Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4)

by Jaine Diamond

  I chose a simple, black dress shirt and gray dress pants. I never wore shit like this; I was a jeans and T-shirt guy. The crisp fabric and collar, the buttons, the creases in the pants all made me feel less like myself, which was maybe the point. Helped me to detach. Depersonalize the whole event as much as I could. I didn’t have to dress up to visit the mansion, but I always did. Just seemed wrong not to.

  Obviously, Nicolette would.

  And since I expected her to play by my rules, it was the least I could do.

  The thing was, not many people understood my rules. Fair enough. But I wasn’t about to spend my life having to explain them to everyone. It was so much easier to just shut a door and tell people to stay the fuck out.

  Choose who I let into my world.

  Out. In.

  Most people were out.

  This was my life. My rules.

  When I walked back into the bathroom, my phone was vibrating again. I ran my hands through my hair in front of the mirror. It was half-damp, and I didn’t bother styling it.

  I glanced at the screen.

  Courteney.

  Shit. I’d been hoping to avoid her this weekend, but this had to be the seventh time she’d called. Either there was an actual emergency, or I should’ve maybe just stopped being an asshole and actually picked up the phone to talk to my sister.

  I picked up the phone. “Hey, cupcake.” That’s what I called her; cupcake, or CC for short, which was also her initials and mine. Cupcake was usually reserved for private conversations, though. When she was like thirteen she’d started complaining about it, but she didn’t seem to mind anymore.

  “Hey! I’ve been trying to reach you. You’re not working today, are you?”

  “Not really. Just wrapping up. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you. You know, about finding you an assistant? Remember, we talked about that…?”

  Oh. “Right.”

  The assistant.

  Definitely hadn’t been on my mind. But now I remembered.

  Several months ago—actually, half a year ago or so—my little sister had asked me if she could help hire me an assistant. After she’d tried so hard to fill that position herself last summer, I may have felt a little guilty. I knew she was just trying to help me. So, I’d agreed to discuss it with her when I was finished the album.

  Well, it was finished.

  I had about thirty-eight more hours, officially, obligation free, before I got started on my next project. And she knew it. Her boyfriend was a member of the Players, and she knew exactly when they were going into the studio.

  “Is this a good time?” she asked me, carefully.

  “Sure. I’ve just got a minute.”

  “Okay. I’ll make it fast. I’m sending someone over to meet with you on Monday,” she said, quickly, like she was afraid I’d cut her off. “Just for a quick chat. She’s an executive assistant. I’ve just asked her to meet with you so she can figure out what kind of assistant would be ideal for you, because let’s face it, I have no idea what I’m doing. Then she’s going to help me hire someone perfect.”

  “Okay.” I wedged the phone between my ear and my shoulder so I could roll up my sleeves; I had no idea what the weather was like, but it was probably warm.

  “Her name is Taylor,” she went on. “She’s a friend of Ashley Player’s wife… Actually, her best friend.”

  Great. Now I had to be nice to this girl.

  “Okay,” I repeated, though I really didn’t want an assistant. It wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever heard, but I had zero desire to deal with another person’s bullshit in my space.

  I could barely deal with my own bullshit.

  “I’ll let you know what time to expect her.”

  “Sure. Sometime in the morning would be good.” So I can get this over with.

  “Okay, for sure. I’ll tell her.”

  I forced out a “Thanks,” because I knew Courteney was doing this out of the goodness of her heart. My little sister always had a good heart. And she really didn’t have to be spending her time on this. On me.

  “So…” she said. “Now that the album is done… you must be happy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Actually, I wasn’t happy at all. The album had turned out phenomenal, because I would never release anything that was less than phenomenal. But by the end of the project I could barely stand the guys in the band. Plus, now that it was done and I was officially between projects, even if it was only for two days, it put me in a shitty position. No work to bury myself in meant a lot of hours on the clock to think about other shit.

  Like the fact that it was Saturday night and there was a listening party for the first couple of singles off the Static Ice Diva’s album, pre-release. The party was down in L.A. and I’d been invited, of course, but I wasn’t going.

  I wondered if Courteney knew that.

  Countless people had messaged me about the party over the last few days, casually probing to find out if I was coming without actually asking me if I was coming. I probably should’ve just turned off my phone, but somehow, I’d always had a hard time doing that. Even if I rarely answered it.

  “Well, would you want to celebrate with me and Xander tonight?” Courteney asked. “We could come over. Have a drink out by the pool? It’s a beautiful night.”

  “Yeah, it is.” To tell the truth, I hadn’t even looked out a window all day. “I think I’m just gonna turn in early. You know, catch up on some sleep.”

  “Oh. Sure. Maybe another time.”

  The disappointment in her voice would’ve probably killed me a little if I wasn’t so used to it that I’d become almost numb to it.

  “Look, I’ve gotta go. Have a few things to wrap up here for the album release, then I’m going to bed.” Yeah; lying to my sister when she was always trying so damn hard to be nice to me, no matter how I disappointed her, probably made me a special kind of asshole.

