by Lane Hart
“Thanks, babe,” Ford tells the woman in his deep, smooth, sexy voice that could melt butter while he pats the top of her head like she’s a good dog. I’m thankful to finally hear the sound of his zipper going up. “Give us a minute, love?” he asks.
The woman gets to her feet while wiping her mouth with her hand and then trots over toward me with a grin on her face, not a trace of discomfort from having an audience for her performance before she walks out the door.
Wow. I’m getting one hell of an introduction to the band tonight. It’s not the one I imagined, where all the guys were perfect gentlemen who understood the record label’s issues and wanted to correct them and produce a new album as soon as possible.
Wishful thinking.
“I take it that’s Bennett Hale?” I ask, pointing to the sleeping man.
“Yep.” Clarke walks over and gives the guy’s shoulder a shake that does absolutely nothing. “Sorry,” Clarke says with a cringe. “He just had a little to drink after we got backstage.”
“It sounded like he was drunk on stage. It sounded like you all were two sheets to the wind up there, except for Davis. What’s going on, guys?” I ask them.
They all remain silent, so I gather my courage and continue on my rant, hoping I look more confident than I feel in this new role. “The record label is losing its patience. You’ve got seven months to come up with some new songs and record them for the second album, or they’re cutting you loose.”
“Good,” grumbles Davis before he meanders over and flops down on an empty leather sofa, taking up the majority of it.
“No, no, no. This is not good!” Clarke mutters as he reaches up with both hands and starts tugging on his short blond hair. “Ugh. Now I can’t breathe.” Reaching into his jeans pocket with a shaking hand, he pulls out an albuterol inhaler and puts it between his lips to take a few puffs.
Well, at least someone is taking this seriously. Maybe too seriously.
“Calm down. You guys still have plenty of time to buckle down and do this,” I assure him before he passes out.
Ford gets to his feet and strolls over to me, all sexy male confidence and attitude. “Sorry to tell you this, babe, but I haven’t been able to write shit in years. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t. So why don’t you go back to your high-rise and tell those fuckers that unless they have a magic wand that they can wave, a new album ain’t gonna happen within a few months.”
With that proclamation, Ford goes over to the door, jerks it open, and leaves, slamming it shut behind him.
“What he said,” Davis grumbles before he gets up and is out the door too.
“Clarke, I know you’re the most reasonable one,” I say, since he’s the only one who hasn’t been an asshole, an arrogant prick, or unconscious during my pep talk. “We have to figure out how to make that magic Ford was talking about, or you’re all going to have to get normal people jobs, myself included. I can’t imagine the four of you have much money left from the first album, right?”
“No, we don’t,” he says when he sits down on the sofa and bends over, placing his head between his legs. His words are muted as he continues, “Ben’s been borrowing from me for weeks now. Davis probably isn’t far behind. Ford will be okay for a while because he’s the front man and has some other promotional shit going on.”
“So tell me, what do you think you guys need to start writing? How can we make the four of you productive and successful again?” I ask.
“I dunno,” he answers from between his legs.
“Anything, Clarke. Just name it, and I have the power to make it happen.”
Lifting his head to look at me with worried but beautiful deep green eyes, he asks, “Anything? Really?”
“Yes. Ask away,” I say, taking a seat beside him. “That’s what I’m here for. Think of me as your very own personal genie. Instead of three wishes, though, you get as many as it takes to get this group back on the path of success.” I rest my palm on his thigh in a show of comfort to calm him down, not just because I wanted to touch him to make sure I’m really sitting here, talking to one of the members of my favorite band.
“Wow, okay,” Clarke says, and his broad, tense shoulders seem to relax a little. His elbows dig into his knees, and he rests his head in his hands. At least that’s better than having his head at his ankles.
“Anything coming to mind?” I ask, giving his thigh a squeeze when he continues to remain silent. “Let’s start with you. What do you need, Clarke?”
Finally, he looks over at me, right in the eye again, and says, “I need things to slow down. Every day, I wake up in a new city, and it’s impossible to think when we’re always on the move. If I’m gonna help Ford write music to new lyrics, I need to be able to catch my breath once in a while.”
Great, now we’re getting somewhere.
“You want to cancel the remaining stops on the tour?” I ask for clarification.
“Yes. And I know that’s not possible, but—”
He pauses midsentence when I pull out my phone from my purse, hit the contact in my favorites, and put it up to my ear.
“What are you doing?” he asks with his light brows drawn together.
“Yes,” Joseph Cole answers the call.
“Hi, Mr. Cole. It’s Tessa. Sorry to bother you so late, but Malus would like to cancel the tour as of today, so you should probably have someone notify all the venues and issue refunds for ticketholders.”
I clench my teeth to brace myself for the silence that follows, wondering if I’ve overstepped my boundaries for this assignment he’s given me.
“Give me a moment,” Mr. Cole tells me.
I’m holding my breath, worried he’ll come back on the line and tell me I’ve lost my mind and that’s not possible. If he does, then I don’t know what we’ll do. The tour doesn’t end until a month before the deadline.
