Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance
Christina Benjamin
Contents
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
Epilogue
Also by Christina Benjamin
About the Author
Jacob: A Clean Billionaire Romance
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2019 by Christina Benjamin
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Atlantic Publishing
Version 1.1
June 2019
Chapter 1
Eric
My fingers, calloused from years of plucking guitar strings, dance against my thighs with anxiety—though I’d never admit that out loud. I’m the face of this band and there’s no room for doubts. Not today.
Somewhere behind me, I can hear James riffing quietly on his bass. The lime green instrument is unplugged so he can go over his chords one last time without drowning out the sound of the cheering people beyond the stage. I’m not even sure why he’s bothering to practice with only a few minutes left before we go on.
Practicing is all we’ve been doing for months. Ever since we found out that we’d managed to secure a gig at Lancaster Stadium we’ve been clocking more practice hours than a med student.
Though the stadium gig is still months away we aren’t taking it for granted. Every musician in this city wants to play in the infamous Battle of the Bands showcase hosted there. Somehow, we managed to be one of the lucky bands selected after the event organizer, Reggie Smith, saw us playing at a nearby dive bar—which is just the type of establishment we find ourselves at tonight.
But not for long.
Lancaster Stadium is going to be our big break—I can feel it.
If we don’t catch an agent’s eye there, we never will, and we’ve all put in too much sweat and tears to fail now. That’s why I booked us this last-minute live show.
We can practice all we want but there’s no substitute for playing in front of a hungry crowd. The energy can make or break you. At a bar as rough as this, my money’s on break, but right now isn’t the time to stress. Right now, it’s time to breathe, to focus, and to down a bit of booze. Liquid courage is mandatory before we hit the stage.
When the curtains move just right, I can see bobbing heads in the crowd. Bodies writhe like snakes, hands lifted in the air, hair flying as their chins sway back and forth to the tune of the loud music pulsing through the speakers. When my band and I arrived a few hours ago, the small dive bar with its black brick walls covered in various out of state license plates had been all but empty. The owner, taking in our uncertain faces, had simply promised us it would be a full house by eleven. Turns out he was right.
I’d heard this seedy underground spot was one of the best to get your start, and we needed a good start since our first big performance at the stadium was quickly approaching. This was the last gig I booked before then.
I check my watch. Nearly showtime.
Some guy with a mic strides past me to address the crowd, the smell of whiskey and cigars follow him. My nose twitches at the familiar scent, making me pine for a shot. My stomach always gets knotted up before performances. The only thing that helps take the edge off is a stiff drink. Plus, it helps me forget things, things I don’t want to bring out on that stage with me.
My life hasn’t always been easy, but at least I’ve always had music. It’s my outlet for the things I can’t seem to face. But the road to this stage has been tough enough without bringing my past into the mix. I’ve fought too hard and struggled too long to be restrained by my past.
I’d always known the path to being a rockstar would be a difficult one, but I had no idea just how twisted that road would be and just how much I would flounder. At least I’m not alone. I glance at Alex and James. They’ve stuck with me, getting me through some dark days—even if they didn’t know it.
The voice of the man on stage with the microphone rises over the noise of the crowd as he explains that the headliner everyone is waiting to see has canceled at the last minute and they’re left with some struggling group of unknowns to entertain them. Us.
We’ve performed here and there over the years, paying our dues on the local music scene, but we’ve yet to have our big break. Until we rock the house at Lancaster Stadium, barely anyone knows our name. But I aim to change that tonight.
I can see the exact moment the people realize the band they’re expecting isn’t coming. All the excited cheers suddenly change to angry grumbles. I feel their pain. They were getting pumped up for a three-woman band that’s already done a nationwide tour. I know I have some tall stilettos to fill.
James stops his quiet bass playing, eyes connecting with mine when I glance at him with an uncertain shrug. There’s not much we can do but play our hearts out. We’ve already been paid for the gig. Might as well make the most of it, even if no one here actually came to see us.
Armed with my smooth vocals and guitar and James and Alex rocking the bass and drums, I have every confidence we’ll change their minds.
The lights dim beyond the moth-eaten curtains. This bar may not be the fanciest in town, but it’s a well-known gold mine for rock groupies looking to headbang and jam out to some sick guitar solos. I’d been trying to get us a gig here for months and the only reason we’d been able to squeeze in is because one of the Rasping Sallies was having a little too much fun on the tour bus last night and took an intoxicated tumble that ended with a concussion. I felt sorry for the girl. Some people just can’t hold their liquor. Luckily, I can. And since I happened to be partying with them, I swiftly offered to fill in when it was obvious they wouldn’t be playing.
