Rockstars F#*k Harder

C
opyright © 2016
Penny Wylder

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

T
he hotel phone
is ringing incessantly and I groan, burying my head further into the overstuffed pillow. I’m hoping the groupie I brought back to the hotel will deal with it before my brain catches up to the fact that that was several days ago. Wherever that blonde cotton-candy vodka smelling piece of ass is now, it isn't here.

I'm alone with nothing but a hard dick and some empty bottles to keep me company.

Whatever. I'm a rock star, this shit just happens sometimes. Can't always have a girl around to suck you off or help soften your hangover.

Hm. Or maybe you can and I've just dropped the ball?

The phone is still ringing, so I finally grab for it, answering with a surly, “What?”

“Mr. Avery.” I can hear the pleading in my assistant’s tone. “You haven’t been answering your cell and the road crew was becoming concerned. You were due at the venue half an hour ago. The car is waiting.”

Fuck.
Fuck.
I reach for my cell, face down on the night table. It’s already 4:30.

“Yeah, thanks Jared. I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

I hang up and ten minutes later, teeth brushed and clothes thrown on, I’m in the limo. The driver gives me a knowing look when he sees me covering my eyes with some shades. It's the only way to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I'm relieved when he rolls the partition up, leaving me to make sense of my last few days of alcohol-fueled haze.

It doesn't work. My memories are just snippets of curvy hips and smiling lips. By the time we get to the venue, I'm wondering why I slept alone last night. Or did I? Maybe the lucky girl just left before I woke up.

As the Limo pulls up, I’m mobbed by fans and reporters. My crew steers me into the building and through an interior door not open to the public. Before I escape, the bright flashing bulbs of cameras blind me through my shades. I look like shit, bedhead and all, so that should be tabloid fodder. Glad I could give some paparazzi a payday.

The Coldwater Casino is big, but the space I'll be playing in isn't. I wanted to kick the tour off in a more intimate setting in my hometown. I miss the days when I could see the crowd, when there was a real vibe between us, when I could talk to them after sets. Back in college,
Fever Dream
was just a shitty local garage band, long before I went solo. I’ll never get that back, but small venues are as close as I can manage, and I always feel at home in Vegas.

They try to steer me into a dressing room, but something catches my eye—something red-headed with soft, frowning lips that would look better wrapped around my lonely cock. She's got a pencil skirt on, like she's all buttoned up in a very
I'm too good for you
way. The kind of woman you just know is wild in bed once she lets her guard down.

“Excuse me, Mr. Avery?” she says as she approaches. Her lips are pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Wait in the dressing room, sweetheart, I’ll get to you later.” I smirk her way and can’t help but be pleased by the shock that crosses her face, but before I can turn back, she’s taken a step closer, only a foot between us. This one really is bold.

“Excuse me,
sweetheart
, but you need to hurry up and get back stage. You’re an hour late and out of time.” Her eyes are burning at me, like she thinks I'm trouble and not in the fun way. Well, that's different.

But I don’t have time for this shit, I really don’t, so I ignore the uppity, overdressed groupie and turn to my crew leader, Jake. “We need to do sound check.”

“It’s fine, Ezra took care of it,” Jake says, placating.

That makes me clench my hands tight. I knew I'd be dealing with a new manager running things, I'd tried to prep myself for that, but whoever this guy is, he's stepping on my toes. “You know we always do it with the whole band. Won’t be right otherwise.” Yeah, I’m a picky asshole. I want a show to sound perfect, and I can’t be sure it will if we don’t sound check with the whole band. When people pay as much as they do to see me up there, I’m not gonna give them some half assed shit and call it music. "Go get Ezra and the band. We’re doing it all over. And if the new manager shows, send them to my dressing room so I can make it clear to him that he answers to me. He doesn't run shit,
I
do, got it?"

I start walking and notice the redhead is close on my heels. What the hell does she want? Is she that desperate to get her hands on me? Out of habit, I start scanning for closets we could hide out in while we fuck.

She says, “Stage is down the right hall. But you really
don’t
have time. You’re going to set the whole show back an hour.”

“Half an hour,” I say, not slowing my steps as she keeps pace beside me. “We’ll be quick. And it’s none of your fucking business anyway. How did you even
get in
here
?”

“I’m here to see you, Mr. Avery.” Her tone is curt, annoyed. Not only is she sticking her nose in shit that’s beyond her, but this particular groupie is actually pissed at being snubbed.

