by T. I. Lowe
“You just stole the show at the music festival with that mind-blowing performance. Why else?” Tate rolled his eyes, his annoyance prevalent with the wickedly talented guitarist still not comprehending it. The entire band, for that matter, didn’t get the ramifications of their talent. Not even multi-platinum records, #1 hit songs, and a treasure trove of awards seemed to make it clear about the level of fame they had earned over the years.
“Get the shirt on,” Ben spoke up as he tossed Max his abandoned pair of Converses.
“Yes, sir,” Max mocked as he pulled on the black V-neck shirt and shoved his feet into the shoes. He reached behind him to retrieve the black fedora from the floor and shoved it low on his head using it as a shield for his eyes and the bad case of bedhead he was sporting. His palm tested the side of his jaw, thankful some scruff remained even though Jewels and Izzy held him down earlier so the stylist could give it a good trimming.
“The reporter has been warned not to go near personal,” Tate said with a reassuring nod as he moved back to the door.
“Yeah, but since when do they ever listen,” Max grumbled, slumping down even further, wishing the suede chair would swallow him on the spot.
“Who’s the reporter?” Dillon asked, his brow pinched with concern.
“Vee Declan,” Tate answered hesitantly.
Groans and grunts moved through the group.
“You guys don’t have to stay,” Ben spoke up while glancing over the schedule attached to his clipboard.
“Yes, we do,” Dillon answered for them all. No one made a move to leave, all nodding their heads in agreement.
After Will recovered from the hot dog binge from earlier, he pulled the group downstairs where they had an impromptu meeting with Max. One thing the band had made clear from the get-go is that they couldn’t keep secrets from one another. It was the only way to truly have their mate’s back, so Max knew as soon as they crowded around him that Will spilled the beans on the break-up. He wasn’t upset about it, because Will was only doing what was deeply ingrained in him to do. Max asked that they just let him be about it for the time being, and Dillon said he knew where they were when he needed them.
So they were right where he needed them when the audacious host pranced her unwelcomed self through the door. Red hair with signature hot-pink streaks and a skintight teal dress reminded Max of an anorexic clubbing Barbie. She set her overly done eyes straight on him and sashayed in his direction as the small camera crew began setting up in front of the chair that refused to swallow him.
“Just the man I need to see,” Vee flirted, voice pitching a bit too high from her fake enthusiasm.
As she drew near, Max heard Mave humming the song, “Mess Around” by Cage the Elephant while tapping a drumstick against the armrest of his chair. The suitable lyrics began playing through his mind.
Oh no… She’ll drive ya crazy… No, she don’t mess around. She comin’ for ya. Gonna break ya. Ah, oh no.
After shooting Mave a look that said, you got that right, he reluctantly stood and shrugged on his best Maxim King impersonation. “Hey, sweet thang.”
The flirty host went in for a hug, but Max managed to dodge most of it with only a side-hug before launching himself back into his chair. He quickly pulled the guitar back on his lap as a buffer against any more of her unexpected advances.
“Vee, just want to remind you of what we’ve already discussed,” Tate said firmly.
She turned and barely refrained a glare. “Of course, hon. Max knows I’m his good friend.” She redirected her focus on the man in question and gave him an exaggerated wink.
“Good. Let’s get going. The guys only have a few minutes to spare.”
“Just waiting for the cue from my producer.”
Vee made a speedy trip around the room to flirt with each band member and offer unreciprocated hugs. Once done with the greetings, she took the seat a crew member had set up in front of Max and began reapplying bright-pink gloss to her already lacquered lips.
Vee was one of those Hollywood vixens the guys had deemed full of venom and did their darnedest to steer clear of her malice line of vision. If Max were in a better place in his life, he had no doubts the guys would have bailed as soon as the trifling woman’s name had been mentioned.
“Thirty seconds,” the producer warned, so everyone settled down and made a good show of looking distracted by their phone screens. He held his hand up and then pointed in Vee’s direction.