“Okay,” Mr. Cole says, when he finally returns to the phone. “If that’s what they need, then we can cancel, effective today. It’s not like tickets are selling all that great anyway. We’ll make more on the new album and tour than the measly sales over the next few months.”
“That’s great!” I reply. “We’re already making progress, sir.”
“Yes, you are, Tessa.” He pauses briefly. “Do whatever it takes,” he reiterates. “My ass is on the line here too, you know?”
“Thank you, sir, and I understand,” I say, before ending the call.
“Wh-what was that?” Clarke asks, his eyes bulging and mouth gaping.
“I canceled the tour,” I explain with a broad grin. “You’re right, you all need some time to think if you’re gonna produce another great album, and that means getting off the road.”
“Just like that?” he asks. Looking toward the door and then over to the sleeping man, he says, “Shouldn’t you have asked the other guys first what they want to do? Won’t we all lose money?”
“It won’t be much money. Besides, everyone looks like they could use a break more than the cash. Why? Do you think they’ll be upset?” I ask him. From what I’ve read about them, he grew up playing with these guys since they were in high school together.
“No, but…but, the arenas, the fans…” Clarke stammers.
Reaching over to give his knee another comforting pat, I tell him, “They’ll all be taken care of. And believe me, the loss will be worth it once you guys come out with new hits.”
“Yeah, well, what if we can’t?” he asks.
“You will,” I say confidently, even if I have my own doubts. “Whatever it takes, okay? Just ask me, and I’ll take care of it.”
“If you say so,” he replies, as he looks down at my hand and then licks his lips.
“Now, tell me how to get the other three gentlemen where they need to be?”
“Hmm, good luck with that,” Clarke says as he eases back against the cushion, relaxing a smidge more. I’m glad to see the two of us are at least making some progress. “You need to divi
de and conquer, get the guys alone where they can’t bolt, and make them start talking. That’s our biggest problem. None of us actually talk to each other anymore, even though we’re forced to share a small space on the bus most of the time.”
“Okay, who should I start with?” I ask.
“Ford, then Bennett,” he says with a nod to the sleeping man. “Save Davis for last because he’s gonna be the most difficult. If he knows the others are talking to you and that you’re making improvements, he’ll eventually cave.”
“Okay, great,” I state with a smile, thankful that he’s being helpful. “Where can I find Ford?”
“Well, after we get off stage, he likes to…get off, as you witnessed, and then he always gets high.”
“He uses drugs?” I ask with a wince.
“No, he gets high,” Clarke says, using his index finger to point up to the ceiling. “The ladder is on the far left side of the stage.”
“He likes heights, huh?” I ask with a frown because I absolutely hate them.
“At least he won’t be able to run from you up there,” he replies with a small grin.
“Very true,” I agree as I get to my feet. “Do me a favor? Try and wake up Mr. Hale,” I say, gesturing with my thumb over at Bennett.
“I’ll try my best,” Clarke agrees.
Chapter Three
Ford
From the top of the rafters of the coliseum, the people below look like ants as they run around, cleaning up and taking down the stage. I don’t think of them as insignificant. No, that’s how I feel. For whatever reason, it’s nice to see how normal people live, what happens after we leave the spotlight and life goes on for the employees. I bet they couldn’t give two shits about Malus or me and are only glad when the last note of our set fades, so they can do their jobs and go home.
Lighting up a smoke, I take a long pull and then blow it out as I attempt to quiet my mind. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t work now, just like it hasn’t for the last few years. Ever since we started touring, there’s chaos in my head, and never a moment of peace. I need the peace to write. And apparently, if I don’t write soon, all four of us could be flipping burgers rather than touring and playing the music we were once passionate about.
Muttered feminine curses draw my attention over to the left side of the rafters where the narrow ladder leads down to the ground. Her perfectly-styled blonde hair, not a single one out of place, appears first as her lips continue to move, talking to herself until she finally looks up and sees me staring at her.
“Oh, hi,” she says.
“What the hell are you doing up here?” I ask.
“Ah, well, I wanted a chance to talk to you and, um, here you are,” she says, as she crawls along the wooden board in her suit slowly, rather than risk trying to walk. Eventually, when she’s about three feet away from me, she eases into a sitting position with her legs hanging like mine over the edge. “Oh, whoa, that’s…we’re really…high,” she says as she jerks back from her glance down.
“Not a fan of heights?” I ask.
“God, no.”
“So then why come up here? You could’ve talked to me when I got down.”
“You would’ve walked away. Again,” she responds. And I can’t deny that’s true.
“Okay, you got me. What do you want?” I ask. Hearing her out is the least I can do since she’s suffering from her fear of heights just to talk to me.
“I have some news,” she starts. “Tonight’s the end of the tour.”
“How?” I ask in surprise. “We’ve still got”—I do the math in my head as I think over the upcoming appearances—“thirty-two more shows.”
“Not anymore,” she says. “Clarke said he needs things to slow down and to stop moving, so he can work on some new songs with you.”
I snicker at that. “Right, because that’s all that it’ll take for us to pull our shit together.”
“Hey, it can’t hurt, right?” she asks. “What do you think it’ll take?”
