Say It Strong (Say You Love Me Book 2)
Read Say It Strong (Say You Love Me Book 2) Online
Authors: Virna Depaul
SAY IT STRONG
Say You Love Me Book 2
by
Virna DePaul
I've seen and done it all--sex, drugs, rock-n-roll, and then some. I've made the cover of Rolling Stone. I've won Best Rock Performance at the Grammy's. I'm living a life of fame, wild tours, crazy money, and insanely hot women. But the one woman I can't get is prim and proper cellist, Abby Chan--gorgeous, natural, talented as all sin. The first time we met, I knew we would be something special. She's not convinced, but I am.
Now I'm going to prove she's all the woman a wild man like me will ever need...
Liam Collier, sexy and enigmatic front man for Point Break, the world's hottest rock band, is at the top of his game. With two songs in the Billboard Top 10, he's a rock-and-roll bad boy, known for his trademark falsetto as well as his proclivity for partying and hooking up with gorgeous women. For Liam, falling in love was something he figured would happen far off in the future--not on the first day of his first world tour. And not with his super sexy but extremely reserved background cellist.
With a Master of Music degree from Juilliard School of Music, Abby Chan is on the road to becoming a cellist for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. But to pay back her expensive education, first she has to travel another kind of road--a gig playing cello for the North American leg of a garish rock band's world tour. She'd expected hard work and long hours, but what she never expected was the intensity of her reactions to Liam Collier. He's sweet. He's hot. And despite being surrounded by roadies and the world's most beautiful women, he's set his sights on her.
When classical music meets rock and prim propriety meets a carefree attitude, Abby and Liam venture outside their comfort zones. What they discover is that living wild is the perfect preparation for flying high--on love.
MORE FROM VIRNA DEPAUL
Abby
When Dr. Bronsky handed me my Master of Music diploma from Juilliard in December and said, “You and that cello are going places, Miss Chan,” I was pretty sure he didn’t mean the North American leg of a rock band’s world tour. Needless to say, it’s not what I pictured myself doing either. By now, I was hoping to be playing for the New York Philharmonic, making my way to Principal Cello and shining like the diamond of the string section, as I’d imagined it my entire twenty-three years up until this point.
However, a cellist cannot live on bread alone.
So when good friend, fellow string performer, and violinist Rosemary Bourré told me that Point Break, the rock band on the cover of the most recent
Rolling Stone
(four guys covered in tattoos and piercings—how original), was looking for an on-tour cellist to replace the one who’d dropped out last week, I forced myself to hear her out. Rose had already auditioned for their string section months ago and had gotten the part.
Join me, Abby!
she said.
It’ll be fun!
she said.
According to Rose, all I’d have to do was play backup to their two love ballads, sleep on a bus from April through July, and collect my paycheck. At summer’s end, I’d return to NYC and hopefully have enough money to pay off some school loans and put down money for my first apartment on the Upper West Side. I could audition for the Philharmonic, make my mother proud, marry a famous conductor, and live the rest of my life in perfect harmony.
Hey, a girl could dream.
So when I’d called to tell her that I hadn’t even had to audition—the manager hired me over the phone based on Dr. Bronsky’s recommendation—Rosemary had squealed, bounced, and hugged me tighter than an E string.
I am so crazy for doing this,
I’d thought, and Samuel, my boyfriend of four years, agreed, warning me if I took the job, he couldn’t guarantee he’d be there for me when I got back.
Is that right? So be it
, I’d thought. In fact, I’d taken the opportunity to do what Samuel had been hedging doing: I’d broken up with him.
Part of me knew I had to do it, if only to see what the world had to offer outside of Samuel Bautista. Part of me was relieved that taking the job had forced an end to a relationship I knew hadn’t been working for quite some time. And part of me, well…part of me just needed eighteen thousand dollars.
So here Rosemary and I were, a week after they signed me on and two days after arriving in LA for the first time, ready to see what the world of rock ’n’ roll had in store for us. After a couple of informal rehearsals
sans band
, the string section seemed ready. Now, I was about to jump my next hurdle—getting through Point Break’s
Feel the Burn
kickoff party—a real rock star soirée as far from Brooklyn as one might possibly imagine at the posh Southern California home of their manager, Robbie Levine. Never would I be accused of being a party girl back in Brooklyn. In fact, the most partying I’d ever done was the night after my Strings final exam at Samuel’s parents’ house where Rosemary, Jaromir, Kim Lee, and I all sat around the Bautistas’ living room, laughing, drinking wine, and talking about how we were going to make it big one day.
We’d meant playing for any of the world’s most prestigious orchestras, not following around a screaming front man and his guitar-plucking toadies as they reveled in alcoholic excess and female companionship.
So this house…this was another league altogether, and to be honest, it was scaring the crap out of me. Next to me, however, Rosemary was all fluttery eyes. “Wow, Abby. Did you ever imagine this would be our first real gig?” She beamed, beer bottle in hand, glancing around the partyscape.
We’d been working since we graduated, of course, but that had entailed the occasional wedding. Nothing like this. “I imagined it a little less…LA.” I mean, we were
in
LA, so that didn’t quite make sense, but even this was beyond where my imagination had gone. I clung to my wine glass like it might keep me afloat in the sea of money and fluff.