“What about the Rasping Sallies, Mick?” cries someone from the crowd. “We paid to see them!”
Mick grimaces as the rest of the crowd begins to holler unhappily in agreement. “We’ve got a great show for y’all, just like we always do,” he answers, shooting us a look offstage that says we better not make a fool of him. He’s gripping his microphone so hard that his knuckles are pale as bone.
“This isn’t gonna be good, Eric.” James says, always the voice of doubt in the group.
I just roll my eyes, blocking out his uncertainty. Only good vibes welcome here.
“It’s the best we’ve got, right?” Alex offers softly with a nudge in my ribs, gripping his drumsticks the same way Mick is gripping his microphone. “I mean we’ve got that huge stadium show coming up and we need to be as prepared as possible. This gig is perfect for that.”
“At least at our next show the cro
wd will be expecting us,” I mutter back.
Alex holds out a flask of what I know will be warm, spicy whiskey. I grab it and flip it open with a deft thumb, tilting my head back to welcome the booze without hesitation. It stings my tongue, flooding sharp heat down my throat to drip pleasantly into my stomach. I close my eyes as the comforting dullness washes over me, before taking another hearty gulp.
“Hey, man!” Alex grunts, snatching the flask away. “I was just letting you have a pick-me-up, not down the entire thing!”
He stares with dejected eyes at his flask, shaking it lightly to see how much liquor remains. Before he can take his own sip, James steals it and tilts his head back for a refreshing swallow. Alex yells again, reaching for the flask only to find that it’s almost empty. Before we can steal more of the precious amber liquid, he finishes it.
Smirking, I swipe the back of my hand against my mouth and shrug before digging my cell out of my pants pocket. I swipe across the screen, idly checking my texts one last time. Just as I figured, there’s nothing from Donovan.
My best friend is a dick.
The guy is probably still wrapped up in his unending office hours, but he could’ve at least let me know he wasn’t gonna show. I shake my head. Nothing makes a guy boring more quickly than a nine-to-five and a steady girlfriend.
Donovan said he’d try to come today, but I know what that means. He’s a busy guy with a billion-dollar business to run. I get it, or at least I try to. But sometimes I miss the old Donovan. The one I grew up with, the one who had time for me.
Cheering interrupts my sullen thoughts. To my surprise, Mick has managed to squeeze some enthusiasm from the crowd as the swelling of their voices once again rise over the thud of rock music playing over the speakers.
A severe-faced guy around my age walks up. “Are you warmed up?”
He stares at me with olive green eyes that are as bored as they are distant. I recognize him instantly as the owner of the bar. He looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life. You’d think someone running such a popular rock bar would be more personable. I can’t remember his name, but I make a mental note to figure it out. That way I can namedrop it for future gigs. There’s nothing wrong with a little schmoozing when you’re trying to make it big in the music world. In fact, that’s kind of the name of the game.
I gesture toward Alex’s flask with my patent smirk. “I’m as warm as I need to be.”
With a roll of his eyes, the bar owner presses a finger against the Bluetooth microphone tucked neatly into his ear. “They’re ready. Cue the lights before the drunks in the crowd start crashing the stage or something.”
“Alright now, y’all,” Mick announces buoyantly, the twang of his southern voice ill-fitting to the grungy atmosphere of the New York bar. The voices of the impatient crowd again pitch with eagerness as they clap and stomp their feet. “You may not have heard of Social Kingdom before, but I’ve gotta tell ya, they’re truly something else. You’re gonna leave this bar tonight wanting to hear more.”
Mick speaks as though he’d been listening while we were doing our sound check earlier, because I’m certain he’s never heard one of our songs before today; songs I’d written myself. Still, I appreciate his speech. He’s not wrong, after all. These people are about to have their little rock and roll minds blown.
As the crowd goes wild, Mick grins and nods while James, Alex, and myself grab our instruments and huddle closer to the side of the stage, the curtains flapping against our ankles. I suck in a breath, bouncing on my toes until my lungs start to burn. Only then do I slowly let the air held in my chest out through my nose while I count to ten. It’s a small ritual, but one that helps calm my nerves. You can’t exactly play your best if you’re shaking like a leaf.
One of my hands gently squeezes Camilla, who’s snuggled into my side. She’s my vintage Fender Stratocaster that I’d managed to find in a thrift store in high school. Camilla is the only thing I’ve ever loved that’s never let me down. She’s my soulmate, even if she is just a guitar. Her red paint, once fiery crimson, has faded in luster over the years, but her notes still ring true.
