by Kim Loraine
The flight to New York for their appearance on The Rich Morton Show was short but bumpy. The late February weather brought nothing but frozen misery to the east coast and Angela groaned as the turbulence sent them bouncing around in their seats.
“You all right, baby doll?” Aiden asked, his hands were clenched tightly on his knees.
“I’m ready to be on the ground.”
His eyes were gentle even through his own stress. “Almost there.”
She was performing with Aiden and the rest of Violet Hour as the musical guest and she was terrified. The other three members of the band sat, just as tense, in the private plane with them. She felt bad that she hadn’t really gotten to hang out with them yet, but most of her time was taken up by appearances with Aiden. In the last few days she’d been rehearsing with the whole band for their re-vamped version of Give Me You. It was clear how close the guys were with each other, so similar to the dynamic she shared with Parker and Garrett. A twinge of sadness caught her off guard as she thought of her friends and how much fun this trip would have been with them.
The plane landed with a squeal of tires and such force her teeth chattered, but they were alive. She sighed in relief and Aiden grabbed her hand. “We made it,” he breathed, dropping a kiss on her hand.
“Thank God.”
With shaky legs they made their way to the waiting cars and headed to the hotel. Aiden wrapped an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “Smile, they’ve already got about twenty pictures of you pouting,” he whispered.
“What?”
He thrust his chin in the direction of the photographers. They pushed their telephoto lens cameras through the chains of the fenced runway.
“Really? Man, they’re everywhere.” She worried at her hair and leaned into Aiden’s side.
“Yep, absolutely every-fucking-where. Just smile and give them a good shot. Get on their good side. That helps a little,” he offered and opened the car door for her.
The hotel was just like everything else in Aiden’s world—expensive, five stars, and over the top. He hadn’t let go of her hand since they walked into the lobby. Flashes of light and clicks of camera shutters seemed to follow them everywhere.
“Our rooms are connected.” His eyes held a heat she hadn’t noticed before and it sent tingles of apprehension through her. “The label wanted us staying together. We compromised.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
He put the key in the door to his room and turned, a quizzical expression coloring his features. “What?”
“That Backbeat dictates your life.”
He shrugged and kicked off his shoes as he walked into the luxe suite. Arms spread wide, he turned around in the room. “It got me here. I didn’t get where I am on talent alone. We follow the rules. That’s how this works.”
She chewed on her lip while she watched him plop down on the couch. Backbeat did know better than she did. They’d been making and breaking superstars since the dawn of the music industry. Aiden’s phone rang, and he groaned.
“Damn it,” he grunted as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell. “Yeah?”
She watched him, his face starting as a carefully composed mask and morphing into one of unease and then understanding, as the conversation progressed.
When he hung up, his eyes raised to find hers. “We’ve got some problems.”
A sinking feeling started in the pit of her stomach. “What?”
His phone dinged and, after scanning the screen, he held out an email for her to see. The body of the email was a copy of an article about to release on a tabloid site.
Boyd’s Love Story All an Act
Aiden Boyd, frontman for multi-Grammy award winning band Violet Hour and notorious womanizer, has been experiencing the life of a media darling since his whirlwind romance with up-and-comer Angela Peters. Peters is the lead singer for Panic Station, a breakout band recently signed by the same label as Boyd’s band. Sources close to the pair have hinted that their well-received romance may all be a ruse in order to boost record sales and repair damage done to Boyd’s image after his most recent cheating scandal.
“It’s anything but romantic. She’s clearly got a thing for the drummer,” an insider from the tour’s camp revealed to this reporter.
Drummer in question is Garrett Donalson, longtime friend and bandmate of Peters. Donalson has offered no comment at this time but was recently seen on an intimate evening out that included an impromptu performance with Peters.
Unable to read any more, she looked away. Her pulse pounded in her ears. They’d talked to Garrett about her. Garrett. She turned worried eyes to Aiden. He was pacing in front of the bank of windows that overlooked the bustling city below.
“What now?” she asked.
He ran his hand over his closely cut hair and sighed. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
It seemed so strange to her, this situation she found herself in. The fact that Aiden wasn’t bothered by the need to be someone different for the media, offered some comfort, but in this moment she wished there was a manual for situations like these. Why hadn’t Judy Blume written a book about this?
“Marcus says there needs to be a grand gesture. It’s only been four fucking weeks, what kind of grand gesture is he wanting?”
The words proposal, marriage, and divorce all ran through her head. Was she willing to go that far to get what she wanted?
Four hours before their appearance on The Rich Morton Show, Angela was sitting in a spa having her brows threaded, her hair given some sort of blow out treatment, and a facial. Her nails were painted a deep violet and she’d been waxed, buffed, and polished to within an inch of her life. She still had to meet with her stylist and makeup artist before the show. This was the real deal. Extreme visibility meant extreme personal grooming.