“Hey, hey, my entertainment peeps. Have I got a delicious treat for you today!” Her voice reached that exaggerated pitch again, but settled down a bit when she launched into a rapid-fire pace of questions.
Max let out the breath he was holding when she raved about his performance at the awards show and then asking about the band’s latest music video.
“Oh, I’m stoked about that one. It’s filmed on the lake back home.” Max’s smile was finally genuine.
“Ah yeah. The trailer park where you guys grew up. That’s awesome letting us have a look into your underprivileged past.”
With another reporter, one that didn’t make their living gossiping, Max would have no worries talking about that part of him, but with Vee, he knew it was time to shut it down.
He opened his mouth, but she plowed on with another question.
“Tell me something I don’t already know about the dynamics of this rags-to-riches band.” She leaned forward, allowing too much cleavage on display.
Max knew it was her ploy to get him distracted into saying something he shouldn’t. He’d been meandering through the entertainment life long enough to know most of the tricks of the trade. He averted his eyes to the camera and smirked while strumming a quick riff before moving his gaze to the mole peeking out of the makeup on her forehead.
“Sweet thang,” he began, wanting to reel her in before launching down the music road. “You wanna know how we pulled this off?” He waved around the grey green room as though it were the accomplishment.
“Absolutely!” Vee leaned closer, her boobs dangerously teetering on the edge of full calamity right before the camera. Max locked his eyes above her nose just in case.
“I’m lead guitarist, but where most bands get a song going with the guitar, we put that in Mave’s hands with the drums. Dude sets the beat, and then I ease in a sexy riff to draw in the crowd. Dillon is our rhythm guitarist. My man is the driving force, so it’s fitting. Logan keeps us mellow with his bass and Trace tightens our sound with his keys. Now we got Will, and that fella can handle wherever we put him. It’s epic.”
Vee’s eyes glazed over, but Max couldn’t care less.
“I like my role in the band. It’s the only thing I take seriously.” He grinned, about to head down a silly path in true Maxim fashion, but Vee latched on to his last sentence like a crazed kitten clawing the catnip toy.
“Don’t you take your fiancée seriously?”
The grin froze in awkward place. He cleared his throat and let out a nervous chuckle.
Her snarky eyes narrowed when she caught on to his hesitation. “Seems the two of you hardly spend any time together these days.”
His shoulder shrugged before he could stop the anxious gesture, but he somehow managed to keep eye contact with the reporter. He knew looking away would be a dead giveaway. “It’s expected with our professions.”
“Yes, but before your reconciliation with your estranged father last year, you and Mona were inseparable.”
Max inwardly groaned. Nothing about last year’s diabolical bombshell was reconciled. If anything, it had festered until the entire situation became way too sore to touch. Their father had shown up out of nowhere, begging the twin’s mom to take him back. Thankfully, she had enough sense to decline, but she did feel sorry for her ex-husband for some reason Max couldn’t comprehend. If it weren’t for his mother, Max would have never agreed to meet him and then pay for the stranger’s rehab expenses.
Before Max could conjure up an answer or figure
out how to disappear instantly, his hat was snatched off his head. Looking around, he saw Dillon standing behind him holding it up high.
“Dude!” he yelled, standing up and trying to grab it back with one hand while covering his unkempt hair with the other.
With a devious grin and flick of his wrist, Dillon sent the hat flying in Logan’s direction. Max took off after it, easily giving Dillon the chance to plant himself in front of the camera.
“Sorry about that, sweetheart. Max had it coming. You know that punk dyed all my shirts pink! He deserved a bad hair day shot over that.” He let out a deep chuckle while smoothing his hand down the front of his splotchy pink tee.
Dillon had been wearing the shirts without acknowledging anything obscure about them, not giving Max the satisfaction of his prank.
“Oh, I love those crazy tricks he likes to pull,” she cooed, leaning forward again while batting her false eyelashes.
“Hate to cut this short, but we gotta kick it soon. Your pretty little self understands, right?”
