Rock Rebel

by Tara Leigh

  “Just don’t bitch at me when Jett makes your song his own. They’re going to bring him into the studio to rerecord—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? We killed that song. And it’s my song. My version is staying on Verity’s album.”

  “It only stays if you’re willing to commit. Plan B is Jett. You know he’ll be perfectly willing to do a few events with Verity. I’ll have Piper get a hashtag trending—”

  I broke in as Travis started mumbling to himself, already coming up with a marketing plan for his next celebrity power couple. “Jesus. Fine. I’ll do it. You’re not dumping my track. I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure, because—”

  I hated how Travis already seemed disappointed. As if he’d realized that Jett was a better fit for Verity and he’d rather make the switch. “Yeah, I’m sure. Verity and I made a great song together, and the music should come first. The track stays on her album. If that means I have to perform the song with her while we’re on tour, so be it. But don’t turn us into a couple, Travis. She doesn’t want anyone thinking she slept her way onto our tour, and I agree with her.”

  “Sure. No hashtag. And I’ll tell the label to keep your track.”

  I ended the call and groaned. The truth was, the thought of sharing a stage with Verity…Fuck. It got me nearly as hot and hard as the idea of sharing a bed with her.

  What the fuck was I getting myself into?

  Had my past come full circle? Was I doomed to repeat it again?

  Because I sure as hell didn’t want to.

  The stage—any stage—was sacred space to a musician. Even more so when you grew up around Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall and Juilliard. There’s a give-and-take, a partnership, a kind of magic that happens beneath the lights, and it carries over to what happens after the encore, in real life. A little bit of that magic remains, and your expectations are different. Bigger somehow. Amplified.

  When things don’t work out, the betrayal is bigger, too. So loud it reverberates in your soul for years. A noise that won’t be silenced.

  Damn Travis for getting me involved.

  And damn Verity for making me want to be involved.

  This was show biz. Nothing lasted here. Nothing was real.

  Verity Moore would open for Nothing but Trouble on this tour.

  Six months. A hundred sound checks, a hundred shows, a thousand interviews.

  Fucking hell.

  I had no doubt she’d be headlining her own tour next year. We were a stepping-stone for her. A pit stop.

  Then she would move on.

  And I wanted that for her. I wanted to watch Verity blaze a path across the sky like the shooting star she was destined to be.

  But I knew exactly what would happen if I got too close.

  I’d be incinerated.

  Verity

  “He said what?”

  “Yes. He said yes.” Piper’s voice was perfectly clear, and yet I still pulled the phone away from my ear, checking the screen to be sure I hadn’t accidentally dropped the call.

  “Verity, are you there? Is this a bad connection?”

  I swallowed past the tightness in my throat. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Okay, good. Now that Dax is on board, the label is thinking of dropping ‘Bombshell Rebel’ before your album is finished, to get buzz going. So I’ve scheduled a…”

  I tuned out as Piper continued talking. She would send me a detailed itinerary as soon as we hung up and add everything to our shared calendar anyway. This call was just a formality. Which was a good thing because I was still struggling to absorb her news.

  I’d been surprised when Travis mentioned that the label wanted Dax and me to perform “Bombshell Rebel” during the tour. But I had been betting that Dax would turn them down flat. There was no way he would want to share the spotlight with me.

  Which was why I’d agreed to it so easily. I’d assumed Dax would say no and that would be the end of it.

  Apparently not.

  Despite my nerves, the thought of performing with Dax again had my veins thrumming with excitement.

  But it had me feeling uncomfortable, too. Like Dax was doing me a favor and now I’d be in his debt.

  Judging from the other night, it was a debt I’d be only too happy to repay.

  The pleasure definitely all mine.

  I felt like a virginal freshman with a crush on the star quarterback. What would it take to pique his interest? And what would it take to maintain that interest?

  But I was hardly a virgin. And I’d never had time for these silly, lovesick emotions when I was in high school. Not that I spent much time there.

