Managing The Rock Star (Not So Bad Boys Book 1)

by Emma St Clair

  Managing the Rock Star

  A Bad Boy Sweet Romance

  Emma St. Clair

  Contents

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  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

  Epilogue

  What To Read Next

  A Note From Emma

  Acknowledgments

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  Chapter One

  If one more girl asked Sterling James to sign one of her body parts, he was leaving this meet-and-greet event. Period. Contract or no contract.

  The label kept saying he needed to get his image under control. This meant no bad press and more photo ops with fans. He needed to smile and be friendly, not moody and morose.

  Another hour. He could be pleasant for another hour.

  Sterling sighed and picked up his permanent marker before security ushered the next fan inside. She looked about twelve and shuffled up to the table, nervously tucking her blond hair behind her ears. She shoved a folded T-shirt across the table. Her hand shook the slightest bit, and Sterling pretended not to notice.

  “Will you sign my shirt?”

  Sterling smiled. An actual smile. “I’d love to. What’s your name?”

  “Vanessa.”

  “Okay, Vanessa. What do you want me to write? Any special messages?”

  “Um, how about ‘To the Moon and Back.’ And, you know, your name.” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her feet. She had braces and kept trying to smile without her teeth showing.

  Her mother stood behind her, beaming. Sterling gave her a wink as he uncapped the permanent marker and began to write. It was harder than you might think to write on a T-shirt without the fabric bunching up. He’d had tons of practice, though, and knew just how to hold the fabric taut.

  The message Vanessa asked for was a shortened version of his album title, Love You to the Moon and Back. Sterling wrote the whole thing out, knowing that it would mean more to see the “love you” part. She probably had been too shy to ask.

  She reminded him of his sister May. Or, at least, how his sister had looked the last time he saw her. His chest tightened. It never got easier. His job basically required that he be around girls who looked just like May had at thirteen.

  “Do you want to take a picture with me?” He smiled up at her, watching her face brighten.

  Sterling usually didn’t have to ask. He usually didn’t want to. But Vanessa’s mom stood behind her, touching her back like Vanessa needed moral support. A blush still sat on her cheeks. She might not have gotten up the courage to ask.

  Vanessa didn’t look at him, but nodded, biting her lip to cover her smile. Sterling came around the table, holding out his arm. He usually hated touching fans too. Casually, he draped his arm over Vanessa’s shoulder and leaned down as her mom held up an iPhone. They took a few shots, even some silly ones at Sterling’s request. He could feel the tension and shyness leaving Vanessa, replaced by a glowing happiness.

  Before she could pull away, Sterling squeezed her into a side hug. “Great to meet you, Vanessa,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I really love your music. Love You to the Moon and Back is my favorite album. Like, ever.”

  “Thank you,” Sterling said. “It’s my favorite right now too. My newest is always my favorite, though. I’ve got one dropping next year, so that will probably be my favorite soon.”

  Vanessa looked so pleased that he was actually talking to her. And the more he said, the more she looked at him. Her confidence blossomed under his gaze. She met his eyes as she leaned a little closer and whispered, “My mom loves it too. Even if she wouldn’t admit it. She knows all the words.”

  She giggled then, and Sterling felt the familiar weight pressing on his chest. It was hard when simple words like “mom” or seeing a girl who looked like May triggered the pain and guilt. He wanted to enjoy this one moment with Vanessa, to savor the positive effect he could have on someone with just a few words and a couple of photos. But thoughts of Mom and May were dark clouds gathering into a storm in his head.

  He hadn’t seen May in person in almost four years. He loved and hated when fans reminded him of his sister. Sometimes all it took was the right age and blonde hair. Other times it was that sweet shyness May had back then. With Vanessa, it was both.

  Once, long ago, May had been a fan of his. He had no idea what kind of music she listened to now. But he could put money on the fact that it wouldn’t be anything with his name on it.

  Sterling made his way back to his seat, pulling a gray Dunlop guitar pick from his pocket and twirling it in his fingers. The motion calmed him and helped drag his thoughts out of places he didn’t want to go. He focused on the feel of the raised lettering on the .88mm pick. For playing, his favorite was the thinner .73, but he kept .88s in stock for just this. As he spun the pick, he pushed the thoughts of May right back where they belonged: in the section of his brain for things that needed to stay in the dark.

  Vanessa walked away with a goofy grin on her face. Her mom turned around and mouthed, thank you. Sterling smiled and nodded. If only every fan could be like this.

  But most of the people who came to these meet-and-greets were shrieking teenage girls who thought they were in love with him. Grown women were worse when they fell all over him. He understood teenagers screaming and crying and passing out. They were a giant ball of hormones and pheromones and could hardly be held responsible for super-fanning. But anyone over eighteen? Nope. Sterling gritted his teeth.

