by Anna Paige
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Table of Contents
Copyright
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Other Titles by Anna Paige
Acknowledgments
Copyright Notice
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Chasing Kade
Copyright © 2017 Anna Paige
Cover Image by Just write. Creations
Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services
All rights reserved.
For Dad.
I’d be mortified for you to read what’s on these pages, but I’d give anything to have you back so you could.
I miss you.
Prologue
Last fall
This is the life. Or so they say…
As I looked around the room, taking a slow inventory of all the women in attendance, I wasn’t so sure anymore. My gaze was met with more than a few hungry stares, and it was clear that it wouldn’t take much more than a nod on my part to have them ready for action. Maybe not all of them, but a damn impressive percentage.
There was even one girl—no shit—eye-fucking me while sitting on another guy’s lap. It was hilarious, scandalous, and so goddamn boring I could die.
There was no challenge, no real interest, just a long line of groupies hoping to check "Fuck Kade Edenfield” off their to-do lists. A lot of the same faces seemed to be at these parties, same girls with different guys, working their way down the line, as if this was some X-rated bingo game.
I fucked all five members of Thrill of the Chase!
Bingo!
I’m famous by default.
It’s not like we are actual people, right?
I scrubbed a hand over my face. Shit, I was in a mood, and I honestly had no clue why. Tonight was no different than any other night on tour, not really. Just another after party, this one in St. Louis—though most of the time the towns ran together. We’d finished the show—totally fucking blown the roof off the place, to be more accurate—and soon we’d be on our way to the next stop on the tour.
And the wheels on the bus go round and round…
At least this place was decent, unlike some of the others we’d seen over the years. The party room was decked out, rivaling some of the most upscale places we’d been. There were huge, Italian leather couches situated around the perimeter of the room, all facing the gleaming, mahogany bar that stood in the center serving as the focal point. Fully stocked with every top-shelf liquor imaginable, it was staffed by a bored-looking bartender who was clearly unimpressed by our fame, not that any of us gave a shit.
Several small, round, linen-covered tables were scattered around the room, covered in food, in hopes that we wouldn’t get too toasted on an empty stomach. Did they think we were amateurs? This was far from our first trip around the beer-soaked block.
I’d tucked myself away in the back corner, pleasantly sinking into one of the leather couches and giving my ‘fuck off’ vibe to anyone who came too close. I felt like doing some people-watching and conversation got in the way of that.
Of course, Lennox—our bassist—had a habit of not paying attention to subtle cues; a trait that became evident as he strode over and plopped down beside me on the couch. “Why so glum, fucker? Damn erectile dysfunction acting up again?” He snickered into his longneck, oblivious to the death stare I’d leveled in his direction.
It didn’t last long, though, that annoyed look. I couldn’t help giving in. Lennox was that goofball friend who you could never quite manage to stay mad at, no matter how much he deserved it sometimes.
“Not to tell you your business,” I began, fighting a smile, “but I wouldn’t just drop down in my seat like that if I was the one fighting a raging case of hemorrhoids.” I made sure to punctuate that last word, raising my voice just enough to garner a few curious glances.
He chuckled, offering up his beer in a toast. “Touché. Nice one.”
I clicked my bottle against his and returned to checking out the activity around the room, relieved when he appeared to be doing the same.
My twin brother, Kane—our lead guitarist—was holding court on one of the far couches, most of his profile obscured by the curvy redhead straddling his lap. She was leaning so close, I briefly wondered if he would suffocate in her cleavage. Not the worst way to go, by any means, but still. I nudged Lenn and nodded that way, shaking my head.
Kane finally came up for air a few seconds later and caught my eye, the corner of his mouth turning up in a satisfied smirk. I raised my beer in his direction and gave him a nod of approval a split second before he dove back in, head first. Watching him having so much fun was almost enough to make the night okay for me, too. His happiness was always contagious—a twin thing—and, judging by the astronomically hot girl in his lap, he was pretty fucking thrilled right then.
Jared—our rhythm guitarist and the shyest guy on the planet—was perched against one wall, silently looking on as several girls vied for his attention, hoping to draw him out. They’d be about as successful as all the others, which was to say not at all. Not that he didn’t score just as much as the rest of us. He did. And then some. I’d wondered on more than one occasion how he managed it. Did he have some system worked out where a few nods and well-placed hand gestures got him what he wanted? How did one manage that? Maybe it was the whole “strong silent type” vibe that women seemed to eat up. Whatever it was, it worked, because there he went, as expected, one girl under each arm as they headed for the nearest reasonably flat surface, and I swear, the bastard never said a word. Not one.
