Wilde About Brant - The Brothers Wilde Series Book Two

by Cate Faircloth

  Wilde About Brant

  The Brothers Wilde Series — Book Two

  Cate Faircloth

  Contents

  Important!

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Connect With Us!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT 2018 PRISM HEART PRESS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN © Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs

  EDITING: Booktique Editing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume and responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

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  This book is for families and friends who have remained strong in light of the hardest times. Continue to lean on each other, love each other, and trust that someone will always have your back.

  Description

  As an entertainment lawyer to LA's finest musicians, I manage the arrogant, protect their interests and pander to all likes of the rich, somewhat talented, and famous.

  I have never wanted anything out of the ordinary until musician Brant Wilde waltzes in with careless charm and secrets to hide.

  He is a dangerous combination of sweet and charming despite being secretive, persuasive, and reckless. He's equipped with an irresistible smile and even sweeter voice—the kind that rocks arenas to their feet.

  He wants me. I want him.

  Brant Wilde is a man who always gets what he wants.

  But clients are strictly off limits, and I’ve never broken a rule. Never even touched one. I have people depending on me, and I can’t lose my job.

  Problem is… when Brant Wilde looks at me, he sets my soul on fire. He touches me like his soul is about to change too.

  1

  Brant

  Maybe I get off on people screaming my name. I can’t tell if they’re angry or don’t even like the music, all I know is my name is on replay for hours on end. And by the end of the night when the live band is no longer in tune, and even I can’t hold my notes, they still beg for more.

  My fans love me more than anyone ever has, and they don’t even know who I really am.

  The tour has been long, different than the others because of what happened, but I still got through it—nine months, fifty cities in all fifty states, encores for the big ones. Needless to say, I’m fucking exhausted. The rush here, the wave of the crowd, their cell lights flashing in the mob of the crowd, and the heat of the stage lights shining down on me… it’s the safest addiction I’ve had. Not the only one—but the safest.

  “Thank you, Nashville!” I don’t hear myself shouting since I’ve taken out the pesky little earpiece, but I hear the crowd respond, still shouting as I walk off the stage. The arena is huge but normal for me. Sold-out audience, of course.

  I get ushered down through the backstage by the stagehands until I find the familiar hallway with the backstage pass line already long and crazy. My executive assistant, Julia, is right there to fill me in as always, and I accept the compliments I always get.

  ‘Great show, Brant,’ ‘You outdid yourself this time,’ ‘Couldn’t stop singing along’… whatever. At this point in my career, the people complimenting me backstage are nowhere near as genuine as the ones in the crowd or even the people backstage who just want to say they met me.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes to shower and get ready for the VIP lounge appearance.” Julia speed walks tugging me by her side. She is just as tall as me, a leggy blonde I tried my hand at but got no luck over the years—maybe because she is married and has been for the seven years we have been working together. She has been there since my very first show opening for another big artist. Up until now, with my sold-out, three-encore-performance shows, I have made the label four times more money than any other artist signed with them.

  “You think I need a shower?” I grin, looking to my left at her as she glares at me.

  “You want to meet fans like this?” She flicks the end of my soaked t-shirt. The white material is almost paper-thin now. She makes a show of sniffing me and gagging before we both laugh it off.

  I drag my arm over her shoulders as we turn the last hall to my dressing room.

  “Why not? I’ve treated them nice enough. They won’t mind.”

  Julia snorts and flicks my arm off her shoulder. We both know my flirting is harmless, and I am also not inclined to be head to head with her gung-ho Marine husband. He’s mostly away, and I’ve never even met him, and I don’t think I want to.

  “Brant, you’re a savage. With ten minutes left, hurry up.” Her brow points up, and I don’t want to fight her in this state.

  We get to my dressing room, and she waits for me in the main area while I go to the back to shower. The room is almost like a hotel—it has all the same shit. I’ve seen my fair share of dressing rooms, each one different in their own way. I rarely end up using the tour bus unless I need to be by myself or feel like meeting some fans out there too. The label charges a hefty fee for my VIP lounge and backstage passes, and no matter what site the tickets get sold at, they get expensive. I never thought about needing money, but I like to think I cater to my fans that do, so yeah, sometimes I just like to be nice and do something for the people who buy my music, come to my shows, and su
pport me.

