Reckless Obsession

Book 1: Reckless Rockstar

by Samantha Christy

Genres: New Adult Romance; Young Adult; Billionaires Romance; Romance; Romance Anthologies & Collections; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Damaged musician - that's the understatement of the decade.
I'll bet if I googled those two words, I'd see his picture.
 
I've been invited to join his band, Reckless Alibi. His all-guy band.
Well, everyone wants me to join but him. What's his problem?

He's passionate about music. One might even say obsessed. But as the only woman in the band, when that obsession gets directed at me, I find I may have gotten in way over my head.
 
Like me, he writes lyrics. His secret journal of songs I found by accident tells me he's not just damaged ... he might be destroyed beyond repair.
 
Guess I'm about to find out.

Release date: April 30, 2020

Publisher: Independently published

Print pages: 400

Reader says this book is...: emotionally riveting (2) entertaining story (1) happily ever after (2) realistic characters (1) satisfying ending (1) coming of age (1) heart touching (1)

Sample

Chapter One

 

Bria

 

 

Everyone has their own pre-show rituals. Adam and Colin get high. Kurt gets his rocks off with a groupie or even one of the roadies if he’s desperate. Louis prays—as if that will somehow exonerate him from his other twenty-three hours of indiscretions. Me—I sit in my dressing room and listen to the opening band.

 

I look around the small room that’s little more than a storage closet. At least I have a dressing room, and since I’m the only backup singer, it’s all mine. I’m grateful for that, because even though I’ve done this thirty-four times before, I still feel nauseous every time.

 

I lie down on the small couch, careful not to ruin my hair or wrinkle my dress. I breathe in, hold it for a count of five, then breathe out. It’s a technique my brother, Brett, taught me for when I’m feeling stressed.

 

I smile, thinking how I’ll see him in a few weeks when the tour ends back home in New York City. Even better, he’ll see me, up onstage singing with one of the hottest rock bands around—White Poison.

 

It’s been almost three months since the tour started, and I still can’t believe I’m doing this. There are only nine shows left and I’m surprisingly okay with that. I suppose I’d be sad if Adam, the lead singer and my boyfriend, hadn’t assured me he wants me for their next tour later this year. In Europe!

 

I stare at the speaker piping music into the room. Wow. These guys are really good. Most of the opening acts are, seeing as they’re playing in a venue this large, but this band … I can’t put my finger on it. Their music moves me.

 

I pull out my phone and find out who they are. Reckless Alibi. The band consists of four guys, all local from Connecticut. It looks like they’ll be opening for us for three more shows. Impressive. I wonder what they had to do to get put on the lineup for four shows. Most opening acts get one show—maybe two.

 

I watch an amateur YouTube video of one of their songs, thinking these guys should be a headline act, not an opening one. But I’ve never heard of them before, and according to their Facebook page, they’ve only been a band for three years. That’s not a long time in band years.

 

Their lead singer is Chris Rewey, also known as Crew. He’s good. Really good.

 

There’s a knock on my door. “Five minutes!” Aimee yells, and my heart races.

 

Aimee is one of the roadies Kurt sometimes shags.

 

Shag. I kind of love that word, especially when the guys say it in their British accents. Though it really just means fuck, it doesn’t sound so dirty.

 

The music stops, and I miss it. I vow to download some of their songs.

 

I get up and check my makeup in the mirror. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself, with my fire-engine-red lipstick, glitter eyeshadow and false eyelashes that practically touch my nose when I blink. But it’s not my choice how I look onstage. It’s theirs. I was told on day one, it’s my job to look pretty, sing on-key, take very little credit, and leave quickly. I pull down the skin-tight gold sequined dress to make sure it’s covering my ass—another concession I have to make to be the backup singer for one of the most successful bands of our era—then I put on my six-inch heels and head out the door.

 

Aimee is waiting. She’s been assigned to me. She makes sure I’m in hair and makeup when I need to be, and she gets me through the maze of backstage hallways before and after every concert. She’s called a production assistant, but really she’s a groupie who ended up being hired by White Poison to help them on tour. Funny how they have mostly female “production assistants.”

 

One of the first things I noticed when I came on tour with them was the lack of male roadies. With the exception of the guys who do the heavy lifting and set up the stage, all the help is female. If you ask me, one of their duties is to sleep with the band members anytime said band members want a shag.

 

It’s pathetic. I suppose they all think they’ll get to be the next girlfriend of a famous rock star.

 

I got lucky when Adam turned an eye my way. It wasn’t long after the tour started, maybe six or seven shows in, when he asked me out. By then I’d gotten to know the guys well, and I knew Adam Stuart never asked a girl out. He never needed to. Not with all the Aimees around. So when he did, I knew it was going to be different, and it was. We’ve been dating for two months. Me, dating the lead singer of White Poison.

 

Aimee hands me the song lineup for tonight. It’s almost always the same. “When you’re out there, watch out for the step down behind you.”

