“Ready? Nervous?” Amie says after she gives our names to the security guard in this pricey Hollywood Hills gated community and follows her GPS until we arrive at the address. She pulls her Prius up the immaculate drive in front of the modern style home.
“I was born ready. Not nervous. Just anxious.” And that’s the truth. I can’t wait to get this over with. Meet this band, Three Ugly Guys, a rock group made up of four musicians who exploded out of Arizona not even eighteen months ago. I did my research because I like to be prepared, and while they’ve had different drummers since hitting success, the band has been rocking for several years.
Oh, and they’re gorgeous. Well, at least the three original members are. But that’s more an irritation than a distraction for me. I know that type. Famous. Good looking. Talented. Rich. They’re guaranteed to have groupies in every city. That’s fine by me. I’ll keep my head down, to myself, but I can’t ignore that it’ll be hard to watch. Women, much like my mother, being used up and played for a moment of pleasure and the false promise of more.
But I’m not here for that. I’m here to make music and share it with the world. And these guys, they picked me to open in all twenty-two shows of their summer tour. It’s insane and amazing and utterly perfect. Less than twenty-four hours after signing with Off Track Records, Amie called me with the news I’m going on tour in four days and she was picking me up to meet the band.
“Let’s go meet these ugly assholes!” I smile at her and pop the door handle to step from the car.
“Don’t, Lexi. Please play nice,” Amie begs as she catches up to me in her designer heels. My combat boots fill me with confidence with each powerful stride.
“I’m nice.” I chuckle to myself.
“No, you’re not. But I love you anyway. Just cut the sarcasm and brutal truth for thirty minutes. Shove it deep inside. You can do that, right?”
“Oh, can I? Pretty please?” I steeple my hands and bat my lashes.
“Smart ass.” Amie gives a knock at the door and moments later we’re greeted by a woman who must work here.
She’s dressed casually and welcomes us inside with a smile, but nothing about her screams rock star or groupie. No, she’s more soccer mom, or lifer in the suburbs with her khaki capris and blue floral blouse. “You must be with the label. Come on in. The boys are downstairs finishing up practice.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Amie says and I do my best to produce a polite smile while taking in the grandeur of this home. From the outside it’s simplistic and modern, but inside it’s brash and bold. Color and art everywhere. Natural light sneaks through the oversized windows and paints the air with a life-filled energy. My fingers itch for my guitar and notepad and I have to squelch the inspiration that bubbles to explode.
“Follow me this way.” The woman leads us past the open living room, down a hallway, and past several closed doors to a spiral staircase. “Just down here. Go on in. They’ll play all day if you don’t interrupt them.” She laughs with fondness in her tone and turns to leave Amie and myself to find our way. We take the stairs that disappear down into what must be a basement. With the way this home is situated on the hilltop, I wonder just how many stories it has.
The bass beat calls us through the open doors of another living room that includes a small kitchen and into a roomy, state-of-the-art control booth that showcases a mostly soundproof practice space visible through glass windows almost as wide as the room itself.
Amie grips the volume nob, slides it forward and the control room fills with music.
They’re good. Sure. But they aren’t rock gods by any means. Their music is in that style that’s just rock enough to make the diehards happy, but still trendy so they’ll make top forty stations. It’s smart for marketing purposes and I don’t begrudge them their success. I’m chasing my own dream and these four have given me a direct ticket to the spotlight. It’s mine for the taking. My time to shine, and show the world what Lexi Marx is made of.
“God damn, he’s incredible.” Amie whispers when the lead singer breaks into a guitar solo. Her lips transform to that smile girls wear when they see someone they’d follow into a bathroom and fuck. She might think she’s admiring his talent, but she’s been seduced by the charisma, the power, and the confidence that comes from fame. I don’t blame her, but the entire exchange sickens me. He isn’t special. None of them are. They’re exactly like every other man in the world.
Just another asshole with a guitar.
