Rock It

by Jennifer Chance

  “Busy is not what I need,” Anna grumbled. “I just need a date, not anything more.” Then she perked up, flashing Lacey a grin. “Besides, Lacey is going to be ‘busy’ enough for all of us. Because she’s going on tour. With a rock star. Who looks like he’d just as soon rip her clothes off as talk to her.”

  “Oh, please,” Lacey said, feeling the blood rush into her cheeks again, her heart doing a happy little stutter step. “Dante is not interested in having sex with me.”

  For the barest moment, all of the air seemed to get sucked out of the brownstone’s kitchen. Then it whooshed back with three women dissolving into abject gales of laughter.

  “You’ve got to be kidding—”

  “Did you see the way he looked—”

  “Girl, you’re not going to get out of the parking lot, let alone the city—”

  “Enough!” Lacey held up a hand to stay the onslaught. “This isn’t about me hooking up, okay? This is my job we’re talking about here. If it got out that I slept with a client—that I so much as have a crush on my client—my reputation would be absolutely shredded. For every moment of this fourteen-day tour, I’ve got to play blue-ribbon babysitter to a guy who could make or break my career. I can’t afford to screw up.” Lacey shook her head. “And I can’t afford to screw him.”

  Dani leaned back against the kitchen table, lifting up the last steaming pastry from Anna’s early-morning bakeathon. “Then it looks like either way you’re screwed, sweetheart.”

  Chapter Eight

  It took nearly a full week to get the final preparations in place for the Dream It tour, and Brenda had set the tone early by dumping two full crates of forms and another three gigabytes of contractual addendums on Lacey for her to wade through “in her free time” while she got to hang out with the band, the roadies, and most important, Dante. Lacey felt like Cinderella kept away from the ball. She’d even had her mom ship her years-worth of scrapbooks to the office to help her with the research, and she’d pored over every detail of Dante’s past that she’d faithfully recorded until just a few years earlier, determined to be a one-woman-expert on everything Dante Falcone.

  She’d finally locked those scrapbooks away in her desk late the night before, under a pile of old client folders. She should’ve probably just tossed the silly things, but couldn’t quite bring herself to go that final step. In the meantime, they’d be safe where they were.

  As dawn broke over the glittering Boston skyline, with the promise of a glorious summer in the air, Lacey had the feeling that everything was going to be all right. For the next two weeks, she wouldn’t have to see Brenda … and she would get to hang out with Dante. For two. Whole. Weeks.

  Lacey had it all planned out. She would ride in one of the vans or other buses with the crew, careful to keep a professional distance from Dante, but she’d go above and beyond at every possible moment to make his life a breeze. She’d be classy, professional, and indispensable to him. At the end of the tour, he’d give her the most glowing recommendation of the century, never realizing that every time she looked at him she was really just picturing him naked, hard, and desperate to have sex with her.

  Down, girl. He should never have whispered what he had to her about holding her naked, back at the brownstone. The idea of Dante exploring her entire body had taken over every brain cell she could spare, and was a constant running refrain behind the piles of contracts, logistical plans, and venue details she’d been slogging through for days. Even now, walking across the still cool pavement, she imagined Dante’s hands on her hot skin, cupping her breasts, skimming her waist, and—

  I said, down! Give me a break here!

  Gritting her teeth, Lacey hauled her bags up to the man in charge. And she knew he was the man in charge, even though she hadn’t spent the last evening drinking with the guy, like Brenda had. Harry McGraw was the band’s de facto tour manager. He’d been with Paradiso since it had formed five years ago, but more important, he’d been with Dante since he had first started touring with his original band, The Dream Team. Under Harry’s shrewd eye, Dante had gone from a doe-eyed Disney Channel crooner to the hottest ticket in entertainment for the tween and teen set. Harry wasn’t Dante’s real manager, exactly. That role was now conspicuously empty, which was why Lacey was playing bus monitor. But whenever Dante was on the road, Harry was with him. He set up and tore down shows and moved the band from one city to the next like a general on constant attack.

