Piper

I would have missed the call, but I’d just flung my purse into my car, the contents spilling out onto the passenger-side floor mat like a burst piñata. Despite the tears clouding my vision, it was impossible to miss the flashing letters—DELANEY FRASER—vibrating from within a sea of tampons, makeup tubes, and spare change.

Unable to check the impulse, I reached for it, taking a second to wipe at my wet eyes before swiping my thumb across the screen. “Hi, Delaney.”

I sounded like a frog had crawled into my throat. If I was lucky, Delaney would be too polite to mention it.

“Piper, are you sick?”

Of course I wasn’t lucky. I’d never been before. Why should today be any different?

But despite the cocoon of self-pity I wanted to wrap myself in, I couldn’t miss the genuine concern bleeding from Delaney’s voice.

Not that I deserved it.

Delaney and I had known each other since nursery school back in Bronxville, the insulated suburb of New York City where we’d both grown up. From throwing sand in her face rather than sharing my pail and shovel, to snubbing her in favor of the mean girls clique in high school, I’d done nothing to deserve Delaney’s concern, or her friendship.

The truth was, Delaney’s niceness had always scared me. I had secrets to keep, even back then. Especially back then. I couldn’t afford to let my guard down for a minute. And being friends with a girl like Delaney, someone who cared about more than just the labels sewn inside her clothes, or her boyfriend of the month, terrified me.

Crazily enough, Delaney Fraser was now a close friend. My only friend, actually. As a public relations assistant for one of the hottest talent managers in Hollywood, I had yet to master work-life balance, but since Delaney was clear across the country finishing up her degree at NYU, my overscheduled calendar wasn’t an issue.

Forcing a huge, fake smile on my face even though she couldn’t see me, I automatically shifted into my default mode: Fake-It-Till-You-Make-It. Maybe that was why I’d been so drawn to Tinseltown. Here, whether you had your SAG card or not, everyone was an actor. “Nope. I feel great. How are you?”

There was a pause. “Piper, you don’t sound great.”

Delaney was no one’s fool, and she’d picked up on the truth. But I wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened just before she called. “Of course I am,” I insisted, even though it was obvious I was one step away from falling apart. “And I’m going to be late for work, so…”

“Wait.”

My finger hovered over the END CALL button on my screen. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t hang up on Delaney.

“I was calling to tell you that I just booked a flight to LAX. I want to surprise Shane at his show tomorrow.”

The knot in my stomach drew tighter, the warm, stuffy air inside the car choking me. If Delaney was coming to Nothing but Trouble’s show tomorrow, that meant I would need to book a car service from the airport to the venue, get her an all-access backstage pass, possibly transportation back to the airport, hotel—no, she would be staying with Shane, of course…

Details. My mind latched on to the expanding to-do list in my mind, anything to avoid thinking about what I’d just seen and a certain member of the band I’d have to avoid tomorrow. “What time are you getting in? Do you have an outfit to wear? I’ll arrange for hair and makeup—”

“Piper.” She cut me off with a laugh. “You don’t have to fuss over me anymore.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Since Shane Hawthorne and his multiplatinum band, Nothing but Trouble, were my boss’s biggest clients, part of my job involved fussing over Delaney. Initially their relationship had been a press stunt, and my assignment had been to acclimate Delaney to her new role as “Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend.”

“And how exactly would I explain leaving you to fend off the paparazzi that stake out LAX like a pack of hungry wolves?” Although Delaney wasn’t a celebrity herself, after the media circus surrounding Shane had gotten ahold of her, her face was nearly as recognizable, and profitable, as her rock star boyfriend’s. “Believe me, fussing over you is a hell of a lot easier than trying to placate my boss.”

“I don’t know how you put up with that man,” she conceded.

Right now I was pretty sure all men were the scum of the earth, but as far as bosses went, Travis Taggert wasn’t bad. And it was because of him that Delaney and I had reconnected.

Faced with the unenviable task of informing an A-list actor that the director of his current film had hired a body double for his sex scenes because his ass wasn’t as finely sculpted as it had been a decade ago, we’d decided to strategize over drinks.

Delaney had been our waitress.

Neither of us had realized it at the time, but Travis had taken one look at her and had known she would be perfect for Shane.

As always, Travis’s instincts had been spot-on. Once Shane and Delaney became an item, I was assigned to her. At the time, it had been a huge promotion, but because of our prior relationship, Travis had wanted me on board.

Her involvement with Shane wasn’t a press stunt anymore, and the second Delaney moved to New York, I’d asked to be taken off the Nothing but Trouble account.