That’s some ego on top of the nerves of steel. It’s almost intriguing, but I still don’t have time for this shit, and the way she keeps trying to tell me what to do is getting on my last nerve. “‘Course you are, honey, just like the hundreds of other girls also seeing the show tonight. I already told you to wait your turn. You can get back in my dressing room or get the fuck out, your choice.”

The way she’s gritting her teeth, she’s clearly furious. But what does she expect when she’s on my ass and I’m already late?

“Are you implying, Mr. Avery, that I’m some sort of
groupie?
” The distaste with which she speaks the word, the disgusted twist of her mouth, she might have been referencing the most heinous crime.

“Are you saying that you’re
not
?” I counter. Because if she’s not a groupie, then
who the hell is she?

She surprises me by sticking out her hand to shake. I look at it in confusion and she says, tone still clipped, “My name is Lucy Westmore, and unless your assistant has been yanking my chain, I’m your new manager.”

T
here’s
a certain satisfaction in watching a man realize he’s made a fool of himself. Drew Avery stands before me in dark jeans and a tight fitted shirt. Even looking like he’s just rolled out of bed, even having just put his foot about as far in his mouth as it can go, he’s still incredibly
hot.

The kind of guy you see on television but never in person. Tall, built like a damn truck with deliciously toned arms and defined ab muscles his shirt can’t quite hide. His thick, tousled brown hair shadows eyes that are a deep brown— bottomless, mysterious. It’s hard not to gape myself, but I manage it. I’ve come too far in this business to be thrown off by some arrogant rock god.

Having finally realized I’m his new manager, not some random groupie, Drew stares at my hand like it’s a poisonous snake for a moment before grasping it reluctantly.

“Drew Avery,” he says. “Though you already knew that.” His hand feels strong and calloused in my own. He drops mine and then runs the same hand through the back of his dark hair. For some reason, I picture my own fingers threading through his thick tresses. It's disconcerting—I blame my underlying nerves. “Look, I gotta do the sound check, then we can—work out some details. You can wait here or in my dressing room, whatever.”

He’s already walking away when I say to his back, “You really should trust your sound crew. Keeping your audience waiting looks bad, but it’s your show. I’ll wait by the stage.”

He raises one hand to indicate he’s heard but offers no other response, and I trail him to the stage to watch the sound check.

Already the man is difficult, but then, I never expected the job to be easy.

Drew Avery has a
reputation.
Not for the typical rock star bullshit, though I’m definitely reassessing that, but for being
particular.
The man is rumored to oversee aspects of his career that most musicians leave to their teams—he micromanages sound checks and other minor touring details, along with handling the editing and production of his albums, and that’s just the obvious stuff. When it comes to his music, he refuses to leave any aspect in the hands of others, and when there are tight schedules to keep, this leads to missing deadlines.

However, though the man is positively anal retentive when it comes to music, Colin—his former manager—had been so completely at his disposal that he’d been as much Drew's personal assistant as anything.

I knew all this when I signed on. After all, I interned with Colin Smith. I'd heard about Drew's behavior first hand.

I still can't believe he thought I was a groupie.
The idea pisses me off. I take my job very seriously, and in no world would I ever jeopardize it by sleeping around with a mess of a man like Drew Avery.

I stand on the edge of the stage, watching him strum a six string and make small adjustments. There are several guitars set up for him to fiddle with because he insists on checking each one personally, show instruments and backups alike. He goes through each one then does a few vocal warm ups. He’s methodical, and that kind of attention to detail is rare.

I’m impressed with his focus. Then again, the fact that he can fill out a pair of jeans so well doesn’t hurt either. His ass is perfection as he bends over to check an amp. No one should have an ass that firm, that delectable. There’s a reason he has such a huge following, so many of those groupies he’s mistaken me for. He reaches to adjust a cord, causing his shirt to rise for a delicious peek at his tan, toned stomach.

My heart thuds violently. I'm not ready for it, or for how warm my face gets. Why are the jerks always the hot ones?

As his backup band finally arrives, Drew nods their way. “‘Next time, wait,” he says shortly. “Now let’s go through ‘Haunted Eyes’ and ‘Desperate Moment,’ then we should be good."

It’s been years since I’ve seen Drew Avery live on stage, not since
Fever Dream
had just made it big—long before his band broke up.

