You Really Got Me (Rock Star Romance #1) (3 page)

“So, are we good?” Derek asked.

The blonde’s hand slid down Slater’s ass, diving between his legs, and curving around to his junk, her fingernail scraping over his balls. He nearly buckled right then. “Fucking good.”

—

Holy mother of God
. She hadn’t had a single cup of coffee, and yet her body vibrated like a live wire.

Seriously, what had she done?

She’d taken a gamble, and she had no idea if she could win. Just because she had six weeks in Austin didn’t mean she’d discover a band in that time.

Not like she was panicking or anything.

Six weeks
.

Her lungs seized. She was totally panicking. Finding a band took total immersion in the music scene—something she’d never been able to do while serving her boss’s constant demands—but it also took a degree of luck. Could she find the talent in such a short time period?

Heavy footfalls on the stairs pulled her mind away from the list she’d been working on. “Em?” Derek called.

“In here.” Quickly adding the last tip from her friend at Capitol Records, she closed out the document. With all the information she’d gathered from the promotions guys in Austin and her own research, she’d put together a comprehensive list of bands to visit. She had enough acts to fill up her calendar for her whole stay.

“Hey.” Her brother leaned in the doorway, hands braced on the frame. Even his Best Buy uniform couldn’t contain all that made up Derek Valencia. From the bulging muscles to the tats and leather bands around his wrists and neck, he screamed pure badass. “I’m off. Just making sure you’re all settled in.”

“Yep. I’m good.”

“Uh-huh.” One side of his mouth hitched up in a look that said he wasn’t buying it.

“No, I mean, sure, I’m a little worried. But I’m mostly excited. This is a great opportunity to, you know, get to the next level. Yeah, I
wanted
to go to Australia—it meant something to me that he was taking me. But this is even better, I think. I get to prove myself on my own.”

Dipping his head, he smiled. “You’re freaking out.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I’m freaking out.”

He came into the room, worrying the bands around a wrist. “You know you’re awesome, right? I mean, there’s nothing you can’t do.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see about that.”

She knew that troubled look. He had something to say. “Yeah, but I mean, even if Irwin doesn’t promote you, you’ll get a job somewhere else. You’ve got enough connections and—”

“He’ll promote me.” Of course he would.

“I know. I’m just saying if he’s dumb enough not to, you’ll get an A&R gig with another label. Irwin’s great, sure, but he’s not the only game in town.”

She got up to face him. “But he’s the best game. And I’m this close to getting inside. All I have to do is discover a band, and I’m in. Anyone else will hire me as a secretary. You think I haven’t gotten offers? They all want me to do for them what I do for Irwin. But I’m not going to start over with someone else. Not after putting in eight years with Irwin.”

“Inside what, Em? You’re already in the music industry. You always have been.”

“I’ve always been on the
periphery
. I don’t want to book a tour bus. I want to work
with
bands. I want to be in the studio, helping them choose their first single. The important things.”

Derek’s lips pressed together, his brows pulling in.

Did he not think she could do it? “What? If you have something to say, then just say it.”

“No, I just . . . I can relate. We both work so hard, we’re both damn good at what we do, and yet we’re still on the outside.”

“Oh, my God, you’re a
musician
. You’re in the club. I’m a glorified secretary. I sit on the other side of the closed door. It’s not the same thing at all.”

“Of course it is. How many years have I been inviting A&R guys to come see us, sending out our demo, and I get nothing but rejection. It sucks.”

She’d never thought of it like that. He was right. How funny she’d only ever seen his musical abilities as making him an insider. Well, the fix for him seemed simple enough. “I know you don’t want to use Dad’s connections, but he said—”

“No. I won’t be associated with him, you know that. He’s an asshole.”

She knew Derek needed to achieve success on his own. The intense need to prove their dad wrong—to become the self-supporting musician her dad said he’d never be—fueled his every move.

Well, she wouldn’t give him platitudes or make baseless promises. Of course she’d help him, but she needed to go to more shows, spend time with them to see how they worked as a band, before she could assure him of the success that eluded him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, drawing in a breath. “It’s just . . . it’s all too familiar, you know? This frustration. This wanting in all the time.”

“What do you mean? Familiar how?” She had a sense of something, could feel the energy of it like a hand hovering just over her skin but not making contact.