 

“Thanks. I saw it earlier during the sound check.”

 

“Of course you did,” she says, her tone laced with condescension.

 

Aimee, like most of the other roadies, is jealous of my relationship with Adam. In the beginning, I tried to make friends with her and some of the others. It worked until I started dating Adam. Now they barely talk to me unless they’re required to. Hell, I’m surprised she even warned me of the potential hazard onstage. You’d think she’d want me to fall and break my leg or something.

 

We pass the guys’ dressing room. Their door is open, and they’re huddled together like a team around a quarterback before a play. They shout something in unison and then take a shot of liquor.

 

Adam sees me and gives me a wink. I blow him a kiss.

 

I wouldn’t even think about going in there before a show. I was explicitly told not to mingle with the band unless asked by one of the members. Almost all the stereotypes I’ve heard about successful bands are true: the drugs, the frivolous parties, the law-breaking that authorities turn a blind eye to, and the women.

 

I sigh, thinking I hit the jackpot with Adam. He’s not squeaky-clean, but he’s not into the bad stuff some of the others are.

 

Aimee and I step aside when four guys walk down the hall. I recognize them from the YouTube video I watched minutes ago. The smiles on their faces are miles wide. They’re patting each other on the back. I can tell they’re hyped up.

 

“Great job,” I say as they pass.

 

“Thanks,” they reply.

 

“Good luck out there,” one of them says to me. I think he’s the guitar player.

 

I hear their boisterous banter trail down the hallway. I don’t blame them. This was probably the largest venue they’ve ever played. Based on what I heard, it could lead to their big break.

 

Aimee leads me to the wings, where roadies are putting the finishing touches on the set. I peek at the crowd. It’s another sellout. White Poison has sold out every concert they’ve played for the past eight years.

 

I remember listening to them when I was fourteen years old, and now I’m one of them. Well, kind of. It’s still surreal.

 

A hand goes up the back of my short skirt and grabs my ass. I spin around, ready to deck whoever it is.

 

“Easy, luv,” Adam says, stopping my hand mid-slap.

 

I pull my skirt back down. “I didn’t know it was you.”

 

He smirks. “Just how many other chaps are grabbing your arse?”

 

“You’re the only ass grabbing my arse,” I say in a hideous attempt at a British accent.

 

He laughs.

 

“Hey, did you hear Reckless Alibi?” I ask. “They’re really good.”

 

He’s only half-listening to me, as he’s looking over my shoulder. “You want to do something reckless with me? That can be arranged.”

 

“No. The opening band, Reckless Alibi. They’re good. Great, in fact.”

 

“Reckless who?” He drinks something handed to him by a young girl with ten miles of cleavage.

 

I put a finger on his chin, turning his head away from her boobs and back to me. He shoves my hand away, irritated. And now I’m irritated at him for being irritated with me. Why should he get to ogle the cleavage of another woman?

 

“I think you should invite them to the after-party,” I say.

 

He glances again at the girl’s boobs, and I swear he thinks I’m suggesting he invite her breasts.

 

“The opening band,” I clarify, frustrated.

 

“Have you gone bonkers? Why the bloody hell should I care about some blokes who don’t mean two shits to me?”

 

I take a step back. “Because you were them, Adam. A long time ago, you were an opening band, too. They’re good. You should listen to their stuff.”

 

His eyebrows shoot up. Suddenly he seems interested. Well, not interested but maybe jealous. “They’re not coming. Do not invite them, Bria. They won’t be welcome. You’re lucky you were invited.”

 

“I know. You never fail to remind me of that.”

 

“What the fuck has put a bug up your arse?”

 

“Nothing,” I say, seeing Aimee beckoning me. “Have a good show.”

 

He air kisses me so he doesn’t smudge my lipstick. “I always do.”

 

His words resonate in my head. Has he always been this cocky, I wonder, or did fame make him this way? I think of the guys from Reckless Alibi. When I told them they were great, they looked genuinely pleased. Grateful even.

 

I hear the mass hysteria of the crowd when White Poison takes the stage and begins to play. I’m never out there when they go on. I’m not part of the band.

 

“Come on,” Aimee says. “It’s time.”

 

I close my eyes and take a few calming breaths. Then I walk confidently over to my microphone twenty feet away from the band. There’s a huge smile on my face, not that anyone would notice. They’re not looking at me. I look out over the massive crowd and wonder once again if these three months will be my fifteen minutes of fame—or if there might be something more.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Crew

 

 

“Holy shit, that was great,” Garrett says, stashing his drumsticks in his back pocket.

 

“Way better than drugs,” Brad adds.

 

I laugh. “As if you’d know.”

 

“I got high last week, remember? When Liam gave me that pill.”

 

The three of us double over in laughter.

 

“It was a baby aspirin,” Liam says.

 

Brad is confused by our reaction. “No it wasn’t. I got high.”