  “You’re late,” he growled at Lacey now, as she staggered up. “And you’ve got way too much shit. We’re not going to be able to lug all of that around.”

  “But I need all of it,” Lacey began, then saw—literally saw—the man’s shoulders go up. Oh, here we go. “Let me guess,” she said, too tired to stop her mouth. “You were told I was a sniveling, stuck-up brat or a corn-brained farm girl. Which?”

  The shoulders dropped, but only slightly.

  “You know, I don’t care. I have to haul this ‘shit’ around because that’s my job. None of this is clothes. That’s all in here.” She hitched the shoulder that held her daypack, which now consisted of a dozen tightly rolled outfits, underwear, and only the barest essentials of toiletries. She prayed she’d be able to find a mall or something near their first stop tonight in Providence. They had a couple of warm-up shows over the next few nights, before their first big gig just outside of New York City, and there had to be some sort of store, somewhere, along the way. A woman could not live in leggings alone.

  “Then what is it?” Harry scowled at her cases. “Haven’t you heard of going paperless?”

  “Not when I’m dealing with signatures and contracts. Your man Dante is very old school. Triplicates of everything, and I’ve got follow-up legal documentation from every one of his sponsors to deal with. But I’m not your problem, at least not now.” Lacey hooked a thumb over her shoulder, as the small caravan of IMO vans crunched into the parking lot, right on time. “They are.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Harry breathed, lifting his gaze to stare behind her. “What in fuck’s name is that?”

  “That would be the camera crew,” Lacey said, her face locked in a bright smile. “They’ve got their own vans, but don’t let that fool you. They will be underfoot every moment of every day for the next two weeks or so, and they will want nothing more than to catch you and any of your crew at a camera-worthy moment.”

  “What?”

  “Brenda didn’t share this with you?” Lacey asked, even though she knew better. As if Brenda would have done any of the dirty work. At Harry’s cross look, she shrugged. He already hated her, and she wasn’t going to fix that today. “Yeah, well, it’s all for a good cause, Harry. After this tour, Dante will be able to do whatever he wants financially. His career is going to be set.”

  “His career is set already,” Harry grumbled, his eyes narrowing as the cameramen disgorged from the vans. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” He threw up his hands as bodies draped with video cameras spread out among the roadies and crew. “What the fuck is going on here?” Harry yelled. “Get back in the vans if you plan on going with us, or get the hell out of here. We have to get rolling.”

  “Not yet!” A young camera operator ran up, his smile as wide as his head. “We’ve only got three days to pull together enough B-reel to launch our first webisode. Are you Harry McGraw? Can you do a clip for the first spot—you know, the life of a traveling band?”

  “Christ on a—”

  Lacey turned away to hide her grin. Instead she surveyed the bus, already knowing the wonder that awaited inside but still absolutely psyched to see it in person. One thing was certain, IMO was doing nothing on the cheap.

  The buses were the absolute latest in engineering and excess, complete with leather seats, carpet, high-tech everything, and even custom-made bunks that allowed for greater privacy and more comfort—sort of like sleeping in your own plush canoe. Each of the buses was outfitted with multiple bunks, but for this trip, Dante would be on his o
wn—perks of being the star. Jim hadn’t been too clear on where she would be riding, but Lacey was ready to put a good face on it and be the good corporate citizen. She’d have her own room at the hotels—and there were a lot of them along the way—so she could handle the odd night stuck on a bus like some sort of rolling youth hostel. It would be fun. Really.