“I…” Vee scrambled, trying to regain control of the interview, but Dillon wasn’t having it.
“Here. Let me give you a custom Max shirt.” Dillon grabbed the back of the pink tee and whipped it over his head in one fluid motion.
Vee’s gasp of appreciation was quite loud as she gawked at Dillon’s bare torso. The California sun had darkened his already bronze skin even further, showcasing his well-defined chest and abs. As though Blake read his mind, the perceptive assistant handed over a black Sharpie. Dillon scribbled his name across the front of the shirt before draping it over the reporters crossed legs.
“But…” Vee seemed unable to speak, her eyes glued to the stunning male physique on display right before her and the camera.
Dillon allowed a sultry smile to deepen the dimples in his cheeks. Offering the stunned reporter a wink, he tilted his head toward the door before leading his bandmates out of it.
Halfway down the hall, the group erupted in a roar of laughter.
“Bro, Jewels is gonna kick your butt for that stunt.” Trace shook his head.
“Pretty Girl will understand I did what I had to do to rescue this punk.” Dillon elbowed Max playfully.
They hustled into the dressing room, and as soon as the door shut, Max seemed to deflate into the couch. The mood instantly shifted to dark.
“You okay?” Dillon asked as he fastened the buttons of his indigo shirt Blake had just handed him.
Max hitched his shoulder. “Might as well be. Thanks, man, for getting me outta there.”
Dillon worked on rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. “You up for tonight?”
Shoulder shrug. “Sure.”
“If you’re not—” Ben chimed in, running his hand through his greying hair.
“No worries.” Max stood abruptly, feeling the walls closing in on him. “I’ll see y’all out there.”
“Whoa there, speedy. Let’s pray before you run off,” Dillon said.
After the first amen was out, so was Max. He ambled around backstage, looking for a way to relieve some tension while dodging around stacks of black equipment trunks. A rush of chaos came near him, revealing the vile Vee and her crew being escorted by security.
“What’s up?” he asked one of the security guards.
“Found them filming in a restricted area,” the big guy answered, coming to a halt in front of Max.
He directed his attention to Vee, who was red-faced. “Ah now, sweet thang, you know better than that.” Max winked as he shoved his hands into his front pockets, finding a tube of hand sanitizer he had especially prepared for Trace.
“Max, tell them it’s okay. You owe me for blowing off the interview,” Vee whined in that shrilling tone, sealing her fate.
“Vee, did you wash your hands since the interview?” Max asked, his fingers edging the tube out of his pocket.
She gave him a confused look before muttering, “No.” She bolstered more attitude in the one little word than was necessary, in Max’s opinion.
“Not good.” His concerning voice and slow shake of his head belied the mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. “Just found out a few of our assistants have suddenly come down with a nasty stomach bug.”
Vee’s attitude withered, her eyes widening. A well-known fact about Vee Declan was that she was an overly dramatic germaphobe. “How bad is it?”
“Both ends kind of bad.” Max widened his eyes to match hers. “Here, I’ve got some hand sanitizer.”
The words barely finished escaping his mouth as her hand reached out to swipe the little tube, squirting half of the contents out into her shaky palm before handing it back to him.
“It’s quite thick,” she mumbled while trying to work the substance along the front and back of her hands.
“Yeah. Some new formula.” His lip twitched with the lie, but Max was able to tamp down the grin. He nodded his head to the security guard and began walking away.
“My… my hands are stuck together! Maxim King!”
He heard her hissy fit but pretended otherwise. Trace met up with him in the corridor.
“What’s Vee yelling about now?” Trace glared over Max’s shoulder where she held her entwined hands up before disappearing from their view.
“Vee’s just being Vee.” Max dismissed that while pulling the tube back out of his pocket. “Say, Trace, did you know hand sanitizer looks a lot like that clear craft glue Grace and Phoebe were using this morning?”
“No…” Trace eyed the tube.
“Want some?” Max offered it over.
“Sure.” Trace held his palm up to accept a generous squirt, totally clueless to Max’s glue statement. “It’s sticky.”