  Of course, the next person through the door fell into the undesirable category. She bounded up to the table, radiating pure overzealous fangirl.

  Not girl—woman. She looked closer to his age, he realized as she reached the table. Probably early twenties. She would have been pretty if she hadn’t looked like she was about to climb over the table into his lap. Long brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and olive skin with a wide smile.

  Too bad. Any woman with the fangirl vibe was a hard pass. The friend who walked in with her seemed totally disinterested, tapping on her phone. She glanced at Sterling and shook her head a little, like she couldn’t believe her friend either. With a flip of her long, thin braids, she went back to her phone.

  He tried to make it look like he was smiling, not baring his teeth. From the corner, Jeff coughed and gave Sterling a warning look, then went back to his phone. Half of Sterling’s problem was having a manager who didn’t understand Sterling. At all. After tonight, that wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

  “What would you like me to sign?” Sterling asked.

  “This picture.” The woman shoved a framed photograph across the table, her fingers brushing against his. He pulled the frame away quickly to avoid any more contact.

  Inside was a photo of Sterling from a few years ago. He could tell because his hair was shorter back then and featured the bleached highlights that Jeff insisted he try. Thankfully the fans hated that look as much as he did. Sterling was bac
k to slightly messy hair that fell somewhere between brown and dark blond.

  He wasn’t smiling in the photo but had a practiced brood on his face. He could still remember the photo shoot. “I want bedroom eyes!” the photographer had said. Sterling had a hard time even looking at the picture, where he had totally captured the look they wanted. These were the moments he questioned why he wanted this life.

  The image looked like the dream female fans had of Sterling James, staring intently at them with I-want-you eyes. He felt gross just thinking about it. Even though the fans preferred his hair without the highlights, the posters and pictures with this image had outsold any other one they’d ever printed. A few fans told him they hung them on the ceiling above his bed. Double yuck.

  “What’s your name?” Sterling asked, readying his marker above the glass.

  “Reese.”

  He started on her name, thankful it was one he could easily spell. The less he had to talk to her, the better. “What should I put?”

  “Just put ‘You were right.’”

  “You … were …right. Got it.” Sterling put the cap back on the marker, then stood up, wanting to get the photo done as quickly as possible. Reese already stood in front of the backdrop with the framed photo, grinning. “Right about what?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but wrapped both arms around his waist, pulling close for the photo. So close that he could smell her shampoo. Or maybe it was perfume. She smelled like something sweet and spicy—good enough to eat.

  But he shoved that thought aside when he smelled something else. Was that … alcohol?

  Sterling resisted the fight-or-flight urge that kicked in. He would choose flight, all the way. Far, far away. But for now, he plastered on the best smile he could and tried not to breathe too deeply.

  Her friend snapped a few pictures and Sterling did his best to look like he wasn’t angry. He was distracted by the woman’s hands on his shirt, underneath his jacket but still on top of his clothes, thankfully.

  At least she wasn’t trying to touch his butt or anything else. It shouldn’t surprise him that women still tried to do that.

  Nothing should surprise him anymore. Not after reading some of the weird fan letters he got, or the presents people left for him or the time that one woman broke into his tour bus and waited for him, naked. Thankfully she had been in the wrong bunk and someone else got surprised before calling the cops. Once a fan left a guinea pig in a cardboard box on the front steps of his record label. The box had his name on it and a note explaining that the guinea pig was their love child.

  “Right about what?” Sterling asked again.

  Why he cared, he wasn’t sure. But the question kept crawling around in his brain. Usually fans wanted something easy like lyrics or album titles, or even something related to him that they’d read in an interview. All pretty standard fare, though every person seemed to think they were the first and only one to ask.

  He definitely didn’t want to know because Reese—aside from the hardcore fangirling and alcohol smell—was pretty. Nope.

  She pulled back just slightly and tilted her chin to look up at him. This close, Sterling couldn’t ignore her full lips and the way her eyes sparkled. She looked like she was about to let him in on some cosmic joke. Sterling felt the increase in his heart beat and was suddenly aware of her hand on his waist. She fit perfectly underneath his arm, like she was made to be there.

  Maybe she wasn’t obsessive. Maybe she was just one of those women with a lot of happy energy?

  “Because one day when we get married, I’m going to tell you that I told you so. And you’re going to say, ‘you were right.’”

  Nope. Definitely not just happy energy.

  Sterling pulled away, practically shoving Reese at her friend, who was rolling her eyes. She shot him a look that seemed to say, I’m sorry, and then started to drag Reese away. Reese wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder. Her friend snorted with laughter. Sterling even heard the security guys behind him chuckling. Ugh.

