I HADN’T BEEN to LA since my senior year in high school when my parents surprised me with a graduation trip to see Metallica. I’d loved it then, and now I loved it more. It was as beautiful as ever, and I was soaking up the atmosphere like a sponge. I could definitely see myself living there someday, and it was possible after I photographed the Renegade Saints’ tour I would be able to do so sooner rather than later.
Already, the difference between working with unsigned acts and a worldwide sensation was hugely apparent. My flight in was first class, and they’d put me up in a one-bedroom suite at the Mondrian. Talk about beautiful! After arriving late last night, the suite was like a warm hug.
The group “All-Hands On” meeting wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, but tonight there was an informal meet-and-greet for all the people involved in the tour at some house up in the hills. I was to be ready to go by six-thirty, and a town car was picking me up. The packet I’d received with all of the travel instructions had advised me to wear something sophisticated.
Jess and I had spent an entire day scouring the King of Prussia Mall back home before finding an absolutely perfect red sheath dress. It ended an inch or two above my knees and left one shoulder bare. I was pairing a drop dead sexy pair of strappy silver stilettos that wrapped around my ankles with it, and I thought the look was going to be just right. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking of Flynn Rand when I bought the outfit.
Since I had free time, I’d decided to make good use of it down at the hotel pool, figuring when in LA, I should do as the natives did and soak up the sun. I’d lucked out and gotten a lounger right near the edge of the pool. After applying sunscreen, I’d put my sunglasses on and settled in with a good book.
About twenty minutes after I’d gotten comfortable, someone came to the edge of my chair and stood over me. “Oh hey, you’re the photographer!”
Pushing my sunglasses up on my head, I raised my eyes to find a really hot guy standing over me. Tall, blond, buff and beautiful, he was hotter than any Abercrombie model I’d ever seen. I could do so many things with a camera and his face. Nodding my head, I stared at him. “Yes, I’m the photographer… and you are?”
Smacking his forehead, the cutie dropped down on the chair beside me. “Shit! Sorry. I’m Ian Monroe, the band’s biographer.”
We shook hands before he continued. “I saw your website. Everyone’s been buzzing about the photos of you with the band the guys just signed. Your stuff is legit! Can’t wait to see what you’ll do with the Saints.”
I’d immediately liked Ian and knew we were going to get along great. He was welcoming and engaged which was just what I’d hoped for in my co-workers.
We wound up spending the rest of the afternoon together, shamelessly sunning ourselves and talking about the tour. Through Ian, I found out we would also be travelling with a film crew and a recording crew. The tour was going to be a huge blow out, and I was quite excited.
I asked what the guys were like to work for, and was happy when Ian said they were all very cool and down to earth.
“They’re totally letting me see where all the skeletons are buried for the purposes of the bio. Normally, I have to push people to open up, but they were totally ready for it. Between you and me, I think this might wind up being the biggest and best thing I’ve ever written. It has best-seller written all over it,” he admitted.
It seemed like this tour was going to open plenty of doors for a lot of people, myself included. Thinking back to what their manager said, I understood the guys really did think it was important to farm good talent.
I’d felt comfortable with Ian, and I really enjoyed spending the day with him. I was relieved to know I’d have cool people to hang with while we were all on the road. We parted ways just after four-thirty, and after eating an early dinner, I prepared to get ready. After showering and blowing my hair out, I styled it in loose waves. I kept my make-up simple, light eye shadow, mascara and the barest hint of blush. I finished the look with a sheer red lip-gloss that matched the dress.
Once I was satisfied with my face and hair, I put on my red strapless bra and matching thong before slipping into my sheath dress. After putting on the silver stilettos, I stepped back to survey myself in the mirror. Smiling, I spun slowly as I took in the full effect. I thought I looked the part, and I was very happy with my choice of dress. I tried not to focus too much on what Flynn might think of my outfit. I knew I was being an idiot, since he probably wouldn’t even notice what I was wearing.
Looking over at the clock, I saw I had a few minutes to spare before I needed to head down to the lobby for my ride. Sitting down on the loveseat, I began taking a few deep, cleansing breaths. So far I’d been remarkably calm, but knowing I was about to meet Flynn for the first time, I needed to get my game face in place. It would be beyond embarrassing to stammer and act like some groupie freak, and I had no intention of doing so. I was also mentally preparing myself for him to be a disappointment. Nothing ever lives up to the fantasies created in the mind, and nothing was ever going to be as intense as the night of the concert when he sang to me. I started laughing as I reminded myself he totally had to be stuffing his pants with tube socks when he was on stage.
