Rock Legend Read online

Lost in an oblivion where yesterday never happened and tomorrow didn’t exist.

  Unfortunately, I had a show tonight.

  It was my own damn fault. If I’d paid more attention when Shane had thrown out potential dates for a concert benefitting the foundation he’d started in the name of a childhood friend, I could have vetoed this one.

  Except, as usual, I’d been breezing through life, not sweating the details. Agreeing to everything. Caring about nothing.

  Tonight’s show was important to Shane, so it was important to me. Even though we were playing a venue just an hour south of L.A., our tour coordinator always booked us into a nearby hotel for the night of the show. I’d checked in early. Wouldn’t be the first time I drank the day away in a hotel room. Played a perfect set even when I couldn’t walk a straight line.

  But I couldn’t play if the guys couldn’t find me, and if I stayed in L.A. I was liable to make the rounds of the seediest bars I could find and pass out somewhere I shouldn’t be…and wake up, too late, with someone I didn’t know. I might be a fuck-up, but when it came to our band, I didn’t fuck around.

  Sighing, I made my way into the bedroom. Time to get rid of the girls I’d brought with me. “All right.” I rapped on the headboard. “Time to get up, I’ve got sound check.”

  The one with dark hair stirred slightly. Not enough. We’d just finished round three—no way could she be sleeping so soundly already.

  I reached down to nudge her shoulder, and she countered by rolling over and trying to pull me back into bed. Normally I’d have let her. Hell, on any other morning, I’d have still been between them.

  See? This day brings out the worst in me.

  Instead, I wrapped my hands around her shoulders and tugged her upright. The sheet fell away from her body, exposing a pair of large breasts I loved last night but looked more like pointy flotation devices this morning.

  Backing away, I stalked to the windows and yanked at the drapes. Sunlight flooded into the room, eliciting a pair of irate groans.

  The blonde sat up. “C’mon, Landon, what’s your rush?” Her attempt at a seductive pout was hindered by the streaks of makeup crisscrossing her cheeks.

  “Sorry, ladies.” I spread my hands out, gritting my teeth as I forced an easygoing attitude. “Gotta give the fans a good show tonight.”

  “How about we give you a good show right now?” The brunette rose onto her knees, turning to her friend, one hand plowing through the blonde’s sex mussed mane, the other hand cupping her breast. She lowered her mouth, giving her lips a lick as she glanced my way. “You know you want to.”

  An all-too-familiar blend of lust and loathing curdled within my gut, and I rubbed a palm over my face to keep my expression neutral. Watching two gorgeous women go at it, knowing I could join in the party at any moment was tempting, despite being a frequent opportunity. But not today.

  Somehow I managed to lure them out of bed and into their clothes, although not without calling our show coordinator to come to the room with two tickets and backstage passes for tonight. Lynne didn’t even bat an eye at the request, or the pouting women I shoved at her. She was used to it.

  Once I was finally alone, I sagged back against the door, thumping my head against it once, twice, three times.

  Growing up in a working-class neighborhood at the edge of the Mojave Desert, no one would have laid odds that I’d become famous. Infamous, maybe. Notorious, probably.

  But successful? Never.

  Not that I could blame them. I sure hadn’t believed it myself.

  I didn’t come into my own—if that ridiculous expression made any sense—until I arrived in Los Angeles and connected with Shane Hawthorne. We’d both had a lot to prove, although I didn’t realize that he needed to succeed as badly as I did until recently.

  At the time, we’d just been finding our footing, connecting with other musicians, playing in shitty venues for nothing but beer and blow jobs from groupies who would happily take care of our equipment.

  There had been one person who believed in me though.

  At least, until I fucked her over, too.

  A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sharp-tongued temptress—who should have been too smart to fall for me. That beautiful face of hers always buried in a book, studying her ass off at UCLA. Focused on her goals, her résumé, her fucking five-year plan. I should have left her alone and walked away, contented myself with women who told me exactly what I wanted to hear. Preferably garbled moans around my cock. But I was stupid, and selfish. So fucking selfish.

