Lucy
I WIPED MY sweaty palms over the waist of my little black dress and took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe my parents were making me do this now. I mean, I could… this was my job, but I would have preferred a quiet, private meeting, over a conversation directly following a show… which I’d missed. I couldn’t even tell the band what I thought of their performance, which was important when trying to convince them to do something for you.
“Talk to Roses for Anna about opening up the tour,” Dad said.
“Me?”
“Yeah, baby, you.”
“No problem,” I’d said, but internally I’d sighed. I didn’t argue. This was part of my job description after all, and it was a job I loved. I was good at it. I’d been raised on the road, raised with some of the best (and worst) people in the world. Taught to survive on my wits, humor, and talent. I had this.
But it was Bam Bam freaking Nelson. If there was a sexier man on earth, I’d be hard-pressed to name one, and now I was going to have to have a conversation with him. Would I be able to resist his “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am, let me remove your panties with my teeth, ma’am” charm? Not that he was offering, but what if he did offer? I sighed. God. I paused my walk down the long hallway to squeeze my legs together. He checked every sex box on the planet (including mine if I was lucky). But then on top of all that, my dad actually had the nerve to warn me about him. As if I didn’t know about his reputation or didn’t have the good sense to stay away from musicians. But this was Bam Nelson, so perhaps he did have a point.
I shook away my thoughts. I had to focus.
Pushing the door open to the party room, I scanned the area and my heart dropped. No Bam. Damn. I’d have to talk to Chas. I hated Chas. Chas was a douche. As in, CEO of Massengill… and he was handsy to boot.
I shuddered, but forced my feet to move toward the band’s manager.
“Lucy,” he greeted, his large hand waving me forward. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, love.”
I forced a smile and stopped far enough away so he couldn’t touch me. “Hey, Chas. I’m looking for Bam. Is he around?”
Chas sidled closer. “He’s in an interview right now.”
“Do you know when—?”
“Keep that bitch away from me, Chas!”
I jumped at the angry voice and turned toward it. Bam stood in the doorway; looking as though he was ready to murder Chas. Which might not be the worst thing.
* * *
Bam
I finally spotted Chas and began pushing my way through the swell of partygoers. He was standing at the back of the room, in a roped off area reserved for VIP guests, speaking with a curvy redhead woman who had her back to me. I couldn’t see her face, but immediately knew she wasn’t with our crew. Chas was wearing his “money face,” which was reserved for only making deals.
“Keep that bitch away from me, Chas!” I shouted over the earsplitting music.
The woman spun to face me and I lost my mind for a second. Fuck, she was gorgeous.
“What bitch?” Chas demanded, his sleazy salesman smile dropping from his face, and pulling my focus back to him. “Where’s Sheila, and why aren’t you at the bloody interview?” Chas’ gruff, Northern English accent was in full effect.
“The interview is over and there won’t be another one,” I snapped back.
“What do you mean, over?” he demanded. “You’ve only been in there for ten fucking minutes!”
“Excuse me, Mr. Nelson,” the redhead said in a clear attempt to interrupt the tornado of testosterone she’d currently found herself in the middle of.
I ignored her and continued my tirade.
“She started in with all that Melody gossip crap and I told you I wasn’t gonna talk about her. Sheila didn’t give a shit about the band or the new album. She probably hasn’t even listened to it! She clearly wanted to get her shovel full of dirt.”
“Mr. Nelson, if I could just—” the redhead continued, this time with enough intensity to pull my attention away from Chas.
As she spoke, my anger dissipated. She was stunning. She was around 5’4” but seemed to float a few extra inches off the ground. Her deep red hair fell in soft waves well below her bare shoulders. She wore a skin tight, but otherwise fairly conservative black cocktail dress. She was dressed for business, but still fully showing off all of her amazing curves. I could see why she had Chas’ full attention.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I need to speak with my manager.” I knew I was being an asshole, and this woman was hot, but after months of trying to keep my cool, Sheila had sent me over the edge. “The interview is done,” I snapped, my full attention back on Chas.
“Done my ass, mate.” Chas took a deep breath. “Now, I’ll go smooth things over with Sheila, you take a minute to get your shit together, have a drink, or do what every the fuck you need to do, and we’ll start the interview over.”
“No way, mate. This band has worked too hard over the last ten years to be reduced to this tabloid bullshit! I’m not doing it.”
“Well, mate,” Chas said before taking a carefully calculated pause, “Maybe you should have thought of that before fucking that little pop tart of yours in front of the whole bleedin’ world.”
Before I could think, I swung. This was not a smart move on my part, for several reasons. For starters, it’s a little hard to play the drums with a broken hand, and had I connected with the side of beef, otherwise known as Chas’ face, I certainly would have done so. Secondly, starting a fistfight with management is typically frowned upon, even in our crazy line of work. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, there was Chas’ impressive underground boxing record. It was likely his great skill level that allowed him to so easily slip my punch. He was quick for such a massive man, and even though he looked shocked that I had swung at him, he calmly stepped to the side, causing me to momentarily lose my balance.
“What the fuck are you on about?” Chas shouted.
I briefly made eye contact with the stunning woman, and just as before, I felt my burning anger start to cool, but I was too wound up to fully control myself.
Chas, now looking somewhat amused began to goad me, “It’s a good thing you swat them drums better than you fight,” he said laughing.
He wasn’t laughing for long.
My next punch, a left uppercut to the kidney, didn’t miss. At a little over six-feet tall, I didn’t have any kind of advantage on my opponent, but after nearly fifteen years of drumming, my left had some power that he wasn’t expecting, and he felt it.
By now, the entire room had turned their attention to the two raging idiots in the back of the room. The DJ had killed the music and the party goers had begun pulling out their cell phones, no doubt in order to film the fray.
Chas winced in pain and staggered back, stunned from the body blow. Perhaps more stunned that I had actually hit him. But then he looked at me, stood straight up, and I knew I was in trouble. He hit me so hard I was out before I hit the floor.
As I came to, I could see the beautiful redhead with a mixture of horror, concern, and disgust on her face looking down on me. I then saw Chas enter my blurry frame of vision.
“You need to get your head right before I knock it clean off… and, by the way,” he continued, leaning inches away from my face. “This is Lucy Haddon.” His hushed tone was controlled, but somehow more venomous than usual. “She’s here to talk with us about the possibility of playing the opening slot on a RatHound reunion tour.”
Shit.
I blacked out.