  She pulled out her iPad and ran down her checklist. Everyone looked like they were here, except Dante himself, of course. The three giant buses gleamed, the morning light splashing off of a bright paint job highlighting the half a dozen companies who were looking to cash in on advertising and social media commentary as rolling billboards. Their names were plastered along the sides of the bus in a tasteful strip of corporate largesse that stood up well despite the splashy band logo with its million exploding sparks. Then there were a half-dozen auxiliary vehicles, and of course all of the way-too-eager videographers. Even now, the YouTube crew had cornered some unfortunate roadie who was blinking blearily in the early dawn light, and she wondered how much footage they’d gotten of last night’s private event—an event that Brenda had conveniently excluded her from. The first teaser feeds were going to start running the night before Dante’s next concert, right outside of New York City, and from that point forward they’d be put up twice a day—fourteen days of programming, close to fifty video shorts. If someone didn’t die from sheer exhaustion on this tour, it would be a miracle.

  “You look pretty grim.” A laughing, wry voice floated over her left shoulder. “Don’t worry about Harry. He gets better.”

  Lacey blinked up to take in a tall, rangy guy with a wide smile and insanely curly long hair. Steve Gwynn, lead guitarist. “Thanks,” she said. “I know it’ll take a while for me to make any friends here. Probably right around the time we start to gel, the tour will be over.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Steve said. “Living on the road, even if we’re not always on the bus—you’re going to spend a lot of intense time with these people. It sort of jacks up the ‘getting to know you’ process.”

  “You’ve been with the band for a while?” she asked. She already knew the answer, but Steve wouldn’t realize that, and getting to know the closest guy that Dante had to a friend seemed like the smart thing to do.

  “My whole life, it seems like sometimes. Not in a bad way,” he said hastily, waving off Lacey’s concerned look with a laugh. “Just—sometimes you just fit into a place, and you realize it’s where you need to be. And I do. I fit here.”

  “Yeah,” Lacey said. She thought about the girls in the brownstone—she and Anna Richardson had been close enough friends in college, but it wasn’t until they’d both found themselves in Boston last summer that things had really clicked for them. A chance encounter with artist-on-the-rise Erin Connelly had led to a roof over their heads, which was where they’d met the fast-talking Dani Michaels. Within just a few weeks, the four of them had formed a pretty tight bond. Even Dani, who didn’t seem to connect easily, was now hanging around the brownstone more often whenever she wasn’t working as a bartender, pool hustler, or God only knew what else. “Hopefully things won’t get too crazy on this tour.”

  “What, like having your champagne spiked by a psycho groupie?” Steve offered Lacey a crooked grin at her surprised look. “Life of a superstar.” He shrugged. “Sometimes you score a really hot babe—sometimes she tries to kill you.”

  “We’re moving, people! Like maybe before I grow old and die!” Harry continued bellowing at the roadies, and Steve straightened beside her.

  “And … there’s the big guy,” he said. “That’s my cue to leave.”

  Lacey squinted into the early-morning sun as a new car slid into the abandoned parking lot that IMO had commandeered to get the band out of town as quietly as possible. The limo was black and understated, but it still screamed money. Sure enough, Dante Falcone stepped out of it as if it wasn’t actually four thirty in the morning, looking as fresh and unrumpled as the multimedia star he was. He stretched, turning around to look at the opulence his fame and talent had netted for his band, then nodded to the crew members who descended on him, offering him coffee and doughnuts and God only knew what else. Lacey was so caught up just watching the mere magic of him interacting with his people that it took her a few moments to realize he was heading her way. She straightened, squaring her shoulders. I’m a professional. A professional professional. I am good at my job, and I’m only here for my job. Nothing he says will get under my skin, or my clothes, or—

  She swallowed, her mind suddenly veering off on a tangent of Dante patiently disrobing her, one clothing item at a time.

  Probably better to stop that line of thinking right there.

  At that moment, Dante’s head turned to her, as if he could read her thoughts. Struggling to think only of contracts and paperwork and tour details, Lacey plastered on a very professional smile, and waited the remaining few seconds as he ambled up to her. “Glad to see you could finally join us,” he said. “I was beginning to think you didn’t care.”

  Despite herself, she stiffened at his teasing rebuke. “Hey, give me a break,” she said. “I had a lot to do to get everything ready.”

  “Well, now you’re going to have a lot to do taking care of me.” He pointed a finger at the bus. “This is my bus?” he asked.

