by SC Daiko
© 2020 by SC Daiko Romance
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. The locations are a mixture of real and imagined. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or any events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations
Photographer: Wander Aguilar
Content editing: Trenda Lundin
All enquiries to [email protected]
Contents
Advisory
Playlist
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Rock Star Blurb, Prologue And Chapter One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books By SC Daiko
Advisory
This book contains material that might be deemed sensitive or trigger a strong emotional response.
For Debra and ZiLlah
Playlist
Check out the playlist Here
Chapter 1
Hayley
I blinked my eyes open. What the hell had woken me? Jesus, someone was shouting obscenities outside my hotel room door.
“Get off me. I can manage,” the gruff male voice slurred.
That London accent could only belong to one person.
With a groan, I swung my legs out of the bed and shuffled on a sweatshirt to cover my cami. I padded across the wall-to-wall carpet, opened the door and peered into the corridor.
Pierce Fox, heart-throb drummer for ChiMera, the hottest band on the planet and my employers, had one arm slung around Jake, his manager’s shoulders. He stumbled and cussed as Jake half-led, half-carried him down the hallway.
“Need a hand?” I tilted my chin.
“Thanks,” Jake muttered, Pierce’s drunken movements almost knocking him into the wall.
I stepped forward and looped my arm around the bad boy’s waist.
He bent and rested his head on my shoulder. “Yankee girl.”
His nickname for me.
At least he wasn’t so hammered that he hadn’t recognized me, his stylist. Black curls brushed my cheek and the aroma of his Bourbon scented breath tickled my nostrils.
Even shit-faced, he was drop-dead gorgeous. Not that he affected me. Not even the feel of his toned body slumped against mine disturbed my equilibrium. I’d steeled myself to be unaffected by him since my first gig with ChiMera on the European leg of their ‘Ghost in the Heart’ world tour two years ago. After a break while they’d laid down the tracks for a new album, we’d begun touring again, this time through Latin America. Tonight, they’d played their final concert on the continent in Buenos Aires, and we were due to fly home to LA tomorrow for a few weeks’ R&R before setting off for New Zealand.
Jake slid Pierce’s key card from the back pocket of his jeans and I adjusted his arm on my shoulder while Jake opened the door.
With gritted teeth, I helped him drag Pierce’s drunken ass through the living area of the suite to the bedroom. We stood him by the bed, and he toppled like a felled tree onto the mattress. He looked up at me with puppy dog eyes.
“Stay,” he begged. “I might choke on my vomit.”
Hardly the most appealing of prospects. Call me soft-hearted, but I couldn’t refuse. Not while he was gazing at me with that little boy lost expression. In any case, the risk of him choking was real and I didn’t want his death on my conscience. I liked Pierce, and he appeared so forlorn, lying in the center of the king-sized bed, dressed in thigh-hugging torn black jeans and a ripped white tee.
Jake cleared his throat and shot me a pleading look. He narrowed his cornflower-blue eyes. “Would you stay with him? I’m too exhausted. I’ll make sure there’s a bonus in your pay-check.”
An inebriated snore came from the bed. “No need, I’d have done it anyway,” I smiled.
“Absolutely not. I insist.” Jake shook his head. “This is an important job and monetarizing it will give you the incentive to do it well.”
I nodded. The extra money would come in useful. Most of my pay went to top up the fees for Dad’s care in the nursing home where he’d been living since diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I suppressed a sigh. Last time I visited with him, he mistook me for Mom, who’d passed away after suffering a stroke when I was a senior in high school.
“Don’t put up with any shit from him.” Jake’s English accent was more clipped and swankier than Pierce’s. “Tell him he’ll have me and the rest of the band to answer to if he tries anything…”
I felt my cheeks heat up. Between Pierce and me there’d always been light banter. He jokingly hit on me and I always slapped him down. There was nothing in it, just Foxy, as the band called him, being Foxy. If I’d said yes, he’d have run for the hills. I wasn’t one of his fangirls but a member of staff and ChiMera had a rule about not shitting where they ate.
They weren’t good at sticking to those rules, I reminded myself, remembering the lead singer, Axel’s, secret relationship with Phoenix, his backup girl. They were married now, and she sang with Vanilla Sky, who were also on tour with us.
Jake straightened the sleeve of his dress shirt. “I’ll order some breakfast to be sent up at eight for the two of you.” He glanced at his Rolex. “It’s three a.m. Five hours’ sleep should sober Pierce up. Please deliver him to a band meeting in my suite at nine o’clock.”
“Sure.” He’d made Pierce sound like a package. I rubbed my hands down my pajama pants. “We’re due to leave for the airport late morning, right?”