“Abby, we’re in Beverly Hills. Beverly frickin’ Hills.”
“Don’t say frickin’, Rosemary. It’s so…”
“Rock star?”
“Exactly.”
She giggled. Giggling suited the tall, blond, skinny French coquette thing she had going on. Next to her graceful swan self, I felt like a mallard duck.
“Rehearsal went really well this afternoon, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Sure. If you consider the actual band members not participating a success,” I said.
She smirked. “I think it was meant for everyone else. Strings, lighting, sound crew…”
“What kind of musicians don’t need to rehearse?” I scoffed quietly.
She leaned into my ear. “The kind whose songs are all four beats to the measure. So I think the rehearsal was only for us new people.”
“Ah, yes. Please don’t remind me.” I couldn’t have felt more out of place.
In one corner of the mansion’s palatial gardens was a group of Greek goddesses dressed in white and gold bikinis all fawning over a man in red pants and a black T-shirt. The girls must have coordinated their hairstyles before coming, since they all had either streaked curls or severe ponytails pulled up tight, making their eyebrows arch up high. On another part of the patio, sectional sofas abounded with more tanned, glossy-legged women all gathered around a man in black pants and open shirt, knees apart, each of his arms laced around a fine Coppertoned set of shoulders. Wow, LA women took their beauty seriously, but that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Seeing it front and center somehow drove the point home, however—and made me wonder if I should have skipped the wine, given I was probably one of the only women at this party whose thighs actually touched.
The music blaring from the speakers thumped and pounded. An honest-to-goodness DJ spun real records, pressing headphones to her ears, and dancing to her own mellifluous offerings, all while sporting a tight turquoise minidress.
“How many people do you think are here?” Rosemary scanned the crowd.
I did a quick calculation of the patio and pool deck and estimated another fifty or so inside the house, more in the rooms upstairs, I was sure. “A hundred fifty, at least.”
“You think they do this before every tour?”
“Jaromir said they do this before every show. And every night in between.”
Rosemary’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? How would he know?”
“He said he’s a Point Break fan. Rose, there’s money in this business. It’s all showmanship, album covers, women-filled videos, self-inflated promotion… Real musicians don’t care about stuff like this. Real musicians just want to play, even if it’s to an empty auditorium with three cats listening.” Even as I spoke, I mentally winced. I sounded like a ripe old snob, and a bitter one at that. Real musicians shouldn’t diss other musicians, period. I knew that. And normally I didn’t. But now…here… I needed to hold on to some semblance of confidence. If I was overcompensating, I was only doing it in front of Rosemary, who hopefully wouldn’t hold it against me.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Rosemary downed her beer. “But it’s still awesome to be a part of it. You want something to eat? I’m gonna go get something.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I wasn’t so sure there was anything awesome about this. In this world, music was a means to a lavish lifestyle. In my world, the lifestyle was a means to the music. Losing yourself in the music was all that mattered. Which was why I’d made it a point not to get sucked into Point Break pics, gossip, and drama before coming. I read only what I needed to know about the band—recording history and discographies.
Wikipedia—nothing more, nothing less.
“By the way, you look really hot in that dress.” She winked and slinked away.
In this?
I fidgeted with my pearls, glancing down at the only cocktail dress I owned, a black A-line more at home at a Manhattan shindig than a party in the Hills. “Thanks,” I said, not entirely convinced.
Before I knew it, Rosemary skittered away, leaving me alone with my
so not-hot
self. I should have gone with her, but I’d been following her around the whole night, clinging to her skirt like a little girl behind her mama, hiding from scary boys. Which wasn’t too far off from the truth.
In retrospect, now that Rosemary had left me alone, I wished I would have perused Point Break’s online pics before coming, so I would at least know what they looked like. But between my mother’s life lectures, packing for the trip, and fighting with Samuel, I didn’t have much time. Plus, I’ll admit I hadn’t wanted to look. I told myself it didn’t matter who my bosses were or what they looked like. It didn’t matter if I liked or respected them. This was just a temporary job, one I had to get through to make my own dreams come true. However, I’d started to think I’d been unprofessional by not doing more homework. I should at least introduce myself to my new bosses and thank them for the job. That’s the main reason I was here.
Looking around, however, I tried guessing who the band members might be, hoping no one would notice the
solo
cellist standing by the potted tree. Much to my dismay, it was a bigger call to attention than I’d feared.
A pair of smiling eyes zeroed in on me from the opposite end of the pool. Wearing loose jeans, a leather vest over his strong, bare chest, a cowboy hat, and a big, silver belt buckle, the guy looked like a punk cowboy who’d lassoed himself a few ladies. Flanking him were…one, two, three, four,
five
girls in bikinis. Although, upon closer inspection, it appeared that two of them were topless. They played with his hat, laughing and taking it off, passing it around. His heavily tattooed right arm was wrapped around a girl’s waist. His other hand held his phone. He raised it, aimed it in my general direction, snapped a shot, then tucked it back in his pocket.