  At Lacey’s nod, his grin got wider. “Then that’s where you’ll be, too.”

  “What?” Lacey shook her head, knowing her voice had been reduced to a squeak, just like that. “That’s entirely not necessary. I can sleep any—be anywhere. I don’t need to be with you every second of the day. I’m not really your manager, Dante, we both know that.”

  “Nope, you’re not,” Dante said, agreeing with her just a little too quickly. “But on this tour, you are my handler.” He slipped off his sunglasses, then fixed her with the heat-stoked gaze that had graced a million and one paparazzi photos since the guy had barely been out of middle school. “And Lacey, for the record? I’m in the mood to be handled.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dante lolled on the couch a few hours later, watching Lacey pore over her documents. She was trying so hard—too hard—to be professional. His crack about being handled had been mostly a joke, but her reaction to it had perplexed him. The moment he’d rolled into the parking lot and seen her there, waiting for him, he’d felt himself go tight and ready. She was under his skin in the worst way, and there was only one way around that. But he had time. He had oceans of time.

  Then he’d walked up to her and realized that time wasn’t going to do anything but make things more difficult. He’d done no more than tease her, and her entire body had stiffened like he’d touched a live wire. That crazy mix of emotions had flashed over her face again before she’d shut it down, and he was left feeling once again like he didn’t have the whole story on Lacey. That was only fair, he supposed. She didn’t have the whole story on him, didn’t know anything beyond the rock-star persona that everyone wanted to focus on. She might not want to see past that persona, either, and that was okay, too. Few people did. But he hadn’t imagined her interest, he was certain about that.

  He’d given her something of a break up to this point, letting her get used to the idea of being alone with him, but the woman hadn’t relaxed, and the hours were slipping by. He was feeling keyed up, out of sorts. Ordinarily, he’d chalk up his mood to a desire to get amped for the night’s warm-up concert, but he wasn’t kidding anyone.

  This was all about Lacey.

  He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for more than thirty minutes since he’d left her sitting in her Boston kitchen dressed in those threadbare pink pajamas that were damn near see-through. Her smooth skin and soft curves had had his fingers twitching and his imagination primed, and the longer he spent around her now, the worse it was getting.

  The thing was, he didn’t really know why she was bothering him so much. Women were a perk of his profession, after all—he had his pick, whenever he wanted. He’d be
en favoring blondes for years, but now, suddenly, this uptight brunette was becoming his number one go-to for fantasies of hot, pounding sex. Especially when she showed up tightly wrapped in tailored suits or—like now—draped in clingy fabric that hugged every curve of her body like a second skin. He didn’t know if one of his sponsors had paid for Lacey’s outfit, but if not they should have. Every twist of her body sent ripples along his nerve endings, his muscles clenching and unclenching in almost nervous expectation. He felt like he was fourteen all over again, with women still untouched and unexplored. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “What are you working on over there?” he asked finally, pleased that he had at least kept the rasp out of his voice. “I thought we had signed everything back in Boston.”

  “You did,” Lacey said, not looking up. “But now we’re negotiating the finer points with sub-vendors, details on how we’re going to get you everything that’s been agreed on, and when. It will all fall in line with what you signed, but there are still some loops we have to close to make sure it all works. I have maybe two more days of work on these, and then I’ll be able to come up for air. You’ll be a very rich man at the end of all of this, I’m happy to say.” Clipped, professional. As if she’d never been anything but.

  That was about to change, if he had anything to say about it. Lacey turned a page in the folder, and Dante leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “Speaking of contracts,” he drawled. “You know, we never did decide how you were going to repay me for signing all of those documents so easily.”

  He watched her fingers tighten on the folder, but she still didn’t hesitate. She must have been waiting for a chance to use her carefully prepared response to that line of questioning. “I am happy to have that conversation with you after we get everything finalized, Dante,” she said, her lips curving into a smile still half-hidden as she focused on her folders. “But right now—”