  My mother had finally stopped the charade of pretending my education actually mattered the day I turned sixteen. A fact no one besides Dax knew. High school dropout didn’t fit the image of the girl I’d pretended to be on The Show.

  Yet another reason to be intimidated around Dax. The best performing arts high school in the country. Then Juilliard. That he didn’t actually graduate didn’t matter at all. Just thinking about his skills being honed and developed for so many years made me feel inadequate. What did I know about music, really? I could sing, yes. But that was all. I knew nothing about chord changes or amplification effects or layering vocals with instrumentation.

  Those two hours with Dax had shown me a side to music I’d never been exposed to—the technical aspect of creating art. Dax had been so confident, so professional. He wasn’t passively following orders; he was throwing out suggestions and making adjustments as if he had a sound board in his head, a way of separating out all the individual components of a song and rearranging them in infinitely different ways.

  It had been impressive.

  And a reminder of how sorely lacking my own capabilities were.

  Recording with Dax had been excruciating. And also, somehow, the most incredibly amazing musical experience ever. Dax had the kind of talent that was instinctive, innate. But he was also a Juilliard-trained musical savant. I learned more during our two-hour session than I had in my entire career.

  How was I going to repeat that, night after night, in front of an audience of thousands?

  Answer—I had no fucking clue.

  How was I even going to look Dax in the face again after what happened at my front door the other night? I’d wanted him so badly I hadn’t even asked him inside. And then I had shoved him away, proof of the orgasm he’d given me still on his fingers.

  Same answer—I had no fucking clue.

  “So, are you good with all that?”

  “Um, sure. Of course.”

  “Great. I’ll be at your house tomorrow morning with the stylist. It’s never too early to lock down your red-carpet looks.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dax

  So, is it true? You’re jumping ship?” Jett shook his head, a wide grin splitting his face in two. “Bros before hoes, or have you learned nothing from me after all these years?”

  I rolled my eyes and punched his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I’m telling you, man. First you’re recording with her, then you’re on her album, and now I hear you’re gonna share the stage with her. What the fuck—you looking to start singing duets or some shit?”

  I hadn’t told anyone about the song Verity and I had performed together, or the fact that it would be incorporated into her act—especially not my bandmates. Frankly, I’d been hoping that if I didn’t say it out loud the situation would magically disappear. But no, our label’s publicity machine had gone into overdrive, dropping the song early and hyping the shit out of it. It shot to number one on the charts immediately. “You’re just pissed it’s not you.”

  Jett grunted. “Fuck, yeah. That girl is fine. If Travis wouldn’t cut off my dick, I’d be all over her ass already.”

  If any part of Jett touched Verity’s ass, Travis would be too busy wrestling the knife out of my hands to inflict any damage on Jett himself.

  “Not an option,” I
growled, shooting Jett a death glare.

  He raised his hands, palms up. “Yeah, I was there when Travis laid down the law. Not that any of us are good at following rules, but I’ll do my best to stick to the chicks I can have security block if they turn crazy.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not sure Verity could handle me once she had a taste, anyway.”

  “Jesus Christ, enough about Verity!” I didn’t mean to explode, and I knew it was a mistake the second I yelled her name. I was the even-tempered one of our group. The one who’d rather nurse a beer alone in the corner of the room than be the center of attention, chicks hanging off me, promising anything I could want and nothing worth wanting. I didn’t get all hot and defensive about a girl. Not since Amelia.

  But Verity Moore had me hot all right. And the thought of Jett—or anyone—touching her, incited a rage within my chest I hadn’t known I was capable of.

  Jett slanted his eyes at me, arms crossed over his chest. “Holy shit.”

  I looked away, picking up my phone and pretending to do…something. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You sneaky bastard,” Jett murmured, not a trace of animosity in his voice as he clapped me on the shoulder. “Good for you. It’s about time you did something worth getting shit for.”