  I made it my mission to woo the college freshman—pursuing her as fiercely as my music career. Giving her my heart with one breath and promising the moon with the next.

  Until the day I had to make a choice.

  My girl or my career.

  I chose music. Fame and fortune. Hollywood Hills and chemically induced thrills.

  Of course, I’d spent every day since then trying to convince myself I didn’t regret it.

  Want to know the difference between a legend and a fairy tale?

  Only one of them ends happily ever after.

  Chapter Two

  Piper

  I spent the entire day praying for storms over the Midwest, or a glitch that would ground all cross-country flights. A mild case of food poisoning, perhaps, or a sudden head cold that prevented Delaney from flying. Anything to keep her in New York.

  Anything to keep me from tonight’s Nothing but Trouble concert.

  By the time I faced the truth, that Delaney’s flight had taken off—with her—I’d waited so long to book a ride that the company we normally used had no openings. And neither did any of the others I’d used in the past.

  It was awards season in Los Angeles. I should have known.

  If I drove my own car, it would mean subjecting Delaney to the mercy of the paparazzi while we spent twenty minutes walking from security to the parking lot.

  Which was why, when the only livery service with an available vehicle arrived, it wasn’t a basic black Lincoln. Or basic black at all. No, my ride was a silver stretch monstrosity, complete with a driver wearing a cheap tux who waved at me from across the street because he’d been afraid to navigate the tight turn into the parking lot of my apartment complex.

  Beggars can’t be choosers.

  After I slid into the back of the pimped-out limo—literally, since I nearly skated right off the slippery pleather seats—I checked my phone again. And cursed. Not because Delaney’s flight was late. Nope, it was early.

  Of course it was.

  Because even my most fervent hopes were ineffective.

  You know what is effective?

  Tequila.

  I spotted the bottle tucked behind half a dozen others crowded into a built-in bar just as we pulled into LAX’s arrival lane.

  I’d never been one to enjoy drinking alone, although I was temped now. Somehow I dredged up enough willpower to leave the bottle untouched and head inside the terminal.

  Once I had Delaney in the car with me, however, all bets were off. If she passed out on the bench seat, she couldn’t exactly drag me into the arena, could she?

  I am a terrible, terrible friend.

  Even with the ball cap pulled low over her dark hair, Delaney was easy to spot. I shook my head at her outfit—head-to-toe lululemon and bright pink sneakers. “You’ve gone to the dark side, haven’t you?”

  Delaney stopped in front of me with her Tumi carry-on, pulling the zipper on her jacket to reveal a SoulCycle T-shirt. “Guilty as charged.”

  I groaned, throwing my arm around her shoulders. I tried to convert Delaney into a fellow yogi, but she’d never taken to it. Figures that she would go back east and become a SoulCycler. My butt hurt just thinking about it.

  The only good thing about her outfit and our decidedly tacky ride was that we passed by the gang of photographers without even a whiff of suspicion.

  “Please tell me there is something appropriate for tonight in your bag,” I pleaded, sud
denly realizing I’d shown up empty-handed. Had I been thinking straight, I would have brought dresses, shoes, and a full makeup bag.

  Clearly, I was off my game. I’d been so distracted today, my professional mind-set had fallen by the wayside.

  “Of course. Several actually, I’ll let you pick.”

  I sighed in relief just as Delaney pulled up short, her eyes going wide as she took in the sight of our obnoxious limousine complete with coordinating driver. “Are we going to a concert or prom?”

  I laughed it off. “Oh please, you wouldn’t have been caught dead at prom.”

  “Kind of hard to go when no one asks you.” Delaney spoke softly, but the flash of pain in her aquamarine eyes had me leaning against the door for support. Delaney and I weren’t friends in high school, and I definitely hadn’t gone out of my way to be nice to her. Back then, I’d been so concerned with maintaining my facade of “perfect daughter and popular cheerleader” I’d avoided anyone who didn’t reinforce the image I was determined to project.

