So I Married a Rockstar (4 page)

"Second of all," she continues, "tell me again why taking a ride on the Bony Express would be so bad? I mean, girl. It's been a loooooong time, right?"

I shouldn't be surprised she's throwing this in my face again. About once a month, she feels compelled to remind me. As if I'm not fully aware that I'm
this
close to reverting back to virgin-hood.

 
"You know damn well it has, which is part of the problem. Duh!"

 
She grins and tickles me. "Time to get back on that horse, my sistah from another mistah!"

I'm giggling but slap her hands away anyway. "Pepper, I'm serious. If my boss caught wind of this..."

"Whatever. Who's gonna tell him? Not Mr. Tall, Dark and Demonic, that's for sure. I
know
you won't. So stop pretending that's a real excuse, Lo. You're just afraid of getting hurt again, admit it."

How does she know what's going on inside my head better than I do? But she's pinpointed the real issue, which was so buried in my subconscious that it hadn't even occurred to me. I actually feel like I've been slapped. Slapped with reality.

She pulls me into her arms and I hold on tight. "I know, honeybear, I know. But you can't live your life that way. Sometimes you have to take risks, and you know what those dipshit finance guys who come in for lunch always say..."

"Yes, ma'am, whatever you say, ma'am?"
 

She laughs and pushes me back. I'm grateful that she leaves her hands on my shoulders, though. I need that connection right now.

"Naturally. But they also say 'big risk, big reward.'"

"They also say to never risk what you can't afford to lose," I counter.

"But what's at risk here, Lauren? It's not like this guy is even remotely a long-term prospect. At worst, he's a one-night stand. At best, he's a one-night stand. Sounds like even odds to me."

"Pepper, I've only ever been with Taggart."

She snorts at the mention of my ex-boyfriend who broke my heart last year.

"Taggart's a douche. Never treated you right. This guy...I have no doubt that he knows exactly how to treat a woman. In bed, at least."

"Pepper, you know I've never had a one-night stand before. I never really thought of myself that way."

"Might be just the thing to break that dam, know what I mean?" She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Poor guy won't know what hit him. It'll be like a passion tsunami!"

We laugh until our cheeks hurt. Pepper's the first to catch her breath.
 

"Seriously, Lo. So what if he's a bit of an alpha? Go with it. Let him toss you around a bit. I promise you, it'll be a night you'll never forget. When you're 80 and lying in bed next to your sweet, old-man husband, you'll remember tonight and feel like a girl again."

"Ya think?"
 

"Oh yeah. But only if it's what you want, okay? Now, I'm sorry, but I need to get back up front. You good?"

"I'm good. Thanks for sparing the time, Pep." We embrace one more time and she pops a smooch on my cheek.

"Anything for you, my sweet. Now go get laid already."

I arrive at the amphitheater about a half-hour before the sound check is supposed to start. Roadies are putting the finishing touches on the stage and equipment, and everything seems to be going smoothly. All the hustle and bustle helps keep my mind off the fact that every minute brings me closer to seeing Drax again.

My heart starts thudding like crazy knowing he'll be here soon. I wonder how he'll react when he sees me again. Will he sweep me up in his arms or will he brush me off? I'm hoping for the former but the ugly whispers in my head are betting on the latter. He's got a reputation to maintain, they say, and getting gushy for some frumpy promoter isn't going to help it any.
 

Then I remember the way his eyes smoldered when he looked at me and the whispers go quiet. They can't argue with that. Bitches.

I know I shouldn't read too much into what happened earlier. It's not like either of us expect this to last beyond tonight. He's leaving town tomorrow morning for Las Vegas, if I remember his schedule correctly, and I'm going to stay here and hope Harry will take me on permanently.
 

So why is a fine layer of perspiration coating my skin? Why do I keep checking my makeup with the mirror app on my phone? Jeez, I'm acting like a lovestruck groupie...or Papi.

Shoving my phone in my pocket with a grunt of disgust, I head backstage toward the green room. I'll probably have a heart attack if Drax is there -- partly from seeing him again so soon after we practically humped in my dads' store, but also because I have a sneaking suspicion he's perpetually late.
 