  In record time, I shower and dress in jeans and another white tee—a signature look, I guess. I don’t bother spraying cologne because I hate it. I lace up my brown shoes and meet Julia. She sits on the couch with both her pager and tablet clicking and tapping away. She always has her earpiece in, her hair up, and wears business-casual clothes even though she doesn’t need to. I don’t know, the dress pants and blouse don’t make sense to me, but to each their own, I guess.

  “Good, you’re ready. Let’s go.” She stands, barely letting me adjust before we head back out.

  The stuffy air suffocates me. I feel damp already as we head through the place back to the lounge. I don’t remember performing in this arena before, and if I had, I don’t expect I would remember it anyway. The places kind of blur together—my sets, the songs. Even if those things are different, I don’t have anything to differentiate the times and locations from each other.

  “How many are there?” I ask Julia. Sometimes I need to mentally prepare myself.

  “Um, I’m not sure. We sold out, though, maybe because it’s your last show for this tour, and you haven’t announced anything.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. Everyone on my team, in turn, has talked to me about not arranging my next tour or studio time. I’m not ready to tell them why I haven’t, and I’m not even sure why I haven’t scheduled something anyway.

  “Brant?” Julia pulls me back.

  “Hmm. Oh, it’s good for business. Trust me.” I wink and avoid the conversation.

  Judging from the line outside the front of the room, there’re a lot of people. The screams ensue with the usual, and I wave and smile back. Some people who didn’t get the passes loiter around trying to get past security. Like always, I still try to sign some of their stuff and take some pictures until Julia nicely tugs me along to meet the timetable for the people who did pay. I wish everything wasn’t about the money sometimes, but I also can’t complain about all the shit I’ve bought since I’ve become famous.

  We go through the back door into a huge room that’s dimly lit with dark carpets and furniture. Julia has me sit at the huge front table with all my photos and album covers and signing pens. It’s all familiar, and I’m prepared for my hand to be even more tired. I have been playing guitar for so long that it doesn’t really cramp up from that anymore, it’s all the signing that does me in.

  “Send in the crazies,” I joke. Julia frowns at me as she nudges my shoulder and stands behind me with two bodyguards, both new, and I haven’t seen before. The only ones I do recognize and have gotten to know are the ones who always travel with me.

  Now, I don’t mean that any of them are crazy, but I have seen my fair share. They are usually well-behaved and don’t need any extra direction from the event staff. So, they pile in, stay in their line, and wait their turn as I sign the promised album cover posters, albums themselves, and something from my latest shoot. I do one for each tour—an array of photos printed on card stock that the women tend to like, and some men do too. It takes hours to get through everyone, and I’m sick of hearing myself play through the speakers, but I finally get done with that part of my night. Yet another duty. And it’s the last one.

  Julia and I head back to the tour bus. I get a few stragglers and take photos with them on the way.

  “I’ve got dinner coming,” Julia says as we climb inside the bus.

  I smile, knowing I keep her around for a reason. The inside of the tour bus hasn’t changed from all the different models I’ve had—tan leather, brown carpets, and black appliances. From the door, it goes to a mini-kitchen, living room and gaming system, the private bedroom, and then the four bunks outside of the bedroom with the two bathrooms. Finally, another television sits at the end on a small conference table which is usually used for when I have meetings on tour.

  “My favorite or yours?” I joke. I start the coffee maker, and even though it’s almost two in the morning, and I’m tired, I like the taste, and I want the energy to enjoy the dinner I’m so hungry to eat.

  “Yours. It was nice, considering it’s the last show. How do you feel?” She thanks me when I hand her a cup of coffee, and then I sit across from her with my own.

  I ignore the question for at least two sips of coffee and meet her inquisitive gaze. Julia always had these piercing blue eyes that dragged answers right out of you. But it was never why I found it so easy to talk to her. It sucks not to get along with someone whom I have to be around so much, so I’m glad that we do. She always has my best interest at heart and stays behind me every step of the way.