  But I had heard what people called me behind my back.

  Perfect Piper.

  They needn’t have whispered. I loved it. Hoped that if people said it often enough, it might actually come true.

  I’m sorry, Delaney. The words were at the tip of my tongue, but what came out instead was, “And look at you now, you’re Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend.”

  Caught somewhere between an apology and a compliment, my response lacked the benefits of either, falling flat on the dirty pavement at our feet.

  I ducked into the back of the car and reached for the bottle I’d spotted earlier, brandishing it like a peace offering as Delaney crawled in after me. “Tequila?” Without waiting for an answer, I poured two shots and handed one to Delaney.

  She frowned. “No limes?”

  “No, unfortunately. I didn’t plan ahead for this.” Tossing my head back, I drained the glass with barely a wince, then looked expectantly at Delaney.

  She was staring at hers, lips pursed, nose wrinkled. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can,” I urged. “Open your mouth and swallow. It’s easy.” Grabbing the bottle, I poured another shot and downed it quickly.

  Delaney looked at me strangely. “No. I mean, I’d rather not show up to the concert smelling like I’ve come from a Cinco de Mayo fiesta.”

  For a second I was confused, and then I remembered. I’m worse than a bad friend, I’m an idiot. Shane had given up hard alcohol years ago. Of course she wouldn’t want to kiss him with tequila on her breath. “Crap, Delaney. I’m sorry.” I took the shot glass she was holding, my head already buzzing.

  Except there wasn’t anywhere to put it, and I didn’t want to open the window just as we were merging onto the highway. Lifting my shoulders in an awkward shrug, I swallowed it down, my stomach heaving in protest.

  Delaney took the empty glass from my hand and slid it into its allotted space in the bar. “Are you okay, Piper?”

  Her bewildered expression acted like a mirror, reflecting my odd behavior. “I am,” I lied. “It’s just been a long day.” For a second I was tempted to blurt out what I’d walked in on yesterday morning, or reveal the reason behind my reluctance to attend tonight’s concert.

  But that would have been a mistake.

  If I was going to get through tonight without shattering into a million pieces, I couldn’t talk about either one.

  I’d come to L.A., hoping things would be different here. That there would be less “faking it” and more “making it.”

  That hadn’t happened. I still wasn’t enough.

  Shitty friend. Underwhelming girlfriend.

  The least I could do was be a decent stylist. I jerked my chin at the small suitcase Delaney had refused to let the driver put in the trunk. “Let’s figure out what you’re going to wear, because I’m not letting you out of the car in that.” I gestured at her workout gear, attempting a teasing smile.

  By the time we pulled up to the arena, Delaney’s spandex and sneakers had been replaced by a significantly sexier ensemble.

  And my tequila buzz had been completely eradicated by a droning, unsettling agitation.

  Pulling two all-access passes from my purse, I handed one to Delaney with a last, longing glance at the bottle she’d taken from me.

  I really could have used another dose of liquid courage, but there was no time. The door was pulled open and Delaney practically bounced through it, a huge grin on her face. My own exit was significantly less enthusiastic.

  Flashing the laminated cards hanging from our necks at each security-staffed checkpoint, we made our way through the bowels of the building. The venue was crawling with people. Roadies, security, groupies, vendors, dealers, fans. Successful bands were like truffles—worth their weight in gold but smothered in sludge.

  With each step, the music became louder, the rhythmic base vibrating forcefully through the soles of our feet.

  Being under the same roof as Landon Cox filled me with a bizarre mix of exhilaration, dread, and absolute terror.

  And the idea of actually setting eyes on him had every cell in my body screaming: abort, abort!

  I tried to hang back as we neared the edge of the stage, but Delaney grabbed my hand and pulled me beside her. We’d arrived just in time for an explosion of fireworks, the kind that could be set off inside a packed arena. Streaks of color—neon blue and blazing white, vibrant green and blinding red—raced overhead like choreographed comets.