He tipped his head back, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. “It’s like . . . Dad all over again. He just . . . he never fucking let us in.”

Nothing was more vivid to her than sitting on the floor outside the basement studio in her flannel nightgown listening to the laughter, the disjointed music through the walls. She could feel the pressure of her dad’s hand on the small of her back—to this day she hated when a guy guided her that way—as he shut the door behind her.
Go see your mom
, he’d say, before shutting her out. “But you were with him all the time. He let you into his studio.”

“You’re kidding me, right? He fucking tormented me. His friends would ask me to jam with them, and then my own father would make fun of me. Make those shitty comments about how my music didn’t count because it was just noise. That I cared more about my ‘costumes’ than about learning technique. He always had to tear me down because I’m not some virtuoso like he is.”

“Derek, God, I didn’t know that. I mean, of course I heard you guys fighting all the time. But I didn’t know he did that to you in front of his friends. That’s awful.” How could she have known? She’d been shut out of the studio.

He lifted his arms, the muscles bunching, like he wanted to hurl something, and then he looked around. Finally, he crossed them over his chest. “He’s an asshole, and I never understood how you could’ve worked for him all those years.”

“He’s my dad.” Other than musicians, her dad had difficult relationships with everyone. His son had moved out the day after high school ended, his wife had divorced him, and his girlfriends came and went like patients in a waiting room.

But he was her
dad
.

“He treated us like shit.”

“I know that. But he’s an artist. He—”

“Stop.” He shook his head. “I can’t listen to you defend his asshole behavior. I’m just saying it all feels too familiar. Me wanting to get signed by a label, and you wanting this damn promotion. I just . . . I don’t want Irwin jerking the same strings Dad always did, making you feel you’re not good enough. You
are
good enough. You’re better than good enough. Em, you’re amazing. No one gets shit done the way you do.”

“He didn’t say I wasn’t good enough.” She drew in a tight breath. “He said it wasn’t right for me.”

“What isn’t?”

“A&R.”

“What the fuck does that mean? That’s all you’ve been doing the last eight years.”

This was good. She could throw her deepest fears onto the screen and see her brother’s reaction. Her brother knew her better than anyone, and he wouldn’t lie. She shrugged. “Maybe it means I’m not creative enough. I’m obviously not musically inclined. Maybe to guide an artist’s career you have to be one yourself. You know?” She watched him carefully.

“Is Irwin a musician?”

“Not really. He’s always in the studio with his bands, and he knows what he’s doing.” No one could question Irwin’s creative genius.

Derek stroked the short patch of whiskers on his chin, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know. It makes sense—how else can you relate to the work, you know? How else can you recognize talent in its primitive form if you don’t understand music?” He gazed off unseeingly. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe A&R isn’t right for you.”

The arrow pierced her heart, giving a jolt so violent it practically lifted her off the ground.

So her brother agreed. She
wasn’t
creative enough.

“But who cares?” he continued. “There’re a dozen other jobs you’d be great at. Publicity, management. Christ, Em, you could do anything. Not just because you’re smart, resourceful, and fucking tenacious, but because working with Irwin’s given you exposure to literally everything. You don’t need him or A&R anymore.”

No. “I don’t want any other job—I only want to work with the artists creatively. Besides, I know this job inside and out. So what if I can’t help them in the studio—they don’t need me for that. That’s what the producer and the sound engineer are for. I’m creative in a different way—a problem-solving way. And you know what? Bax might have a better sense of which producer should work with which band, but I can guarantee you there’s no way he’ll ever be better than I am at making the decisions that are important to a band’s career.”

Breathing too quickly, she set her hands on her hips. Her body shook with how right she felt.

Derek’s slow smile started before he cocked a finger gun at her. “Amen, Sister. Fucking A. That’s the Emmie I know and love.”

She smiled. “I feel
so
much better.”

He laughed. “I can see that. Listen, I’m out. Can’t afford to lose a paycheck.”

She followed him out of her room, knowing the fear that chased him. At some point, most bands broke up for economic reasons. The guys got married, had kids, had bills to pay. They grew up. Every day that passed took him one step away from the luxury of being able to wait it out.

At the bottom of the stairs, she rubbed his back. “We’ll get you there, Derek.”

