and pulled off his aviators. “Thanks, though, for the temptation. I’m actually in the area looking for some wiseass nineteen-year-old who seems to be in competition with our music videos for how many views he can get.” He shook his head. “Releasing a live stream the same day we drop our new single? That’s cold, man.”

  I led him into the kitchen and felt my circle of life complete as my gorgeous mom took one look at Drew, then glanced at me, then stared down at her hands all covered in chicken guts before glaring daggers at me like it was my fault the universe was against her.

  “Whoa, Mom.” I held up my hands. “We’ve only met once. I did not invite him here to watch you do”—I pointed at the chicken—“whatever it is you do when your hands are all…inside.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth.

  “I think she’s mad, bro,” Drew whispered.

  “Shit, I think she heard you,” I said right back.

  “Braden.” Mom took a deep breath, the same type she often took whenever she was getting ready to scold my ass. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, I can answer that.” Raising his hand, Drew nodded.

  “Put your hand down. This isn’t school,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Bummer.” Drew grinned. “Because you would be a great teacher, you know, forming the minds of the youth.”

  “Isn’t it youths?” I interjected.

  “Is it?” Drew wondered out loud.

  “HOW!” Mom yelled, making both of us jump. “How are there two of you?”

  I frowned. “Mom, his hair is brown, so unless you and the guy in the meat department at Safeway had a meaty fling—”

  “Ha.” Drew snorted. “Good one.”

  “Never mind.” She waved a chicken-gut-covered hand in the air. “Why is a famous rock star in our dirty apartment?”

  “Ah…” Drew wrapped an arm around me. “We want him. Actually, my manager Will wants him to sign. My best friend Ty wants to sign him. I mean, basically everyone wants him. But I called dibs because I need help finishing our comeback album.”

  “Whoa.” I looked up at him. “Really?”

  “Really, really.” Drew nodded. “You should probably pack. I have a plane waiting for the morning.”

  I whistled. “Not a car but a plane?”

  “LA.” Drew shrugged. “You can come back on Sunday. It’s only two days. You won’t miss any classes.”

  Screw classes. I was a sophomore in college with a rock god in my kitchen.

  “Wait. This is—this is crazy. People don’t just—” Mom started to pace. “I mean, aren’t there contracts and things to—?”

  Drew dropped a black portfolio on the counter. “Once you’ve cleaned up—not that you need to,” he added quickly, “look this over. I’ll be back in the morning to grab Braden. He can still do all his YouTubing. We have a signing bonus from the production company, and if it all works out—and if it’s okay with both of you—Braden’s gonna be the first musician I mentor.”

  I tried not to collapse against the counter.

  Mom gaped at both of us. “I…I don’t know what to say. Why Braden?”

  I shot my mom a don’t-mess-this-up-for-us look. Her pretty brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she wore a mismatched pink apron.

  This sort of life could change us.

  It would mean more and more money coming in.

  It would mean freedom.

  And my dreams coming true.

  I’d wanted this since I was seven.

  Had gotten approached several times at the age of sixteen and had done a few collaborations with some budding artists. I was famous in the YouTube world. But this was beyond that. This was the next logical step in my career, and I wanted it so bad I could taste it.

  “We’ve had our eye on him for a while,” said Drew with a half-assed shrug. “Watched some of his collaborations. But honestly, the real reason we waited this long was because getting tossed into this life at such a young age changes you in ways I didn’t want for him. Hell, I’m thirty, and I’m still trying to process all the shit we were put through in the name of record sales and money. He just turned nineteen. But after his last few videos went viral, we all sat down and decided we wanted him.”

  I felt my eyes mist a bit because, damn it felt good to be wanted. And because a small part of me loved that they’d waited, that they understood I wanted to do it right. Although they didn’t even know me well enough to know that.

  “Okay,” my mom said slowly. “We’ll look over the contracts tonight and give you an answer in the morning.” She sighed, washed her hands, and then grabbed a stack of plates. “In the meantime—” She handed the plates to Drew; the white porcelain looked funny against his black finger tattoos. “Set the table.”

  Drew laughed.

  I elbowed him. “She’s dead serious.”

  “Oh shit.” Drew straightened his stance a bit. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Fill the water too!” she called as he rounded the corner to the dining room table.

  “Right away!”

  I snickered. “What? Five minutes in my house, and you think she’s a sergeant in the army?”

  “She’s terrifying,” Drew said under his breath. “Kinda hot though for—”

  “I wouldn’t.” I patted his back. “Last friend of mine that hit on her had to sit on frozen peas for weeks.”

  Drew made a face.

  And then we fell into an easy silence before he nodded. “We chose good.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know, man. I know.”