Rock stars were not my thing.

“He’s my boss, so it kind of comes with the territory. When are you getting in?” Just because I wasn’t assigned to Nothing but Trouble didn’t mean I wasn’t expected to pitch in where Delaney was concerned. We spent the next few minutes going over her travel itinerary, and after we hung up I jotted down notes in the planner I kept with me at all times.

I’d almost forgotten why I was still sitting in the parking space right outside my building when I jumped at the knock on my window.

Adam was standing there, looking regretful and apologetic, and irritatingly pulled together. Had he taken the time to shower after I’d walked in on him?

I didn’t bother rolling down the window. I had nothing to say to my boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend, as of twenty minutes ago.

Starting the ignition with shaking hands, I backed out of my parking spot, not caring if I ran over Adam’s toes. Not caring if I ran over any part of Adam’s anatomy, although there was one in particular I would have preferred.

Delaney might have found her Prince Charming, but so far I was more of a frog magnet.

Landon

I should buy stock in Trojans.

The random thought skittered across my brain as I flushed the condom down the toilet, my gut twisting as I watched it shudder and swirl before finally disappearing. I know flushing them is bad for the plumbing, or the environment, or maybe both, but when they’re filled with my sperm—you don’t go leaving that shit around.

Over the years I’d dealt with more “baby daddy” scandals than I wanted to think about. None of them had turned out to be valid, and I intended to keep it that way.

Forever.

Not only was I the drummer of Nothing but Trouble, the most successful band of the past decade, according to the tweet that just vibrated through my phone, but I was also…wait for it—

The Most Fuckable Rock Star on the Planet.

Apparently, I was a fucking legend.

Was I surprised? Fuck, no.

It was a reputation I earned behind my drum kit and behind closed doors. In the dark corners of dingy bars and in full view of anyone with eyes. I was nothing if not generous with my skills. Spreading the wealth and all that.

But when it came to my sperm, I knew better than to leave it unattended.

Ridiculous, really. I mean, chicks weren’t exactly lining up to bring me home to meet Mom and Dad. And I would have hardly fit in at a PTA meeting—not with my tattoo sleeves and penchant for illegal substances washed down with one-hundred-proof liquor.

Turning on the tap, I splashed water on my face, roughing my hands through my hair. I didn’t bother checking out my reflection in the mirror. I knew what I looked like, saw myself reflected in the hungry eyes of people wanting a piece of me every damn day.

I was desperate for a shower, but that would have to wait. I needed to rouse the girls in my bed and get them out first. Otherwise they were bound to wake up while I was scrubbing their scent from my skin and strip the hotel suite of everything I’d touched. Clothes, sheets, dirty glasses still sticky with the residue of whatever liquor I poured down my throat last night—given the opportunity, they’d all be up on eBay before I reached for a towel.

I was living the dream.

Except that when I wasn’t onstage or in a recording studio, pounding away at my drum kit, it felt more like a nightmare.

There, my chaotic thoughts suddenly made sense. I could spot patterns. Arrangements of energy to be identified and interpreted, set to a unique rhythm.

From the relentless noise inside my mind, I made music.

But when I didn’t have a pair of drumsticks in my hand, I spent most of my time doing another kind of banging.

Hence, the two girls in my bed.

Because otherwise I’d be banging my head against the wall.

Maybe I should have checked into the hotel alone last night. Today, of all days, I wasn’t fit company for anyone.

One day out of three hundred and sixty-five. A day spent trying to forget about what I’d done, the lives I’d destroyed.

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

Unfortunately, I had a show tonight.

It’s 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.

But since tonight’s show was important to Shane, it was important to me.

Which was why I’d checked into the hotel near the arena last night. 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.

Time to get rid of the girls I had 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 she could 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’d loved last night but that looked more like a pointy flotation device this morning.

I backed away, striding to the windows and yanking at the drapes. Sunlight flooded into the room, eliciting a pair of irate groans.

The bottle 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 a niceness I didn’t feel. “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 cupping her breast. She lowered her mouth, giving 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 going at it, knowing I could join in the party at any moment, was tempting, despite it 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 and hand deliver two tickets and backstage passes for tonight. Lynne didn’t even bat an eye. 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, 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, at the end of our set, 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’d fucked her over, too.

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sharp-tongued temptress—who should have been too smart to fall for me—studying her ass off at UCLA, that beautiful face of hers always buried in a book, 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, too. Too stupid to stay away.

I made it my mission to woo her—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.