Yet another reason why nothing meaningful could ever develop between us. I have a pathological need to be early to everything. We're just too different. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll eventually believe it and forget about the way his lips felt against mine, or how my mouth still burns from his rough whiskers, or how his hands caressed my butt like it was the most precious treasure he'd had the pleasure to touch.

Stop it!

I reach for the green room's door handle and pause. I had wondered what I would do if he was in there with the other members of Roadkill, but now I'm terrified that he's in there
without
them. By the surge of adrenaline that pumps into my system, I know I won't be able to resist him if he makes a move. Maybe it would be better to not take the chance. The last thing I need is for the rest of the band to walk in on us in a compromising position. Word would get around and eventually Harry would put my head on the chopping block.

Then I hear a noise from inside, and several voices laugh. I relax and poke my head in the room.

"Hi guys, I'm Lauren Raines from Harry Stephens Productions," I say brightly, quickly scanning the room for Drax. I pretend I'm not disappointed he hasn't shown up yet. "All good back here?"

"Sure thing, darlin'," says a stocky young guy in a black Metallica t-shirt that looks like its sleeves were chopped off with a chainsaw. I mentally scroll back through my research on the band and recognize him as Frank Swat, Roadkill's drummer.

There's nothing that irritates me more than a guy I don't know calling me 'sweetie', 'honey' or 'darling'. I smile sweetly but there's an edge to my voice.
 

 
"Sorry, you must have misheard me. My name's Lauren, not darlin'. Where's Drax?"

I catch myself holding my breath as they all look at each other.
 

"Last time I saw him," says a younger guy whose hair is gelled up in crazy red-tipped black spikes, "he was talking to some hot little groupie outside the bus."

Huh. Whaddaya know. There apparently
is
something that irritates me more. Pure white jealousy flares through me at his words. My gut twists into knots, my nostrils flare and my fists clench. I try to tell myself it's no big deal, that Drax never promised me anything but I'm clearly trying to reason with an idiot.

"You're Jake Ward, right?" I ask. The lead guitarist. He grunts agreement. "Any idea where he might have gone?"

He shrugs and diddles on his unplugged guitar, twanging the strings aggressively. "I know where I'd take a tasty morsel like that. Nearest bar."

Did I mention I hate rockstars?

The bassist, Savory Fines -- what a name, am I right? -- is scrutinizing me pretty hard. His kohl-outlined eyes seem to be looking
into
me, where his bandmates are looking
through
me. "Why you looking for him, Lauren?"

He knows. I don't know how I know but I do. My heart beats a little faster but I smile brightly again to mask my anxiety. I need to get out of here, and fast.
 

"Just want to be sure he makes it in time for the sound check, is all. Thanks, guys! Break a leg!"

I try not to slam the door but fail miserably as I nearly run down the hall toward the back entrance. I stop a hard-looking roadie who's rushing by on some important mission or another. If anyone knows the answer to my question, he will.

"Where's the nearest bar?"

The Squid and the Ink is located a few blocks from the amphitheater. It pretends to be an old-fashioned British-style pub but it's really just a dive bar for concert-goers and college students. I vaguely recall coming here once with friends during college, but I never returned.
 

And I don't want to now, but something compels me forward. 'Something', that's rich. It's jealousy, pure and simple. I have to know if he's with another woman.
 

I have no claim on him, I know that, but if he
is
with someone else, especially so soon after rocking my world with a freaking
kiss
, I'll know he's really just another two-timing, man-whore rockstar. I almost hope that's the case.

No, you don't,
says a little voice inside my head that sounds suspiciously like Pepper.
That's a lie. You want to marry him and have a thousand of his beautiful babies.

NO!

I really am pathetic. Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves and push my way through the heavy wood door. It's dark inside so I pause to let my eyes adjust. The entryway smells of stale beer, piss and decades-old cigarette smoke. Doesn't matter that smoking in bars was banned nearly twenty years ago, that stink won't come out unless the owners tear the place down to the studs.

The alcove I'm in is somewhat hidden from the rest of the bar by a big, ugly ficus that's seen better days, so I take the opportunity to scan the place from relative obscurity. I can't see all the booths, but I have a full view of the bar itself, which is in the shape of a giant U.
 