“Don’t you think, Lexi?” She bumps my shoulder and the movement grabs the attention of those beyond the glass that separates us. The front man, Trent Donavan, flips his long hair from his face and meets my gaze. His eyes are predatory, a deep, gorgeous green, and they cut through my bullshit well-knit perfected exterior. Well, fuck him. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows in silent challenge.
He moves to the microphone and his lips move against the corded metal in an almost illicit manner. Amie curses under her breath and I get it, I do. He oozes sex, attraction, lust. Except his magic doesn’t work on me. He’s too much like my bastard of a father.
I purse my lips and shrug, expecting it will fuck with his mojo. Instead, his lips pull into an ear-to-ear smile and his deep, raspy laughter comes through the speakers before he delves back into the refrain. He never once drops his gaze from mine and there’s no way in hell I’ll look away first. If anything I’m stubborn as hell, so we remain in this juvenile standoff and battle of wills.
The song ends and he raises his brow, giving a nod before turning away from the mic and toward the band. They all set their instruments down, albeit leisurely, so Amie and I wait a good fifteen minutes before they finally emerge from their practice room.
“Amie Biers. Off Track Records. Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand to each of the guys. To an outsider she appears professional and unaffected by their close proximity. But we used to hit the frat parties from time to time, so I know she’d rather be jumping their bones. She does good though, and maintains a contained front. “Let me introduce you to Lexi Marx.”
Sean Willis steps forward first. “Nice to meet you, Lexi. I’m Sean.”
“Hey, Sean. Nice to meet you as well. Sick bass solo in that last song,” I say and his cheeks pull with a smile.
I shake hands with Austin Jones, whose eyes linger at my breasts longer than socially acceptable. I’d be pissed if I had higher expectations.
“Lexi. Everyone calls me Iz.” The drummer, so much older than the rest of the band, squints and tilts his head to the right. “Do I know you, honey?” And the moment he says the words I’m transported back to a memory I’d like to forget. Thirteen years old. Last visit with my dad. No. Don’t think about it. Shit, shit, shit! I’ve met this guy before . . .
“I don’t think so. I have a familiar look,” I say sweetly, shake his hand, and submit myself to the scrutiny of their hotshot lead singer. I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He steps forward, his frame so much larger than mine, and wraps my hand inside his massive one. Seriously, this guy’s like a giant in comparison to my five-two. He tilts his head, eyes meeting mine again as though he knows me. “You do look really familiar.”
“Maybe you’re a fan of my music?” I quip and I can almost hear Amie groan.
He chuckles, all throaty, and it scatters goosebumps over my arms. I try to pull my hand back but he’s got one hell of a grip. “No, that’s not it. I can’t stand the way chicks sing.”
“Right . . .” I manage to contain my sarcasm and I’m proud of myself for holding back the eye roll. I pop my eyes open and nod while still meeting his stare. Another yank of my arm and he still doesn’t let go but raises his brow in amusement. Fucking rock stars. I gasp and force a burst of excitement onto my face. “Oh, I know! Maybe from the porn I did?”
“Fuck!” Someone groans and it’s so difficult not to laugh. Trent’s eyes widen with alarm and what could almost be construed as respectful admiration. Not exactly the reaction I was going for, but it’s still funny as hell. I finally have my hand back and sneak a glance at each of the guys. Austin narrows his gaze and I’d place money on the fact he’s trying to recall every porn clip he’s ever jacked off to in hopes that my face rings a bell. Sean can barely meet my gaze, and the old guy, Iz, a roadie from back in my dad’s day, leers like the washed up bastard he really is. Good. Let him lust after someone who could be his child. That’s better than him making the connection.
“Fucking with you.” I raise one eyebrow and grin with one flick of my lip ring.
“Oh.” Austin’s disappointment falls with his concentration.
Trent’s lips curl up with humor, and I exhale the relief that no one knows who I really am.
“Hey, wait a sec! You’re Richie Sands’ daughter!” Iz shouts with a clap of his hands.
Shit.