I’ve got to get him to teach me that.
Lennox nudged me with his knee and drew my attention to the bar, where Ethan—our drummer—had completely taken over,
mixing drinks like a pro and engaging half a dozen people in conversation while the bartender looked on, stoic as ever.
From where Lenn and I sat, we couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but one guy in particular was getting kind of loud, looking agitated. His arms lifted and he gestured around at one of the other guys standing there, his posture delving into aggressive territory.
“Should we go over there?” Lenn asked, his eyes never leaving the guy at the bar.
I was watching Ethan, though, as I shook my head. “Not yet. Let E do his thing.”
Mister Excitable ranted for another minute or so, flailing and making an ass of himself, before it was clearly time someone shut him down.
Sure enough, Ethan reached across the bar and smilingly offered the guy his hand, making formal introductions, though the guy had to know who he was, given that it was our party. E nodded to the drink he’d just finished making, said a few words, and the guy was all grins. He took the drink, tasted it, gave Ethan a thumbs-up and moved on to chat up someone else. The crowd closed the gap left by his departure and everyone went back to their chit-chat like nothing happened.
No harm, no foul.
“How the hell does he do that?” Lennox mused. “If I tried to step in like that, I’d get my teeth knocked out. Him? He’s like a living, breathing, hit of Xanax, calms people right the fuck down.”
I nodded at his assessment, chuckling. “Yeah, you’d definitely get clocked if you tried that. Tact just isn’t your thing. Hell, your foot spends so much time in your mouth, we should buy you a shoehorn to help pry it out every now and then.”
“Fuck off, it’s endearing,” he muttered, but laughed because he knew I was right.
“If you say so.” I shook my head. “At the very least, it’s entertaining to watch.”
He just huffed out a soft laugh and returned to looking around the room. “You ever feel like you’re stuck in that movie Groundhog Day? Like every venue is the same shit? The same people, the same party, the same booze and shitty food?” He sat forward, motioning around the room with his longneck. “Even the girls. Same ones follow us around everywhere. I’ve either been blown by or banged every chick in this room, some of them more than once. I mean, shit, I thought we were rock stars. When are we gonna get some strange?”
My laughter died in my throat as I turned toward him, catching sight of the three-alarm stunner who was just off to his left. She had clearly been on her way to talk to him and overheard what he’d just said.
For fuck’s sake, don’t let me laugh, because she looks so pissed even I’m a little afraid.
I desperately wished I could signal Kane just then. I wanted to lay odds on whether she’d slap him or throw her drink in his face—a little game we’d come up with after about the millionth time Lennox had talked his way right out of getting laid.
Shit. Kane was still face down in titty town. He was gonna miss it.
The sharp sound of a slap rang out like a gunshot and I cringed, turning to see if Lenn’s face was still attached, just as a drenching blast of cranberry-flavored girly-drink hit me right in the face, a byproduct of her less than perfect aim that left both Lennox and I dripping.
I just sat there for a second, unsure whether to laugh or be livid. I settled on moderately amused with a side of annoyance.
She stormed out in a huff, just as Ethan appeared with a couple of bar towels, laughing his head off. It was easy to find shit funny when you didn’t have cranberry juice and vodka dripping down your face. “Another one bites the dust, eh, slick? What’d you do this time?”
“He opened his fucking mouth, which is all it takes.” I groused, wiping my face and neck as I looked over at my tactless friend. “If my hair is fucking pink tomorrow, I’m gonna kick your ass.” His hair was platinum, much lighter than my sandy blond strands, but I couldn’t care less if he looked stupid. He kind of deserved it. I, on the other hand, was collateral damage.
He glanced up at my hair as he licked some of the dripping libation from his upper lip and winced. “Jesus, what the fuck is this shit? If this is what passes for a good drink in her book, I’m glad she’s gone.” His tongue darted out again.
“If it’s so bad, why are you still tasting it, idiot?” Ethan shook his head.
Lennox shrugged helplessly. “Well, after a scene like that, I figure this is the only thing I’ll get to lick tonight, so I might as well make the best of it.” To prove his point, he winked at a particularly interested girl who was watching us from across the room.
She immediately rolled her eyes and gave him her back.
“See?”
“It’s your own fault. Maybe take a look around before you start the locker-room talk in public. Dumbass.”