  I shrugged him off, the unsettled feeling that had been dogging my steps for the past few weeks flaring back up. A sense that something—someone—was missing from my life. Or maybe I was just in need of a hard dose of common sense. “Not doin’ anything.”

  Jett only gripped me harder, tugging at me to turn around. I did, and was instantly faced with his obvious concern. “Not sure that I believe you—but if you’re not, you damn well should be. How long has it been, D? How long since you let loose? Got with a girl—any girl, for fuck’s sake—and actually let yourself live in the moment? You’re young and rich and almost as good-looking as me. You should be eating pussy with every meal.”

  I shifted on my feet, trying to find my center of gravity as I met Jett’s defiant stare. I wasn’t seeing his face though. The image of Verity the last time I saw her—the night we recorded “Bombshell Rebel”—was all too vivid. Her skin flushed from my touch, lips swollen from my kisses, hair a riot of red that had felt so damn good wrapped up in my fist.

  Jett’s eyes widened, and he poked me in the chest, grinning like a fool, the cleft in his chin that chicks drooled over on full display. “Aw, yeah. You took off your monk’s robes for her, didn’t you? Showed her some of what you’ve been keeping under wraps, huh?”

  There had barely been any unwrapping, but the experience had been so damn memorable, it was permanently seared in my brain. I saw Verity’s perfect breasts every time I closed my eyes. Tasted her on my tongue with every breath. Felt her body tremble in my arms with every movement. “Wasn’t like that.”

  He choked back a laugh. “Uh-oh. Has it been so long that you forgot what to do? Need a few tips from an expert? I’ve got tricks that could really—”

  I gave Jett a shove, although it was impossible to be mad at him. The guy was rude and crude and over-the-top audacious. But he was my brother in every way but blood. I shook my head, the glare I’d been going for softening. “I think I’ll pass. Verity’s on our tour. I’m on her album. We’ll be sharing a stage together. It’s like my ex all over again.”

  Jett frowned, thinking for a moment. Then he shrugged. “So kick her off the tour. Travis will get us another opening act.”

  Like it was that simple.

  Like I would pull that kind of dick move.

  I roughed agitated hands through my hair. “Not gonna do that.” If I was willing to sink that low, I didn’t deserve Verity at all. This tour was going to be huge for her career, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—fuck her over like that. “Besides, I have unfinished business I need to wrap up before I can consider anything beyond a one-night stand—and you know I’m not into those. Maybe we’ll get together after the tour. After I get my shit straightened out.”

  “I’ll never understand you, D. Variety is the spice of life and all that. And…after the tour? That’s what…a year from now? Scratch that—longer. You really wanna wait that long?” He gave me a serious, searching look. “Dude, you think she’s not gonna get hit on left and right? That she’ll take up knitting while you and your dick sulk in a corner?”

  A deep, unsatisfied sigh shuddered through my lungs. “Jett, for my own sanity, I need to draw a line between what happens onstage and what happens off. Last time the two got confused, I moved three thousand miles away and pulled a one-eighty with my career. If I let those lines blur again and it gets all fucked up like I’m sure it will, what am I going to do? Take up bongos in Jamaica? Play the accordion in Austria? Right now Verity is too damn close to everything that matters to me. If things blow up, I can’t have the fallout tainting my entire life.”

  He threw up his hands in a show of irritation. “I’d call you a pussy, but that would be an insult to the most beautiful thing on earth. When did you become such a wuss? The tour won’t kick off for months. If you’re so sure you and Verity will flame out, why not fuck her out of your system now? You’ll have plenty of time to get back in the friend zone before our first show.”

  He grabbed his car keys and headed for the door. “Gotta go. Unlike you, I have someone waiting for me.”

  Verity

  The number on my screen was unfamiliar, but I answered it because Piper said a journalist she trusted would be calling for my comment on the latest Verity Moore scandal du jour. I picked up the paper with the carefully crafted statement Piper had e-mailed me. This call was so that the reporter could tag their column as an EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW.