Her phone had been ringing off the hook all morning. She fielded calls from journalists with a polite no comment and assured her mother she was actually in a relationship and not a media pawn, liar. About to enjoy a Jack and coke to ease her nerves, she sighed when her phone rang again.
“Marcus, what do you need? I’ve got a seaweed paste on my face and you’re probably the fiftieth phone call I’ve gotten today.”
“Journalists?”
“Some.”
“What did you tell them?”
She rolled her eyes. “No comment. I’m not an idiot.”
He cackled into the phone. “Yeah, well that remains to be seen.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Listen, I need to talk to you about tonight.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Whatever he does tonight, you need to go with it. You understand me? Absolutely whatever it is.”
Her stomach twisted. “What’s he going to do?”
“I gave him some options. If this gets out it’ll kill both of your careers. Yours is hanging on by a thread anyway since you’re barely out of the gate. If you fail, you go back home with your tail between your legs and lick your wounds. He’s got a few film offers, a stint on a primetime talent show, endorsement deals. All of that will go away if his image gets any more tainted.”
“Fine.” She didn’t know what else to do. The last thing she wanted was for Aiden to lose everything he’d worked so hard for.
“Promise me.” His voice held a pleading note.
“Yeah, I said fine. I promise.”
As per usual, Marcus hung up without another word.
“All right, let’s get this mask off your face and make you beautiful.” The esthetician bustled in and started buffing the seaweed off her with a warm towel. “You okay, doll?”
“Yeah, just nervous.”
A sympathetic look crossed the esthetician’s face. “You’ll be great. I love that song you
wrote with Aiden. God, he’s sexy. You lucky girl.”
She forced a dreamy note to her voice. “Yeah. He’s pretty amazing.”
Garrett almost didn’t watch. Now, he wished he hadn’t. He and Parker sat in the empty hotel bar, eyes glued to the TV. Rich Morton had just finished his opening monologue, funny as usual, and was launching into his spiel about the guests he’d be hosting. A publicity photo of Violet Hour followed by one of Panic Station flashed on the screen.
“Hey! That’s us!” Parker couldn’t contain his elation at seeing his face on TV.
Garrett rolled his eyes, trying to quell his own rush of excitement. “Dude, get over yourself.”
“I look good. I’d sleep with me.”
“Ugh, shut up.”
Garrett took a long pull from his beer bottle and squirmed in his seat as the first guest was introduced. She was a lingerie model. Hotter than hell with a body that wouldn’t quit, and, unlike Angela, she was a brunette. She was also one of Aiden’s exes. Maybe someone like her could take his mind off Angela.
“Oh, man, this is gonna be good,” Parker said, waving over the bartender and ordering another beer.
The model, she had a name Garrett couldn’t pronounce, rambled on and on about her latest fashion show and some line of clothing she was designing for a department store. The more she spoke, the less appealing she became, and Garrett’s thoughts quickly drifted to Angela once again.
After a commercial break, Rich came back on screen and Garrett sat at attention. “I’m sure you’re all familiar with our next guests. Violet Hour has been on tour with a new band as their opener. That’s nothing new, usually it’s just the warm up band. You know, the one we just want to be done with so we can see the people we actually paid to watch? In this case, the opener has actually proven to be more interesting than the headliner.” Rich grinned. “Sorry, Aiden. Panic Station’s lead singer, Angela Peters, has broken hearts all over the country by snagging the sexiest man alive. Performing their song Give Me You, ladies and gentleman, Violet Hour and Angela Peters.”
There they were, Angela stood on one side of the stage and Aiden on the other. They faced away from each other and Garrett thought his heart would stop beating when she started singing. She was dressed in a short, dark skirt, black tights, and high heels that made her legs look impossibly long. They’d put her in a deep blue shirt and lots of jewelry. Her hair flowed in glowing honey-colored waves down one shoulder. His mouth ran dry and he had to stand to alleviate the uncomfortable pressure in his crotch.
As Angela and Aiden sang, they turned to face one another, walking slowly across the stage. They reached each other and finished the song practically connected hips to hips. When the crowd started cheering Aiden pulled her into his chest for an embrace and whispered something in her ear. He kissed her deeply and Garrett’s jealousy reared its ugly head. Then, something he’d never thought possible happened. Aiden dropped to one knee and presented Angela with an engagement ring. A fucking engagement ring.
“Holy fuck,” Parker breathed.
“Shit.”
Garrett felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him as he watched her. Willing her to say no, he waited on pins and needles for the hammer to drop. His heart sank as he watched her nod and Aiden slipped the ring on her finger.
“Turn that shit off,” he barked at the bartender. “And get me a double scotch, neat.”
Parker eyed him cautiously. “You good?”
“No. I’m going to get drunk, and then I think I’ll get laid. You got a problem with that?”
He raised his hands and backed away. “Just be careful.”
Garrett offered him a mock salute and pounded his drink. “One more.”