  “Okay,” she said. “Hey, Cary? I’m proud of you. Another big album done. You should be proud.”

  And there it was. My sister’s kindness and love for me was about equal in measure to the guilt I felt every time I talked to her and she expressed that love for me.

  I really shouldn’t have answered the phone.

  “Thanks, CC,” I said.

  “I guess… I’ll text to let you know what time to expect Taylor on Monday. Have a nice weekend, Cary.”

  “You, too.”

  I hung up, and realized I didn’t even bother asking what her and my best friend were up to this weekend. I never asked. Xander had hooked up with my sister last fall. And I’d accepted it, more or less. They’d been together almost a year now, so what was I gonna do? She was nineteen. It really wasn’t my call.

  I’d tried to make it my call. Didn’t work.

  Then I basically didn’t talk to either of them for a few months.

  I’d let it go, though. There was really nothing I could do about it. But it didn’t mean I wanted to see them, or even picture them, together.

  Besides that… hearing about the few people you still loved in this world doing all the normal shit that you used to do when you just couldn’t do it anymore was pretty unbearable. That was one of the things people never seemed to understand.

  Just because I chose to be alone didn’t mean I wasn’t lonely.

  Fuck. I needed to focus on something to stave off the anxiety. I could feel it creeping in around the corners, threatening to black everything else the fuck out. My heart was thudding and my palms were damp. Talking to my sister always spiked my anxiety.

  I glanced at my phone as it vibrated in my hand.

  Front gate.

  I drew a few deep breaths, all the way down into my belly, to try to relax. I checked the time, but Liam was, as usual, perfectly punctual.

  I picked up. “Yeah.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Clarke. It’s Liam.”

  I buzzed him in and headed down to the kitchen. I didn’t see Freddy aroun
d, but I topped up the food in his cat bowl. He’d be in and out all night through his kitty doors, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d be.

  Then I grabbed my wallet from the studio, set the alarm on the house and stepped out the front door.

  I winced a little as the light hurt my head. It wasn’t bright, but it was brighter than in the house, and I’d spent most of the day in the studio with the lights low.

  I slipped on my shades even though no one could see me on my front steps. The yard was completely surrounded by thick trees. It was almost eight o’clock and the sun was starting to descend. Courteney was right. It was a beautiful evening, warm and calm.

  But I hesitated. I took a moment to check in with myself, to make sure I was okay. To breathe.

  Four counts in. Hold for four counts. Four counts out.

  There was always time to cancel. I’d cancel on anything, if it meant avoiding a meltdown in public. But I forced myself, one foot in front of the other, down the front steps.

  It was approximately sixty steps in total from my front door to the bedroom door at Bliss. That was all. Just sixty steps.

  I’d encounter three people on this outing. Three people who knew exactly what was expected of them.

  If I thought of it that way, it made it much easier to step out the door.

  Three people. Sixty steps.

  When I walked around the corner of the garage to the driveway, I found Liam standing next to his silver Cadillac in a neat suit and tie, awaiting me the same way he always did. Patiently.

  He knew it wasn’t easy for me to get myself out the door.

  And sometimes I changed my mind at the last second. I’d actually gotten out of the car and gone back into the house on several occasions, for no discernible reason. At least, no reason that he could see.

  “Mr. Clarke,” he greeted me. If he was surprised that I hadn’t turned back yet, he didn’t show it. He just opened the rear door for me, like he picked me up like this every day.

  In reality, there were months at a time when I didn’t call him for anything.

  “Hey, Liam.”

  I slid in and he shut the door. No need to ask me where I was going. He already knew.

  It was the only place I ever went.

  I spent the drive over to West Vancouver focusing on my breathing, trying not to think about anything else. Meditative stuff one of my therapists had taught me long ago. There was no need to think about anything else, really.

  The car wasn’t going to crash.

  We weren’t going to drive off the bridge.

  Nothing bad was going to happen.

  Just breathe.

  But the music from the Static Ice Divas’ album kept playing in the back of my mind, the way it had for so long now, on repeat. And even now I couldn’t help wondering if the songs were really done.

  In a way, they were never really done.

  But that was the perfectionist in me talking.

  When I was on tour, it was different than playing in the studio, recording an album. Playing music live, with a group of musicians I had chemistry with… I’d always liked to take the music to new places, as if the recorded songs were merely a starting point. Try new things. Let it breathe. It was live music, and that was what Alive was all about. Giving people something they didn’t expect and letting them become part of the live experience. In a way, the music wasn’t what it was until it was performed for that particular audience, and no two shows were ever exactly the same.

  Me, Gabe, Xander, Dean… we all liked to perform that way, together.

  But that was in the past. When I was actually in a band.

  I wasn’t in this band.

  This album was out of my hands now, and in a way there was an incredible relief in that; the Static Ice Divas would tour with it now, without me. And divas they truly were. Whatever they did with those songs on tour—however they rearranged them or if they butchered them or played them note for note—it no longer had anything to do with me. People would say it did. They’d ask me for interviews. They’d credit me when the songs climbed the charts. They’d nominate me for awards, possibly.