“Fuck! That’s it!” Trent appraises me with that look of respect that I can’t stand. I glance at Amie but she won’t meet my eyes. Fucking hell. She better not have said a word.
“Shit. Your dad is a rock legend,” Sean whispers reverently.
“So I’ve heard.” Now I really do roll my eyes.
“Fuck, that’s awesome. Do we get to meet him?” Austin bounces on the balls of his feet.
“I have no clue.” I flip my lip ring again and try to catch Amie’s eyes. I can’t deal with this.
“Won’t he come see you on tour?” Austin says and when I exhale a deep breath to glare in his direction my eyes catch Trent’s inquisitive stare. He tips his head and I have to look away because the way he stares, it’s as if he can see more than I want, more than I’m willing to give, and it’s completely disarming.
“Lexi and her father are estranged.” Amie commands their attention. “We won’t be mentioning her relationship to him on this tour. It’s actually in her contract with Off Track Records, and since you’re clients of our label, that agreement extends to all of you. Your manager will be providing you with NDAs to sign before the tour starts, but it’s best if we stop name dropping now. If not, you’ll be held liable for damages.”
Austin raises his hands. “Whoa, no need to threaten lawsuits.” I hate the tension that fills this space. Way to make a first impression. If it weren’t for that roadie, I’d have been in the clear.
Amie smiles, softer this time. “Not a threat, Mr. Jones. Merely informing you of what’s at stake.”
“But won’t that be sort of impossible to enforce?” Trent speaks up. “Like it took us less than fifteen minutes to place her. You don’t think the press will jump all over that story once they make the connection?”
God, I hope not.
“I actually don’t get mistaken for his daughter. Ever. Mostly, I’m confused with another famous performer, which is even more fucking annoying.” I’m rambling, but that’s just to mask how this conversation is filling my gut with dread.
“Oh fuck, now that I can see.” Trent nods, a gleam of humor in his eyes.
Shit, now why did I say that? I grit my teeth and step closer to the cocky front man. “Say it,” I dare him. “Fucking say it and see what happens.” I can’t help the temper I have. The one that flares when being teased by a guy. It’s been a part of my DNA for as long as I can remember. Someone else may back down, but I step forward, fists ready and waiting to swing. Trent’s smirk is so fucking arrogant that I want nothing more than to swipe it right off his famous face.
He steps closer, as though he can tell he’s getting under my skin, and lifts his long fingers to grab a lock of my hair. He lets it slide between them. “You know, if you wore a black wig you’d look just like—”
Danika, the next twenty-something pop princess. He doesn’t even have to speak the name and I see red. I fucking hate when people say I look like her. Maybe because she’s so pop and I’m not. Maybe because I don’t want to be seen as a cheap knockoff or copycat. Either way, I don’t take a moment to think before I grab the front of Trent’s tight ass jeans.
“Fucking say it and I’ll squeeze and twist.” I narrow my gaze and his smirk falters a second before it widens.
“Maybe I’m into that,” he teases, unwilling to back down. Fucking A, he’s as stubborn as I am. That won’t be good on the road.
I lift my brow and his eyes widen with alarm. His hand wraps around my wrist and I know that I’m seconds away from having my hand forcibly removed. And probably receiving a verbal thrashing from Amie on the ride home. This isn’t the way to make friends but I can’t help myself. I’m not backing down. The other guys cackle like a bunch of prepubescent boys.
“Dude, your balls have had a bad week!” Austin shouts and Sean doubles over in laughter.
Trent dips his chin so the scruff from not shaving barely scrapes against my cheek. “You gonna hold ’em like that all night or what?” he whispers against my ear before he easily pulls my hand a safe distance from his balls.
“So, this tour’s gonna be fucking awesome!” Austin shouts with more laughter.
“Come on, Lexi. Meet and greet is over. She’ll see you on tour.” Amie grabs my arm and drags me out of the basement before my mind and temper can come to grip with how all of that just went down. I think I’ve met my match in Trent, and I think I’d rather have not.
Yeah, this tour is going to be something, all right.