  “Good to meet you, Sterling! I’ll see you again soon,” she called. Then, to her friend, but still in a loud enough voice for Sterling to hear, she said, “I don’t care what people say. I like Night Sterling. Brooding is hot.”

  Night Sterling.

  The phrase sent hot anger burning into his throat. Sterling glared as the women left the room. He had half a mind to grab Reese by the arm, spin her around, and unleash his fury on her.

  Jeff had a radar for drama and looked up from his phone. Or maybe he had heard Reese. The whole room had. And anyone who had worked with him for long knew how much he hated the nickname the press had given him: Day and Night Sterling.

  He had been trying to get past this one, but it was hard to shake. Especially because, as much as he hated the nickname, it was true. Day Sterling was the charming rock star who took pictures with Vanessa, smiling and being charming. Night Sterling was the angry rocker who was easily frustrated and short-tempered. Or, as Reese mentioned, brooding.

  The media loved to spot Night Sterling and was quick to caption photos and make headlines any time he so much as walked to his car without a smile on his face.

  “Give me a minute,” Sterling said to the security guy who was at the door, about to let in the next fan.

  “We need to keep this moving,” Jeff said.

  “I. Need. A. Minute.” The steel in Sterling’s voice had the power to make even Jeff shut up. His manager’s cheeks went red, but he didn’t argue.

  There was nowhere to go in this tiny room. Sterling sat down at the table again and rested his head in his hands.

  Breathe. A little less than an hour. Then you can fire Jeff and get out of here.

  That was the other reason he couldn’t wait to end this meet-and-greet. He was letting Jeff go after a few years of moving Sterling away from the direction he wanted to go. Jeff would be furious, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.

  Sterling had already hired Morgan Colter, his childhood best friend, to replace Jeff. She had called last week to let him know she left the band she had been working with and wondered if he needed someone. The timing was too perfect when she approached him.

  Morgan understood that he was a raging introvert. She knew the things in his history that made him broody.

  “I get you, Sterling. And I’m going to help you get your reputation back on track. We’ll hire someone to handle social media and all that, to do your PR. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. The focus will be the amazing music you make.”

  Sterling’s only hesitation was that he suspected Morgan used to have feelings for him. Ones beyond the friendly ones he had for her. She had never said anything, so it was hard to be sure. Famous or not, Sterling didn’t want to assume every girl in the world was into him. Hopefully, he was wrong about Morgan.

  They hadn’t seen each other much over the years. They had both succeeded in the music industry—Sterling on stage and Morgan behind the scenes. Morgan was based in L.A. and Sterling lived in Nashville when not on tour.

  If nothing else, Sterling knew that he could trust her. Morgan wouldn’t keep signing him up for these personal appearance events where he had to spend hours talking to people. Hopefully.

  But it was a chicken and egg problem. These kinds of events were the personal connection that could help with public image. But the more of these events he did, the worse Sterling’s public image seemed to be. Hours of talking to people left him drained and short-tempered. That kind of thing was hard to hide from fans. They assumed he was an ungrateful diva, not that being around people left him totally exhausted.

  Being a musician seemed to be a circular problem these days, any way you looked at it. Streaming services and the death of CD sales meant a constant touring schedule to make money. Touring made it harder, at least for Sterling, to write new music. Without new music, interest would dry up. If he kept pushing back his new album, Sterling would soon be considered a “classic.” Then he could do a has-been
tour, like New Kids on the Block and the Backstreet Boys.

  Morgan had promised to help him with all of these things. But Sterling didn’t know if his career was fixable.

  Maybe he needed to go back to the beginning and remember why he was here. He could trace his roots to the day his dad walked out on them. Sterling had been eight, May had been two. His mom had been crushed—Sterling had heard her many nights, crying after she thought he was asleep—but put on a brave face. She continued to smile, volunteer at his school, and go to church, as though his dad leaving didn’t shake the entire framework for his universe. That’s really when Sterling started to become more introverted, more withdrawn, moodier and more cynical.

  It’s also when he picked up a guitar and a pen.

  Music had been a refuge. He could lose himself in the sound and rhythm, pouring his emotions into the lyrics. Playing shows used to leave him feeling energized and whole.

  But now it often felt like less of a refuge and more of a trap. His writing had all but slowed to a stop. The passion that once moved from his fingertips to the frets of a guitar had disappeared. The tour he would be starting in a week made him feel claustrophobic.

  Six years later, it all felt heavy to him. Maybe it was time to walk away. This idea had become more and more appealing to him over the last eighteen months.

  “Tick tock,” Jeff said.

  Sterling dropped his hands to his lap and gave Jeff a humorless smile. If only he knew how true that statement was.

  Sterling reached for the pick on the table, but it was gone. Not surprising. They disappeared constantly. He pulled out a replacement and twirled it around his fingers. One more hour.