Groupie/Rock Star Bundle

GROUPIE/ROCK STAR BUNDLE

By

Ginger Voight

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Ginger Voight on Smashwords

Copyright ©2012

This ebook is licensed for your personal
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Acknowledgements

A special thanks to my best friend
of more than 30 years, Jeff Mayo, who stayed in the trenches with
me while writing this book and offered valuable insight (as well as
a few helpful kicks in the backside) that made this story what it
is today.

A big thank you to Shirley Ozment,
whose experience running several fandoms gave me priceless
research. You keep me sane in an insane world, and make the journey
a hundred percent worth it.

Thanks to Marie D. Jones, fellow
OGWO, who gave me writing and industry insight, and is always
generous and encouraging with her critiques.<3

Thanks to my son Timothy Rutherford,
my first husband Daniel Rutherford and of course Jeff for providing
the some of the photos used in this book.

And last but not least, thanks to
Davy Jones, Steve Perry, Hal Sparks and Constantine Maroulis for
providing me ample opportunity to indulge my own fangirl tendencies
in ways big and small. You’ve all woven some excitement into the
last four decades whether you knew about it or not, and in some
cases gave me incentive to branch out from small town Texas life to
see the country in strange but enlightening pilgrimages. For Hal in
particular, thanks for your endless tolerance and the unexpected
(and priceless) gift of your friendship. xoxo

DISCLAIMER: This book was inspired
by the groupie phenomenon I’ve been able to study over the years,
but no major character was based on any one individual in
particular. Events depicted in the book are completely fictional.
Resemblances to any one individual, living or dead, were purely
coincidental.

That being said…

“You’re so vain; you probably think this book
is about you….”

BOOK ONE: GROUPIE

Philadelphia – June 17, 2010

The sting of antiseptic crawled up
my nose and roused me from the deep sleep, one that had wrapped
itself around me like a tight cocoon. It felt as though the
darkness struggled to hang onto me as much as I fought to get out
from under it. But little by little the harsh bright light of the
hospital room forced its way into my consciousness.

I blinked awake in confusion.
Disjointed fragments of memory or fantasy rattled around in my
unconscious mind, kind of like a kaleidoscope that couldn’t quite
come together. Was I dreaming? Was this a hallucination? It seemed
I remembered everything and nothing all at once. My stomach lurched
as I tried to piece together the bloody, horrific scene that
lingered just on the outskirts of my memory, something that felt
vivid enough to be real and recent, but muffled enough to dance
around my consciousness like a really bad dream.

I strained to remember as I surveyed the tiny
room in which I lay, attached to an IV and a monitor that
rhythmically beeped along with each strong, steady heartbeat. It
was undeniably soothing, considering I couldn’t feel most of my
body. This was thanks in no small part to the influence of heavy
drugs I was probably under. I glanced down at the thin hospital
gown that covered my chest, expecting instead to see a load of
bricks stacked there pinning me to the bed.

I squeezed my eyes shut as it all
came back to me in a flash – like a gunshot. I lay there on the
concrete next to him, watching the blood pump from the wound in his
stomach. At least I think it was his stomach.

It might not have even been his
wound.

I wanted to feel around my body for
a bandage but my fingers didn’t want to move. My arms felt like
dead weight on either side of me. The mystery remained if I had
been injured by gunfire or just the weight of his body falling on
top of me and sending us both to the ground.

But it was his blood. And I couldn’t
stop it from spilling from his body, though I surely did try. I
screamed at him to stay awake as the loud wail of the ambulance
grew closer, but those beautiful brown eyes fluttered closed with a
faint whisper of his breath.

My throat threatened to close in on
me as I squeezed my eyes and prayed for the blackness to return… to
engulf me… to take away this pain that had suddenly made itself at
home in the hollow of my chest.

All I wanted in that moment was to
forget. To go back in time and erase an unbalanced relationship
that had been doomed from the start. For his sake, and for
mine.

I may not have been able to avoid
falling in love with Giovanni Carnevale.

The mistake was when I thought I could ever
claim him as mine.

Philadelphia, April 2007

~Andy~

I gathered my belongings before the seat belt
light had a chance to go off. Having logged more than 100,000 miles
in the course of my career as a freelance travel writer, I had the
process of boarding and deplaning down to an exact science. This
way any time spent in airplanes and through airports was kept to
the bare minimum. As I glanced at the rows behind me I instantly
knew that would have been at least twenty minutes of my life I
would never get back. It may have been only Thursday, but some of
the travelers on my plane had already switched into weekend
mode.

Not me. I had places to go, people
to see and things to write. And not a one of those things were
anywhere remotely close to the Philadelphia International
Airport.

Like clockwork I checked my phone
once it had a chance to power on, where I found no less than five
text messages from Iris waiting for me. I had to smile when I
thought of my exuberant friend. She was in rare form these days,
assuring me that she had found The One that was going to launch her
out of obscurity an into the jet-setting life she had dreamed about
for so long.

I had heard it before, of course,
but that didn’t stop me getting a little curious to meet whomever
it was that had her so excited. Iris Kimble was a bit like a highly
contagious virus, only what she had you usually wanted. This
quality made her excel at her job in public relations.