“Right.”
I could grab some extra shuteye while the band were having that meeting.
Jake lifted his hand and slicked his dark brown hair back from his brow. “If you have any problems, call down to reception and they’ll send someone to get me.”
“Will do.” I yawned. I’d only gotten a couple hours’ sleep before being so rudely awakened. I was a light sleeper. I’d be able to doze on the armchair in the corner of Pierce’s room without fear of sleeping through him choking, which is precisely what I did, after Jake left me to my own devices and I’d pulled off the bad boy’s motorcycle boots and thrown the comforter over him.
I tucked the strands of red-brown hair that had come loose from the long braid I wore in bed behind my ears, found another comforter in the wardrobe, and settled into said chair.
Pierce’s snores lowered to a soft rumble, lulling me into an uneasy sleep. I was worried about Dad, about what state I’d find him in when we returned to LA. What if he’d deteriorated further?
I woke with a start as morning light filtered behind the drapes.
/> Not a sound came from the king-sized bed.
My heart slammed against my ribcage and my mouth went dry.
Jesus, had Pierce died on my watch?
I threw off my comforter and flew across the room.
The lump on the bed lay still as a statue.
I bent and whispered, “Hey, buddy. You okay?” I rested one knee next to him and gently shook his shoulder. It was like shaking a sack of potatoes, and his skin felt cool to my touch.
“Pierce, it’s time to get up…”
Still no movement. No sound of him breathing. Beads of sweat broke out on my upper lip. Had he died of alcohol poisoning? My belly churned with fear.
“Come on, man. Breakfast will be here in a minute.”
I reached for his hand. The skin was warmer than his shoulder and his fingers squeezed back at mine.
“Oh, thank God, you’re okay,” I murmured.
“Yankee Girl?” He opened one blood-shot eye, his long lashes coal black like his tousled hair. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Jake asked me to look after you, given that you’d clearly drunk enough liquor to make you choke on your own vomit.” I deliberately refrained from mentioning that it had been Pierce himself who’d begged me to stay with him.
He raised himself on his elbow and let out a groan. “My head.” His body racked. “Urgh,” he heaved. “Gonna throw up.”
To give credit where it was due, he managed to lurch across the floor to the bathroom before puking into the toilet bowl.
I ran after him and held his long hair back from his face. Then I wet a washcloth under the cold-water faucet and handed it to him.
He wiped his cupid’s bow lips while I filled a glass. I gave it to him and he rinsed out his mouth. A knock sounded at the hotel suite door. “That’ll be breakfast,” I said.
He made a retching sound. “Can’t eat anything.”
“It’ll settle your stomach.” Christ, I sound just like my mom. “Some toast will absorb any alcohol left in your system.”
I opened the door to a server dude, who wheeled in a cart laden with jugs of orange juice, jugs of coffee, and platters of food covered with silver domes.
I thanked and tipped the server, then took over wheeling the cart into the living area of the suite. Then I poured Pierce a glass of OJ. “This will hydrate you better than coffee.”
“But I need caffeine,” he pouted.
“Only if you behave yourself and eat that toast.”
He smirked. “Yes, Miss.”
I remembered he’d once told me that British schoolkids called their teachers, ‘Miss,’ and I laughed.
He took a long pull of his drink while I buttered him a piece of toast. He ate slowly, staring at me while I helped myself to some cereal. God knew what he was thinking.
When we’d finished eating, I poured us both a cup of coffee. “You’ll have time for a quick shower,” I said, “I need to deliver you to Jake’s suite for a band meeting at nine.”
“Sure, but I want you to shower with me.” At six foot plus, he towered over my five foot nothing. He inclined his head and raked his gaze down my body. “Just in case I pass out.”
I stood on tiptoe and gave him a playful punch on the arm. Obviously, he was feeling better. “Nice try, buddy,” I snickered. “I’ll wait outside the bathroom if you don’t mind.”
Which is what I did. At least until I heard a muffled shout. Was he messing with me? I wouldn’t put it past him, but I couldn’t take the risk that something bad had happened.
My heart in my mouth, I pushed open the door. My jaw dropped. Steam billowed around the rock god, for that was truly what he was. His muscular upper arms were covered in beautiful, black tribal tats. He’d slung a white towel low around his hips. I stared at the V of his abs., at the dark treasure trail leading downward, and I swallowed hard.
He was so ripped he was shredded, but I remained unaffected. “What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Nothing.” A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “I was only making sure you were doing your job, Yankee girl.” He rolled my nickname on his tongue, his London accent making the word ‘girl’ sound more like ‘giew’.