“You make my job too easy, Space Cadet.” With a deep laugh, feeling more like himself, Max hurried off before Trace could get his glue-coated hands around his pranking neck.
•♫•♫•♫•
The electric energy of the concert ricocheted around the dark corridors of backstage as people finally began heading out. The show went off in blazing success, but the bandmates kept a close eye on their lead guitarist. Everyone reaches a limit, and it was evident that he was nearing his.
The meet-and-greet with select fans finally wrapped around midnight. Max flexed his aching fingers as he headed out of the green room with Mave hot on his heels. His brother’s hand clamped down on his shoulder before Max could make a clean break for it.
“Dude, I think it’s time we paid dear ole Dad a visit.” Mave regarded him with tense, brown eyes—identical to his own.
“I ain’t got a dad.”
“Maybe so, and now you ain’t got a fiancée anymore either. What gives with that? The public is catching on.” Mave crossed his heavily tattooed arms.
Before Max could mutter something to pacify his twin, Izzy came shuffling over with her face as red as…
“Hey, red hot chili pepper,” Max teased, intensifying the hue of her flushed cheeks.
Mave looked over and reached for his shaken wife. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes darted between the twins. “Umm… I just… I just walked in on Will—”
Max barked in laughter. “You see our boy naked?”
Both Izzy and Mave shot him a warning scowl. He held his hands up in defense.
“No!” she whispered harshly while looking around. “He’s in Dillon’s dressing room, making out with Stella.”
“Leona’s assistant?” Max asked.
“Yes…” Izzy cleared her throat, waiting for a few stragglers to make it out the back exit. “They didn’t see me, so I’m pretty sure they’re still going at it.”
Both twins grinned wickedly at each other as Mave reached for Izzy’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go bust up Casanova’s party.”
Sure enough, they found Will kissing the young woman passionately while she sat on top of the counter. His hands were grasping Stella’s thin shoulders, close to pinning her against the mirror.
“Dude, you’re
doing it all wrong,” Mave said loudly, making Will jump back. The eighteen-year-old’s face was as flushed as Izzy’s, but obviously for another reason entirely.
Stella wasted no time hopping down and hiding behind Will’s broad back.
“Dude,” was all he could get his husky voice to produce.
“Sweetheart, you never let some idiot manhandle you like that.” Mave addressed her even though she was completely hidden from his view behind the giant teenage idiot. He quirked an eyebrow at said giant. “You gotta do better than that. You don’t grip a girl like you’re holding her prisoner.”
Max wisely kept mute, knowing his name and eloquence did not go together whatsoever. He also knew he failed the subject on how to treat a lady. He merely offered an occasional nod in agreement with his brother and kept his mouth firmly shut.
“Watch and learn, punk,” Mave said to Will as he offered his hand to Izzy, allowing her the choice to agree or not. When she placed her tiny palm into his, he gently pulled her close. “Hold her hand and take a moment to appreciate she trusts you enough to let you hold it.” His eyes remained bonded to Izzy’s as he spoke his lesson to Will. He then worked his other hand through her pale hair until it was cradling the back of her head while sliding their entwined fingers to her waste. Nothing was urgent or demanding with his touch. “You hold her in your arms as though the dream of this angel is too fragile and you absolutely fear her love will shatter.” Mave paused to look over at Will. “’Cause, dude, she’s perfect and you just can’t chance losing this gift.” Reverence laced each of his words.
Izzy squirmed slightly in his arms, uncomfortable from the attention. “Maverick,” she murmured, meaning his name as a warning yet it came out more of a soft moan.
Mave leaned down until his lips were so close to his wife’s that her heated breath warmed his skin, but he paused to allow her the respect of closing the small space between their lips. When she did, he led the kiss in the most delicate display of love Max had ever witnessed. It truly looked as though the drummer was terrified their bond would shatter if he was too aggressive. The moment was much more intimate than the full-blown make-out session they had interrupted.