He watched Parker’s face fall and downed the next drink, relishing the burn in his chest. This was too much. Too fucking much. He was done waiting. Done being the nice guy. Clearly, the only way you get the girl of your dreams is to be a douche-bag asshole. Rage blinded him as he stormed out of the bar, through the hotel doors, and into the cool, midnight air. Making his way around to the tour buses, he made eyes at the first groupie he saw and she followed him, bouncing behind him like a stupid puppy.
This wasn’t going to be fun, but it was the only thing he could think of that would make him feel even a little better.
Chapter 15
Five years earlier
Angela shook her head as she watched Garrett saunter across the beach toward her. A grin spread over her lips at the sight of him. His hair was longer, curls falling past his chin in a sexy, I-woke-up-like-this look. She raised her eyebrow when he closed the distance between them and the dark swirl of a tattoo peeked up from under the collar of his shirt.
“Ink?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he muttered, blushing.
“What did your mom say?”
She chuckled at the thought of his mother, rolling her eyes and sighing at her son.
“She smacked me upside the head and told me I’d better at least know what it means.”
“Do you?”
He nodded and tugged his shirt down so she could see the small silhouette of a bird escaping a cage followed by a line of script which ran across his left collarbone.
“Je vais attendre dans pour elle,” she murmured, tracing the elegant font with one finger. “I will wait for her.”
When she looked back at his face her heart caught in her throat. Those eyes she’d missed for most of the year burned straight to her soul.
“Who is she?” she asked.
His brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“The girl you’ll wait for.”
He shrugged. “No one.”
She shoved him playfully. “Hipster. Next thing we know you’ll be growing a bushy beard and wearing skinny ties.”
“How does that tattoo make me a hipster?”
“You’re too cool to have English written on your skin, you’re waiting for no one . . . wait . . . don’t tell me you’ve got a bunch of birds in flight tattooed on you somewhere else, too.”
He blushed and she laughed. “Oh, my God, you do. Where?”
He lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing toned abs and a flock of swallows soaring across his ribs.
Her fingers immediately traced the wings of each bird and he shivered at her touch, backing away and dropping the fabric in place.
“They’re all beautiful. Sorry I teased you.”
“It’s fine.” He grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You ready to spend the summer making music?”
“Yeah. I’ve been dying to play. We’re already booked at Cups, and the Bar and Grill said we can play there now that we’re all twenty-one.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “We’re not.”
She winked. “I can make sure we have identification that says we are.”
He laughed, full and genuine. “Nice.”
The wind whipped her hair around her face and Garrett’s hand shot out to brush the locks from her eyes.
Her heart caught in her throat at the tender gesture. “Parker’s waiting for us. Did he tell you his parents bought him a beach house?” She cringed inwardly at the breathlessness of her tone.
Garrett chuckled. “Spoiled little rich boy.”
She nodded and had to push away the thrill she felt when his arm went around her. “Spoiled, but it gives us a place to practice.”
He clicked his tongue, and she smiled up at him. “I wasn’t complaining.”
“We’ve missed you. Parker and I have been working on some stuff, but it’s not the same without you.”
Sand filled her shoes as they walked. Irritated, she stopped, and slipped her feet free of the strapped sandals, relishing the feel of the warm grains as they ran between her toes. Her skin tingled where
he’d been touching her and she wanted his arm around her again.
Sighing, he took her hand. “I’ve got a whole book filled with songs. I couldn’t stop writing after I left.” His eyes were focused on the horizon as they made their way to Parker’s beachfront house.
“Really? It’s been the opposite for me. I haven’t been able to write a thing.”
He unlaced their fingers and bent to pick up a stick of driftwood, tossing it back to the sea with a soft grunt. “Must not be feeling enough angst, Angie. I wouldn’t know though, since you never let me see your stuff.”
His phone chirped from his pocket and, offering her a cocky grin, he examined the text. A low chuckle escaped him, and she bristled.
“Girlfriend?” she asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
He shrugged. “Someone I’m seeing.”
“Ah, the mysterious one you’ll wait for.”
He full out laughed. Her cheeks flushed with heat and she felt exposed and embarrassed.
“You sound a little jealous.”
“Nope. As long as she’s not a distraction, I’ve got no problem.”
Chapter 16
“Married? You’re getting fucking married?” Garrett spat the words at her, fire in his eyes. “You’ve known him five minutes.”
Angela knew this was coming. She’d dreaded the inevitable conversation from the moment Aiden proposed. This morning, as they prepared for the D.C. show, the prospect of performing for family and friends weighed on her. She had made an early morning stop for coffee and headed into the venue to wander, needing to spend some time enjoying the quiet of the empty arena. She’d seen him come in like a lion, searching for her, eyes blazing, mad as hell.
“Gare, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was going to do that.”
“But you’re not going through with it, right? I mean, it’s for show.”
