Chapter 1
Drew
The hotel phone is ringing incessantly and I groan, burying my head further into the overstuffed pillow. I’m hoping the groupie I brought back to the hotel will deal with it before my brain catches up to the fact that that was several days ago. Wherever that blonde cotton-candy vodka smelling piece of ass is now, it isn't here.
I'm alone with nothing but a hard dick and some empty bottles to keep me company.
Whatever. I'm a rock star, this shit just happens sometimes. Can't always have a girl around to suck you off or help soften your hangover.
Hm. Or maybe you can and I've just dropped the ball?
The phone is still ringing, so I finally grab for it, answering with a surly, “What?”
“Mr. Avery.” I can hear the pleading in my assistant’s tone. “You haven’t been answering your cell and the road crew was becoming concerned. You were due at the venue half an hour ago. The car is waiting.”
Fuck. Fuck. I reach for my cell, face down on the night table. It’s already 4:30.
“Yeah, thanks Jared. I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”
I hang up and ten minutes later, teeth brushed and clothes thrown on, I’m in the limo. The driver gives me a knowing look when he sees me covering my eyes with some shades. It's the only way to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I'm relieved when he rolls the partition up, leaving me to make sense of my last few days of alcohol-fueled haze.
It doesn't work. My memories are just snippets of curvy hips and smiling lips. By the time we get to the venue, I'm wondering why I slept alone last night. Or did I? Maybe the lucky girl just left before I woke up.
As the Limo pulls up, I’m mobbed by fans and reporters. My crew steers me into the building and through an interior door not open to the public. Before I escape, the bright flashing bulbs of cameras blind me through my shades. I look like shit, bedhead and all, so that should be tabloid fodder. Glad I could give some paparazzi a payday.
The Coldwater Casino is big, but the space I'll be playing in isn't. I wanted to kick the tour off in a more intimate setting in my hometown. I miss the days when I could see the crowd, when there was a real vibe between us, when I could talk to them after sets. Back in college, Fever Dream was just a shitty local garage band, long before I went solo. I’ll never get that back, but small venues are as close as I can manage, and I always feel at home in Vegas.
They try to steer me into a dressing room, but something catches my eye—something red-headed with soft, frowning lips that would look better wrapped around my lonely cock. She's got a pencil skirt on, like she's all buttoned up in a very I'm too good for you way. The kind of woman you just know is wild in bed once she lets her guard down.
“Excuse me, Mr. Avery?” she says as she approaches. Her lips are pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
“Wait in the dressing room, sweetheart, I’ll get to you later.” I smirk her way and can’t help but be pleased by the shock that crosses her face, but before I can turn back, she’s taken a step closer, only a foot between us. This one really is bold.
“Excuse me, sweetheart, but you need to hurry up and get back stage. You’re an hour late and out of time.” Her eyes are burning at me, like she thinks I'm trouble and not in the fun way. Well, that's different.
But I don’t have time for this shit, I really don’t, so I ignore the uppity, overdressed groupie and turn to my crew leader, Jake. “We need to do sound check.”
“It’s fine, Ezra took care of it,” Jake says, placating.
That makes me clench my hands tight. I knew I'd be dealing with a new manager running things, I'd tried to prep myself for that, but whoever this guy is, he's stepping on my toes. “You know we always do it with the whole band. Won’t be right otherwise.” Yeah, I’m a picky asshole. I want a show to sound perfect, and I can’t be sure it will if we don’t sound check with the whole band. When people pay as much as they do to see me up there, I’m not gonna give them some half assed shit and call it music. "Go get Ezra and the band. We’re doing it all over. And if the new manager shows, send them to my dressing room so I can make it clear to him that he answers to me. He doesn't run shit, I do, got it?"
I start walking and notice the redhead is close on my heels. What the hell does she want? Is she that desperate to get her hands on me? Out of habit, I start scanning for closets we could hide out in while we fuck.
She says, “Stage is down the right hall. But you really don’t have time. You’re going to set the whole show back an hour.”
“Half an hour,” I say, not slowing my steps as she keeps pace beside me. “We’ll be quick. And it’s none of your fucking business anyway. How did you even get in here?”
“I’m here to see you, Mr. Avery.” Her tone is curt, annoyed. Not only is she sticking her nose in shit that’s beyond her, but this particular groupie is actually pissed at being snubbed.
That’s some ego on top of the nerves of steel. It’s almost intriguing, but I still don’t have time for this shit, and the way she keeps trying to tell me what to do is getting on my last nerve. “‘Course you are, honey, just like the hundreds of other girls also seeing the show tonight. I already told you to wait your turn. You can get back in my dressing room or get the fuck out, your choice.”
The way she’s gritting her teeth, she’s clearly furious. But what does she expect when she’s on my ass and I’m already late?
“Are you implying, Mr. Avery, that I’m some sort of groupie?” The distaste with which she speaks the word, the disgusted twist of her mouth, she might have been referencing the most heinous crime.
“Are you saying that you’re not?” I counter. Because if she’s not a groupie, then who the hell is she?
She surprises me by sticking out her hand to shake. I look at it in confusion and she says, tone still clipped, “My name is Lucy Westmore, and unless your assistant has been yanking my chain, I’m your new manager.”
Chapter 2
Lucy
There’s a certain satisfaction in watching a man realize he’s made a fool of himself. Drew Avery stands before me in dark jeans and a tight fitted shirt. Even looking like he’s just rolled out of bed, even having just put his foot about as far in his mouth as it can go, he’s still incredibly hot.
The kind of guy you see on television but never in person. Tall, built like a damn truck with deliciously toned arms and defined ab muscles his shirt can’t quite hide. His thick, tousled brown hair shadows eyes that are a deep brown— bottomless, mysterious. It’s hard not to gape myself, but I manage it. I’ve come too far in this business to be thrown off by some arrogant rock god.
Having finally realized I’m his new manager, not some random groupie, Drew stares at my hand li
ke it’s a poisonous snake for a moment before grasping it reluctantly.
“Drew Avery,” he says. “Though you already knew that.” His hand feels strong and calloused in my own. He drops mine and then runs the same hand through the back of his dark hair. For some reason, I picture my own fingers threading through his thick tresses. It's disconcerting—I blame my underlying nerves. “Look, I gotta do the sound check, then we can—work out some details. You can wait here or in my dressing room, whatever.”
He’s already walking away when I say to his back, “You really should trust your sound crew. Keeping your audience waiting looks bad, but it’s your show. I’ll wait by the stage.”
He raises one hand to indicate he’s heard but offers no other response, and I trail him to the stage to watch the sound check.
Already the man is difficult, but then, I never expected the job to be easy.
Drew Avery has a reputation. Not for the typical rock star bullshit, though I’m definitely reassessing that, but for being particular. The man is rumored to oversee aspects of his career that most musicians leave to their teams—he micromanages sound checks and other minor touring details, along with handling the editing and production of his albums, and that’s just the obvious stuff. When it comes to his music, he refuses to leave any aspect in the hands of others, and when there are tight schedules to keep, this leads to missing deadlines.