 

“You felt high because I told you it was drugs and you expected to get high,” Liam said. “Shit, it was funny watching you.”

 

“What? No.” Brad looks at me. “You knew about this?”

 

“It wasn’t my idea,” I say and point at Garrett.

 

“I should have known. They warned me you’re always pulling stupid shit.”

 

“You were getting way too stressed about these gigs,” Garrett says. “I had to do something, but I knew you’d never believe it was mine. It was easier to believe it was Liam’s.”

 

“Thanks for making me look like an ass,” Brad says.

 

Garrett smirks. “Consider it your initiation.”

 

Brad looks around. “I’ll consider this my initiation.”

 

Liam pats him on the shoulder. “You’re one of us now. We’ve got your back, you know.”

 

Brad swipes a drumstick from Garrett’s pocket and points it at him like a knife. “Don’t pull that shit again.”

 

Music pipes through the speakers in the hallway as White Poison plays.

 

“What are we doing back here when we could be watching them?” Garrett asks.

 

I shake my head. “We were told to disappear when our set was over.”

 

“Let’s go out into the pit. Who’d notice?”

 

Liam looks at me as if he’s on board. Brad shrugs. I step aside. “Fine, lead the way. But if we get busted, it’s on you, Garrett.”

 

“Why am I always the fall guy?”

 

“Because you’re the one who gets us to do stupid shit,” Liam says.

 

Garrett walks around us. “Come on. I think I know where the door is.”

 

Five minutes later, after trying eight different doors that lead nowhere, we’re fighting our way through the mosh pit to get a decent position near the stage.

 

“Damn, these guys are good,” Liam yells.

 

“That’s going to be us one day,” Garrett screams over the music.

 

Liam high-fives him. “Hell yeah, it will be.”

 

I look at all the screaming fans, then I stare at the band, thinking of what Garrett said: That’s going to be us one day.

 

Thirty minutes ago, we were up on that stage. It was great, even if the crowd wasn’t here to see us, a nobody band from Stamford, Connecticut. But after being up there, I wonder if all my childhood dreams are about to come true.

 

I see the girl from the hallway, the one in the gold dress who said we were good. She’s not part of the core band. She’s their backup singer. Her hips sway and she moves her feet as she sings. When she’s not singing, she’s dancing in place. I’m mesmerized. Maybe it’s the shimmery sequins of her dress. Maybe it’s the rhythmic motion of her feet. Or maybe it’s the throaty voice that sends chills down my spine when she has a brief solo.

 

I close my eyes and listen. She doesn’t sing long—just a few lines. But that’s all it takes for me to understand exactly what it is about her that’s affecting me. My stomach rolls.

 

I turn to walk away. Liam grabs my arm. “You’re leaving?”

 

“I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

 

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What gives?”

 

“It’s not like we won’t have three more opportunities to do this. I’m beat. I’ll see you later.”

 

I can feel him stare after me when I walk away, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want him to see my face. Liam knows me too well. He’d probably follow me. But I don’t need him trying to comfort me for the millionth time. I’m sick of his sympathy. He needs to get over it already. Fuck. I shake my head at myself. “Pot meet kettle,” I say to no one.

 

I work my way through hundreds of sweaty people, mostly girls. One of them grabs my junk as I go by. “Aren’t you the singer of that other band?”

 

Normally I’d be reeling at getting recognized, but all I want is to get the hell out of here. “You think I’d be out here if I was? Hell, I’d be backstage partying.”

 

She eyes me up and down. “You look like him.”

 

“Thanks,” I say, moving away.

 

When I find the door we came through, I walk up to it but am stopped by a security guard who puts his arm over the door and shakes his head.

 

“I’m with the band,” I say, sounding like an idiot. “I mean, I’m in the opening band. You saw us, right?”

 

The guy doesn’t even look at me. He continues to block the door. He’s one big mother. The girth of his arm is bigger than my leg. I reach for my phone, then realize it’s backstage with the other shit we left in the small dressing room assigned to us.

 

“Dude, listen,” I yell over the music. “I’m Chris Rewey, the singer for Reckless Alibi. I was up on that stage an hour ago.”

 

He finally looks at me. “I’ll give you points for originality, but fuck off.”

 

“I came out to watch their set and didn’t think about how I’d get backstage. My bad.”

 

He ignores me.

 

“Jesus, at least look me up on your phone. If it’s not me, I’ll fuck off.”

 

He looks irritated, but he gets out his phone. He raises his brows at me. “Well?”

 

“Look up Reckless Alibi,” I tell him. “I’m the lead singer.”

 

He taps on the phone, then holds it next to my head, presumably to compare me to the online picture. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and opens the door. “Don’t forget your credentials next time.”

 

“Thanks, and just so you know, my three bandmates are still out there. They’ll try to get through this door later.”

 

“Wonderful,” he says, heavy on the sarcasm.