It's pretty crowded for being so early in the afternoon, but Drax is easy to pick out in a crowd. He's slumped over an empty highball glass on the far side of the bar, facing me but oblivious to my presence. Breath whooshes out of me in relief as I realize he's sitting alone.
 

I'm suddenly aware I'm chewing on my thumbnail like it's Thanksgiving dinner. Shoving my hands behind my back, I stay hidden and watch. It's kind of creepy, I admit, but I can't quite bring myself to walk up to him yet.

I have to wonder what he's thinking about so hard. He's staring into his glass like the answers to all the world's questions can be found there. He's also swaying slightly, like maybe that wasn't his first drink. Oh, man, the last thing I need is for Drax to show up to the concert drunk. Maybe if I get him out of here now, we can pour enough water and Red Bull down his gullet to get him through the night.

I'm about to round the ficus and collect him when he lifts his eyes and looks right at me. I freeze, unable to move a muscle. Does he see me? I have no idea. The look on his face is blank but he keeps staring this way. I have no choice but to stare back.

Even at this distance, I can see sadness in his eyes. Something must really be troubling him if he's here getting drunk the day of a show. My heart lurches and I have this sudden and ridiculous urge to cradle his head to my chest and rock him like an injured child.

Then another thought occurs to me. He could very well be sitting there trying to figure out a kind way to let me down. He is leaving for the rest of his tour tomorrow, after all. A sweet fog of sorrow settles on me. It was inevitable, I suppose, but I was hoping to have one night with him. I'm torn between going to him and letting him think in peace.
 

My decision comes in the form of a skin-tight pink Band Aid -- I mean, dress -- that sidles up next to him and drops a kiss on his cheek. His gaze drifts in her direction, then drops back to his empty glass. The Barbie-wannabe from the bookstore leans in and whispers something, to which he nods. Well, it's not so much a nod as a bob. He's definitely drunk.

And I'm definitely angry. Irate, even. A big, pissed-off part of me wants to storm over there and give him a piece of my mind -- and maybe a little of my knee, to boot. But if making out with a client isn't actually against the rules at Harry Stephens Productions, I'm guessing beating the living shit out of one is.

I'm literally choking on rage and humiliation but I finally listen to the pragmatic side of my brain and run out of the bar. I won't cry, I won't!
 

Hatefire burns in my chest as I try to catch my breath around the corner, which I'm finding hard to do. I'm not sobbing -- yet -- but I can tell I'm on the edge of hyperventilating. Dad was always able to calm me down when I got overly upset as a kid and I think back to his words.

"Shhh, honeybear," he'd coo, rubbing big, soothing circles on my back. "You'll get through this. You're stronger than you know. Now let's take a breath and see how long we can hold it, okay?"

We would do that a few times and I would eventually relax, so I try it now. Just like when I was young, it takes a few breaths but I finally calm down enough to think straight.

The hatefire is still there, burning as hot as a bonfire, but now I'm not sure who it's directed at. The leggy blonde
-- who is very clearly a big Drax fan now, if she wasn't earlier today --
can't be blamed. How could she have known about our little 'behind the scenes' makeout session?
 

Drax himself is an asshat, that's a given. Just another typical rockstar, out to seduce every woman he can find. I've been around musicians enough to know this, though. He never promised me anything -- in fact, we barely said two words to each other. The 'proposal' on his headshot was just a joke. Kinda cruel, really, but still just a joke.

My stomach clenches around a grapefruit-sized ball of reality. The only person to blame in this scenario is me. I had a visceral physical attraction to Drax that was so overwhelming it left me believing there was more to 'us' than there ever could be. That's on me. I should have known better, but I let my heart to get wrapped up in the schoolgirl fantasy of falling for a rockstar. Or rather, him falling for me.
 

Silly, Lauren.

That's okay, I decide. We're all allowed to have at least one unrequited crush, and I guess this is mine. It was fun for a few hours and now it's over, no big deal, no hard feelings. He's off doing his thing and I have a job to do. Which means going back in there and dragging his fine, firm ass to the theater, whether he likes it or not. No way am I going to mess up this job because my precious fee-fees were hurt.