I was a senior in high school with stars in my eyes, going to my first concert with my friends. I'd been ready to bang my head to ear-splitting music and the thrill of hundreds of bodies swaying around me. Drew had owned the stage, the music, becoming a hypnotic vision.

Suddenly I recall more about that night, how I'd grown so hot and excited that I'd fingered myself wildly in my bed for hours. Drew's voice and wicked smile had controlled my mind that night.

And now, seeing him on stage again, right in front of me, thinking about how I'd fantasized about him . . . it's almost too much. I wish I could chug a cold bottle of water, maybe jump in an ice bath.

As he strums the quiet acoustic beginning of “Haunted Eyes,” as he walks the stage, he has
presence
, even during something as mundane as a sound check. The stage is his, and my eyes can’t help but follow him.

Yes, there’s definitely a reason why the man sells millions of records.

Drew continues the song and catches my eye, winking my way as he croons about a woman in black. Several years of entitled celebrities flirting with me have inoculated me against their charms . . . or I thought so. I roll my eyes but inside, I'm a hot mess.

Get a grip,
I think in a panic. As his manager, he has to respect me or this isn’t going to work. This is my chance to rise above taking orders from a pack of good ol’ boys in slick suits, the type of overblown assholes who see every woman in the office as their personal secretary.

I realize respect has to be earned, and to say we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot is a gross understatement. My work is clearly cut out for me.

They finish the song and move to the next, and I’m struck by how seamless the transition is even for something as informal as a sound check. Whatever else he might be, Avery is a true musician.

The second song is a rocker, and if his command of the stage was impressive in the ballad, it’s downright lethal here. His energy is raw and unbridled as he belts out rage and sex together, and a shiver runs down my spine that reminds me of my high school years as he looks my way again, eyes smoldering. I can’t stop the way the song, his voice, his dark, heated gaze make me feel.

I force my attention to my smartphone and answer a stray text, not lifting my gaze again until the music stops. I hear footsteps approaching, then Drew clears his throat. “Gimme a sec,” I say, and in truth I’m done, but it’s important I establish that I’ll do things in my own time and on my own terms. He's the type of guy who will try to rule me like he did his former manager. I won't let him.

I have to create a boundary . . . especially because he's making my mouth water and my heart dance.

Drew makes an irritated noise, and thirty seconds later, I lift my eyes. “There,” I say, meeting his narrowed gaze. “Can’t start too soon making sure I’m on top of handling your career. Do you want to talk here, or do you prefer the dressing room?”

“Dressing room,” he says gruffly.

The grit on his tongue strokes between my thighs. Even when he's angry he's intoxicating. “Yes, that probably is for the best,” I agree with a fake smile. “Shall we?”

He doesn’t answer, just starts walking, so I follow, stilettos clacking against the wood of the floor. As much as I hate how such high heels feel, they give me height, and I’ve always believed the sound they make with every firm step of my feet lends me authority. I make sure the click is extra audible; I’m going to need all the authority I can muster.

It doesn’t take us long to reach his dressing room. It’s stuffed with Victorian style furniture, including an oversized wooden dressing table and mirror on one wall. The space suits the venue, an early twentieth century theater in one of the oldest hotels in Vegas. Drew looks like a king as he relaxes in one of the velvet chairs set off in one corner.

I immediately sit in the other, so still and poised that I must look like I'm made of stone. “So, Mr. Avery,” I begin, and his smirk appears—like he's mocking me. Oh, yes, this is going well. “I was thinking I’d like to get some basics about your expectations—what you want me to handle—and then we can set some ground rules, if you find that acceptable?”

He crosses one knee, his hand cupping his mouth. The silence is painful but worse is how his dark stare is slipping over my body, undressing me. "How did you like the show?" he asks.

"The sound check?" I stiffen and he catches it; I see his smirk even outside the edges of where his long fingers try to hide it. Did he notice me staring at him like an animal in heat? "It was good." It's the safest thing I can think to say.

Again there's silence, but that's not as bad as how he's rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. It's erotic, his elegant fingers curling as if to remind me of his skill on the guitar—his skill in other areas. Smooth as a cat he unfurls from the chair, approaching me. I blurt out, "Let's get on topic, ah, um—I asked what you want me to handle?"

I'm eye level with the front of his jeans and I regret my words; poor phrasing. We both know he's doing this intentionally but I don't know
why.
Does he just want to mess with me? Is it because I made him wait a damn second while I played on my phone?