He gave her a tentative smile, and her heart ached for him. “If anyone can help us, I know you can. I’ll see you tonight.”

After the door closed behind him, determination set in. She wouldn’t just get Snatch some gigs and put together their press kit. No, she’d do more.

In fact, what about that singer her dad had been talking about? Piper Lee not only wrote her own songs, but she was gorgeous and sexy, and had movie-star charisma.

He’d said she was gearing up for her first big tour. She’d need an opening act, wouldn’t she? Of course, Emmie’d have to see Snatch live a few more times, get a better feel for their stage presence, but in the meantime, she’d do some research.

Imagine Snatch opening for a rising star like Piper Lee.

Emmie would totally make that happen for her brother.

Emmie slipped the folded piece of paper in her pocket and headed downstairs. Time to address her second agenda. The secret one.

It felt weird to be alone in this house. Thrift-store furniture, bare walls, bookshelves that held nothing but a basketball and some empty beer bottles . . . the place felt like a well-used fraternity house. Entering the all-white kitchen, she immediately spied the ground beans her brother had left out for her. The aroma, rich and robust, filled the room. She tipped the beans into the filter, set the carafe under the faucet, and thought,
Should I really be doing this?

Well, she’d already gotten the contact information for Piper’s manager, finished compiling her research, filled the dates on her calendar—and it was only eight in the morning—so, yeah, she could spend some time on herself.

She stilled, listening for sounds, before pulling her secret list out of her pocket.

Her brother had made it clear she had the place to herself until at least noon. They’d all arranged their work schedules so they could get off at four, leaving plenty of time for rehearsals and gigs. Slater tended bar at the hottest club in town, so he didn’t come home until at least three in the morning. Later, more likely, since she guessed he did his hooking up after that. Derek assured her she wouldn’t see him until at least noon.

So, she was good. All the time in the world to address her personal issue. Unfolding the list and smoothing it on the counter, hope unfurled in her chest when she read the words.
My Body Electric.
She’d thought of a dozen titles—Getting Wild, Unleashing the Inner Vixen—but nothing had hit her as hard as the Walt Whitman poem. She loved the whole concept of rejoicing in her sexuality, her femininity. Besides, what if someone found the list in her purse or on her dresser?
Can you imagine?
She would die if one of the guys found it.
Body Electric
wouldn’t mean anything to them.

But, honestly, it wasn’t like she had sexual hang-ups. She and Alex had done it in bathrooms, the office supply room, even in a utility closet at a gig in Greenwich Village. Hadn’t he liked
any
of it? He’d certainly seemed to at the time. But he’d said she wasn’t passionate. She wasn’t wild.

What did
wild
mean, exactly? No, she hadn’t pole danced for him. And she’d never been so carried away she’d screamed when she came. Did anybody really do that?

But, God, to say she’d
serviced
him.

The humiliation burned in her chest, an ember that flared and sparked every time she thought of it. She’d been so secure in her relationship. Talking about him in the office as though they were a solid, happy couple, when all along everyone knew what he was doing on the road . . . everyone but her.

It made her feel so inadequate. Of course she knew
he
was the jerk for cheating on her. But that didn’t take away the deep, enduring sense that she just wasn’t sexy enough.

He’d struck her where it hurt the most. In her core—her femininity. She’d always suspected she wasn’t all that sexy. His behavior—his
words
—had only reinforced it.

She wasn’t
hot
.

Okay, okay.
Stop this.
She’d made her checklist, for goodness’ sake. She was
working
on it.

She’d get in touch with her sensuality. Ignite that flame that surely glowed deep within.
You can’t be sexy if you don’t feel sexy
. And then she’d meet the right kind of guy. No more musicians. God, never again. No, a good guy. A solid guy. A guy she could
trust
. She could let herself go with someone like that.

Coffee ready, she poured herself a cup, then looked into the fridge for creamer. Yuck. Crud caked the shelves—probably spilled milk, leaked sauces. Other than some decaying take-out boxes, she found beer bottles . . . and more beer bottles.

Okay, she needed to talk to the guys. While she wasn’t going to become the housekeeper, she did need to eat. She wouldn’t do their laundry, but she would happily cook for them. Because she needed food. And not crap. She’d talk to them. Maybe they’d all put money in, and she’d do the shopping and cooking.
That
she could live with.