  But none of that had anything to do with me now.

  The music I’d produced was already recorded. It was an expression of a moment in time—or in this case, eight months—and now it was done. At least, it was for me.

  That album was the past, and I was looking forward.

  The day after tomorrow, I’d start working on the Players’ debut album. They’d put together a killer lineup, including my best friend and former bandmate, Xander. The band and their manager, Brody Mason, had chipped away at me for a good six months trying to convince me to produce the album. In the end, when I was able to come up for air and give it fair consideration—when the Ice Divas’ album was finally nearing completion—the decision wasn’t all that hard.

  I had other offers. Plenty of bands, old and new, wanting to work with me, despite my reputation for being… well, difficult to work with. But when it came down to making a choice, it was between the Players and a few other artists I’d worked with before, ones I was, frankly, feeling pretty lukewarm about.

  Maybe I just needed something fresh and new.

  And there were a lot of reasons to work with the Players.

  I’d spent as much time as I could over the last few months listening to the band members’ recorded work; everything that Ashley Player, Summer Sorensen, Matt Brohmer and Xander Rush had ever recorded in their musical careers, before they came together as a band. And although the four of them had never collaborated on a project before, they all had something in common: that special something I looked for in a musician. It was a mix of raw talent, hunger, and uniqueness.

  Maybe it was the personal “blood, guts and soul” that each of them brought to the music they made.

  Whatever it was, even I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It had to be this way; it had to surprise me. Intrigue me. It had to be something I couldn’t have come up with myself.

  Otherwise, what was the point?

  But it was also something I knew I could take hold of as their producer, shape, direct and elevate to a higher level.

  They all had serious writing chops, too, which was a must for me.

  With Brody Mason at the helm as their manager, and Trey Jones, who’d just signed them to his label, Brick House Records, they also had the right team behind them.

  On Monday, the Players would walk into a studio together for the first time. And while I’d be co-writing and producing the album, I’d also be playing on the album. Various instruments as needed, including guitar. The Players had been searching for a second guitarist ever since the four of them hooked up, and Ashley had told me that he wanted a second lead. But so far, they hadn’t found anyone to fit the bill. This was a bonus for me. I didn’t always play on the albums I produced, so that was something I was also looking forward to.

  It’d been a while since I’d contributed like that, and I knew it would take a lot out of me.

  Maybe that’s what I was looking forward to the most. Burying myself so deep in a project that everything else ceased to exist for me. I wouldn’t say it was my happy place, but it was the place I wanted to be more than anywhere else, which was saying something. I really didn’t want much these days.

  But I was optimistic—hungry, even—to see what we could all stir up together.

  I actually hadn’t felt this excited about a new project in a long time, and it was kind of putting me on edge. On edge was a dangerous place for me. A terrifying place. I needed to keep calm and in control.

  I didn’t do well with out of control.

  So, I took control.

  As part of our deal, I’d given the Players a space at my recording studio over in Mount Pleasant, Little Black Hole. My staff would take care of them there while they wrote and recorded the album. I’d be working from my home studio, and my staff would facilitate that, too. Virtually.

  The members of the Players alr
eady knew my… situation. And Xander knew me well. Which meant there would be no need to have to try to explain it to them.

  They wouldn’t be pressuring me to come down to the studio in person or any of that shit.

  I’d work remotely, technology would connect us, and we could focus on what was important—like the music, rather than the “logistical issues and undue stress” caused by my “eccentricities.”

  The Static Ice Divas had been pretty vocal about those. Half the reason the album took so goddamn long. I’d never worked with a group of musicians who whined more about me not joining them in the studio, in person. But I wasn’t exactly the only producer who worked this way. And the Divas lived in fucking Ohio, anyway. They didn’t even want to fly up here to Vancouver to record at Little Black Hole. What was I gonna do, fly to Akron so I could hold their hands, show them how to play their fucking instruments?

  That was a bunch of bullshit, and a bunch of “logistical issues and undue stress” that I didn’t need.

  I didn’t do “in person.”

  At least, I usually didn’t.

  If people could play by my rules, though… they had a hell of a lot better chance of getting in a room with me.

  Out. In.

  We pulled up to the mansion in West Vancouver just before eight-thirty. Right on time.

  The house stood at the end of a private, gated driveway on an estate lot, on a street in the British Properties where the price tag on each home was a minimum fifteen million. Vancouver was not a cheap place to live. It wasn’t even an affordable place to live, by most accounts. But there was wealthy… and then there was wealthy.

  Every driveway along this road was gated and led to an ostentatious mansion. Made the coming and going of expensive cars virtually unnoticeable, so this particular ostentatious mansion didn’t exactly stand out. Not until you were actually inside the house.

  Or more specifically, in one of the private rooms.

  Many of the homes up here were so large that, gated or not, they were visible from the street. All the better to flaunt one’s wealth, I supposed. But the Bliss mansion, as it was known in certain circles, was less an actual home than a private club.