“Fuck if I know,” I grumble as I look away from her and back down at the cleanup crew.
“I’m open to suggestions,” she says. Hell, when my eyes cut over to look at her, I can’t even remember her name. I was a little preoccupied with my dick sliding down a warm, wet throat when she came to the door and introduced herself. And sure, my first thought was that the uptight blonde was smoking hot, and that I would love to fuck her pretty mouth. The pink flush on her cheeks, those red painted lips that are so shiny and full, making it hard to think of anything except for her giving great head when you first see her. But then a second later, I noticed the formal suit and her squared shoulders that made it clear she’s all business and doesn’t get on her knees for just any man.
“Who are you again?” I ask, taking another puff on my smoke.
“Tessa Graham,” she says, reaching out her hand to me. Switching my smoke to my left hand, I take her soft, smooth one in my own. It’s so small I bet my cock would look enormous with her fingers wrapped around it. As if sensing my dirty thoughts, Tessa jerks her hand away from my grip and goes on to tell me, “The, ah, the record label has authorized me to give you guys whatever you need to write another album, one that will smash your previous record on the charts.”
“Whatever we need?” I repeat, knowing that can’t be true. There are always things you can’t have, no matter how much money is in your bank account, not that I have a lot sitting in mine now. It’s slowly dwindling down, which is more than a little concerning.
“Within reason,” she amends as expected.
The thing I want most is to write songs again. Not for money or for fame but because it’s what I used to love to do, putting my heart on paper and then playing it in songs for other people to hear and relate to. It’s therapeutic. But lately, my heart feels like it’s running on empty. The fame and money were great, but as they start to fade, it’s becoming obvious that they didn’t leave me with anything substantial. There’s nothing that makes me want to jump out of bed each morning, nothing that makes me feel how I used to about writing and playing music with my three best friends. Hell, I’m not even sure if the four of us are still friends, or if we’re just forced to stay together for our tour.
“Now that you’re not touring, where do you want to go from here?” Tessa asks me.
“Home.” The word leaves my mouth before I even finish the thought.
“Okay, that’s easy,” she says. “You’re all from Virginia, right?”
“Yeah,” I answer, not exactly surprised that she knows our background if she works for the record label that signed us.
“So, we should be able to fly back tomorrow.”
“No flying,” I remark.
“Why not? You’re obviously not scared of heights.”
“It’s not the heights that bother me,” I explain. “It’s the trusting a machine not to fall from the sky part that gets to me.”
“Okay, so no planes. That’s even better for me since I hate flying. It’ll take longer on the bus, but just a few more days.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
“Where will you stay when we get there?” she asks.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but my parents’ house.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you,” Tessa says.
“They won’t be there,” I correct. “I bought them a house on the beach in Florida. They retired and live there, except for in the winter.”
“Oh. Well, you’ll have plenty of time to visit with them.”
“We’ll see,” I mutter as I take another drag from my smoke.
“Thanks for talking to me. Now our plan is expanding; no more appearances, and you’re all headed home.”
“All of us?” I ask curiously. “The guys want to go back to Virginia?”
“You want to, so they’ll have to suck it up,” she says with a smile. “I’m gonna go back down now.”
“Be careful,” I mutter. “It would suck to fall f
rom this high.”
“Ha-ha,” she huffs before she crawls back over to the stairs, giving me a nice long look at her ass, her suit pants pulled tight over her round bottom that’s begging to be slapped or bitten. If I asked to do either, I wonder if she would let me. No other woman has turned me down in years, or even made me work for it, so I’m guessing Tessa wouldn’t either.
Chapter Four
Bennett
“Here, drink this,” Clarke says, as he shoves a blurry bottle of water into my face. It takes me two tries to snag it from him.
“Thanks, man,” I say before I unscrew the cap and toss it back, the cool liquid feeling nice on my scratchy throat.
“Listen,” Clarke starts, “there’s a woman here from the record label. She says we’ve got to get our asses in gear and come up with a new album, or we’re done.”
“No shit?” I ask.
“No shit,” he answers. “She’s gonna come talk to you in a few minutes, so will you try and hold your eyes open long enough to have a conversation with her.”
“Sorry, man, I’ll try,” I mumble. Handing him the water, I scrub my hands over my face, rubbing at my eyes to try and make them cooperate.
“Tessa, hey, look who’s awake,” Clarke says when the dressing room door opens. Glancing over, I see two beautiful women in stuffy pantsuits, both with the same long blonde hair. Huh. Guess they’re twins.
“Hi, Bennett. I’m Tessa Graham from Black Hawk Records,” one of the girls says when they approach me and pick up my hand to shake it. “Are you okay?” she asks, putting her face so close to mine I can see just how gorgeous her golden-green eyes are.
“You’re pretty,” I tell her.
“Ah, thank you,” she replies. “But I would be more flattered if you were saying that sober.”
Leaning closer to whisper in her ear, I say, “I’m not as attractive when I’m sober.”
“You’re not very attractive drunk with your eyes drooping closed, barely able to hold your head up,” she says. “Why do you do this to yourself, Bennett?”