She didn’t drink her coffee black, so she dumped it in the sink and opened the sliding glass door. The heat felt wonderful, and the air smelled fragrant, so she stripped off her T-shirt and shorts, setting them on the counter. Then, she stepped outside in her red bikini.

On to the first challenge on her list: skinny dipping.

Checking out the backyard—a concrete patio, a small kidney-shaped swimming pool, a tall wooden fence, and all kinds of weird foliage that looked like elephant ears towering over it—she made very sure no one could see her.

The bathroom window looked out onto the backyard, so if Slater got up to use it, he would definitely see her. But how likely was it that he would wake up this early? Four hours after crashing?

Come on
. She was safe. No excuses.

She pulled the tie at the back of her neck, but the cups of her bikini remained stubbornly over her breasts. All she had to do was yank on the bow at her back, and the girls would spring free. Instead, though, she stripped off the bottoms. Okay, so, halfway there . . .

Just do it.
She was sick of herself already. She tugged the last tie protecting her modesty, flung the bikini top aside, and dove right into the pool.

The shock of the cold water made her eyelids snap open, and she watched the bubbles swirl around her as she pawed her way to the surface. She broke through, gasping for air.
Oh, God, that’s cold.
She clung to the wall, and her legs fluttered. Scraping the hair off her face, she watched the ripples arc across the pool.

When her body got used to the temperature, she started to notice how the water felt as it churned around her. It rumbled between her legs, creating shock waves across her skin. Her nipples hardened, and she pushed off the wall, enjoying the rush of sensation. She kicked, doing a butterfly stroke, loving the cool water gliding across her skin.

Oh, I like this.

*   *   *

Not ten minutes into the set, and Snatch’s energy electrified the club. Emmie stood in a sea of moving, shrieking bodies, her gaze fixed on Slater. Holy smokes, the man was hot. Not just his hard, sculpted body, but his whole look. He kept his thick dark hair cut short but stylish. His tight black T-shirt stretched across well-defined muscles and a broad chest, and his worn jeans hugged an extremely tight and perfectly round ass.

But he was more than just an incredibly hot guy. He had presence. He didn’t just sing. He sang to
someone
. Well, several someones, since he shifted his attention from one girl to another, holding long enough with each to make her feel singled out.
Noticed
.

Something about Slater just . . . riveted. That man could sing.

She’d watched a couple of bands on Facebook earlier in the day, after her swim. They were all right, she guessed. Hard to say if they had potential or not. Maybe she was too new at looking for talent. But Snatch . . . she
knew.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she reluctantly took her eyes off the stage. Alex’s name lit up the screen.

Alex? What did
he
want? She needed to pay attention to the show, but curiosity compelled her to answer. “Hello?”

“Hey, Em. How’s it going?”

Really? Small talk? Since she’d caught him in the act all those months ago, they hadn’t talked once.
And now he wants to chat?
“Great.”

“You’re at a show?”

She had to press the phone to her ear to hear him over the music. “Yep. What’s up? What do you need?”

“Ouch. Come on, Em. We’ve been friends forever.”

Friends?
Friends didn’t . . . She drew in a deep breath. Not the time or place to get into it with him. “Alex, seriously, I can hardly hear you. What do you want?”

“I just, uh . . . Do you want to go outside and talk?”

Just then, Slater lifted the mic, tilting his head back and knocking out a note that had such clarity, such perfect pitch, such
emotion
, she all but stopped breathing to hold on to it and ride it out with him.

“Em?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just . . . God, can he sing.”

“Who? What band? Where are you?”

She slid off the stool, making her way to the stage. “Derek’s. I’m in Austin. They’ve got serious potential.” Slater could be a superstar. If he wanted it enough, if he focused. But everything she’d heard about him led her to believe he’d just languish at the college level for a few more years before sputtering out and becoming a manager at Best Buy. He was a slacker who cared more about his groupies than his career.

“Em? It’s too loud. Should I call you back?”

Bodies knocked into her as the crowd erupted in wild applause at the end of the song.

“Just say what you have to say.” Curiosity led her to the red neon Exit sign, though, and she stepped out into the warm September air.