It was her enthusiasm that had me book the
first flight out of Nashville to Philadelphia when she sent me an
email regarding Dreaming in Blue, the newest band she had taken
under her wing. I could go anywhere and write anything, so the
destination itself was never really an issue. It was what I would
find there that got me excited to go, and Iris knew more than
anyone that getting in on the ground floor of the Next Big Thing
would help me graduate from lowly travel writer to the more
glamorous world of entertainment journalism.

“This is it, Andy,” she had written and I could
almost see her sunny smile punctuate her prediction. “Wait until
you see them. Until you see him.”

She sent me the press kit on the band and
granted they were all pretty nice eye candy. I had listened to the
demo and was reasonably impressed with the sound, but I still had
yet to see what Iris was convinced was there. That left me one
choice: I had to come and see the band in person for
myself.

Score one for Iris Kimble.

I was out of my seat as soon as the line
started to move. Being a seasoned traveler with no patience I made
sure that my seat was toward the front of the plane so I could grab
my efficiently packed personal item with one hand and my carry-on
with the other. This enabled me to deplane while everyone else was
fiddling with their piles of luggage.

With any luck I’d be among the first to get a
taxi and on my way to my hotel while they were still sorting out
whose bags were whose at the luggage carousel.

I was the kind of passenger that
never checked luggage. I carried my essential tools in bags that
fit neatly in the overhead bin for a quick grab and go. This meant
that I learned how to wear five pieces of clothing at least ten
different ways, with essential slimming black counting for at least
3/5ths of the temporary wardrobe.

Add a good pair of walking shoes that could
double in casual or quasi-formal occasions and I was good to
go.

Despite being a girl, my toiletry
needs were few. Some might call me a fresh-faced beauty because I
tended to avoid any rigid and extensive beauty regimen. Frankly the
scads of mysterious cosmetics left me bewildered so I left makeup
to the professionals. It was never worth the bother. I was never
what you might call a “guy magnet” so I was perfectly content
hiding behind dark framed glasses. Eyeliner, foundation, lipstick
and a bit of glittery or shimmery eye shadow generally did the
trick, and those fit nicely and neatly inside my
satchel.

When it came to making an impression I usually
went low-maintenance and semi-permanent by letting my hair do the
talking for me. Since I turned 21, a whole three years ago, my hair
had undergone at least five major color changes. Frankly I’m
surprised they let me on a plane at all given I stopped looking
like the girl on my driver’s license two months after I got the
darn thing. I went blond, red, brunette, stark black – I played
around more with drastic color changes that could better disguise
me than a handful of expensive cosmetics.

These days I preferred to mix and
match colors, so my semi-annual salon appointment just days before
afforded me the rather drastic style of dark brown over bright,
stop-sign red in a short bob haircut.

It fit with the rocker vibe I was hoping to tap
into this particular trip.

As designed I was in a taxi by the
time Iris called me, nearly beside herself to know if I had landed.
“Are you here?” she asked gaily, probably already knowing the
answer.

“I’m here,” I confirmed. “On my way to the
hotel, actually.”

“What does your day look like? I think we can
get you some face time with the band at rehearsal before the show
tomorrow night.”

“No can do,” I declined politely. I was, after
all, here to work. “I have at least two restaurants to cover so I
thought I’d do that today and get it out of the way. I’m only in
town until Saturday.”

“Andy Foster, you are a party pooper,” she said
playfully. “But I guess we’ll have to make do. As long as you are
at the club tomorrow night with no plans afterwards. I’m putting
together a fabulous after-party.”

I had to smile. “Give me today to work and
tomorrow I’m all yours. I promise.”

“Good. I’ll schedule us some girl time with
some shopping and a makeover. How does a massage sound?”

“Painful,” I answered honestly.

“Boo,” she responded and I could practically
see her stick out her tongue. “I know it offends you greatly to do
anything even remotely feminine but trust me. You’ll want to go all
out for Giovanni Carnevale.”

For the hundredth time I wanted to know what
was so special about the lead singer of her new band, but I knew if
I asked she’d just give me the pat answer I’d have to see him to
know. So tomorrow night I’d see him.

And hopefully I’d know.

In the meantime I had actual writing to get
done, and Mr. Giovanni Carnevale and the realm of rock would just
have to wait.

The next afternoon Iris sent a car to the hotel
to pick me up for our girly extravaganza. After ditching Tennessee
for the Big Apple, Iris sure had gone from simple country girl to
big city socialite with relative ease in the scant five years she
had been gone. She had begged me to go with her at the time, but
the biggest town I wanted to conquer was Nashville. It was still
home, still familiar. And I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb in
Manhattan wearing about thirty-five pounds extra body weight around
my average frame. In New York terms that meant I was at least
seventy pounds overweight. Most of that could be found in my 42-DD
bra and the swell of my well-rounded backside, making me more Mae
West than Twiggy. This meant I was always way more popular with men
than I’d ever be with women, especially those that valued their
size zero dress size as a personal achievement.