  Since “Bombshell Rebel” dropped, the Twitterverse had exploded with speculation that Jack Lester was the man who had “shamed me.”

  All the gossip sites and magazines were running with the story, and getting back and forth to the studio to finish my album had been an exercise in evading the paparazzi.

  My label was thrilled. For them it was free publicity.

  Travis and Piper didn’t seem to mind, either.

  For me it was a nightmare. The last thing I wanted was anyone asking about my relationship with Jack.

  “Verity, can you hear me?”

  Shit. Not the journalist. “Hey, Mom. Did you get a new number?”

  “Bruce and I are on that cruise to Alaska. You remember I told you about it.” I didn’t, but she had mentioned having a new boyfriend. There was always a new boyfriend. “I dropped my phone and will have to do without it until I get back. What is this I hear about a song—‘Bombshell something-or-other’?”

  And just like that, my day went from bad to worse. “‘Bombshell Rebel.’”

  “What?” The connection was cutting out.

  “‘Bombshell Rebel.’ With an r.”

  “Please tell me you di—”

  “Mom…Mom?”

  “—en I get back.”

  The call cut off, and my head dropped forward on my shoulders. I took a shallow, shuddering breath. And then I stored Bruce’s number in my contacts. If she called again, at least I’d know not to answer.

  I had no idea how long the cruise would last, but I might as well take full advantage of it. No badgering phone calls or Face-Timing. No evasive answers or outright lies.

  And once she returned, between the release of “Bombshell Rebel” and the announcement about my upcoming tour with Nothing but Trouble, there would be no denying that I’d taken control of my own career.

  No denying that Travis Taggert was now my manager.

  She was still my mother, though. A role that had never been enough for her.

  We were definitely due for a long talk when she returned. Whenever that was.

  * * *

  Tonight was the party to celebrate the official announcement of the Nothing but Trouble/Verity Moore world tour, and even though it had been a week since my call with the journalist denying that “Bombshell Rebel” had
anything to do with Jack, the rumor mill was still going strong.

  And that wasn’t the only rumor people were talking about. Despite Travis agreeing not to promote us as a couple, our fans had done it on their own. Speculation about Dax and me—now known as Daxity—had been going crazy since our song dropped. There were sightings of us everywhere, which was pretty surprising given that I hadn’t seen him since he left me at my front door in a post-orgasmic haze.

  It was exactly what I didn’t want. People whispering that I’d gotten on Nothing but Trouble’s tour, or their label, only because I was screwing the band’s guitarist. I hadn’t seen Dax in weeks, but according to the tabloids we were inseparable. I had pushed away the one man I could ever remember wanting precisely so the indictment couldn’t be made.

  But apparently it didn’t matter. I was getting all of the heat but none of the benefits.

  Between the accusations of sending a message through a song I hadn’t written and pursuing a man I’d pushed away—I was fed up with Tinseltown and I’d been back only a few months.

  I had tried to play by their rules, but I was being accused of cheating anyway.

  And now, tonight, maybe I was finally realizing that there was nothing I could do about them. About the rumors, the gossip, the headlines. Those were things beyond my control.

  I just wasn’t quite sure what, if anything, I was going to do about it.

  Piper had been buzzing around me all day, driving me nuts. Although, now that she’d shared the news of her pregnancy, I’d bitten my tongue.

  It made perfect sense, of course. Piper’s exhaustion, not drinking, and peeing all the freaking time. I had been so wrapped up in my own world that I hadn’t put it all together.

  But damn—Piper was the last person I’d expect to have any kind of craziness in her private life. I mean, she never really talked about her life outside of work. And she was always so perfect, so polished. Her blond hair straight and sleek, no flyaways for her. Never merely on time, always early. And organized to a fault—color-coded calendar, lists for everything, her phone with scheduled alerts every other minute. Piper Hastings didn’t miss a thing, and I was damn lucky to be working with her.