“Yeah, all right. Listen, Flash told me . . .” He paused, and she leaned against the brick wall of the club.

What had Flash told him? That’d she been pining for him? Because that wasn’t true. Just because she’d asked Flash to close the door . . . God, she hoped Flash hadn’t said anything that would lead Alex to believe she still cared about him. Because she didn’t. “What? Flash told you what?”

“Look, I shouldn’t have done that. With Val. Right outside your office. I wasn’t thinking.”

A dozen responses danced across her mind.
No problem
.
Hey, you can flirt with whoever you like.
But nothing came out of her mouth. It
had
been a rotten thing to do.

“I want us to get along,” Alex said.

“In other words, Flash told you not to piss off Irwin’s assistant.”

“No. Not at all. It’s not like that. It’s about you. Us. We used to be friends and now . . .”

Now what?
You screwed your brains out on the road
. She didn’t think they could ever be friends again.

“I shouldn’t have been such a dick, messing around with Val like that right in front of you.”

“Whatever. Look, I have to watch the band. Let’s—”

“No, not whatever. I’m sorry, Em. And I really want to be friends again.”

“I don’t see that happening, Alex. You . . . God, you treated me like dirt.” She’d never had this conversation with him, and while she didn’t want to have it just then, she couldn’t keep the words from charging out. “Why didn’t you just break up with me before you guys left? It didn’t have to be like this.”

“I know. But you’re not easy to break up with. You took care of me. I miss that.” He paused again. “You’re good, Em.”

“Not good enough, apparently.”

“Hey, you’re the one who started drifting.”

“What?” How could he say something like that?

“Oh, come on. Soon as you got us signed and we started working with Bob, you started pulling away.”

Unbelievable. “Whatever you have to say to live with yourself.” Blaming her because he couldn’t keep it in his pants?

When the door to the club opened, she could hear the intro to the next song. She quickly held it open to peer inside. The audience seemed to know this one because they started screaming, jumping up and down. She thought maybe some girls up front were crying.

Slater had his eyes closed, like the song brought up emotions too powerful to bear. And then his hand flexed on the mic, his mouth opened, and he keened. There was just no other word for it.

She blew out a breath, forcing her attention back on Alex. “Listen, Alex, I appreciate the apology, but I really should go.”

“Hey, listen. I’ve got a friend in a band out there. You should check him out.”

“I’ll definitely do that. Why don’t you text me the information?”

“Will do.”

She cut the connection and entered the club.

The whole world narrowed to the haunting sound of pure pain coming out of Slater Vaughn. And then he gasped for a breath, lifted the bottom of his T-shirt to swipe the perspiration off this forehead, and launched into the bridge.

Take it back, take it back,

You don’t get to say those words

Take it back, take it back,

They’re mine. You left. You lose

Tears streamed down the girls’ faces. How did he do that? She could feel her own eyes burning. And, really, she wasn’t even susceptible to rock stars. He was good.

A new chord progression started, and the song shifted again. Goodness, the crowd was having seizures. Slater fell to his knees.

Puncture me, again and again, I don’t mind

It’s the only way I know I’m here

Without the wounds you might never even see me,

So go ahead and puncture me

At least I know I’m alive

Her stomach churned with emotion as she watched Slater’s head tip back, his features twisted in agony, as he sang.

Puncture me

Leave a scar

You’ll never see me,

But I’ll always know you’re there

The song came to an abrupt end with a clash of instruments that sounded like a car crash. The audience screamed, stomped their feet, and clapped thunderously.

Slater smiled.
Good God.
Slater clutching a mic, voice soaked in emotion, wrung her heart out. But Slater smiling, his eyes sparkling with mischief, lit her up inside. Standing near the stage, all she could see were arms waving, thrashing, reaching. His voice, his energy, swept her away.

And when had she made it to the stage? She stood dead center, two rows back. Perspiration glistening on his skin, he held the gaze of first one, then another girl in the crowd. The corners of his mouth tipped up in a sexy smile, and it made her want to know what he was thinking, who he was—

His gaze hit hers. Adrenaline punched through her system, and energy sparked along her spine. He looked at her so intensely, like he knew her intimately. Like if she reached out to him, he’d grab her, yank her onto the stage, and pull her body up hard against his.