CHAPTER 2

ALICIA

“You don’t understand, Alicia,” Gerry said, slamming his hands down on his massive desk, his face reddening as his rant continued. “These guys aren’t just loud, drunk, or rowdy. They’re arrogant, rambunctious, and downright impossible sometimes.”

I was starting as the public relations agent for a band called Destitute in the morning, and I was meeting with Gerry Thomas, their manager, to discuss my role and what was expected of me. So far, Gerry had been quite condescending toward the members of the international rock sensation, and clearly, he didn’t think that I would be able to handle them.

“I do understand, Gerry. I might be young, but I have been working in the music industry for six years now, doing promotion and public relations full-time. Destitute won’t be the first band that I’ve worked for.”

Running his hand through his dyed black hair, he shot me a look that said that he wasn’t convinced and sighed. “I know. You came highly recommended. I just still can’t believe that Brad retired, and now, I’m stuck training someone new.”

The band’s former public relations agent, Brad, had retired at the end of the month before, privately citing Destitute’s antics as one of the major reasons.

“I’m not new to this job, and you don’t need to train me,” I told him confidently. “The bands that I’ve worked with before were pretty needy and troublesome. I can deal with Destitute.”

“If you say so. Did you know that Matt and Jared stole the Ford Anglia that was used in the second Harry Potter film from a guy that they knew once?”

I knew a lot about the band, but I hadn’t known that. I shook my head and glanced down at the folder he had given me at the start of the meeting. I’d heard of Destitute before, of course. I did live on planet Earth, but I hadn’t met any of its members yet.

The folder was filled with information on the band, but I didn’t need to look at it to know that he was referring to Jared Larsen and Matt Tillman. Jared was the band’s front man and lead singer, a twenty-seven-year-old whose charisma was legendary and had catapulted the band to levels few had reached before them.

His voice was as smooth as silk, and deep, and when he sang, it often sounded like he was in the throes of a monstrous orgasm. It just so happened that with his tall, athletic build, full-sleeve tattoos on his arms, and several swirls of dark ink on his chest, he was not only charismatic and talented, but he was also easily one of the sexiest men I’d ever seen.

I wasn’t alone in that assessment, however. Jared, along with the rest of them, were often named in “Sexiest Man Alive” lists.

Jared took full advantage of that title—along with having been named the Emperor of Rock due to the vaguely Roman motif that was the band’s logo—if the press surrounding him was correct. He was known for being the ultimate bad boy, and his reputation as a player was well-documented.

Matt Tillman, on the other hand, the other member of Destitute Gerry had named as participating in the theft of the Anglia, had always come across to me as a laid-back, easygoing guy, and his reputation with the ladies wasn’t as prolific as Jared’s was. He was twenty-six, as a quick glance down at the papers on my lap confirmed, bassist for the band, and the only member of it who didn’t have any tattoos.

It was something that he got asked about often in interviews, but he always dismissed it with a quick joke or a wave of his hand. Also gorgeous, he had light brown hair that was longer in the front and often styled into an extreme, sweeping fringe, along with hazel eyes that had literally had a song written about them and often got photographed partying.

Although I guess that could be said for all of them. “I don’t remember reading about the Ford incident in the press.”

Gerry dragged his hand through his hair again and scoffed. “That’s because Brad spoke to the guy who owned it, and they managed to sort it out. It helped that they knew him and returned the car, and he enjoyed hearing about how exactly it was that they managed to steal a car that didn’t have a working engine.”

I bit back a giggle, because despite Gerry’s obvious frustration at the incident, it was really kind of funny. “I’ll be fine. That’s nothing that I haven’t dealt with before”

“Okay, I guess we’ll just have to see about that. In the meantime, at least you won’t have to be cleaning up their messes all across the world for the next couple of months. They’re staying put, here at home in L.A., while they record their next studio album.”

I sighed an internal sigh of relief that I’d have some time to settle into my new position and meet my clients before going on the road with them. “Sounds good. Had Brad started on any campaigns to promote the new album yet?”

Since Gerry had only given me the folder when I walked into his pretentious, oceanfront office, I didn’t quite know yet where I was picking up the reins from. He turned, facing the window and looking out over the ocean before turning his attention back to me.

“Not that I know of. The boys kept him pretty busy during the last tour. That will be part of your job now, promoting this new album and whetting the public’s appetite for it.”

“Great. I’ll go down to the studio and meet the guys in a couple of days. It’ll also give me the opportunity to listen to the sound they’re creating for this new album so I can start working on a campaign.”

Originally, the plan had been for me to meet the band later that afternoon, but they were in the studio, and I wanted the opportunity to work through the paperwork on them before meeting them. The thick folder that rested in my lap would not only tell me where I was picking up from Brad, but also provide me with details on all the band members and their riders, their crew, and the like.

“Just let me know when you want to go. I’ll meet you over there. You need to know that your job isn’t only going to entail promotion of this album. There will be messes, and part of your job will be cleaning them up. Even here at home, they tend to leave behind many drunken spills that need cleaning up.” Gerry’s frustration seemed to be mounting the more he spoke about the band. There was clearly no love lost between the members of Destitute and their manager. That was okay, though, and not unheard of at all.

I knew all about Gerry Thomas who, at forty-five, had made quite a name for himself as a famed talent manager, but he wasn’t in it for the music. He was great at his job, but it was all about the money for him.

I was the exact opposite. I had chosen this career path because of my love for music. I was beyond passionate about it and just really lucky that I was also good at the job I had chosen.