He skewed his face up in a scowl, from the taste of the drink or maybe embarrassment, I wasn’t entirely sure which. “Maybe that shoehorn isn’t such a bad investment.”
“I’ll put the order in as soon as I find a clean, dry shirt.” I told him as I stood and made my way toward the door, tossing the stained towel on the bar as I passed. I was pretty sure I had another shirt in the dressing room, and I was definitely in need of cleaning up.
“Sorry, dude!” Lennox shouted at my back as I reached for the door handle. I just waved him off and stepped out of the room, determined not to let him see me smile.
The door closed behind me and I tugged my shirt away from my chest, feeling like it was backed with freaking Velcro as I started down the long, deserted corridor.
Five minutes later, I had a dry shirt and an empty bladder as I made my way back toward the after party. Before I could get that far, the sound of raised voices up ahead caught my attention, and I called out into the darkened corridor, altering my course—in more ways than I could have possibly imagined.
Chapter One
Kade
How the hell did we end up here?
I glanced at my four bandmates in succession, finding the same sullen, weary look on each of their faces.
After all these years riding the wave of worldwide adoration, how did this happen?
Oh, right… an acute case of stupidity.
Coupled with a raging libido—okay, three raging libidos.
Topped off with a dose of inconveniently-convenient technology that allowed it all to be captured for the whole world to see.
Fucking camera phones; like privacy wasn’t already hard enough to come by.
On the bright side, at least the pic didn’t show cock.
Ah, the silver lining. I snorted to myself, catching the eye of the rest of the band.
The five of us were seated around a large rounded booth in the back of some little Italian restaurant one of the roadies found on the net. It was two days after the media shitstorm, and we were trying to lay low, so we booked the entire place and threw enough cash at the owners to keep their mouth shut. They were an older couple with thick accents and kind smiles, very accommodating of our surly bunch.
The restaurant itself was traditionally decorated, but not in that tacky strip-mall, pretender kind of way some places sported. Everything here was genuine. Checkerboard tablecloths—actual cloth, not vinyl—with large red-glass candleholders and tall porcelain vases filled with breadsticks instead of flowers.
The smells coming from the kitchen were amazing: garlic, parmesan, and something decidedly spicy that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I hadn’t been particularly hungry when I walked in, but after a few minutes of those smells, my stomach was waking up.
The candlelight flickered and made the shadows dance in the dimly lit room. It was the only unsettling thing about the place, those shadows. They reminded me of the dark apparitions in horror films, like a mist that ebbed and flowed, waiting to converge on you and drag you down to hell.
Joke’s on them. I’m already in hell. Have been for a while now.
I blew out the candle and sat back, not caring that my bandmates were looking at me with raised brows. The crew was gathered on the other side
of the dining room to give us space, probably in part because they didn't want to be caught in the middle if things turned ugly.
My brother and I had been at each other's throats for the past forty-eight hours, so I understood their wariness.
"Wait, so the label is sending in a fucking babysitter? Can they actually do that?" Ethan asked incredulously.
"They can do what they want. We signed a contract, and they're using some obscure clause in it about 'protecting the integrity of the act' as leverage to shove the PR police down our throats," I told him as I shredded a breadstick to dust in my hands. “Apparently, they’ve decided to draw a hard line against their artists misbehaving. After that vapid, whiny-voiced newbie of theirs basically fucked the game ball at this year’s Superbowl halftime show, they’ve decided to put their foot down. Pretty much everybody is walking on eggshells lately, or so I’ve been told. My guess is that they’re hoping to make an example of us because we’re so well established, and the fact that we’re nearing the end of our contract means they have less to lose if we don’t comply.”
There was a collective groan from the group, my asshat brother included.
Jared chimed in with his usual slow, measured words. "They say how long this will last?"
Everyone looked to me.
I blew out a breath and reached for another breadstick. "Nope. But I wouldn't be surprised if we have to drag her around for the rest of the US tour, at least. Maybe international shows, too, if they still have a bug up their ass when the time comes."
"But we’ve barely started the damn tour," Kane groused, cutting his eyes at me while addressing everyone else. "That's a couple months—at least—of being under the label's thumb twenty-four-seven."
The crumbling bread in my hand was suddenly insufficient. I wanted it to be his neck snapping between my fingers.
"When does she arrive?" Ethan steered my mind away from committing a homicide.
Wait, not homicide. What's the word for killing your brother? Killing your mother is matricide—thank you Norman Bates for teaching me that one, you crazy bastard—father is patricide…