  My heart slammed against my chest as I caught sight of Landon’s blond head and shirtless torso rising above his drum kit, a plume of fog billowing around him. My breath caught in my throat, holding precious oxygen captive and rendering my brain cells useless.

  Landon never played wearing a shirt, and tonight was no different. Most of his body was obscured by equipment, but one glance at his torso and arms and you knew the man was jacked. Every inch of him.

  No man had a right to look that good.

  Luckily, the fog and lights prevented me from getting a clear view of Landon’s face. I didn’t think I could have handled it.

  Despite working closely with Delaney over the past year, I’d always had an excuse at the ready when it came to being around the band. The few times my presence had been required, I’d kept a low profile, taking care to stay in the background, as far from the guys as possible. At least, from one guy in particular—Landon.

  It hadn’t even been that hard. My job was public relations—I spent most of my time cultivating relationships with the media and trying to spin bad press into good. Between Shane and Delaney, there had been an explosion of bad press to work with. The roller-coaster ride they’d dragged us all on last year barely left me enough time to breathe, let alone stand still long enough to attract Landon’s attention.

  Besides, the man usually had a circle of groupies around him three deep, and his vision was obscured by all the silicone aimed his way.

  There had been good press, too. Nothing but Trouble’s Victory Tour had broken all kind of records, and the ballad Shane wrote for Delaney won the Grammy for Song of the Year. They had also won Album of the Year, Best Rock Performance of the Year and just about every category they’d been up for. But what really made them the hottest band on the planet was the highly publicized romance between Shane and Delaney.

  The best part—it was genuine.

  Of course, the lovebirds only made the antics of Shane’s bandmates appear that much worse. Landon was rarely photographed without a gorgeous woman, or three, draped all over him.

  And the only thing that had kept me from gagging at every tabloid and gossip site was believing I had someone of my own to spend my life with.

  I was settled.

  I was happy.

  Lies. Clearly, Adam hadn’t been happy. And maybe the truth was that I had simply settled, period.

  With a thunderous explosion, Landon launched into their set. For the next hour and a half, I watched and listened, completely entranced.
>
  By Landon. By Shane. By Jett and Dax. By the lights and the effects. By the music itself.

  Nothing but Trouble had come to play.

  For the first time in years, I let myself get lost inside their performance. Let myself drink in the sight of Landon in the place where he shined brightest—on stage. It felt illicit, decadent. To allow myself this guilty pleasure, this small window of time to enjoy the show as just another faceless fan among thousands and forget about who he’d once been to me.

  Of course, I wasn’t just another face in the crowd. I was standing stage left. And Landon knew my face well. Every moment I remained here was a risk.

  For years, I’d been so careful, so cautious. Always keeping out of sight on the occasions when my job required me to be within Landon’s orbit. Resisting the gravitational pull he still had on me. The pull he’d always had on me.

  Maybe it was the tequila. Or maybe I was feeling reckless after Adam’s recent betrayal. But I stayed for the entire set, not coming to my senses until they began wrapping up.

  Signaling to Delaney that I was going to the ladies’ room, I scurried off to hide.

  Except that the small space was crowded with women planning which member of the band they were going to seduce. Now that Shane was very definitely taken, that only left three. Landon’s name was batted around as if he were a trophy to be won. They didn’t know what I had learned the hard way—the man was no prize.

  My head pounding from stress and shots, I flashed my pass at the bored-looking security guard standing in front of the first door I saw. He stepped to the side without a word and I threw myself on a battered sofa that had seen better days.

  After a few minutes I glanced around the space, regretting that I hadn’t asked the bouncer whose dressing room this was. Since tonight was just a one-off benefit concert for the charity Shane had set up last year in honor of his deceased childhood best friend, the room was lacking personal mementos. Technically, I had at least a seventy-five percent chance of it not belonging to Landon.

  Groaning, I massaged my temples, trying to will my pulse down to a speed that didn’t leave me feeling like my heart was about to crack through my ribs.