Before I can look up, he’s lifting my chin with his finger. “Actually,” he drawls, his voice low and husky, “how about you tell me what you intend to
handle
, and I’ll tell you if there’s anything else I need.” His tone is provocative and intimidating.

Slowly, he rubs his thumb across my lips and I’m momentarily stunned. It’s all I can do not to suck him into my mouth. My coherent thoughts vanish. I need to say something, anything—I need to get control back.

“We, ah, I mean I will be in charge of . . .” I rack my brain, even though this is what I’ve been doing for years. Having him so close to me is distracting. “You know—bookings, handling media, mediating with venues, that kind of—ah!"

He pulls my lower lip down, wetting his thumb-pad on my saliva. “That all sounds good, but what about my other needs? How far are you willing to go to keep me happy,
Lucy?
”

He says my name like it's an insult. Instead, it's a reminder of who I am and why I'm here. Narrowing my eyes, I push his hand away from me. His grin is all teeth—he's enjoying this. "Mr. Avery, I'm a professional. Not some toy for you to play with."

Chuckling, he leans away from me. My courage cracks when I spot the bulge of his hard cock through his jeans. "That's a shame," he sighs, clearly not done toying with me.

I’ve got to get my mind off of his body and back to my job. “I’ll be overseeing the important aspects of your tours, since you prefer to have your manager act as your road manager as well, Mr. Avery.”

The eye roll I don’t expect. “You can stick to Drew.”

“Alright,
Drew,
if you prefer.”

“I do,
Lucy.
” He says my name like he's whispering a song lyric. I love the way it sounds.

“I do have a suggestion, Drew,” I begin, because this one has been percolating in the back of my mind for a while. “How would you feel about recording your concerts?”

“Already do. I like to be able to go back to listen for issues. Helps me improve the sound.”

“No, I don’t mean simple sound check recordings, but real studio quality stuff.” I’m pretty sure my enthusiasm leaks through in spite of my efforts to keep my tone even, but I’ve seen a few bands make this move and it’s always a good one. It gives fans that feeling of access, of inclusion, and the profits all go directly to the band so it’s lucrative. This is the type of initiative that’ll help me make a name for myself, so I’m really hoping Drew will get on board.

“To what end?” He leans back, face blank. He sounds skeptical.

“We put them up on your site for fans to buy at a reasonable cost. We provide studio grade recordings of each concert, bring in a team to record tracks for all the instruments and vocals and do some minimal editing for quality. Fans love it, and the profit margin is exceptional.” Talking business is helping to cool me off between my thighs, thank fucking goodness.

“I’m not worried about the margin.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I make enough on the shows. But you think it’s something fans are looking for?”

“Absolutely. It’s good for fan morale, good for your image. Win all around.”

“Alright.” His nod is slow and speculative. “Alright, yeah, set it up, we’ll try it. If it doesn’t fly in a few shows, we can always nix it.”

“Exactly,” I respond, stifling the urge to smile. “But trust me, that won’t happen.”

“That a bet?” He winks at me, and it resets the heat in my belly. “Because I can think of a few things to ask for.”

“It’s a promise,” I respond around my dry mouth. If I can’t match his confidence, this is over before it really began. “I think you’ll find that I'm capable of managing all aspects of your affairs.”

“All aspects?” His smirk widens, eyebrows rising. I don’t want it to ruffle me, but what can I say? I have a thing for talented sex machines. Who doesn't?

“I can handle anything,” I say flatly.

“You should be careful with that kind of claim,” he says airily, smile never wavering. “You can’t plan for everything. Gotta be able to handle the huge things, even when you aren’t expecting them."

There’s no mistaking what he’s insinuating. It takes everything I have not to drop my eyes and see if he's still sporting a heart-stopping hard-on. I switch gears. “I think I should get going. You've got a show to finish prepping for.”

He hooks his fingers in his belt. "I hope you enjoy watching it as much as you
enjoyed
seeing me at sound check."

My lungs seize. On heavy legs I stand and walk towards the exit of his dressing room. The entire time I know he's watching me, smiling at me, thinking about me . . .

But worst of all?

He's sensed a weakness in me that I never expected. Drew saw it in my face, how I was eating him up. Fantasizing about him.

I wanted our first interaction to set the tone of our relationship. I think it did.

Just not the way I wanted it to.