by Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2018 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved.
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Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by All About the Edits
Cover by Marianne Nowicki of PremadeEbookCoverShop.com
WARNING: THIS BOOK IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ANYONE UNDER 18.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Chapter One
Tessa Graham
The day started out like any other, that’s why I had no clue that my life was about to be turned upside down.
I’m proofreading the record contract my boss dictated when a knock on my office door startles me from my concentration.
“Come in!” I shout while scrolling the mouse around to click the save icon on the desktop computer, preserving the progress I had made in the document so far.
“Tessa, Mr. Cole needs to see you in the conference room,” Debbie, Joseph Cole’s elderly secretary, tells me as she stands in the doorway.
“Oh, okay,” I reply as I get to my feet, then smooth my palms over my gray suit jacket and pants to get out the invisible wrinkle. Since Mr. Cole is currently in a board meeting, whatever he wants to talk to me about must be pretty important.
My palms become sweaty with anticipation as I walk up to the glass conference room and see all the seats filled with men in suits. Important men.
The door is open while they wait for me, so I hurry my steps along.
“Yes, sir?” I ask Mr. Cole when I walk into the room and stand at attention with my hands clasped in front of me.
Swirling his chair around, Mr. Cole looks at me over the glasses on his nose and says, “We’ve got a proposition for you.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise. “That’s great.”
“I was just telling the board what a go-getter you are and that I think you’re the best person to handle this particular task.”
“Sure, whatever you need,” I reply.
“It won’t be easy to accomplish, but if you’re successful, this would mean a huge executive position promotion for you, along with a percentage of future album sales. Are you interested?”
“Absolutely,” I agree enthusiastically. Becoming an executive means making decisions about which bands to sign, which is exactly the type of work I’ve had my sights set on. Right now, I’m just an administrative assistant handling busy work.
Smiling, Mr. Cole pushes the bridge of his glasses up his nose, and says, “Great. Now, how familiar are you with the rock band, Malus?”
“Of course. I know each of the member’s names and all of the songs on their first album.”
A few of the men at the table chuckle softly at my response, making me feel self-conscious, especially when Mr. Cole’s grin widens.
“Right, their first album that was released five years ago,” he says. “They’ve been touring on and off with those same twenty songs for long enough.”
They’re awesome songs, I think to myself, remembering how I played them out when the album was first released, a mixture of hard rock and alternative angst. That was right around the time my dad passed away and right before I decided to go to college rather than pursue an unachievable dream like he did. Mass popularity like Malus warranted was unusual in the industry. It doesn’t happen to Plain Jane’s like me or mediocre musicians like my father.
“The band’s venues are shrinking, and even smaller ones aren’t selling out for Malus anymore,” Mr. Cole informs me. “Merchandise sales and downloads have become stagnant. They’ve become practically irrelevant in the media. If they don’t give us something new soon, then we’ll have no choice but to release them from their contract.”
Wow, that doesn’t sound good for the band. It’s a shame because their debut album proved they have the potential for true greatness.
“Okay. So how can I help?” I ask him.
“We need you to figure out why they’ve gone stale. Find out what needs to happen for them to produce new songs and a fantastic new album. We’d like to see something fresh from them before the end of the year. Whatever they need to make that happen, we want you to give it to them. You have the full authority of the board. Bring me a hit record within seven months, and we’ll give you two percent of the revenue for the new album and make you an executive.”
“Seriously?” I reply in surprise while trying to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. I’ve never been asked to work directly with a band before. Getting to do so with one like Malus, when I’m a huge fan, is incredibly exciting.
“I’m serious,” Mr. Cole replies. “Do you think you can handle this responsibility? It could be a major undertaking to keep them away from booze, women, partying, whatever it is that’s holding them back and losing the record label money. These guys have to get serious, buckle down, and put together some good goddamn music.”
Nodding my emphatic agreement, I tell him, “Yes, sir. I can do that.”
I think.
How hard could it be to convince four guys to write a few lyrics and get in the studio to record new songs? Ten great ones would be all that they need.
Another older gentleman at the table speaks up, saying, “We believe that the guitarist, Davis Hunt, is the weak link. He’s a hothead, been in some physical altercations, loses his temper too easily. If it turns out that he’s the problem, tell us, and we’ll remove him and replace him.”
“Understood,” I reply.