Whereas I loved the music, Gerry loved the money it made him. It was no secret among those in the know that Gerry had no sentiment for music or art, and the only reason he was in this business was because he had a head for it and it kept him in his thousand-dollar suits and this ridiculous feng shui, faux-green building.

His condescension toward the band members—and general lack of faith in me, despite the fact that, as he had said, I’d come very highly recommended to him—was starting to get on my nerves. My spine straightened, and my tone became clipped and businesslike as I nodded.

“I know how to do my job, Gerry. I also know what is expected of me, and I assure you that I can do it.”

For the first time since I’d entered his office, his gaze landed directly on mine, and I felt like he was really seeing me. “Of course, I’m sorry. I’ve just been having a rough time since Brad left. As much as I consider myself to be an expert in rumor control, these guys start fires in so many different ways and so often, it feels like all I’ve been doing is fanning the flames instead of putting them out.”

“That’s okay. That’s why you have me now.” I gave him a polite smile and pointed to my chest. “I’ll take over from here. Rumor control just so happens to be one of my specialties. I’m under no illusions about the music business, or the trouble that those who make music can cause. I’ve got this.”

Gerry stopped pacing the light wooden floor and turned to face me. “I like that you’re so strong-willed. I need people like that around me to help keep the band in check.”

“In that case, we’ll work well together,” I told him, closing the folder in my lap and preparing to leave.

“One last thing, Alicia. These guys…” He lifted his hand to scratch his head, clearly searching for the correct words. “They’re what one might call ‘horndogs,’ players if you will, so you might have to clean up after that kind of thing as well.”

Ah, so that’s what it was. He thought that I wouldn’t be able to handle being hit on or having to chase women away from these guys. He would learn soon enough, though. “I’m fine with telling men off, so long as I know I won’t get fired for it. As for cleaning up after them, I have no problem with that kind of thing, unless they expect me to dispose of their condoms for them.”

My nose wrinkled at the memory of walking into a hotel occupied by one of the members of the band that I was working for before taking on this job. The stoned drummer pointed at the recently-used condom and asked me to take care of it. I’d told him to shove it up his ass, of course, and walked out.

A disgusted expression crossed Gerry’s face, but he didn’t ask. Even if he had, I wouldn’t have told him. Confidentiality agreements and their ilk aside, I would never betray a client’s trust, even if he was a delusional prick.

I did, however, take the expression on Gerry’s face to mean that he didn’t expect the members of Destitute to do something similar, and out of all the warnings that he’d given me, that one look made me more convinced than ever that this was going to be an easy job.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, rounding his desk to give me a firm handshake and walking me out of his office.

For the rest of the day, I busied myself getting to know my new clients from afar. Jared’s famous, trademark smirk beckoned to me from the photograph attached to the file I’d been given. He really was smoking hot. Even just staring at his picture was making me think all kinds of dirty things about this man.

I wouldn’t do anything about it, but I couldn’t deny that he was attractive and that I understood why vibrators the world over ran out of battery power from the look he was giving the camera in that picture.

Running my fingers across its glossy surface, along Jared’s stubbled, sharp jawline, and over the goatee that he kept, his dark, smoldering eyes pierced into me, even though he wasn’t anywhere near me. Or maybe he was. I didn’t know his schedule. Yet. He certainly wasn’t in the room with me, though, and still, I felt like he was looking right into my very soul.

He just had that rare kind of magnetism about him. I was sure that the look in his eyes had the ability to turn half the female population of the world into shivering puddles of need if you were the one he was aiming it at. I was nothing but part of that population.

To be fair, it was probably only a fifth of the population, since there was a pretty even spread of near cult-like fandoms for each of the Destitute members.

Setting the picture down on my desk, I moved on to some of the news clippings that had been included in the folder. There were frequent reports on the band, but they were all relatively harmless. Gerry was right when he warned me that they were players, and also when he said they often got into trouble when drunk. Other than that, though, the situations they had gotten themselves into were pretty standard for the industry.

The rest of the folder contained details on the other members of the world’s latest gods of rock. I’d already sifted through a lot of the information on Matt Tillman, but I now turned my attention to the other three.

Rounding them out was Caleb Larsen, Jared’s twenty-four-year-old brother and lead guitarist. He had the same short dark hair and intense brown eyes that Jared did, but he seemed to lack his brother’s natural charisma. If the reports on him were anything to go by, he had some problems with his temper and, as recently as two weeks before, had gotten into a fight with a pop star at a party in the Hills.

Next up in the folder came Dominic LeSalle, better known to fans and friends alike as Dom. The drummer’s shoulder-length brown hair and gray eyes were a fan favorite, but rumor had it that his emotional intensity and obsession with musical perfection made his relationships difficult, to say the least.

I didn’t believe every rumor I heard, though. I knew better than to buy into speculation and conjecture. Just like I was determined to do about all of them, I would learn the real ins and outs of their characters from the men themselves.

Last, but by no means least, in the lineup was rhythm guitarist Nick Masters. His photo revealed playful hazel eyes, lit up with mischief and as many tattoos as the rest of them—all but Matt. He was known for being easy-going, stopping for selfies with fans, and often ending up in bed with said fans.

None of the reports that I read on any of them scared me, and while it seemed that they certainly got into their fair share of trouble at home, their more elaborate antics always seemed to happen on tour.

Since I had at least a few months before they would start touring for their new album, I was sure that I would be fine and nicely settled by then. Satisfied that I was walking into a relatively easy job, I shut the file, fired up my computer, and after grabbing a glass of wine, donned my ear phones, and clicked onto a Destitute playlist on Spotify.

I actually liked their music. Working for them was going to be fun.