“Let’s welcome Social Kingdom to the stage!” the announcer calls, stepping to the side and gesturing us out with a beckoning hand. He’s grinning, but his jaw is clenched. Clearly the faith he’d had in us was all for the crowd’s benefit.
Little does he know just how hard my band can rock. Music is all that matters to me. It’s all that’s ever mattered. No matter what I’m going through, it’s always there. Writing songs and putting my emotions to music has always been my method of dealing with the madness that is life. It’s all I really need.
Together, the three of us pile out to join Mick on the stage, Alex rushing behind the waiting drum set and James struts behind me with his bass. The crowd quiets, gazing at us. I can hardly see them through the burning lights illuminating the stage, but I can tell they’re waiting to be entertained.
Swallowing, I step up to the mic and feel the familiar rush of whiskey and adrenaline as Alex’s first drum beats thump out. Eyes half closed, my fingers stroke over Camilla’s strings and my lips part with that very first note.
Chapter 2
Morgan
“Holy hell, Morgan,” Charlotte remarks, watching as I scrub my hands and arms with the pearly pink soap in our modeling agency’s bathroom.
At first glance, the soap seems to be the fancy kind you’d find in some swanky uptown spa. In actuality, it’s gritty like it’s made with sand, and its scent is so perfumed with fake roses that it makes my head spin. Usually the sharp texture of the soap is off-putting, but today I appreciate how it turns my flesh an irritated, but clean, pink.
The other model leans against the wall of the bathroom, arms neatly folding in front of her chest as she observes my incessant scrubbing. “Any particular reason you’re trying to scrub your skin off?”
I stop washing my arms only when it hurts to touch them, then grab a handful of equally scratchy paper towels to dry off. “I’m fine now,” I mutter irritably, meeting Charlotte’s eyes in the mirror and then looking away.
“Did something happen at that photoshoot you had scheduled this morning?” she asks, unmoving from her spot against the wall.
I cast another short glance her way, expecting to see prying nosiness in her expression, but her beautiful green eyes are concerned. I’m not used to other models being so kind. We’re all here just trying to break into this cutthroat career, one that doesn’t exactly breed compassion between women. Any other girl in this agency would’ve been trying to use this moment to break my spirit even more than it already was today.
“Morgan?” she presses softly.
I finally sigh, shuddering and taking a step back from the sink that still glistens with water. “It was beyond sleazy,” I mutter.
Glancing at my pink flesh I still don’t feel clean. All I can think about is that guy pretending to be a photographer touching me and contorting my body in different angles that were too suggestive to be a simple modeling shoot.
“Did you tell Hanson?” Charlotte asks of the owner of our modeling agency.
My chin bobs in a nod. “I did. He’s going to make sure none of us get sent out to that guy’s ‘studio’ again.” I use my fingers to do air quotes.
The supposed studio had been a tiny room in the back of a rundown house with little in it but a threadbare sofa. I’m just glad I followed my instincts and charged out of there after ten minutes instead of staying.
Both of us shudder and Charlotte bites her full lower lip before sidling in front of the mirror to run long, pale fingers through her crimson hair. Enviously, I watch her, forgetting to keep my face blank of expression as I typically do with the other girls in the agency. Even though I’m tall, Charlotte is taller. Her ruby hair and lips make her stand out in ways that I apparently do not. She’s always getting booked while I’m just trying to get any scraps of a job I can.
It’s not like I’m bad looki
ng. I’m not. I’ve been told I look like a modern Kate Moss, blonde, leggy and sexy as hell. I know that sounds arrogant, but part of being a model is being confident, though standing next to Charlotte I feel like a wilting flower.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, softening. “I’m sorry.”
Why does she have to be kind on top of gorgeous? It’s not fair.
“You know what you need?” she says, spinning around and clapping her palms together with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows.
“A new manager?” I mutter indignantly.
Her eyes dart toward the door of the one stall bathroom as though she thinks Hanson could hear us through the thick walls. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was eavesdropping. Our modeling agency is tiny, comprised of only about half a dozen or so models at a time who stay just long enough to book a big gig and then land a better agency. Everyone except me, that is.
I’m one of Hanson’s originals, which means I’ve been stuck here the longest. Charlotte has only been here three weeks and I can already tell she’ll be gone before the month is out, signed by one of the elite and exclusive modeling agencies in the city. Envy again burns through my veins, but when I catch a glance of it simmering in my eyes in the mirror it makes my cheeks burn with shame.
There’d been a time when I’d been so confident in my future as a model, I never would’ve let jealousy creep in. When I first came to New York I’d been so sure that I would end up gracing magazine covers and runways.
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