I was glad he’d reminded me of my position as his employee. For one moment, one tiny moment, I’d wobbled on the brink of letting him affect me.
Pierce Fox was not the kind of man who’d want to settle down with a girl like me. Not with any girl, for that matter. He was a manwhore, a serial heartbreaker, and I wasn’t into guys like him. Nor any kind of guy.
I straightened my spine and looked him in the eye. “I always do my job to the best of my ability, Limey,” I said with a wink. It was the nickname I’d retorted with when he’d first called me Yankee girl. “Now get your butt dressed or you’ll be late for that meeting.”
He barked out a laugh. “Yes, Miss.”
Chapter 2
Pierce
The band meeting had started. Nausea swelled in my gullet and it was taking every ounce of my self-control not to puke over Jake’s shiny black dress shoes as I sat opposite him in his hotel suite. He was discussing over my head with the other band members what they should do about me. I heard the words ‘alcoholic’, ‘rehab’ and ‘addiction,’ and I swallowed the sour taste in my throat.
I twirled the drumsticks I always carried around with me and tapped them against my thighs. Couldn’t remember much about what had gone down last night. There’d been a party to end all parties after the concert. The wine had flowed freely followed by enough hard liquor to sink a ship…and I’d enjoyed every last drop. Finding Yankee Girl in my suite when I’d woken up had been a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. She was hot as hell and, if she weren’t my stylist, I’d have fucked her before now.
Jake launched into telling the others about how he’d had to pour me into bed in the early hours. The bloke was so bloody patronizing, the epitome of an ex public schoolboy, what the Yanks labelled ‘preppy’. I could never get my head around the fact that we Brits called private schools public. There was nothing public about them… they cost a shitload of money in fees, catered for the elite, and reinforced the class divisions in society.
I sped up the drumming on my thighs and shot Jake a look. He’d been our Creative Director since we’d gotten so big that we didn’t need a manager but a management team. It was Jake who toured with us, though, while the team stayed behind in LA at CM Records, the label we’d set up soon after we’d won our first Grammy. We’d named Jake the fifth member of the band and were grateful he handled the day-to-day shit for us. Wasn’t his fault he was so straight he could have had a rod inserted up his ass.
I swiveled my gaze to Axel, our lead singer. I’d met him, Rhys, our guitarist, and Zach our keyboard player at UCL, University College London, when we’d been students. We were supposed to have been studying Economics but spent most of our time jamming together. Jake had tagged along right from the beginning, being as he was Axel’s mate—they’d known each other since they were kids— and Jake had been the driving force behind our rise to fame. We owed our success to him and it was he who held us together after Axel’s sister, Ella, had died. Jake wasn’t a bad bloke at heart, just bloody annoyingly right about everything.
The guys and I had gone into rehab and, except for a small slip up two years ago, we’d been clean ever since. The stress of performing had turned us into white powder junkies, and I still craved the cocaine induced euphoric haze. It wasn’t just pressure that had made me become a cokehead, I knew it wasn’t, but I avoided thinking about why it was harder for me than for the others to stay sober.
I returned one drumstick to my pocket and spun the other between my knuckles, letting it rise to my fingertips and passing it to my left hand without breaking the spin. I heard the word ‘rehab’ being repeated again and I tuned back into the conversation going on around me.
Axel leaned toward me, invading my space. “You need help, man. You’re drinking yours
elf to death and we can’t let you do that.”
I cradled my still aching head in the hand not holding the drumstick. “I’m not going into rehab. Been there. Done it. Bought the fucking t-shirt.”
The guys and I had gotten clean at a Betty Ford clinic after Ella had passed. Just thinking about going cold turkey in that environment made me want to puke again.
“You’re behaving like a bloody kid, Pierce.” Jake again. He never called me Foxy. “Grow up or ship out.”
I squinted at him. He was joking, wasn’t he? Apparently not from the stern expression on his face. Fuck!
“We don’t want to lose you.” Axel’s dark eyes narrowed. “But you came in late on the downbeat in a couple of songs at the concert last night. You were wasted before we went on stage.”
I shook my head, grimacing at the pain. I needed a drink. Needed to anaesthetize myself. I took in a long, slow breath. There was a stash in my suitcase back in the hotel room…
“We know you drink in secret.” Rhys’ Welsh accent was deep and melodic. He tucked a strand of the long dark hair that had come lose from his pony behind his ear. “I heard bottles clinking as you wheeled your case down the corridor yesterday.”
There was nothing I could say, so I kept silent and zoned out again.
Jake snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. I blinked and pain ricocheted behind my temples. “What?” I groaned.