“I’ll make sure Debbie has a company credit card ready for you with no limits, to use as necessary,” Mr. Cole tells me. “We’ll want a full accounting of course, for any expenses. And you have the authority to take any steps necessary as far as the band’s scheduled appearances and daily activities. They’re losing money, so whatever we say at Black Hawk Records, they must do if they want us to renew their contract. Believe me; no one else will want them right now. Make sure they get that message. Then, report back to me once a week to let me know the progress you’ve made, and call with any concerns.”
“Got it. When do I leave?” I ask, having to bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling like a lunatic.
“As soon as you can tie up any loose ends here, and pack. The Malus tour will be in Vegas in two days. That would be a good place for you to catch up with them, list
en to them perform, and start figuring out how to proceed.”
Nodding while swallowing around the knot of worry in my throat, I start to ask, “What if…”
“Yes?” Mr. Cole asks, looking down his nose at me as if I’ve wasted enough of his time already.
“What if I can’t get a new album for you by the end of the year?” I ask, gnawing on my lip in concern.
“Then you’ll have wasted months of our time and lost us millions of dollars, so you’ll be fired right along with them.”
Oh shit.
Chapter Two
Tessa
My flight from San Diego to Vegas is short and uneventful, other than the fact that I was scared shitless the entire time. I don’t mind planes as much as I hate heights. The fear of falling to my death is the one that gets to me. Thankfully, we land safely in one piece, in the hot desert.
A limo driver holding a sign with my name on it is waiting for me when I claim my baggage. I’m surprised that the record label has spent that much money on me when I could’ve just grabbed a cab.
They’re treating me like they do their talent, making me feel special to get me to do what they want. If I fail, then they’ll rip the red-carpet treatment right out from underneath me and leave me sitting on my unemployed ass.
Queen and David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” is the current theme song of my life. The chorus started when I was tidying up my office, preparing to leave. It only grew louder as I was packing my bags in my tiny apartment and then waiting in the airport.
On the plane, I was temporarily serenaded by Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’,” thanks to my fear and anxiety. May that genius of an artist rest in peace with all the other musicians the world has lost way too soon, including my dad.
Now that my feet are on solid ground again, my fear of falling from thirty-thousand feet and landing with my head splatting into the ground has subsided. Instead, I’m worried about losing my job in a few months. Depending on how things go with the band today, I may need to start sprucing up my resume to get it ready, which would really suck.
I love my job at Black Hawk Records. When I started out, I knew that it would take time to work my way up the ladder to the executive level. I never thought that doing so would be a possibility after just two years.
I have to help this band get their act together. There’s no other option. If I fail, no other label will want me, and I’ll end up singing on the streets, begging for strangers to drop some change into my hat to pay the bills. Not to mention that it would be a shame for such a talented group of men like Malus to fall from grace and give up on their fame. They’ve enjoyed the kind of popularity that many people would kill to have just a tiny piece of.
In the back of the limo, on the way to the coliseum where the band’s playing tonight, I sip a little bit of champagne to calm my nerves. It’s not every day that you meet stars like the ones in Malus. Sure, the record executives are upset about the decline in ticket sales or whatever, but just a few years ago, this band was huge; like, the type of success where you couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing one of their Billboard hit songs playing. Everyone loved them, women and men alike. Well, maybe more women, because these four men are not only talented but hot!
Unlike most bands where the lead singer is the heartthrob and you can give or take the rest, I couldn’t tell you which member of Malus is the sexiest. Ford Donohue, the front man, is the typical dark and mysterious guy in leather pants and no shirt that makes women swoon. Then there’s the blond, all-American drummer, Clarke Nash, who is incredibly handsome but shy, from what I hear. The bass player, Bennett Hale, always has a breath-taking smile on his face with just the right amout of dark scruff. And finally, there’s Davis Hunt, the guitarist who is enormous, buff, covered in tattoos, and as rugged as any man can get. He’s the one that the executives consider to be a hothead with anger problems, and the weak link.
Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Taking my luggage with me, since I refuse to be parted from my laptop inside, I roll it behind me up to the will-call ticket window in my white pantsuit with black pinstripes. Sure, I don’t look like any of the women waiting in line for the concert, wearing tight jeans and halter tops, or less, but I’ve always been more comfortable in business attire. Besides, I’m here in a professional capacity, even if I am a fan.
At the window, I show the clerk my ID that I keep tucked into my small, practical white leather over-the-shoulder purse that matches my outfit. They shuffle around for a moment, then hand over my backstage pass.
The opening act, Warsaw, is already on stage by the time I make my way through security, so I watch them from the side. The band is full of so much energy they nearly blow the roof off of the place.