After checking myself over one more time, I grabbed my clutch and headed to the lobby to wait for the Town Car. I didn’t have to wait at all, because as I exited the elevator, I saw a driver holding a tablet with my name on it. Making my way over to him, I introduced myself. He introduced himself to me as well, telling me his name was Frank and he would be my driver for the next few days.
The drive to the house passed quickly, and before I knew it I’d arrived at my destination. Taking one more deep breath, I centered myself before stepping out of the car. I couldn’t help the little grimace that flickered over my face when I saw the house. It was one of those giant ostentatious glass boxes, all sharp corners and steel. I knew it was some architect’s version of clean lines and beauty, but it was very sterile and cold. I knew it cost more than I would make in my entire life, but I couldn’t live in something like it if you paid me.
A woman who identified herself as “Pam the party planner,” opened the door to the glass palace. She handed my clutch off to a waiting assistant, and then escorted me into what I assumed would be called a living room, even though the term would have been very generous. Just like the outside of the house, it was extremely uninviting. Oh, sure, it was a designer’s wet dream, but it was so damn unwelcoming I shuddered. Everything in the room had hard lines and edges. The chairs and sofas were steel colored rectangles and squares with not a throw pillow in sight. You had to love this part of the LA scene, all about the aesthetics, never about the comfort level.
There were several people already in the room, and I was relieved to see Ian. He was standing with a beautiful girl in a black bodysuit. She had an exotic look that paired well with Ian’s California boy appearance. As I was walking over to where they were, Ian saw me and held out his hand to pull me into their space. “Tessa, this is Devon Bannister. Devon is directing the documentary being filmed of the tour. Devon, this is Tessa Hamilton. Tessa is—”
Waving him off, Devon smiled and held her hand out to me. “I know just who you are! Flynn showed me your website. Your pictures are amazing. The one of you with the band was badass. I’ve been so anxious to meet you to discuss your vision for photos and mine for the film so we can work it all out together. Once the tour starts there will be some days you’re shooting where I’ll have my crew there to interview the guys and capture everything that happens. I also have an idea of what I want the movie poster to look like, and I’m hoping you’ll love the idea as much as I do.”
I couldn’t help but smile at what a whirling dervish Devon was. I felt as if we were going to get along great. I relaxed a bit more, pleased to have genuinely liked both of the people I’d met today, who were going to be sharing the road experience with me for the next several months.
Accepting a glass of champagne from a server carrying a silver tray, I started to get into a conversation with Devon about her idea for the movie poster.
“I’m thinking it would be so cool if we got a photo of them as they are now, but the reflection at the bottom is as they were then. A past and present kind of thing, like—”
I felt the air in the room shift just before she stopped talking. Nothing about Ian or Devon changed other than the fact she had stopped telling me what her vision of the poster was, but I could feel the difference in a big way. I realized someone was behind me when Ian smiled over my shoulder and said, “Hey, Flynn! You haven’t met Tessa in person yet, have you?”
Reminding myself to breathe, I held it together perfectly as Flynn stepped next to me for Ian to introduce us. At least I did until Flynn met my eyes for the first time in six years and then took my hand in his.
For a moment, time stood still and there wasn’t anything or anyone else in the room. Hell, there wasn’t even a room. It was just Flynn and I. Not Flynn Rand, the hotter than hell singer, but Flynn Rand, the man. And what a man he was. I had a hard time remembering I’d seen his face, looked into his eyes and heard his voice before. I was alarmed because in less than two seconds, I was wet.
No, not just wet, drenched.
The sound of Devon’s throaty laugh pulled me back from wherever it was I’d gone, and I smiled up at Flynn with what I hoped was a normal expression as opposed to an, I’m so hot right now I’d like you to take me into another room, bend me over and take me as hard as humanly possible look.
He’d smiled back at me as his hand continued to hold onto mine, and while his face looked calm, the eyes looking back into mine were anything but. They were full of pure unadulterated, I want to fucking pound you lust, and I clenched my inner muscles so hard in response to the look that I almost came on the spot.
Jesus Christ, I was a groupie cliché.
What.
The.
Fuck?