  “I feel the same. Should I feel different?”

  She scoffs and tucks her feet up under her on the couch. As she lets her hair down, she laughs at me. “Brant, you’re better at words than that.”

  “Maybe.” I eye my three guitars perched in the corner on their stands. I have different ones for different feelings here on the bus and at home.

  “So, why no new tour announcement? Has your creativity gone dry?”

  I finish my coffee, kicking off my shoes to get comfortable too.

  “No, I haven’t. I’m old, and I need to take a break.”

  “You’re thirty-five.”

  “That’s geriatric.”

  She laughs and is interrupted by a knock I assume comes with our food. It does, and we eat over a late-night show, and she doesn’t bother me with any more questions. I eat every bite of the shrimp tacos, my favorite meal of all time.

  “Tomorrow you have the press conference at the airfield before your flight back to Savannah. And then there is the meeting with Rick—”

  “Julia, I’m so exhausted, I won’t remember all this.” I stand up, dramatically stretching out and getting ready to head to bed. Usually, I stay in a hotel, but I was feeling a little nostalgic about this possibly being my last tour, so I opted to stay on the bus. Plus, the transport might have turned into a media frenzy that I didn’t feel like dealing with.

  “Okay. I’ll head back to the hotel and see you tomorrow morning.” She stands as well, and I hug her goodnight before she leaves. I watch one of the guards escort her back and drive off before I settle in.

  I shower again and feel keyed up as I head to the bedroom, so I take my guitar with me. I lean the brown acoustic against my bare chest and strum aimlessly until I realize I am doing one of my old tunes from way back before I was even signed for the first time. It’s the same thing I played for my mom when I was barely seventeen, and I remember being so afraid to tell my dad about it.

  At the time, I just thought he would want me to work for him, and that would be it. Being the oldest, I just expected it. But I was so wrong. He was supportive, and it was all I needed to finally write my first song—the same one I play before every show. Now that he’s gone, it hurts a lot more. In the middle of the tour, I lost him, and so much has happened since then that I don’t feel like I have even processed it yet.

  The tune lets me get tired and exhausted enough to stop thinking about anything and go to sleep.

  The press conference goes as I suspected. Questions about my next tour, my next album. What’s next in general, and I graze by all the questions easily. I’m used to dodging questions I don’t want to answer, shit I don’t want to deal with.

  “That was convincing.” Julia is all sarcasm.

  I take my seat on the jet as does she behind the table separating us.

  “What?” I peek at her from behind my aviators. Julia just shrugs her uptight shoulders and focuses on her tablet screen. What the hell is she always doing on there?

  “Nothing. Just… you don’t seem like the type to ‘pursue other avenues’ at any point in time. Hard to believe, and I know they don’t believe you either.”

  I lick my lips and try to formulate a good enough response, but there isn’t one. “I want to soul search, is that so bad?” I chuckle.

  Her lips form a hard line, and I ignore her pointed gaze. Thankfully, the pilot comes on, and it’s time for takeo
ff.

  The only other people flying with us are the two bodyguards and rep from the label. I never had an entourage, never needed one and thought it was just a way some artists reminded themselves they were the shit or tried to convince themselves that they were. But Julia knows I hate the takeoff, so she leaves me be until we are at cruising altitude, and I’ve had two ginger ales.

  “You don’t want any alcohol with that?” she asks like it is criminal to drink soda with no alcohol.

  “Nope.” I take another fizzy drink. The flight isn’t long enough for anything but nuts, so I snack on those.

  “Okay. So, soul-searching? Why would you want to do that?” Julia cocks her head with a look like I’m not capable of anything other than singing.

  I was a straight ‘B’ student all through school and went to college because it was my dad’s only clause to supporting me one hundred percent. He prided himself on contingency plans. Maybe that’s why he had ten kids. Someone had to do it right.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the endless performances are starting to wear me down.”

  “You could take vitamins.”