  Chapter One

  Braden

  Present Day

  5 Years Later

  I drummed my fingertips against the cold granite counter and nearly jumped a foot when Drew walked into the beach house with one of our mutual rock star friends, Zane Andrews. He took one look at me and whispered, “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine,” I answered in a clipped tone, rubbing my hands back and forth in a self-soothing motion that my therapist said would help me focus on something other than the incident.

  Because that’s what we were calling it.

  The Incident.

  Actually, no, that’s what the superfans were calling it.

  I wasn’t sure how it actually happened, but it was typical for followers to make up names for themselves. You got the Swifty’s, The Army, The Monsters… I mean, the list went on and on. And yeah, I got it. I did. It unified them like our music did to them…ergo, it was their way of connecting in a way that mattered.

  And up until last year, I was completely okay with it. Until a senseless shooting ruined everything and loud noises started reminding me of gunshots. Guilt wrapped around me like a heavy, lead blanket.

  “He’s
shaking,” Zane pointed out like I wasn’t sitting right there on a barstool, staring out across the vast white sand beach of fucking Seaside, Oregon.

  I was an hour from home, but it might as well be thousands of miles.

  I’d moved my family to LA the minute I knew I couldn’t make the commute. Funny how the one place I’d escaped was the only place I could find solitude.

  Seaside, Oregon.

  I ran my shaking hands through my hair and tried to ignore my friends’ concerned looks. Then again, they had a reason to be worried. I’d been practicing with them for the upcoming tour, doing awesome, even thought I was over my debilitating stage fright.

  And all it took to bring it all back was one of the lights falling next to me, along with a crazed fan with my name on her shirt, hiding in my dressing room.

  I lost it.

  Grabbed my guitar and boarded the first private plane I could to Seaside, never looking back.

  That was three weeks ago.

  And the tour was in sixty days.

  Since then, I’d been active on my channel but that was easy, it was just me and my fans. I didn’t have to frantically search the audience for weapons because I was staring at a computer screen.

  Sixty days. I reminded myself that it wasn’t just the guys’ careers hanging in the balance, it was mine too. I owed them songs, and I still owed the record company my next album. But how was I supposed to write when my mind was broken?

  “Look.” Drew pulled out a barstool and sat in front of me. His tattoos looked dark against the white granite as he leaned his massive body against the counter. “If you don’t come on tour, you’ll be in breach of contract—”

  I opened my mouth, only to have him raise his hand.

  I jerked my head in a stiff nod.

  “We don’t want that. AD2 has been dying to tour with you. Our band and you have been inseparable since you broke out on your own a few years ago. And you know Zane cries himself to sleep when you don’t sing for him.”

  “One time,” Zane grumbled. “And my wife was away. I was lonely.”

  “Hug a bear.” This from Drew, earning a smack from Zane. “Look, Braden, I’m not saying what happened wasn’t horrible. God knows it’s not excusable, and I totally get how things might trigger you now, like the light and shit.” He sighed. “But you need to move past it. And I think the only way for you to do that is to get back on stage and give the world hope again.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, then shoved away from the chair, taking care to put most of my weight on my good leg. My limp was noticeable if I sat too long. My right leg was just tired, but it was a constant reminder of the incident.

  A nagging reminder.

  That I’d had everything.

  And in the blink of an eye, a psycho had used my music, my concert, to rip it all away.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “It was my lyrics, guys. My pain that caused this.”

  “Bullshit,” Zane swore. “You didn’t make him pick up a semi-automatic weapon, Braden. That was all him, he was insane.”

  “Yeah,” I croaked. “We all have a bit of that inside, don’t we?”

  “Nope.” Drew shook his head. “Not going down that path. Look, I’m glad you’re here, Seaside has helped all of us relax. I mean, look at Zane. He used to walk around half-naked holding warm marshmallows in his pocket. Today, he’s wearing a shirt.”

  We both looked at the garment in question. It had at least three gaping holes, and both of us were very aware of a pierced nipple.

  Drew winced. “Yeah, bad example. But you get what I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” I bit down on my lower lip. “I want it. You guys know how bad I want this, it’s the tour of a lifetime. I just…I can’t let you down.”

  “You won’t.” Drew grinned.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t like that smile.”

  “Nobody does,” Zane muttered. “He does it on purpose.”

  “Spill.” I eyed Drew. “What did you do?”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Please let that be pizza,” I muttered.

  “Highly doubt that, bro.” Zane slapped me twice on the back. “What Drew wants, he gets, and he wants you to play. Your songs are the reason their last album sold over five million in pre-sales. So just…go with it. Or try.”

  That was the problem.

  I’d been trying.

  And I still felt like I was going crazy.

  I wasn’t sleeping at night.

  I couldn’t check social media without seeing my name or the incident trending. And I refused to watch the news.

  Too much hatred.

  Too much sadness.

  Too many shots of my shell-shocked face and bandaged leg.