And then Malus comes out to deafening applause, cheers, and screams, only to give a weak, unenthusiastic performance. Some of the lead singer’s notes are flat, and the drumbeat sounds halfhearted. I’m pretty sure the bass player even nods off during one song. The big, angry-looking guitarist is the only one who seems to be completely awake with his shit together, never missing a lick.
Great, the one man the record label wants to remove is the only one who is actually playing the band’s songs the way they should be played. With the passion they had five years ago when millions of fans worshipped them, including myself. No wonder people stopped buying tickets to see them.
Looking out at the crowd, only the lower sections are filled. The upper levels are completely empty, probably because whoever bought the cheap seats looked down and realized that there were still a lot of open seats down on the floor.
It’s sad actually, that a band who once sold out the largest arenas for three nights in a row in big cities can’t even fill out the smallest coliseum in Vegas for one performance.
I want to help these guys succeed in creating a hot new album like the last one. They have to, or I go down with them.
As soon as the guys come off the stage, I follow them, ready to see what the problem is for each member and fix it. Not just for them, but because I love my job and I want to keep it. Seeing how my dad suffered trying to make it big makes me want to give those opportunities to deserving musicians everyone else has overlooked.
When I spot one of the young roadies dressed in all black carrying Davis’s white Fender guitar, I show him my backstage pass on my lanyard. “Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can find the members of Malus?”
His eyes look at my pass for only a second. “They’re back in the dressing room. Not exactly a place for a nice girl like you.”
Great.
“Too bad, because I don’t have a choice,” I reply. “Can you show me which room?”
“Sure,” he agrees before he turns around and starts back down the way he just came from. “Down here, and the first room on the left.”
“Got it, thanks,” I tell him.
“Good luck,” he replies with a chuckle before he walks away.
I park my luggage at the door and then raise my knuckles to knock rapidly, while taking a deep breath to calm my nerves.
A bearded man with tattoos opens the door and looks me up and down salaciously. I know he’s Davis Hunt, the guitarist, before he opens his mouth to ask over his shoulder, “Who ordered the little blonde secretary with a stick up her ass?”
Holding up the pass that’s around my neck, I tell him, “I’m Tessa Graham, from Black Hawk Records.”
“Whatever,” Davis mutters when he braces his hand on the door frame, blocking me from entry.
From inside the room, I hear, “Oh, fucking great!”
When I look under the raised arm of the big man who is as wide as a redwood tree, and at least as tall, I see the cursing is coming from the clean-cut band member I recognize as Clarke Nash, the drummer. “Let her in, for chrissakes, and could you try to be a little nicer!” he tells Davis.
The giant opens the door a little wider for me to squeeze by him with my rolling luggage, barely.
Insi
de the room, my eyes sweep around the tables of food and alcohol and several leather sofas, taking it all in. Someone with messy brown hair is face down on the sofa, either asleep or dead. I hope it’s the former. And awesome, the dark-haired guy I recognize as Ford, the lead singer, currently has a brunette kneeling between his legs either worshipping him for the rock god he is or sucking his dick. Probably both.
My cheeks redden in embarrassment at walking in on such an intimate act, but none of the guys, especially Ford, seem concerned. And the girl’s so unfazed, her head doesn’t even pause once in her bobbing.
“We need to talk. Could you please get rid of…” I wave a hand toward the woman on her knees.
Like the famous arrogant ass he is, Ford smirks at me and holds up one finger, indicating I should wait before he grabs the back of the girl’s dark hair to hold it in place. Then he throws his head back on a deep groan that I translate to mean he’s unloading down her throat with all of us watching. It’s not that I wanted to watch, but it’s hard to look away from a man you’ve idolized on stage, making sex sounds while being pleasured.
“Jesus, Ford!” Clarke grumbles as he continues to pace around the room.
Davis chuckles in amusement before he says, “They always want to suck the lead singer’s dick, even though mine is twice as big.”
Opening his eyes, Ford flips the guitarist off with his free hand but keeps his intense blue gaze on me as his lips part, and the sounds of wet suction fill the room as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
And yes, deep down in my gut there may even be just a hint of jealousy for the woman who gets to touch Ford Donohue in such a way that most women, and even I, have only dreamed of. Even though it’s only one-sided, I bet the brunette leaves the room with her head held high, proud of her accomplishment – getting to put her mouth on a rock star.
Rather than give him the satisfaction of showing my physical interest in him, I cross my arms over my chest indignantly, barely refraining from tapping my foot while I convey my annoyance at Ford’s rude behavior.