  A woman in her early twenties walked into the room and hugged Drew. She had on a black pencil skirt and a tuxedo jacket that looked as if it belonged in an expensive store. One that I refused to shop at because spending more than fifty dollars for a T-shirt was wasteful.

  The soft click of her patent leather heels made it feel like I was getting walked toward the plank, and then her eyes locked with mine.

  She had jet-black hair that went past her chin, icy blue eyes, and full, red lips that begged for a man to suck.

  I almost asked if they got me an escort.

  As if that would cheer me up.

  Hell, I was losing it. Even the idea of sex with a hot girl made me want to run headfirst into the ocean.

  “Braden…” Drew cleared his throat, that creepy damn smile still in place. “Meet Piper Rayne.”

  I hesitated for a minute and then held out my hand.

  One arched eyebrow lifted before she shook.

  I ignored the weird pulse between our palms and simultaneously wondered how Drew would feel if I just bolted out the window.

  Our hands dropped.

  I cleared my throat. “Do you, uh, work for the band?”

  “Management,” she said in an almost robotic tone. “Okay, gentlemen, I think I’ll take things from here. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  It was then that I noticed her suitcases—plural—at the door to my rented beach house.

  “Wait.” I grabbed Zane, only to have him give me a panicked look that said you’re on your own.

  “Drew!” I clenched my teeth. “What the hell, man?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures, and she’s the best. You have twenty-one days to get him ready to tour.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she said smoothly.

  “Look, lady, no offense.” I held up my hands. “But I don’t know you, and you sure as hell aren’t staying in my house with your giant Louis Vuitton luggage and condescending attitude and—”

  “Contract,” Drew interrupted. “It states in your contract we’re allowed to intervene, and you must exhaust all options before you pull out of the tour.”

  “Oh yeah?” I sneered, suddenly angry. “And what’s she? A shrink?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She smirked. “I’m your new life coach.”

  I had just enough time to glare at Drew’s and Zane’s disappearing forms before the door closed with a resounding click.

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “If you do,” she informed me with a grin, “you’re in breach of contract. Put up with me, and the band won’t be forced to sue you. Now where shall I put my bags?”

  Rage filled me and affected my vision. “Pick a room.”

  “Why don’t you pick one for me? Oh, and sorry, they’re a bit heavy. I’m not a light packer. I’ll just go search for some wine. It was a long flight.”

  And just like that, Piper Rayne, life coach and pain in the ass, invaded my kitchen.

  And my life.

  Chapter Two

  Piper

  He looked older than I assumed. I mean, I was nearly twenty-seven, and I knew he was twenty-four, so in my mind, I assumed he’d be this scrawny, just-graduated, college-looking dweeb with a guitar pick stuck betwee
n his teeth, a solid subscription to Proactiv, and exactly five hairs on his upper lip that he claimed was his ‘stash.

  Not the case.

  I took a sip of wine—the guy at least had good taste—and glanced around the large room. I had a balcony that overlooked the ocean, a closet to die for, and even though the room was stark white and a bit bare, I immediately loved it. I wasn’t one for lots of knickknacks. I liked solid colors, a good streamline, and Braden’s beach house had that in spades.

  Braden… Just saying his name in my head reminded me of that firm handshake and the way his red hair fell over his perfectly sculpted face as his lips pressed together in a full line. Why did guys always get the strong jawlines and full lips? I shook my head and took a calming breath. My suitcases were in front of the bed. I knew before I left LA that I’d need to put on a bit of armor since I was working with a younger singer. I just didn’t expect…him.

  I opened the first suitcase and saw that my black clothes were all still neatly folded.

  Black was easy.

  It matched at all times.

  Was extremely slimming.

  Hid stains.

  And always looked on point when I was traveling.

  Then again, I’d been living out of a suitcase for longer than usual considering the blow-up with my ex-boyfriend. I gritted my teeth then tried to focus on the positive.

  New client who just needed to get over some stage fright.

  Piece of cake.

  I let out a snort just thinking about the poor rock star in the living room with his ginger hair, dimpled smile, many tattoos, ripped, gray T-shirt and distressed jeans.

  Did he own any clothing that didn’t have holes in it?

  Yeah, he was the exact opposite of order and organization.

  When my boss called and said that he was tossing me into more celebrity-filled waters, I automatically went into work mode. I wrongly assumed that it would be some actress who needed direction or had a meltdown on set. Maybe an actor struggling through a life crisis, or someone who’d just had enough of the lifestyle and needed a good, solid life plan outside of being told what to do every single second of every single day.

  I’d never once in my life dealt with anyone from the music industry. The firm I worked with was private, discreet, and catered to wealthier clients who, after realizing every goal they set out to accomplish, often became depressed with their lives and needed to find direction. A purpose outside of what used to be their passion. And nothing on Earth was more gratifying than witnessing that moment.